id32

/ Journal /

previous save: 4/13/90
By the time the Plus loads, I can’t think of what I was thinking. If the Plus were as fast as BK’s AT, XT, whatever it is, it still might be true. The meditation interrupted by motor action. If the meditation commences with the fingers already flying, then the momentum is already there. In one’s noontime mind, alert to the immediate environment, looking for customers, for women, strutting and being a vital organism. Parading, being a social unit … The meditation melts if it doesn’t flee. Ah, but I’ve developed a way to try to grab at least a tail hair and to carry it into ordinary day light. Mya (sp?) light. Not a false light, but too self referencing. All you can discover by it is what you know you’re looking for: ah, there are my keys. Not: what’s a messiah? How does the first axiom work? Are you sure this math is any good?
So, I’ve got a tail hair. Authority. Society organizes not according to who’s right and who’s wrong, but who can unchallengably call a non-peer wrong without close nonce examination. You don’t interrupt the judge to point out the unconstitutionalities. No, a lawyer has to do that later. You don’t stand up in the middle of the sermon and find the minister/priest irreligious. These are all merely primate (mammalian) dominance things. And more. You don’t interrupt the embryo’s phylogenesis to say wouldn’t conscious breathing be better? How about boosting the unconscious sociability?
King Arthur sits under flapping flags as the champions joust. Sir Schmo is declared champion of the day. That means champion for a day or a season, the ladies will tickle your balls under the table tonight. Not: ride into the stands and kill the king: take over. This has nothing to do with whether Arthur is any good or the champion is any good. 6 year old Freddy wins the Science Award. He’s invited to the White House. Freddy thinks Bush’s decisions that day were foggy at best. For Freddy to pull a coup, he needs more power than just a phial of poison, a Bic Uzzi, a karate finger that can kill from across the room. The cabinet would have to recognize Freddy’s new dominance. The press, the congress.
Now, if Freddy could kill them all, and still control their attention, then he would be king, no problem … But it would make no difference whether he were better than Bush or worse than … you fill in the blank.
science pretends to be challengable all along. If axiom I is no good, don’t let me get to axiom II. A reader’s freedom. Put the book down on page 1/2. Or on page 15. Or in the second to last chapter. No, the author has to keep you going. Unless it’s assigned. In which case, you still can’t be forced to do it. Pull your finger nails out? Who doesn’t really have a Bic Uzzi of some sort? Hold your breath. Shit, you pass out. And breath again. Argue with the guy who wasn’t allowed to interrupt the phylogenesis.
science too has its hierarchy, its authorities who can interrupt you and you can’t interrupt them without being thrown out. it will be the rudeness that’s recognized, not the argument. His rudeness is masculinity, authority. Good thing we elected fatso as chair.
(funny how political authority’s authority is conquest. William bashed Harold. Therefore you’re not allowed to sneeze. And certainly no bashing. So and so won the election. So the electors have the authority. So long as they follow the lead.
Wow! Talk about cybernetic. What more could anyone ask for?)
Societies get through the day by nobody much looking at the axioms, and stentorianly more so, nobody much listening to irrelevancies: such as whether anything is good design or not.
Notice the fundamental irrationality of all socially levitated, supposedly rational, raisons which we chorus to show we belong.
Now if Freddy really wants to pull a coup, he pretends to agree, plays at altar boy, gets made bishop early, then squeezes the cardinals till the smoke puffs white. Fuck, then he’s really trapped. Unless the society, the group, is really stressed out, ready to surrender, tripping over its own way.
If Freddy kills Bush, the cabinet, the congress, the press … then what happens? the army, not Freddy, steps in. The Kremlin says, ah … But what if Freddy has killed them too? What if Freddy doesn’t want this bullshit dominance? Just wants to set things back to random. Ok, let’s really see if our habits are any good. No, no prompting: can they walk, can they feed themselves, how will they organize, given time and space? Oh, poor babies: no cigarette distribution system? No world series to bet on? No Cessnas flying in the dope? What can they do with their money? They can’t even get it out of the bank. They got a piece of paper with numbers on it. Shit, it’s a good thing I woke the fuckers up.
the last couple of years I respond to some female maybe a couple of times a year. Bend over backwards to avoid unless she’s at least 40. Cathy was 50 something. Didn’t disqualify her. Linda brings Lori by. She’s 25. Don’t even look at her. Linda is sticking a twig between Lori’s buttocks as we walk. Christ, she thinks it’s me, I bet. Elaine is: don’t know. 40 something. But if they don’t respond, lie down and spread, instantly, like at 28 or so, I walk away. Good: got that out of my system (without getting anything out of my system). It’s all the easier if I don’t go out. Avoid Publix cause the women are twice, thrice as attractive as Winn Dixie (and prices a dime higher). So long as I don’t go out, don’t see anyone but my 88 year old neighbors, I’m fine. But now I’m at the store nights. Ok, just red necks, lottery players, beer drinkers. If they’re thirty something and nice, then they’re also 300 pounds. Ass high and tight? Then they’re twenty-three and with a guy. So no problem. Nubile twelve year olds? Not at midnight. So it’s a few weeks now since I first see this one rather feminine adult. She’s smiling contentedly as she first walks in. She smiles at me. I smile at her. I’m as helpful as can be (as I am with everyone), so plus maybe a little. Pheromones stir. Two Sat 5 ams later there she is again. A pattern. “We missed your last week,” I say. “Oh,” she smiles with even more than usual pleasure, “yes. Last week we went away.” So who’s the “we”? Don’t know. Could be anything. Then again the next morning, but I’ve got my nose in Lucy’s “bag.” So I write her a note: I’d like to know who you are. And in she walks this morning: 5:25. Empty store. I can talk to her for a minute. “There’s a letter for you.” She reads it smiling right in front of me. “The coffee isn’t for me,” she explains. Ah! So each time she’s walked in here, she’s just had her pipes tuned. Now I don’t know how she’d be smiling at 3pm Wednesdays. I bet she is anyway.
This am I get to look at her a bit more closely, more lingeringly. Yes, she’s adult. Wears braces. What does that mean? Eleanor Bobb had them at 30 while dancing at the Met. Only metal braced blow job I’ve ever had. At what point would I OD on her contentment? After fifteen minutes? 6 months? Years? Makes no difference. For now. I’m really stirred. The bottom drops out as she signals the lover. But only for a second. We should have coffee anyway. I don’t drink coffee, she smiles. I like something cold. Hey wait: that’s from my letter. We’ll have lunch, she says. She’s a secretary at the church. Hmm. Fifteen minutes looms as probable. But not sure. First person in Sebring I’ve wanted to be more than civil to, I tell her.
That smile. So she’s mature whatever her age. Mature in a way opposite from me. I question, examine, test it. God, how I want it to pass the test, to impress me. Nothing impresses me more than not finding a flaw. Doesn’t mean it’s flawless, means I haven’t found it. Very valuable. Go to the top of the universe. Sit over there with Shakespeare and Chekov and Lem and Chaucer and Miles and Bird and GB and Bucky and Wright and synergy and cybernetics. But also, unlike the Platonists, I have the greatest reverence for all the stuff that passes the everyday tests: eating, breathing, reproduction, movement, plain bio-synthesizing: generating sugar from light, cellulose from sugar, protein from cellulose …
It’s the semantic (generally unconscious (as where else should they be?) experiments: freedom, reason, science, god, magic, authority, … that I test and test.
probably hear “Rebels” all the way to the casinos in Las Vegas,” the final four announcer says. sure, via the tv. turn the sound off and listen. can’t hear anything not local. the sound is coming from the box the tube is in. transmitted, transformed and retransformed. coded and uncoded. believed in.
“and you’ll be history,” the little girl says facing away from the boy facing away from her as she drinks her milk. ling: elevation/degradation. history once something only a king could aspire to (with no guarantee of acceptance) and now it’s nada? oblivion? the forgettance of this girl?
any outside is the inside’s inside within a single topology.
Magical, wonderful, whatever the fuck it is, World of Disney. I’m actually watching more than ten minutes of it for the first time ever. ten minutes before I’m finished chewing, adequately nauseated, no longer willing to give something a chance. (of course I normally have no idea what pops up when I flick the switch and turn my back as I face the stove. Don’t know what channel it’s on. If it’s sunday, then who broadcast the golf? the whatever championship? except I haven’t seen tv in more than 24 hours. work, sleep, toss, stare, sleep. All I know instantly is: it’s puberty, it’s college, it’s nebbishes dating and getting feathers pulled by the dominant gang of brothers. (Freud, not Soul). it’s male female roles core ratified while surface teased. it’s some glasses wearing, prefect featured, blond “professor” hmm of “robotics”, looking “adult” to the twelve year old audience and looking ridiculous to me. less belly than the teen android about to appear, less mons, less bosom, a lot less ass. that pussy broadcasts further than the “Re-bel” however hidden. the adult looks younger than the kid from a phylogenic standpoint. more nubile. longer legs. also more infantile, except for the ridiculous no fat you can’t get a healthy baby to exhibit.
I eat my cheese and watch cause it’s robots. how long before it so offends me I smash my only and irreplaceable tube?
I eat and watch without a tremor as stuff from Comet and Beginning are duplicated without any profundity whatever? Wouldn’t have thought it possible to trivialize totally Mary Chen’s symmetry or Pilot flicking she’s toggles. I swear, it didn’t offend me at all. Twenty years after Death Wish?
I became fascinated with it’s contempt for its own apparent subject: “physics” quoting a character herself, as though physics and cybernetics were at all close. Since Faraday and Maxwell, I don’t see any resemblance. The girl jumps some Million Dollar Man distance, puts her … can’t say Keds any more … not airjordan’s The Pump … er, what does Beth wear? (Reebock’s) anyway, sneakers through a steel weave grating. boy robot pulls it out. bent steel, not a scuff on the fabric, leather, canvas, plastic composite.
