/ Journal /
previous save: 6/21/90
tv porno-news mag interviews wife of spy, (guy I saw movie about?) she says husband didn’t sell out country, just sold stuff to Israel, an ally, that some treaty said they were supposed to get and US were withholding. anyway, she says, he’s my husband, I love him, and I’d support him no matter. Multi-millennia estab. morality. “correct” hierarchy of loyalties. then mag caps interview with caustic, yeah, wife should be loyal; but to creep who sold out her country??? wigs and benches and big words all to seem legit preparing for the blind side cheap shot, done openly but concealed by mirrors and hypnosis. but like real hypnosis, it’s done openly, the subject knows what’s going on. it just works anyway. we see what we’re cooperating with. we know when to be outraged and when the to shut up, when to be brave and when to hide.
Tolstoy he ain’t, but Sixth Uncle and Fifth Niece and the mud slide, NH p 722 ff, …
math of information content of tautology reduced to “identity”:
what’s the information content of “life is life, the gods are the
gods, money is money, …”? or “a great property of the sun is to shine, and rain to wet …”? to me, that fool is the wisest character in all of Sh, including even … Prospero, maybe wiser than the author who’s more like Prospero than the fool. to me, a correct math would show the information content to be infinite, not zero at all. one or a finite number of infinities, but infinite, maybe multi- infinite, just the same.
p 734 The servant belongs, and the how chew, the good points of the job are many. It goes without saying all servants cream off a proportion of all housekeeping money, all goods, all drinks, all cleaning materials, all everything, however rich or poor, of course with the employer’s full knowledge and approval providing it’s kept to the customary level-how else can he pay them so little if they can’t make extra on the side?
how chew. suddenly the meaning of “servant” expands to include who has the salt monopoly, etc. the trouble is, with industrialism, no one (in authority) knows what the customary level is? In such a case, only catastrophe can answer. Saturn will sort out Venus & Jupiter & Mars & Diana and their conflicting promises.
J&S: better yet, satan is j’s cia, fbi, the special branch the law
easter am. again slept 1.5 hrs fri, then 14 sat night. preceding couple of days was 1 & 15. I play the Suite 3 Air, for the first time thinking though not playing chords for the left hand. switch to NobleH as I eat, read, misread, can’t read a sentence or two. fourth time through I see it’s the governor, some palace, some party, some hub of luxury for the governors, those who control the rates of flow within their species’ limits of what proceeds at what rate. even just preserving the status quo must be exhausting in terms of cirrosis, gout, syph, rot. but i’m not reading, I’m dreaming. Shakespeare and BK come and go. J & Pilat. 33 and this is id33. happy easter, numerology NobleH full of contorted codes all in search of coincidence beyond the abundance already existent. I’m not in a Hong Kong palace, I’m in a seraglio, Algiers or somewhere. Matisse is there. The Hong Kong gov and all the TaiPan are flying around the world or their spies are. here’s all this physical environcontrol, decoarchitecture, who ever better than the Muslims. pussy galore, music, slaves. the pussy is washed, kept from any new influx of disease but the tai pan’s own. she won’t be pregnant unless he made her so, the filter fairly fine, the prob of spontaneous generation or Sinbad scaling the wall etc fairly low. available at as close to max desirability as can be socially maintained. all to keep the rain falling.
now you don’t have a seraglio in the first place unless you’re already homo-icon to some super territory vaster than your own eyesight can scan or one runner run. it’s more likely to be a dozen runners and horses too. all working in a linked series. for the advantage (perceived advantage, gw saying) of your worshippers and, through them, you.
so what does the seraglio look like when it’s cars and trains and planes and cables and microfilmed spies? Noble House is a great portrait. the HK stock market a wonderful invention for proxy dominance battle and the mutability of its rewards. the big thing is always the illusion (sometimes of course true, but always an illusion just the same, a forward image) that I’m going to fuck for a year. with the marvelous human confusion between battle for food, precisely the wrong word, cause hunting and preying isn’t battle, battle being for intra species dominance, inter only in terms of a very definite claiming of territory. however, your symbolic victories will be neither honored nor perceived by other species. the rats don’t care if it’s the tai pan’s house. there the victory must be actual, between battle for food and … well I already said it in the modifications: terr & status.
all the wonderful Chinese talk about Joss and Karma and luck and here are these occidentals mixed in with them, going to the crap table staring at each other, flaunting this or that wad, and then looking for some cybernetic indicator for whether they were right, if their dick, their bluff, the real weapons, their wad, really is bigger, did they get hit by an earthquake, and all around and within are the commies, who want to regulate who gets laid in a more wholly human tyrant bureaucracy climate control.
but the runners and the horses and the planes and trains have differing topological maths. Oh, I must preserve the banquet setting. some idiot sabotaging slave left the windows open. and mistress’s gown catches on the table cloth as she strides to seal the puncture in the outer skin and pulls the setting to the floor.