Though there was one gimmick that made me laugh. More with it, than at it. Her nicad is running down. she drops a cord and plug from under her smooth a second ago arm hugging jersey sleeve. Cute. Except it’s not grounded, surge protected, polarized or anything. It’s a plain dime store 30¢ do it yourself replacement. Hmm, maybe they did that, her builders, as a safety of sorts. it is a skeleton key as it were. the new plugs can only go in the new sockets.
genealogy. you’re descended from the Chairman, the Pres., the King. Nobody cares who your mother is. Griselda. But she’s equally there in you. You’re one; your parents are two, their parents are four (with the possibility of incest making one of the twos made up by one person), grandparents eight … It’s a square. So you’re descended from Abraham, at N generations. From Abraham and N2 Griseldas.
very UnAmerican if you listen to what we say; very American if you pay attention to what we do.
god isn’t fact: he’s truth.
IASF sends form: either it wasn’t original, or wasn’t literate, or, “finally,” 849 others were better. And this is a representation of an organ of intelligence? Publishing has become an arm of the government. Anton’s lifer at Madison: couldn’t answer Professor, so changes the subject. Professor doesn’t go away. “I’ve finished with your question,” the lifer says. Sure. But the whole UWis audience can see that he didn’t answer it. Couldn’t. There was no answer except that the lifer was lying.
Finished. And on with the scam. Important state business to attend to. Can’t waste time with the non-gullible, the rational, what the hell clout do they have anyway? No reason to be responsible. We’re still getting away with it, aren’t we?
topology everything for the last couple of months. or is it years? no: decades. except that this pm it’s synthesizing as I stare and revealing it’s juncture with other sides: m/t & discont/cont, eg. the fractal thing is that we’re always in a environment one dimension beyond the common perception. (if others and I are noticing it, it must be that it’s about to become common?) we’re in a circle and think it’s a line. we’re in a sphere and talk about circles. we’re in a s/t continuum and talk about spheres. so what are we in when we talk about s/t? an s/t discontinuum, perhaps. Civilization (a synergy, not of man, but of some special interest of some special men) requires that we all be wrong in concert. (just watching tv, fascinating by the speed of logical gear shifting that everyone was required to go through every other thirty seconds: american business politicos accusing the japs of having business and govt work closely for each other. it’s not fair, the ams are complaining! anyway, super-national, global thinking such as we’re capable of it. “once, if there ever was a purely american industry, it was the car industry. Henry Ford.” !!! As though Ford invented cars or Renault and Peugeot were american driver/mechanics. But it was an error we all rehearsed in concert, and don’t want reality to wake us from. any more than the japs will, ten, twenty, fifty years, months, seconds from now. then there’s a quote from the ad with Mr Chrysler saying that Am purchasers blindly prefer the jap label on an identical car rolling off the same quality line. (I heard no complaints when they blindly preferred the Am label no matter how inferior in quality.) then there’s a close close up of some woman with a head ache, but this terribly secret side complaint that aspirin sometimes upset her stomach. pout. now it’s the sacred duty of the pharmaceuticals to come up with a product that she can passively consume that will cure her experience of life and her own body, its functions and misfunctions, very fast and without upsetting her stomach. of course it was never their duty to do so, until they already had, or their agency invented a dodge by which to push the poison. Or, the damn stuff upsetting the tummy plenty; the real problem is that aspirin is too generic, too simple, too cheap. On and on. one second we’re in sympathy with the sexy pot toker. the next with the fascist cops. the next with the poor businessmen. oh the woeful logic of the unfair consumer. zoom focus left and right. all in a philosophy of nothing relative. the “friction” between map and territory is what fuels our participation in the next order of order. it’s our linear thinking that in-deed is shaping the non-linear fractals. so what’s mine doing, refusing to be clipped to the proper narrowness and shortness? not marching with the new goose step? (marching by some old goose-step, I don’t doubt. they’re trying to anchor to .001 grams of flotsam. I’m derisive, hanging onto .0012. or marching to a newer. they’ll get it, in time. I don’t claim what I see to be the “end,” or “right,” just less mismatched. ay! also on tv. somebody found some nuclear detonators in Libya or somewhere. and a handful are shown. little semiconductors with a couple of wires sticking out. super close up of man’s fingers holding one. you can read his finger prints. now he puts the sample down, back where it belongs among the others. there’s a space for it. steady hand until he’s coming in for a landing. and bzzzz, the guy’s fingers oscillate back and forth, till suddenly, trigger, he puts it back between the others in its space. cybernetics in action. nervous correction, overcorrection, reverse, reverse, reverse, reverse, … like a doorbell. and GB’s metalogue about order and entropy and where something belongs on the shelf. not “one point,” rather a few points correct. the guy got the part back between the others, if it were as tightly defined as an Angstrom Unit, he’d never be able to and neither could a robot. (Yet the A unit is infinitely too big compared to something infinitely smaller.)
In general, I approve like crazy of the discontinuous fact of men and women not understanding each other, trees being safe at least from our schooling, we being safe from Jesus’s, parents and children: but Christ it hurts when I see distortions waving back from Brian. As bad as US n Japs c. 1941. So, on one hand, all I want to do is applaud and love the way things are, the feel their music. the god of actuality. except it’s nonsense: I’m a component, one of the weavers, one of the blind, the selfish, one who can’t know that it is music and not woeful self (or group (the question being, What group?)) deception.
delicious. binary and warp/weft analogues cruise through semi sleep for last hour and a half. Lucy keeps me accounting till 10 this am: 11 straight hours, though I did sit and read a little Clavell for a while twoish. by 11 it’s still a bit cool, but I’ve still opened all the flaps as I bed down. April 4 and like mid March. never saw an April day like this one in Florida. lovely actually, but cool. So I expect to sleep 10 hours if the temp. will let me. Seven hours, 7:00ish pm and I’m bone froze. Oh, but those lovely thoughts, keep sleeping. maybe it will get warmer as the night comes on. maybe your bladder will go away. continuity/discon. mortality. logic. but so mixed it was like a lovely heat death, so tight a weave as to be indistinguishable from the random. so no hub, no crux, no kernel. no difference, no navel for the snowflake to grow around. none visible. what is awareness? and weaving throughout: GB’s up of Russell: We know how to talk; we just don’t know what we are saying. So it’s 8:30, quarter to nine, I piss a bucket full, and somehow have managed to dreamweave it on for another hour and a half or so. Catch some of it? Ho ho. A little bit maybe.
One of the great questions of philosophy (you can tell how great it is by how little it gets answered: someone mentions it, everyone blushes or laughs nervously, and straight back to what can be bullshited and jargoned. but the questions that make smart people flush don’t go away) is What if you went to sleep for an hour (month, year, timeA) and the whole world, everything, slept, disappeared, made faces, for the same time: you wake up, everything wakes up, neither of you remember: how could you tell? You couldn’t. It would generate no information, if by definition, it generated no difference. Partly the question is meaningless. Or, however casual seeming, I’ve carefully phrased it to be formally meaningless: no difference, no definition, no information. ^, a story of an impossibility. or at least a nonexistent from any ahem rational standpoint. But no information can’t mean can’t exist. unless a precondition for existence is your being able to know about it. Berkeley again. solipsism with a vengeance. the eskimo didn’t exist till i heard about them. god couldn’t be born until i approved it. Nonsense again: how can you prove what by definition you can’t prove? This sentence is false.
That’s Module1.
Module2. how the bell works. cyberneticly. by paradox. (And right away I dreamthink, Right, right-on, my whole Shakespeare sonnets thing, Oxymoron of Idea, history buzzing with Realism/Nominalism, Sh’s day/night, light/dark, male/female, mind/heart, etc/etc, also an anticipation of, a poetrying of, a dramatization (2 dimensional) of cybernetics!) turning itself off turns itself on. (But one side cheats: Realism does the defining. So nothing is neutral. It’s not a zero sum.) logic can’t follow it because logic lacks the dimensionality.
M3. and I’m thinking, what if things that look like x,y dimensions, vertical and horizontal were really warp, weft, really two threads, woven, weaving together, and connected, off the scale of perception? in which case, couldn’t two threads really be one thread, in a topology more complex than we’re used to? and I suddenly think, dream picturing my poor worn $1.99 from Waldbaums in Bryn Mawr, no it was the dime store in Ardmore, scatter rug. One rug, Joseph’s coat of many colors, seeming to be long colored warps, weft stitched in thin gray, but are “actually” (ho, ho) … uh, wait. I’d better look at it. I was about to say are actually bits and pieces tied together to look like long strands. Now I bet that it’s just a few places where the factory spool ended and was tied to the next. My point is the same. the seem. the seam. On one scale existence appears to be continuous, analog, solid. On another it appears to be discontinuous, digital, molecular, atomic. Monism and pluralism are contradictions only in logic, only in reason. And we all know how silly they are. and of course with everything tumbling around, any association with either x or y and a “fixed” direction is only an accident of a temporary consciousness tumbling temporality in phase with … well, say, x being “up.” or up being positive.
what was the next module? god, it’s hard to concentrate, and close the flaps, and cover my nakedness as I have to turn the lights on, and hold my body heat, and perk the coffee, and think of something to eat, and think of Diana, and plan my metabolism for lunch with her tomorrow or Friday, and also realize that at the same time I’d been dream weaving …
In die menge, Mackie Messer geht,
Der vom alles, nichts gewusst.
And thinking of Lotte Lenya, and just missing her in 56/7, but Beth coming back from the Provincetown all wriggling from the stage effect of Mackie snatching Polly’s dress off, and picturing poor old Lotte, on PBS, too old, even her timing gone, why was she doing it? why were they so stupid as to let her, let alone ask her? and Weil and Brecht. and Brecht and Brecht. “Kein nein.” But there was a connection. what the hell was it? oh, yes: irony. Der von alles, nichts gewusst. You’re watching the y axis being called the x axis and keeping your mouth shut about it. Just like Mackie. Well, what do you suppose we’re doing, if not weaving reality? Just like, along with, the rest of it?
And who’s to say that one apparition is the “right” name for something and another the “wrong”?
So there’s still the problem of what’s the difference between a recalculation, a miscalculation, and a disinformation? Relativity is a better theory of timespace than anything before. Someone can mean well and misunderstand it. Einstein meant well but misunderstood some things. Who doesn’t? But what about standing in a pulpit and misrepresenting it? What about The moon is made of green cheese? Is Einstein no better than a liar? Well, better is a relative term, isn’t it. Better is the part of the dimensional seeming. here where x and y look simple and 2 dimensional and perpendicular to each other.
(I fuzz out, shake my head, reread the above paragraph, and freak out at “relative term.” ‘relativity’ epistemology. for primates, for mammals, at least, epistemology, math to, is about relationships. identities, ratios, congruences. difference itself. so GB says. at least part of that. he’s still the source of it, even if I said a third of it, adding stuff. except so’s Korzybsky. who I found through GB.
the question is: are you in phase with those local to you?
Why no. Please. It’s what I work hardest at. Christ, it’s like levitating to keep it up.
I’ll bet there are relational check points throughout the cosmos. one red light amid “universal” green. one cows-lick, standing up, when all the stickum in the barber shop is trying to plastic it down. That’s what satan really is, a very very distant view of god. I don’t know nothing Mackie doesn’t even volunteer to say. But he stands there. His standing there, his smirk, his gloat, his “doch das messer sieht mann nicht,” is the fucking center of the audience’s attention and understanding if not of the stage.
we dress, we cover our hard on, our pussy, we dress so much and so well we convince ourselves that we don’t know what it means. then the relatively frank bushman looks at the puritan wasp and thinks: he’s covered his sex: he’s really forgotten about it. straight man to Mackie. but Mackie has his own straight man aspects. he really seems to think the bushman is dumb. or naive. or straight. or frank. or more superstitious than he.
ah! I knew I wanted to say more than that. double function. two parents give birth to one. 1 + 2 = 3. binary isn’t just binary. clothing does more than just give scope to the imagination about our tease concealed dick. it also extends/excludes environments. extends our ability to control, preserve, maintain body temp. So now Polly’s mother says: cloths are for warmth. fashion is secondary. open your hymnal, Polly. Stand up straight. Wach auf, du verrottetter Christ!
I can prove it, I’m fucking shivering in my sweater, 11:19 pm, fucking April 4! in Florida! 12 hours ago, a chill wind blows over my naked shoulder as I had stripped to brace my groggy self against heat stroke.
Of course, one could say that it’s the pussy, not the dick, or at least far more than the dick, that the clothing is designed to cover up and make scream louder. the super sexed ape. Sure. the male sticks out, the female recedes, is hidden. oh yeah? those tits, that ass is fifty times more massive than even a champion dick. Yeah, but it’s not the pussy. So? Neither is the dick the seed. Neither is the seed the DNA. Etc. The ass is a goddamd runway to the egg, fercrisake.
which one is really yin? which yang?
double function. is the tongue for speaking? or eating? or for cranking the pussy open wider? ah, Mrs. Peacham says: animals have always eaten, speech is recent. and CS Lewis comes up with second meanings. yes, yes, eating was just paving the way for speaking.
The green lights avoid the red light. Gottabe stuck. Defective. The red light thinks the green lights are all idiots for all being green. Dishonest too, as some resist feeling the next impulse. Oh, shit. Now they’re all changing. Well, I’m damned if I’m gonna stay red now that they’re just changing automatically. Cheesh. (except now who’s resisting an impulse? scuse me? who’s dishonest?)
for days I’ve been trying to “picture,” to “imagine,” time as “perpendicular” to x,y,z. did I? even a little? wait, before you pass out, give 2 seconds to a fifth mutually perpendicular to four. rotsaruck. that doesn’t last long. not consciously. except that is does in some way. in some way it’s all I’m thinking about and for decades now. That I’m aware of. and who knows long before that? how many lifetimes? eons. universes.
lots of stuff I try to picture. and also don’t give a shit if I can’t visualize, as long as I can think somehow. how x could be a loop as well as a line. how x could be a 2 dimensional loop as well as a 1 dimensional line/loop. how x,y could be a 3dim loop, one single thing. the doughnut rolling itself. rolling the past out of the future as well as the future out of the past.
how about god/s mutually and cyberneticly defined as ability/inability to separate/integrate self/other from other/self. how about ability/ inability as willingness/ refusal? calling each other names the whole way.
now if naming the 9 billion names of god is a holy act, how is the early on?-late coming? scatological series not?
now throughout this session, I’ve been working to exclude the Alan Watts Hindu HideAndSeek stuff, lest it take over and lock the guest of honor from the party.
JanUs, I think. An example of a good idea, once good, but now buried in an inadequate topology. But how profound: just to see it as more than one. Having done so, how profound, just to portray it as still one.
All good stuff. As long as you don’t take them as dimensionally accurate. How is Janus different from Saturn’s earthquake to solve Diana-Mars-Venus’s problems? How is that different from holy meek humorous humble MeckieMesser Chaucer writing about fucking Pagans in the next breath after Xian prayers?
of course the trouble with Hide&Seek is, wasps and USians are in a phase where they can’t be told about games without taking a very wrong, very aHindu semantic turn. Civilized upsidedown bassackards. games are trivial, childs play, not serious … Hard to say right because all the terms will be linguistic degradations from previous elevations. as though children were bad, play were bad, practice were bad. well they’re not destroying the earth to conquer the world, are they?
they what are those green lights turning red for? and decades ago. Johnny von Neumann. Watts himself. And god forbid we should actually think that some ancient Ayrians were actually Right about something. Or that We could be. No. No more than we could be wrong.
Wait, according to science, wrong is the one thing you can be fairly confident you can be right about. the moon ain’t green cheese. that theory’s kaput.
ah, but if it was a … um … symbol … er how could it be kaput?
ah, nice scenario.
back to door buzzer and strobe light existence.
what if the whole universe is one particle winking back and forth between its binary off/on, true, false, yin, yang, and generating trinary protruding females and subtle, hidden males, etc etc. till, at some magnitude, finite, but magnatudinous, we are wraiths, pulsed intermittently, with universe after universe, topology after topology, god after god after devil, also pulsed, but so they can see and laugh at (with, enjoy, appreciate, learn from, be warned by) our wisp mutable prideful tumescent transience. Pathetic, but get on your nerves after a while, neh? one god says.
um, before I forget. trying to say too many things at once. so nice just to dream it. whether illusion or what, it seems like it’s all there, all quite wise and digested yet new and stimulating and all while you’re asleep. that’s it: projection. projection being the depicting of something 3D in 2D (or I presume by similitude) 4D in 3D, ND in nD. And relationship of projection to perspective. Mercator and those guys came right after P … and Raphael. What’s his teacher’s name again? Damnable not having my books.
cybernetics. not a religion, not a church, but the whole universe attends.
GB and mind. whatever wonderful and/or frightening and/or vital or fatal things the scientists find in this era will still be like Columbus’s or Vespucci’s map making compared to Copernicus: the map is in a different universe. and even if that universe changes, expands, contracts, reshapes, however it’s corrected or improved, it won’t again be the infantile chauvinist camp most of us still think in.
IASF & the Turing test. a zombie through Wed & Thurs off CircleK. sleep another couple of hours, wake 5:30, read Noble House and discover I’m feeling better. More and more stuff I think I’ll scribble gets forgotten. Not important, other than that I enjoy the scribbling. reading that Sidney Sheldon book from the store shelf. it was only insults I’d wanted to write down: I’m sure the link between not paying attention to character consistency or and link with probably experience and gross success isn’t direct. any real formula must be very interesting. “Dunk,” seemed to be her only shot, then I see the Laker Girls where the 11 girl on the cheer squad beats the 11th man on the team at around-the-world. If he was 111th man on the Lakers, and hardly taller than this petite actress, he’d better shoot like Chet Forte, Pete Maravitch, or Jerry Lucas from outside, and he actually challenges her to one on one? Of course the point was that we were supposed to think that she was a real person. We’re supposed to imagine that we, the audience, are also real people. And that Magic Johnson is a real person. Maybe so. What does that have to do with one on one around the world between a pro and a girl who could hardly lift her arms away from her breasts?
but it wasn’t just the arbitrary injection of undigested antisexism that was so stupid about the 8th Commandment. the formula seemed to be: fold current wishes into last year’s “realism.” Don’t overmix. Leave it lumpy. then half-bake. bestsellerdom among the illiterati.
12 or so years ago, I sit down on Martha’s john, and to avoid picking up the nothing but Playboy in Ted’s toilet side magazine basket, there’s the Shogun on the tank top. Now normally at Martha’s my habit was to shit quick and clean as possible and get back to her. This time I start to read Shogun. Blackthorn and the storm. Right to the end of the intro. Can’t I borrow this? I ask her. And for the next week, that’s all I did. Read Shogun. See her pencil marks next to Mariko-San’s orgasms.
Sweat bullets that Gail’s opening is the Thursday night of the serial when it’s tv’ized. So, Richard Chamberlin is supposed to come. He didn’t show. Now if it were Mifune …
Somehow I never pick up King Rat. I buy Noble House card cover from some book club, but never get into it. Thought I’d read more than I now see I did. Maybe I thought Casey was a Dunk. Never would have finished 8thCom if the alternatives hadn’t been Rod&Driver or TeenIdols or … Louis L’Amour. picked one up in desperation to get away from Sheldon. glad I did, but after a page, preferred to suffer with Dunk. Should try a page of Zane Gray sometime.
I might not have pressed far in NobleH this time either but that I’m running out of stuff and the libraries are such pains. But his time: wow. By page 300 something we begin to meet Four Finger Wu. And now his 7thson and the bank and the stock market. !!! there’s realism, reality, and human addiction all in one. with an audience. good noveling can sell too. though not always. and no testing. you could test this or that unpublished author’s MS, but not “unpublished MSS.” the universe knows, but human perception can’t. the data by definition not accessible.