loved the tube ad the other day. some house wife confesses to sympathetic, laughing, aghast peers that she does so many dishes and she was sorting the laundry that things were sticking to her awful chapped and rough hands. why last night, as she rolled over to sleep, daddy’s balls came off in her hand and transferred to her. Casey’s mom.
well willwee or nillwe we all have rough something or other. turn to protect the capecod beach and find moscow hooked to your hip. but those images are inadequately dimensioned. grosses of species sticking to our every struggle for advantage. (fantastic! just as I write that some movie comes on with Arsenio Hall’s tie getting caught in the disposal as he bends over the sink. chew chew toward his squirming face. Amazon Women on the Moon. Now he gets poked in the eye by his cassette reject. On and on, so much slapstick. Gross comedy passes because we recognize it without understanding it’s directness. Nothing to be solemn about.) but we still don’t have images for the whole of what I mean. except the mandelbrot set, the patterned chaos shape of which is programmed over all of its internal points, its member points, its extensional population’s intensional programming. Euclid never saw beauty nearly so bare.
how temp, how perm, can’t know. though the longer the strand you can see, the longer the strand you can see. i once saw the most wretched creature. couldn’t tell what it was at first. something just awful. how come it wasn’t already dead. a lizard, newt, chameleon, some little thing like that, covered with sand, looking tortured, and dragging its environment behind it. if it lost the fight so bad, how come it’s not out of its misery? how come it’s trying to move? I finally figured out that it was its own skin attached at the ankle. and the old skin was catching on this twig or that pebble. dragging an anchor. it was a very long time ago and the little kid I was didn’t know about annual skin shedding as part of growth. the planet could be about to shed some kind of skin. or it could be flayed and not yet dead. I haven’t, and I don’t think anyone has, seen a long enough strand to know even what kind of cosmic species we are.
the mandelbrot set is made up of something and of nothing, apparently equally. infinitely untestable. we focus on what is to us, the something. couldn’t a tachyon creature, yin to our yang, notice us only as ground, sky, vacuum, nothing, notice us not at all? think that something’s shedding was its death. think that it’s using something as a hook to its own purpose was an accident, something ghastly, not the newt using the earth to pull of its old skin, but the earth blindly and stupidly killing the newt? but we’re not the newt here. we’re the skin, the pebble. thinking we’re so smart and that it’s all about us. the hero.
splitting headache, the sun’s back but not the leaves on the tree that would have permitted me to try to sleep in some kind of shade. flick on tube for some kind of focus to wait for the aspirin to work and the coffee to perk. modern man. and there’s this Publix ad, the series for which I sort of am attracted to and even like part of, but this particular one is sound tracked by a bane of my life. BeCausWe’re! goIng Tothe ChapPel An Weir ! gOnna Git Married (big accents on the upbeat “go-ing” and “g-onna”) an we’ll never be lonely any moooore. Great justification for juvenile marriage, right? God, I hated that song, and here it is again. I learned to escape from pop music by avoiding the radio and staying out of places that had juke boxes. don’t associate with people who listen to it. Then the times I’d be trapped would be relatively few. but now the tube is background social wallpaper to me and I’d have to reinvent the energy to figure out a new escape. but I only half hate this ad, in fact I love it. As much as some Brit Pop Art. The scene is a WASP wedding, very white bread, very fifties, ie very segregated physically, socially, but very curious culturally. something’s funny, the social focus is a pair of farts who would would have been nubile in the forties. funny because the music is black, very ghetto, R&B pop not at all from the forties, and not blandly listened and danced to by this society depicted as though it were theirs or in any way cohesive, not divisive. Not jazz, damn them all. Beth’s wedding would have been 1958 or so. I talk her into hiring Myron, Bernie, Bobby Porcelli, Lenny Seed, et alia. By the time of the wedding, I hadn’t seen Myron in weeks. I was heartbroken. the band was very secretive. they didn’t play much jazz and simply sounded bad on the “dancable” stuff. I kept going over and saying, hey, play something. play something really. uh, bluh … Myron stares, uh, yeah, like, this is a square gig, we uh like gotta uh cool it, but like yeah later uh later … and when they took a break the band didn’t even know me. thirty odd years later I still don’t know but strongly suspect that it was in those couple of months on 118th St that Myron’s addiction took a big slide. corse I didn’t know he was addicted or that he did more than pot and that stupid cough syrup till a bunch of years later. that was my first experience that the band had gone totally secretive, excluding me. (1956, 57 at a dance, Myron, David, Peter would all go to the men’s room and stand there, Kool in left hand, reefer in right, drag, hold, hold some more, Kool, back and forth. Want some. No thanks and you already know what I think of what you should do. ie shouldn’t. after a while they simply stopped offering. but I was still welcome to stand among them. seeing needles is something else. only time I ever saw one from any of them was that one time on 118 St that the cops raided, but then the kit belonged to Bobby Fractor or that albino vegetable. One year later Bobby is given a two cent pistol. by Wilbur Ware and gang. still only friend I know who was murdered.)