The Nth time a memory presses on me, I ought to note it. There are zillion things I’ve thought through silently or semi-outloud with one or two others that I have a short hand for: the symbol giving a quick sketch of the “whole.” Twice just this morning with NobleH I think of War Games, for a number of years now my Platonic Original example of codes, transforms, faith, group perception, etc in perception. The war dept has this war room, this game playing supercomputer, and this “board” to map the thermonuclear earth. When the display goes off, they take it as a true representation of major cities randomizing under nuclear stimulus. They “believe” the computer’s dramatization. The kid and the prof say no. General Red Man calls, via a phone, another code, transform, electronic representation, and hears a “voice,” which says, hi, we’re fine. Now the general believes the one electronic device and disbelieves the other. First he thinks he’s “seeing” nuclear war; then he thinks he’s “hearing” a human voice from the “destroyed” place.
Of course. Human sanity. You have to believe something. It would have been interesting, a different film, of course, if someone had gone schiz and ceased to believe anything. What comes to our senses in a war room except reports, transforms, “intelligence” of others? How would such a happenstance be portrayed? The war room is like the human brain, the “self” of the mind. Part of what it believes, can sense, is hardwired. Part preconditioned by the whole hierarchy of culture: parents, peers, church, school, … and own “experience” which can of course be interpreted only by that hardwiring plus conditioning. How the fuck could anyone “see” a nuclear war anyway? Standing on a street corner in Hiroshima? 10 miles away? Reading the LT or NYT?
So much of “experience” is predigestion.
You “see” a lobster in front of you. Oh, goody, I love lobster. The restaurant is expensive. Everyone else is moaning delight. It must be “good.” At some point, even a lackey, has to say, at least to himself, yeah, but this one is giving me ptomaine.
The Tai Pan makes me keep thinking that. He’s got his network of spies. The cops have theirs. And the bankers, the other tai pan. Dunross is going great so far, but he knows it’s imperfect, indirect, operated on my others, competitors, enemies, that it must contain disinformation as well. Each reporter has his own interests. What “saints” are talking to him? Old Blind Tung? And what if they were? Saints have their interests too. Just not your ordinary money, money, pussy, a Rolls.
synergy on Arsenio. Earth Day. It can’t be that long ago that I first saw/heard of him. I’m flipping channels to see what movies come on at 11: music, energy, hype, and this guy is smiling, and strutting, and saying, “you know, I’m the luckiest man in Hollywood.” And “just the other day I said to my mother” or “my mother said to me” and I’m thinking who the fuck is this? and what’s he talking about? but got rid of it fast, not wanting to know the answers. but then I see him, enjoy this or that, this guest, that music, till he’s part of my culture too. in some ways it’s all downhill since Steve Allen, but … though I can OD on him, sometimes, in some ways … I think he’s the best. Blasphemy! in the years of Cosby at his best? well, I only meant late night talk. but actually, he could be considered something else over all. would I have fallen instantly in love with Kristie Alley on any other show? Last night she’s his cohost for the environment. Once I’d seen her, i went out of my way to see her again. Watched Cheers. Shit, I’ve seen her before, didn’t even notice her before I switched the channel. I’m not in love with her. No, it was when she was with Arsenio. So maybe not so much last night, but still: she wasn’t just wallpaper. worthy hip wasp. if she’s wasp. don’t know what she is. anyway, Arsenio comes on to a sea of green tee shirts in the audience. “Look at that face” and he runs into the audience. Some old guy looking complex embarrassed, enjoying the madness, put on … The old guy’s wearing a green tee shirt with everybody. a human laser beam. fucking new comer: he could pull it off. the cool spade nazi. march to the environment. I haven’t run out to discover who this Millie Vanillie is that he and his, like Sinbad, keep savaging. But his opening joke is recycling, at maximum Rube Goldberg energy expenditure, an album.
Amazing. It may be too late. Bucky said we’d already passed the fulcrum in 1970, but wow, American tv culture these past couple of years. some really great stuff.
Later interviews Mrs Kramden as though The Honeymooners were actually worth noticing. To some, it must be. And they replay Lucy as though something had happened. So there are festivals no matter what. But still, to me, a Chaplin festival, for example, is meaningful. Christ, what genius. And I hope to see some moments of the Cosby show again and again for a long time. Taxi too. That thing with three actors in three different rhythms watching reggae on the tube. and Joe Williams as an in-law! singing.
analogy between geopolitics and my Urpoint about natural selection. among mammals all this head butting has a double function. sure, defective males are eliminated from mating and sure the chances are good that the champion is a good one and further that the champion will in fact mate more than the next guy. but it’s a fact omitted or not noticed by the usual Darwinian crap docuMickey Mouse treatments that not only the champion mates. my iterpoint about the exchamps genes being just as good as the champs and no better, statistically than next year’s champ. no good killing the young bull. unless you also want to kill the herd, the species.
Zo: nations, corps, tongs, gangs, etc emerge, recede, fight, merge, etc. we have this incredible post-Beowulf crap about our side being heroes, being “better.” not just we won, now the sun is shinning on us, how nice, let’s fuck, but we deserve it, we’re the good guys, it should always shine on us, we should be last year’s champs, and next year’s and next centuries’. anyone who wants to compete should be hamstrung. some champion. gee, there could be dirty fighting: let’s fight dirty and blame them.
I think history studies should include time lapse movies of geo-pol maps, suddenly freezing at 1990 or whatever the year, month, minute. among other freezes. any map is just a moment’s freeze. the US, the USSR, etc. animations. cartoons. ditto language maps, religion maps. species’ maps. symbionts’ maps.
what is science? does it need to be discussed? have an audience? have support or agreement? how about Aristarchus? we’re lucky to know about his work. he got shoved in a corner. officially ignored. maybe, I suppose they must have, noticed him first, then pushed him aside. Galileo’s house arrest wasn’t exactly torture and anonymity. he did still publish. the church/state hadn’t yet discovered the hollywood cybernetic let’s censor our feedback there’s no market for this ploy.
not one thing one reader of the very few there’ve been have made any response whatsoever about any of my topogeocosmo points. entropy or the composition of energy. not my son. zero. that sure is the best way to consider a topic, isn’t it?
2500 yrs later Dr Carl says Aristarchus was right, the rest of the Greeks were assholes. one lucky example. of an unknowable number of real ones.
what we call science, science the profession, comes up with wonderful stuff, but as GB tagged it, it too is mostly running for office, acting like Brutus, like Antony, being safe and stupid.
binary sci. conceiving, trying new models (one can try another’s as well as one’s own: the point isn’t whose it is, but that it be new and to try it); and the pop recognizable part: engineering, the Manhattan project, GE. taking great intelligence and application, sure, but a whole different thing.
this am, groan, turn on some noise, fumble, realize a minute later there’s no sound, correct that, know as I plug in the pot that it’s gotta be Tarzan. so sure, I don’t look at a screen for another several minutes as the pot perks and my fingers find Mozart. enough glimpses to see chimps being cute as they obey the kid’s instructions to steal. how cute, the slave chimp stole the bad guy’s gun. later Tarzan recruits lions, leopards, elephants, etc all to thwart the bad guy without harming anyone. what would Bourroughs think if he saw Tarzan instantly backing off as the villain grabs the nun? cheesh, the plot is to sell hospitals via nuns to jungle bunnies. nun defends freedom of superstition. she’d better. we’re leaving, the chief doesn’t want us, the nun says. chief changes mind again, nun ready to move back in. at the end, nuns teach chief about music. they sing Michael Row the boat ashore, a piss poor imitation of the MaGuire sisters in the cutesy poo syncopation. poor chief just don’t have no civilization at all. he can’t even clap in time. but he tries. now I’m sure from the eyes as well as the stature as well as the voice that this is a very young James Earl Jones scripted to be practically spastic helpless. By the end I’m paying close attention. What floored me was the credits. Jones all right, but Diana Ross and the Supremes as the fucking ohfey nuns! Worst of all: the music was done by Nelson Riddle! Now I have no idea what J E Jones is musically. He could easily be as inept and ignorant and non-trained, mistrained, distrained as any other American. For all I know anthropologists could know as many tribes with no specially rhythmic music as there are the famous drummers and dancers and men of words. Corse I don’t really believe that for a second. But no special reason to assoc JEJ with Africa just because he’s ahem “Black.” But Diana Ross! Nelson Riddle! Diana Ross & the Supremes! Christ. Bird played with Norman Granz’s strings, but he still played like Bird. What the hell did the producers go to Riddle and what did he do to the Supremes to produce a pure Beatrice product. Borden’s non-dairy imitation coffee something.
now something else awful and interesting is on. Krull. D&D confusions of logical type. But as the hero quests an abstraction, something evolutionary, as a physical object and a weapon, the set goes fractal and looks like a phagocyte’s view of an inner system.
govts, bigb, so interested in protecting us: for fleecing.
sd: politics, the art of claiming responsibility for what you don’t even know the scope of, let alone the mechanism.
as long as lawyers get to define liberty and justice for all, they’ve got no problem.
shamans lie. for the truth. jesuits. the CIA joins the mafia, dope smuggling. all for our good.
god: that progression in an asymmetrical situation the appropriateness and/or effectiveness of which hasn’t come to yet be judged/able.
reality as a quality check for some complex program.
the church’s function is to rehearse us, early, in believing a composite, not of our experience and contradictory to experience. then school: more of the same.
the past few days, I see everything as the infinitely curved, out of sight warp/weft. gotta have a name for it. woof weft. weft woof.
so many are stuck (and refuse to be anywhere but stuck on where their bad model breaks down. Shi Teh’s party and international politics get discussed. the wasps disagree as to who is the bugaboo, but all the capitalists agree there is one. the Chinese capitalists are civilized: every man for himself and of course there are dragons and devils all over the place.
i try to simplify, with minimum loss of accuracy, hoped to gain in accuracy, actually, certainly in clarity, what the points of friction are between myself and my ahem society. sometimes they come like stilettos. here’s one, I look at it, feel its keen pierce, but recognize it at once. oh, you again. but it feels sharper than ever. it didn’t ever draw blood this time. what’s given hss (homo sapiens sap.) its present ahem advantage is its extraordinary ability to form decisions, trigger actions, based on a smear of experience. incomplete data (as though a few-point consciousness could ever have complete data). if we weren’t right enough, more often than not, we wouldn’t be here, making our hair trigger decisions. science, now boosted by cybernetics, even in half assed branches like psychology, can now hone algorithms of what is the basic human family of algorithms anyway. with this difference: it’s conscious. partly conscious, that is. goes (should go) without saying. we are uncertain. given. but uncertainty, traditionally, primitively, precyberneticly, means paralysis. Hi, Hamlet. group (ha) consciousness rehearses epistemological lies. We are certain that we, our country, our tribe, our religion, our god, our cosmology, our philosophy, blah blah … And don’t show us no fucking data. ie blind in gradualism circumstances. hey, fine. we’re here, right? 5 fucking billion of us, making out. why shouldn’t it last forever? right? (don’t answer. the more specious the rhetorical y’all- confirm-this,-hea’? the more you’d better not answer it.) well, forever is formally meaningless, all things, again based on incomplete data, but the least incomplete, the best by best minds digested, change pattern. there’s a pattern to the pattern changing, but that’s a different logical level, one we don’t give a shit about, except occasionally with a mystical insight, merely inherited in fossilized form(s) for most of us. still, we’ve got this macro in-time instinct: make it last. endure, replicate, reproduce, communicate, colonize, infect. GB says some ripples in the stream last longer than those that last not so long. we want to be in the long ripple.
so do i. so do i. but not by the algorithms that hound us through cradle and kindergarten and become overwhelming by puberty, military, marriage, business. you want to get along? go along. this insanity is good for us. what about jobs? the economy? how did we get here but by blowing things up? chopping up the dissident? killing the fucking healers? reducing the biosphere to what we recognize as fed us yesterday.
side track, but the switch just threw itself. all this incredible bilge of power of positive thinking, I can hypnotize you out of your neurosis, how to make 30 mil in real-estate from the verge of bankruptcy and a credit card, live in an estate and fill it with Benz, all this education, more education, memory courses, speed reading, I can give you more and better diarrhea wholly without digestion, go to college, no, go into the army first, it’s a short cut, go back to school, all of you. except of course, Heff & Trump & Rocke. Our permanent bewilderment at math, that the few are the few and the many the many. the american delusion that a little new magic will make the many the few, that we’ll commonize the exclusive by ratifying it. a little magic and we’ll all be kings with all the land and lots of servants. and every machine our slave. oh well the heaven of impossibles is after death. that’s when it will be free. no effort, no sense, no deserving. beauty for the ugly. all you have to do is will away all reason. didn’t get it? still? well, it’s your own fault of course. you didn’t will away the reason perfectly enough. our cargo cult.
the up side of that is its evidence how imperfectly ahem socialized we really are.
but that was aside. we point is of course epistemology. how absent it is from all but 1% of religion, education, even most science. give a course in thinking and show only fossils of it. of course you couldn’t even imitate that, you slime. knee jerk inferiority to the past, more than offset by knee-jerk superiority of the present. how I love that kid in the pot ad, making all his own decisions, with his shades, his walkman, his canned blare. better than JesusSocratesAdam any day. what the fuck should he know about an asshole like Einstein for? toke some more pot, no, go to school. the fucking kid is in school, you assholes. anyway, toke, don’t toke, be bankrupt at thirty and then you’ll move into the mansion with the Benz. enough of you to keep the illusion. well, hell, I bought a lottery ticket didn’t I?
but I’m still aside. my point is that we love to talk about examining what we’ll crucify the examination of.
but the lessons are clear. have been clear all along. history is quite accurate in the prescribed fate for certain choices. posterity will divide (has divided) binary into knee-jerk envy the kings; knee-jerk honor the prophets. we put one on the throne and chased the others into the desert. where they go even not chased. the desert being not a place with cactus but the only place one can think.
so what sort of reproduction do those of us in the desert believe in? spontaneous generation? I’m sure we believe a variety of things, like those in the slum (the slum which includes park avenue and the mansion). parturition involves the breeding species in twos. I don’t doubt that thinking too is 99.9 to 100% tied into the extensional world also, but not in the simplistic way (if you can call biology simplistic), the ordinary one of one of pop assumption. I look around and see “my” “ideas” surface all over the place. They didn’t hear it from me? How do I know that? I’m not looking at myself or at them or at my conventionally traceable sources, ie those I’ve read or talked with or listened to, the Buckys and Ivans and GBs, in conventional terms. I heard most of them before I heard them. I’d hear the same thing they’d heard. They helped me hear it. Chrissake, my Shakespeare thesis dovetails with GB’s cybernetics. I just didn’t know his words. But now see how much better tooled his words are than the floundering vocabulary of trad quagmire philosophy. Realism and Nominalism. What misnomers. The meaning is in the dynamic. Sh had to invent the greatest art to get around, to surround, to organize the nonsense. truth is in everybody doing very similar things but saying different things about it and perceiving it differently. even the light dark business has no objective verification.
a culture is what a portion of us are comfortable in. a stable culture is what a majority are comfortable in through a period of no catastrophes. morality, an after the fact synthesis of established behavior, mixed with a little cybernetic direction, however Procrustesed into natural logic, natural language. makes sense to almost all of us. as GBS culled from Ibsen, eloquence and/or fervor in declaiming it is evidence of actual discomfort: the “Philistine” just lives it. but then there are the “realists”: the shoe pinches, dammit. the pinch is usually, but doesn’t have to be, personal. so lots of people will pinch (be pinched). some will be articulate about it. then some will successfully agitate. slowly, grumbling and blaming, a plurality will come to be able to see, yeah, the shoes pinches those guys. hell, a refit wouldn’t be so hard. then it is joined to standard morality. not having that particular pinch becomes a right. people go marching around looking not for pinches but for that pinch.
then somehow it’s easy for us to see how insensitive the past culture (it’s ok, we’ve renamed the son) was to a whole list of pinches. we congratulate ourselves on how we now see all the important aspects of fit. sure, some people are still pinched, but we’re doing something about it.
the agitator who was around at the moment of synergy, Arsenio dressing his audience in green tee shirts for earth day, gets hailed as the genius who figured it all out. so now it’s obvious that the past required genius to see the now obvious; simultaneously, it’s only common sense that now, everything’s better than ever. cough cough. sorry, i’d like to help more, but my divorce is killing me. and the kids’ tuition. why after taxes … not to mention that my swimming pool needs that new Taj Mahal overroof.
of course anyone who looks into it then sees a long history of articulate criticism. but not coordinated till the synergy.
how often is charisma (always a synergizer/ed) leverage into a new balance? I’m convinced that most often, it’s just an old old synergy. oh, Ronald Reagan with his dyed washboard that he swears he doesn’t die, doddering and fumbling, is so masculine, so right on about important things: old synergies.
then King invents prejudice and reaps the tide of a hundred year long tide of effort, which of course is a crest on top of a thousand year long tide of effort, which of course is a crest on top …
dei: jesus, how often I talk about jesus. and-surprise-just thinking about “him” again. it’s generally clear to me which of a half-dozen if not gross of aspects I mean at the time. a good man, a teacher, a healer, a moralizer, someone who semisuccessfully straddled both tradition and change, the calm bohemian, the communicator who suggests far more than he says, the perfect existentialist, living more than describing an ideal, etc etc. Also, the touted magician, gadfly wise guy, antiestablishment hornet, oral poet-story teller, good buddy over a skin of wine, moral liberal, etc, etc. 90% of the time, the last decade or so anyway, I mean the best known example of society’s shaving of the right side of the bell curve when they think they’re scourging the left. martyr to progress. a real martyr. actually tortured. some of the time I also mean . .. the unsayable. the idea of the extensional somehow sometimes embodying a vital essential from the intensional.
GB says the intensional only exists in the extensional. the software needs the hardware for its own existence. sure. but we’re still into a new complexity of the chicken and egg question. the biological part has been answered. you need an egg to make a chicken; you do not always need a chicken to make an egg. just something sort of like a chicken. that’s biology. how about cosmology? the standard theology is you need a maker to have a thing. (seeing ha ha the universe as a thing.) such may be obvious to a certain mind set, but as usual, the obvious is far from necessarily true. how can even the physicists be sure there was no preextensional program for the physics? they can’t. they aren’t. not the good ones. who’s ever been more flexible about Ur questions than StHawking? sure he wants to be “right.” so he starts imaginative. play with the math.
whoops, the theo-sci is a side track here. I didn’t even finish a decent list of what jesus is in my thinking. Now the “historical” man from Nazareth etc who was crucified, one of many crucified, the carpenter etc, he may have been some or all of those things. Or more. why should we trust the apostles to have seen the half of it when it’s an essential of the story how insensitive they were. as it is an essential of all stories that the chorus doesn’t know what the hell is going on. except superficially. the superficial is the story, beyond which, beneath which, pedal tone beneath which, we sense …
which doesn’t justify a listener/reader in just making up anything at all. uh, maybe jesus was really a stock broker. with freckles and a big mole. faggot. ladies man. sorry. it’s not in the story.
but more importantly, it isn’t requisite for the man from Nazareth to have been more than one or two of the things I list, for the list to work well spiritually. ie symbolically, cyberneticly, evolutionarily, jibe in the reading, retelling of the story.
whoops, but that’s a side track too. what I was just thinking was the “many were crucified” part. having perceived the shaving of the right side of the bell curve, to personify that, to reify the personification (whether or not accurately doesn’t matter here), and that to cancel the series. that’s it. Chaplin was a genius and now no one else ever may be. Bird. Babe Ruth. How dare that nigger hit a lot of home runs? How dare Charlie Hustle break the sacred records?
And of course from my own perspective, I focus on those for whom there are no records. Far and away the majority. Those who couldn’t or weren’t allowed to play under official notice. Both you and Dennis Hopper, Late Night says to Dean Stockwell, disappeared off the face of the earth! Then shows a clip of Dean Stockwell as a wop warlord getting out of prison with all the guards as part of his train of sycophants. a fucking wasp! just after some PBS play has beefy wasp guards pulling the discipline stick across the wetback star’s throat. it’s ok, wasps, we never hurt anybody in prison; in fact we were their servants. in hollywood’s fictitious history heaven.
GBS said that because jesus was a good genius why should he believe that he was the first, the best, or indeed even the last?
And that’s my point. a little special pleading from the ignored artist. in my case also the agitator who still never put a mob in a green tee shirt.
the spot light shows up what’s in it. the brighter, the narrower. bucky’s second square. all that isn’t spotlit. art is a spot light. Sh’s sonnets are a lot of spot lights. shuffle them and they’ll still be arranged to suggest a vast landscape, a whole universe. of inadequate description and binary (half-assed) truths. hmm, I have always mean shuffle the sonnets as wholes. Now I wonder what the result would be if you shuffled lines. Not that different I imagine. Though I bet if you shuffled all the words, it would lose most of its information. Still some keys would keep coming up. just the individuals words themselves. even some rhymes. since there are more rhymes than lines.
now xity is funny (utterly predictable-look out: after the fact) in the above. lots of tail pullers have pointed out that magicians were a dime a dozen. under Rome, you’re not going to have to look hard to find someone executed. what’s the point of even caring if it was a bum rap when it so obvious that it was civilization at its ancient highest usual: us beating up them. or them beating up us. but on. magicians, kings were a dime a dozen. healers. miracle workers. every temple had a nest of them. and then there were all those unemployed. the pretenders. some section of India had 40,000 living gods registered with the government in 1850 something. the real king? what does that mean? the real god? you mean one who programmed the big bang? or who you refined as you refined agriculture?
but it’s fantastic, the essence of romanticism, to choose for your expostfacto permanent Platonic original real magician one from the unemployed side. otherwise employed. salvation from a non-professional priest. there’s a load of criticism in that. criticism the new priesthood wants to be understood to be strictly past. still true only of infidels. and of course the tradition was already there. the jews had hosts of prophets living off locusts and honey and screaming unintelligably when they came near the temple.
so we have this incredible tradition which dusts off a Van Gogh here and a Melville there and puts them on a pedestal. get Einstein out of the patent office. try to kill him. then write him up in Life. But always in the past. We used to do that. There’s no pattern to our unbroken pattern.
Again, my (self-serving) point: how many don’t get dusted off? The vast majority it would seem. Whoops, I left out lots. Xity chooses one. then close the valves of her attention. like stone. from an ample nation of candidates. makes a big point of the closing. an article of faith. others will come. phonies. devils. what better insurance could a priesthood have?
But: if you understand that your jesus isn’t the historical carpenter, if your emphasis is on something living (what lives in such a sense but a symbol for intensional pattern improvement?), if your jesus is an essence, then sure: you don’t need another body for it. You’ve got a perfectly good one. conveniently dead and unknown in details. not so subject to overnight fashion. fashion, yes, but slow. unnoticed. you put him in some modification of your own perceived genotype. damn good thing artists don’t have to match 5’6″, 135 lbs at 30, 133 lbs at 33, touch of gray coming in at one temple. dipped his pita in his barley juice. semitic nose not too unMediterranean. bathed twice a year. whatever.
And of the utmost importance: conveniently dead. what would we come to if we went gadding off after any living teacher? who’d put the crops in? who’d foreclose the mortgages? who’d tear up the everglades to widen the highway?
on the news, they’ve dug up where the last construction company simply buried all its shit in the swamp. oil, dozer parts, gigantic truck tires. gonna cost 100 million to clean it up. they know who the company was. why don’t they pay? their descendants. oh no. they were in business. law doesn’t go backwards beyond yesterday. can’t indenture their heirs. justice. easiest for the victims to pay twice. thrice. etc.
Now, I have to recognize, have never not recognized, about my own work, that the probability is minor that it will ever reach a reader who will make everybody put a green shirt on. It’s deliberate, or at least conscious on my part, that the prose itself isn’t designed to do that. my ahem fund raiding for FLEX wasn’t designed to drag anybody. see the sense and volunteer to do it. that energy must come from you. my stuff is hard to read. unfamiliar. not my fault. 99% is carefully referent to things known and knowable. just not generally know. altogether, not known by anybody but me. therefore, maybe only another couple of hundred thousand. in 1990. there have been readers 100% tuned in. Enthralled. David’s friend, the engineer. Carol, from grad school. Dyan, for part of DB. Partly, Donna, for parts of DB.
There’s a story in itself. I finally have a published writer who’d agreed without every meeting me or hearing one word of my stuff to hear a whole reading. I’m not a paragraph into it and she’s wincing in pain. I spend the time nursing her, holding her puke bag, trying to pet and calm her. Bad virus coming on, she guesses. Later tells me it was the first onslaught of her cancer making itself felt. Operations and she’s still a limp rag three quarters of a year later. I can’t help her pain, I read to her anyway. Responsive but not like the other couple of times. Then there are those readings I can’t really know about. Words coming back. No direct experience of contagion on my part. Not counting all the times I’ve seen people jump and vibrate at the idea. the outline isn’t the work.
so finally i know a professional reader by name, by his own work, admire that from some to greatly, and the initial partial response fades. Silverberg responded in part to Mod. He can’t have seen the whole thing. Whatever words he read. But now, no vibes from either King or Beg. Signed by Karen, not by him. Multiple choice rejection. “None of the above,” but still … If RS can’t see it, how will I ever find a reader who can?
I’ve gone back to “work” to earn a minimum of money. Now here it’s a beautiful day, I’m rested, thinking about DB and PA, but not working on either. Rather read Noble House. Play Sonny. Rassan. Wayne. A little Mozart and JSB as everyday. I write for my pleasure. It’s got to have been some pleasure for me to maintain the frenzy through all the pain, the harassment of landlords, of hunger. Plunge on knowing how I’m fucking up my system, my clock, all my rhythms to keep going with it. Week after week. Agonize for months till a solution comes. Finally like it. like it better the next day, the next week, months later. and no readers. almost two months of a pay check and I’m poorer than I was, since it’s all been going to the warehouse and no time or occasion to sell anything. real money. quick. the cupboard the most bare it’s been since last April or so.
By logic, there always has to be admitted the possibility that it isn’t any good. Or isn’t good enough. But a logic of possibility/ probability counts for nothing when you know you’re a competent judge in general and in fact maybe the only one competent to compare what’s there to I) intention and II) the public information concerned.
If the chance is slim that it will find more than another one or two readers, none of them professional publishers or with an in, in the remainder of my life, then what is it that it will be stumbled on and dusted off in the future? Can’t know. Not very considerable, probably. But so what? Join the majority. Not the majority of GBS philistines or the majority of GBS idealists but the majority of the prophets. we don’t know their names or what they said. only that they had to be there. It takes a nest of accidents as well as a mountain of intention for the wheel and a market to come together.
I always remember with affection that fired Harvard amateur anthropologist, his “real” field I forget what. Goldman or something. uncle to that idiot in summer school Romantics: “I understand Blake.” Schmuck. But he pushed the book at me. scoff scoff at the idea of independent invention. whole hog on spread. I toyed with that orthodoxy myself a bit. I hear myself calling Wordsworth a point source at Colby. Point, sure. Source, sure. But only? First? All unknowable. By definition, though not by convention. So there’s this cartoon of a pygmy with a bone through his nose, sitting on the ground by an open fire, and the cartoon bubble shows Watt’s steam engine. Well of course not. And Watt’s steam engine thus pictured is just meaningless hardware. How cartoon the governor? This cartoonist didn’t even try. Just insult the aboriginals, and with an irrelevance. I’ll bet properly examined that plenty of pygmies might have a better “instinct” for cybernetics than generations of educated machine builders. Watt was an exception more than an example of them. Like my going gaga over Bucky’s tensegrity, and then noticing that the arab tripod stood where the camel hide is the tensional member, holding the compressive parts in place to hold you up.
by an arithmetic logic of probability one would be tempted to concede that the xians could be right in their exclusive attribution. only one “perfect” life, etc. (how come the one sure time no one will define their terms responsibly (oh they’ll define them all right, endlessly, so long as they hold the reins of what’s responsible, no challenges from the peanut gallery, please.) but by my “knowledge” ahem of life, … sorry. that logic ain’t logical. or “logical” or not, it ain’t true. and of course the church then parades out of whole list of subsequent martyrs and saints, all by predefinition, imperfect, inferior. cept somehow there’s those who really i think prefer Mary. or Paul. or Peter. etc. I prefer a whole bunch half the time, but J is still the Ur symbol.
And I must admit, CSLewis wrote something I hadn’t thought the way he put it. Powerful stuff. Somehow the very fact that you can’t translate J’s “teaching,” what we have of it, into a clear “system,” a nice unambiguous list, laws, commandments, do this, don’t do that, is evidence of its greatness, not of its shortcoming. Dr Carl misses this in his wish for the number „ to be hidden, really clear and unambiguous, somewhere. It’s a sense one gets through steeping and Nth digestion. That no one can say unequivocally or with justice that they’ve got it completely and perfectly. Or the schisms would be silly. It’s not “solvable” because it isn’t a simple tautology like math or marxism. Nor do I think it’s “eternal.” Just plenty good after more than a half dozen millennia of civilization leading to fucking empire leading to desertification, warring interests, etc. the apotheosis of mammalian confusion among mating, territory, hunting and just who the fuck are your kin. what’s the size of your envelope? uh oh, time for paradox.
How many xians would there be if his appeal were based on his “sense”? No, it’s a give away. the fucking lottery. believe all this shit and you’ll live forever. I don’t want to be one of those “scholars” who arbitrarily assign or deny to their hero what they like and don’t like or approve of. this can’t be by Sh because it’s dirty, this must be because it’s noble, etc. I think of soandso as being dirty so this sonnet must really be by him. and here’s his sonnet that I find noble so it must really be by Sh. But I strong suspect that our carpenter may not have said quite all that. Actually J may have believed some such. He did seem to feel betrayed on the cross. Hey wait a minute. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But: You want a viable society? Then … I don’t mean he was a cybernetic biologist either. Not exactly. But in a way. The way my sonnet thesis was cybernetic decades before I had a clue of the science. Just following my sense of Sh and of life and what the sonnets did for me one day, steep-steep-steeped in them.
Alternate universes. This one is doomed. But if you want this and that, something that actually could life if … then … And that’s where I come from. The future breeding the present. Neither do I mean to say the J was a science fiction writer. good analogy anyway. But I would down play the pie in the sky part, the church’s main game. (other than acquiring power, monopolies, etc. being an example against rather than for.
But then GBS says that that’s the kind of example to be. Maybe that’s what my writing is. Don’t write this way. Look what happened to Knatz.
What happened to Knatz. He disburdened himself of what relatively little he had picked up by mistake. A little cold now and then? A little hungry? Not having all tools or resources ready to hand? How is that different from my uncivilized ideal? It’s only short of my transcivilized ideal: if the group has it, then members of the group ought to be able to get at it, so long as it isn’t unbalancing the biomass or killing the goose. can’t live at all without unbalancing the biomass a little? not true, but then … we’d live ourselves first. sure. if that’s no good then it’s the biomass’s problem. that’s means we all die? hey, there’s the solution. biomass had a problem, we articulated it, it solved it. so, now the biomass is no longer. or is crippled. permanently. temp. can’t be helped. that’s the way the biomass wrinkles. somebody invents something viable, he should get the lion’s share? why not. no quarrel. for something in a human life time rhythm. but I inherited the whole world 1,050 years ago because my uncle’s cousin’s ggggrandfather’s bastard father’s third cousin’s ggggrandfather’s mother’s something etc bashed somebody’s head in? or my group ganged up to steal your continent and now you can’t have it back. we tricked you out of your resources, but now they’re ours? childish. civi-childish. ah, but life does us in anyway. look at any time map and watch the animation. we think we’re jewish? where’s the beak? xian? where’s the stigmata? we think we’re roman. and don’t even eat garlic and olive oil? where’s the Med skin? we think we’re wasps? why are we in NY? don’t even know where Saxony is. We think we’re American. Now what the fuck does that mean? Undefined(able) coalition of terror and self- congratulation.
You invented the wheel so you think you’re son ought to have more wheels than the next guy even after you’re dead? I still don’t have any quarrel. But somewhere something got gross. And I’d much rather see the inventor cheated and the son with no more wheels than the next than put up with the grossness. But we don’t put up with it. If we’re living with it, it’s an illusion. We can’t tell if it’s viable, just because we’re alive. It may be the main evidence we have, but it’s not evidence enough. Not by itself. A nano-second can be a long long time for some things, but a few millennia (a few eras) are a short short time to tell what’s viable.
But then I also always consider: we don’t know where civilization is going. We don’t know what corporations and cabals and armies will become. They could be in their evolutionary infancy. Oh boy, power, I’ll join. Women too. So, lot’s of us didn’t. God, what I went through the couple of times, age thirty-four or so (I should’ve been crucified by then, I wasn’t enough of the thorn, god, knows I gave them enough opportunity: Er, Sgt, please notice, I didn’t obey that order. Didn’t and won’t.) I actually applied to Stone & Webber and then Circle. First Hilary handed me the address, practically made the call for me. Then it was just in the Times after I’d gotten a third eviction notice. Oh, God. So, I don’t go along. More and more do. Who knows what they’ll wind up becoming. Carthage cartels, Roman, etc. German, Brit, US, Jap, and whatever future there is in the whirligig. I don’t insist they’re bad or will remain so just because I see it as monstrous now and in the past. I just am not betting them. I’ve bet against them. I don’t expect to win. But I do place my own bet. On what I want. I’ve never expected to win. I’d perceived myself (and all of us) as lost before I ever formed it to my eight or nine year old self that way. I just want it to be clear that I didn’t go along. The future will see what becomes what. Ordinary morality. I see no objective reason we should care (more than infantilely) for our own pain at being poisoned or whatever than we do for the dinosaurs wondering what happened to the light.
Wow, wait, we have cared: just flashed on the the Stravinsky-Disney thing in Fantasia. A crock thesis of what happened, though no doubt that and like did happen to many. Drying out or founding in muck, suffering, wondering what happened to how ever you had lived.
And then there’s the nice Western-xian-deChardinian possibly infantile question: but isn’t it going somewhere? As though the North Pole were a place. Well, it is, largely arbitrary, but also, it isn’t. You want to say the point about which the planet turns clockwise is somehow special, go ahead. Why not the point about which it turns counter-clockwise? Ah, but that’s the one that’s also near the magnetic point. See? It’s ordained. For now. How about when it was the opposite. Some tautology could define an equally valid uniqueness to a zillion other points, and call that the beginning or end or something.
Well, to me, it’s all just naive topology. hardwired a little? maybe. see a beginning. it may not be true: ie, your arbitrarily or accident valued (it’s the pole our seafarers most came from near, they though Polaris and its ilk had some absolute reference other than the fact that we used it so) tautology may fit somehow with your species talent for jumping to a decision. Drawing lines. Creating differences. Here’s where it all started. No, here. First one guy has the chair, the the other guy talks enough and he gets it. The Charles Eliot Norton endowment to continue to preach such and such. is my (inherited in part, thank you for example Einstein) relativism a failure of being human? sub-human? trans-human? I don’t know. is my intelligence an advantage in survival? or defect? well, for me personally, judged by others (and sometimes myself), it would seem to be the former. Seem. Can’t tell. First, I’m 51. I do succeed and have succeeded in any number of things I’ve tried. I write well. Important stuff. I’m playing music now. Not terribly well compared to someone who speaks the language from childhood, but awful damn well for a foreigner. I pay my quirky attention to entropy. I enjoy mopping other people’s floors better than they would themselves. Organizing their shelves. Having it go mostly unnoticed. Let them watch the bottom line. Take no credit for my part in what they find there. Let them learn (fail to learn) at their cost. this is a test. it’s a really fun test, cause you don’t know it’s a test. I’m the judge, since it’s my test. someday there may be an executioner. someday. who knows? it might even be me. won’t it be funny how you could have gotten it right. the evidence was there. the opportunity. but no, you gave the common answer. you copied from the morons. I live as close to my ideal as I can afford, working for money (other than by practicing my virtues, attempting that they should be public, always) as little as possible. Maybe a little less than possible. Except that I’m alive. Except for female companionship, always too costly in my experience of the long run, I have nearly everything I want of a private nature. No, public dialogue isn’t up to me. I can only control some of my end of it. And there’s no pie in the sky, no everybody’s wrong except of course this hero with whom you can identify who make it all right, or whose sacrifice will come to be understood and everyone will be sorry in my stuff.
My experience of public speaking is I’m the guy who gets interrupted. I’m polite enough to allow it. I want to talk, not play football. the monitor, chairman, audience allows it, hey, there’s your answer: the whole thing is always one question: is it viable? don’t even want to try? fuck you, I did my part. we’ll always blame the jew for allowing the nazi to kick him in the balls? fine. that attitude will get what it should be valued at in the long run. it may only be in the long run that it will come, but it will come.
in the even longer run … none of our business. we have this and that cosmology. by definition, we can’t know if they’re right. only if they’re wrong. sometimes. at best. good. finally. we can throw that one on the junk pile.
I’m alive at 51. Who’d have believed it? I wouldn’t have … I didn’t bet any money on it. I’m in Florida where I can sit most of the year round in the open. under a tree. I’m working at a job now, but only a couple of months out of the year. only a couple of years out of my life isn’t bad.
so I also want somebody to talk to? to understand what I talk to myself about? Come on, get real. I want people to recognize the need for a better mythology? Oh, I don’t mean intellectually, I mean responsively: hey, yeah, it’s like that, isn’t it? Shaish, that’s what good poetry used to do. the bible and all. time it was updated.
Hey, who thought it was likely? all through growing up, still on the tube, shit, the brother in the AmEx ad says over lunch, I though I’d find my sister as a starving artist, and here’s she’s buying me lunch with plastic.
Dan Laurence was aghast that an intelligent person who could distinguish himself in the shitfactory should want to try to write. I’ll write good stuff, I said. Then you won’t make a dime, he said. And why should you want to write crap. The respect is here. Then why did he worship GBS? Oh, sorry, no, genius was cut off in 1880. Ain’t gonna be no more. That’s why so much of our best stuff comes from the street, even if second generation. Michael Jackson got fed most of if not his whole life. The the stuff he minstrels is from the street. Centuries of street.
Talk to myself. Talk to Brian. Talk to anybody who’ll listen. Teach them how, if they’ll be patient and show a little progress on at least something. Brian seems to have heard some, but the illusion that it was neutral if not positive is gone. People still get married. A good thing, of course. But with hope? How lunatic. Women, marriage, love, sex, children, why shouldn’t it all be toxic too. It should and it is. Hilary had a something-given purpose which in a sense she fulfilled. Here’s this guy has so much to give, all he want to do is give it, I’ll fix him. Yeah, and I’ll fix his kid too. So what did I expect? I’m not that kind of a manipulator. I want to be honored but not by being dominant in the usual mammalian ways. Why the fuck can’t we see anything but testosterone? I got some of that too. Maybe plenty. I’ll bet J did anyway. Aren’t we supposed to imitate the offering and choosing of value, of health, of viability? Christ, how stupid do you have to be to believe the carny pitch? Be meek and give me all your money. That’s right. Now kneel. J believed it, the value part, and he was right. I’ll bet he also had plenty of primate dominance which I lack. Avoid where I think I might actually have some. Pose? Strut? Oh, sure I do that. But that can’t be the active ingredient that makes a Trump or even a King. My brand sure got a lot of women once, now it chases them away. Without the big house to go with it. Good. I’ve fucked quite enough just as I already drank more than my share.
When I stopped boozing I didn’t look at any distant horizon. Sonia said “the rest of your life” and nearly freaked me. Jees, stupid, watch it. You could send somebody running for oblivion from that prospect. Unending health? A whole expanse of it? Terrifying. But I ignored her. And now it’s the only expanse attractive to me. Don’t ever want it to be different. On the other hand, since I stopped chasing pussy at the same time, the one decision deliberate, the other merely attendant on the first through old habits, that’s a long range prospect I never looked down until I noticed I was already down it. Oh but then, I could always change my mind and call somebody up. And I have a couple of times. And can’t even say halfhearted in every case. But I insist on savage honest in the first five seconds. This is who and what I am. Now do you want to fuck? More often no than yes. But it’s ok. Fuckem in the other sense. So for a decade and a bit there just been this or that flotsam jetsam. If she’s old enough, I’m less than luke warm. If I really think she’s attractive, she’s too young, she’s married. or she’s both fundamentalist and taken. what am I talking about this for? it relates in only the slightest way. try to abbreviate. OR, I commit the sin I used to snort when I saw other males commit: have the desire show. Why do so many women want it to seem limp until they make it hard and then only as hard as they want it. best blow job ever from Madge after I’d fucked her four times. oh, this is how I like it best. you’re not so ferocious, you’re nice and tame now, she says around her licking. fucked her again after that anyway. hangover and all. maybe too that’s something that drunkenness did. made you actually limp or seem limp. look at any gigolo and however lascivious, they also look fucked out. the dick is the woman’s, not theirs.
or half way through starting to be nice, I think, what am I doing? Remember that pledge, staring at Brooks’ pubes floating in the bath. Stare all you want now (when it looked odious and hateful to me) cause you ain’t gonna get wasted by no more. still I hadn’t meant always. till my novel was finished. well, my novel still isn’t finished. the couple of women meantime have been … interludes. in Dyan’s case, just plain unbelievable luck. Debbie so soon more of a labor than a joy. My age, a little can go a long way. Anyway, I’ll I meant to say is, I never intended never again, but if that’s how it turns out, I still won’t have any complaints. serve me right for never allowing a whore. (lying again. one exception. an old girl friend announcing her turning pro. then only one more time did I get together with her. Twice? No more than two. can’t think of her name. Long Beach. started out as the cleaning lady. in the apartment an hour, 22 or 23, petite, blond, cute, and I’m cleaning her box for her.)
well, i’ve really lost my point if i can’t stop the stupid digressions. if sex wants to take over, and I can’t stop it, … enough for now.
nother image of the same thing: over a few millennia we develop a math of integers. discover a couple of stubborn exceptions. „. i. then develop a math where our exceptions are natures rule and our rule nature’s exception. there’s a nice map/territory. it won’t look right to us until it’s wrong. way mis-simplified. in the wrong logical type. but of course still, the irrational/rational number business is still another image, a map, the theory never never being the territory.
god satan, good evil. a beautiful am. I play a few tunes, my improvising becoming daily more architectural, one or two notes at least in the left hand, and please, not the standard bottom to top Root IV IV7 maybe II I’ve never spent five minutes with except to play stuff from the adult kiddie book. turn Real (funny, i consciously quoted bk yesterday “get real,” and presto, on the tube, there’s a kid, a ninja turtle, something, using the teeny phrase) … turn to REAL Book and Sonny is melodying in G+ for sure, but the chords say A-7, Ab7, bis, G+7 … hey, that’s a progression down to G. The organism hears it, if not instantly, then at least within a few years of training, by the teens, if you’re listening, but … maybe it hasn’t been that many years of figuring it out through the synth … anyway, I’m picturing a god playing a synth by which families of DNA instruction, physics, etc. are asymmetrically arranged (ie, not a linear, not an integer symmetry, rather symmetry like a keyboard), let’s modulate to Me-First in the melody, but keep the Cooperate steady in the pedal. Lovely, satan says. so it’s god, who’s playing. I’ve eaten a nice veggie and fried egg grill, swill the last of the coffee, bite my last bite of pb and ojelade, wipe the grease off my left side finger tips and recommence picking how the chord constrains the melody. there’s no direct leash: it’s the shape of the box. I’m staring at the beautiful April sky, Earl’s plastic bottles whirling around, and it’s not fingers on the keys, it’s tentacles. do I want any of this for Phaan? But I don’t answer. Instead, I think: god and satan are opposite but complementary bets made by a couple of their gods, so far removed from them they don’t even know who they are. they are the tokens, the reminders, of the bet. UrG1 & UrG2 don’t know the “outcome” (the harmony or dissonance or longevity or beauty or appropriateness, all, of course, along the T-axis, of whatever their present move is. They’re weaving, they’re playing Go, who knows what they’re doing. They’re playing. Making. Singing. Same thing. I’ll bet my weft outlasts your warp. Get outta here, you said yourself, mine’s the warp, the long, stout one. So, I bet my weft outlasts it. Wait, I forgot what color I’m working with, I was just … um … kind of dreaming. And one is selfishness and the other is cooperation. Any evolutionary complement. Or, more basic? It’s: is the physics in the left hand? Argument: no, stupid, i’m chording in the right hand, melody in left. if you won’t pay attention, how the fuck am I supposed to know if what I’m doing is any fun?
Physics may be basic to life, life impossible without it, but that doesn’t mean that life isn’t the Root and Physics just a chord for it.
‘t’also occurs to me the cooperation and selfishness too are illusory, that over T, even selfishness will turn out to have been a team player. he just doesn’t get to meet the team or know of their existence until the game is fairly well into the final seconds.
another reminder on the news or on a tube news magazine last night of why science will continue to be fairly slow in seeping into the pop. a zillion social governors to control the seepage, none capable of stopping it altogether. i don’t mean of course gadgets to further addict us to helplessness: I mean science the way of thinking, of examining, of disciplining imagination and experience, of constructing responsible models. it’s really a new language, before quite all of us are generally competent to use the old one(s). Cincinnati using its free speech to writhe about some art show. I listen to those interviewed, hear the edge in all the voices, witness the jumble of modules of thought “protect,” “American,” “freedom,” “children,” “liberal,” “Constitution,” blah, blah. I honest to god didn’t know which position was being taken till the last phrase in the fragment and sometimes not even then. so many principles are of the logical class of “this statement is false.” if it’s false, it can’t be a statement. therefore, though there’s an appearance of grammar, it isn’t a sentence either. it has no meaning. what would happen in a political or historical debate if someone said “freedom” and someone else said “can you give us an example?” well, the “freedom” -citer would sputter and become indignant and very very angry as it became clear, at the challenge to each example as no consistent example at all (you can define freedom any way you want, then find trillions of examples of it in territorial US since 1776, but so can you before, and too many zillions of exceptions, no matter the definition, unless your definition is science or attempts to be science and then it simply doesn’t use the word freedom. unless it’s engineering. 8 degrees of freedom. the freedom very specific.
on my orals Patrick asked me if Milton would be in favor of censorship in x circumstance, a circumstance not contemporary to his liberal writing. now of course i know the knee jerk answer the jerk wants. Milton was for freedom of expression, therefore against censorship. but if the context isn’t specific, it’s just rhetoric. a generalization with no way of testing it. when liberal attitudes have been tested, the guy showing a porno in the background of some liberal’s speech in the 50s and of course the liberal gets livid and wants it off the screen, they prove to be formally meaningless. Patrick didn’t ask me what Milton wrote about censorship in his great prose, an easily factual question and answer. he opened the door to a thought experiment, a door he wasn’t conscious of. of course my answer, like all my answers that day, is interrupted and Patrick makes fun of my having everything backwards the rest of the two hours. And not one of the other four gave any evidence of recognizing where my argument even could have gone had they allowed it to be made.
freedom of religion. well my religion is to sit in a circle with the other elders and take mescaline. my religion is to kill all infidels. wanna see my kris? it must then draw blood. such generalizations are only made when the speakers imagination doesn’t encompass real possibility. is atheism a religion? communism? more often than not, yes. in how many cases in terr.US since 1776 have they been protected? oh, but the supreme court didn’t say blah blah until 1963. then the US has been illegal for 98% of its history. but still, how about since? sure you can find one infidel who wasn’t burned. or one infidel who was pardoned after twenty years in the it, all his property long since taken, his family smashed. some freedom.
a better test of freedom would be how disparate is the culture? what the range of opinion actually held? and do those opinions range throughout the economy?
well, the constitution is in part a liberal document, but the patriotic thumping and radical beating is the part NOT in its spirit. its spirit of course, historically, being more narrow than broad.
if we were patriotic, meaning in favor of the “rights,” they wouldn’t need much protection. if you have to make a law, then it isn’t true.
Christ what an awful idea: I need a police force to be human?
if politicians wanted to make meaningful statements, they study anthrop, zoog’y, psych, etc. psych not just to manipulate … but then that’s what politicians are, so I’m the one saying the nonsense here. if they did, like the rhetorical take over of statistics, then the poor zools would have to invent a different scientific language. have the devil of a time making sense distinct from the usual power wrestling. not that zoogs don’t also wrestle for power. so do I. I just don’t expect the leverage to show in my life time. at least I don’t anymore. now I don’t expect it to show at all. except as it already does. how was Arsenio’s dressing the audience in green not partly my doing, once I’d taught ecology at Colby in 1968? to a bewildered English class. huh? what the fuck’s he doing now? well, I’d used Hitler as an example of good rhetoric too; why not Prof Cole’s great article in NYT?

Journal

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About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
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