so i’m thinking how you watch Errol Flynn as Sir Noble Pirate and he goes to court and marries Lady Barbara and they play Handel and that’s his appropriate music, thinks you the ignorant audience.
the two-square question: who is being colonized? the music? or the wedding party? anthrop goes to watusi wedding, hears the drums. ah, watusi. sure, watusi, some schmuck watusi thinks complaisantly. while the ghost of some 50 generations dead slave thinks, no, ass hole, that’s suwatim, the superior people they conquered with spears so they could show their cultural inferiority.
in the fifties people listened to black music with superior complaisance, aren’t they cute? our slaves; jazz was outward aggressive, insulting, masculine, infantilely wayward, primitive, avant garde, etc etc but mainly, it was blatantly addressed to human rhythms blatantly suppressed, recycled, squeezed and transformed by the politically dominant culture: Brit, in the egg of/ holding the egg of/ roman xian etc etc. don’t wave your hands, don’t flaunt your sex, just your power, females have to sit still till they’re fertilized by the male capable of getting through the parents’ lock (or till they die sterile, it’s ok, we don’t need so many rulers as slaves).
and I look at this Publix ad and I wrankle, even the white bread blacks today don’t know what the fuck they’re looking at. did the 30 years old asshole who produced the ad?
when pepsi coordinates a bunch of ghastly necrophilic looking whores in black while some infantile middle aged pallid playboy with a mike looks like toyland Napoleon, all that blackclad pumping zombie ass for him (the toy is designed for that illusion). but the music is also toyland infantile middle aged pallid. if that score was done by a ghetto slave, I miss my guess. Nelson Riddle for the Tarzan movie. that’s different. and Chevrolet’s inept syncopation, the heartbeat of America. doesn’t bother me.
but this Publix ad plays a real pop piece of shit where you can really hear the ghetto steps and the foreign uncomfortable English. the worst kind of slavery where the alien tongue that they can’t speak is the only one they have. crio their only crio. deprive them of their language. and plays it to a generation that won’t know that that wasn’t their music. buying a record doesn’t make it yours. to some extent it does make you its.
“drinking and driving” constitute a threat to you … and other innocent people” the schmuck says. the drunk driver is innocent? innocent murder. sorry, manslaughter, that’s innocent, isn’t it?
“the judge has decided to make an example of her” failed to say an example of what, the power of the group to disrupt the life of an individual even without an earthquake, drought, tai fun?
“the system can work,” interviewed citizen says: “but everybody’s gotta get up off the couch to do it.” in other words, the (our description of the) system is true only in the exception.
“Part of you knows that something’s wrong, so you hide what you’re doing,” Pete Rose says. of course doing wrong is a social concept. spiders hide so their prey won’t see them, not because they think they’re doing something wrong. but we’re all social creatures and can all picture cartoon examples of secret smoking, secret drinking, secret masturbation, lying about the wife’s black eye, etc, etc. but how many of us instantly, seeing Rose’s statement, think equally about White House covert actions, vatican coverups, etc as I did? deals made in chambers. we’re also social spiders preying on ourselves, hiding in the semantic shadows.
the image of perfection: heaven, society, a business, a person, a relationship … is, in its ideal, static. as though trigonometry were trying to become geometry.
Law: human law, a constraint put on man by man, and of course, very imperfectly, preferentially, corruptly (mis)(inept)enforced; physical “law,” a constraint? put on god? by god? by the matrix he was born? found himself? in? and how about the preference, corruption, misineption? is the law local? the exception simply out of the reach of temporal perception? that’s why cosmology is so wonderful and (should be) the humblest of all human (disciplined) imaginings.
History “stories we tell about the past” some more responsibly than others.
but civilization and contradiction are one and the same
when time reverses, what you get is what you did.
we kill what supports us, and then wonder where our supposed, stolen “advantage” went
ph: there’s more elasticity than definition in that definition.
morality a restraint on civilization. saint to judge: but right now you’re restraining the restrainer. you’re not morality, but civilization with the bit in its teeth.
Tolstoy it ain’t (bis), but wow, 1360 odd pp of Noble House, only to end watching still another sequel sketched out. Though I’d heard of Tai Pan, I wasn’t thinking of it as I ordered Noble House, nor, six, seven years later as I began again and got beyond thirty or so pages. But sho nuff, it ties into Tai Pan and King Rat, and damn, by the end, if it isn’t a tease sequel to Shogun as well. all one four million page novel! 60 Minutes is on, reporting some chain of stores that whips its sales staff into good old fashioned laissez faire why should you be exploited so long as it’s a lottery ticket to promotion? And that phrase: the strong survive. Just what Gornt said to Ian Dunross after sandbagging him. The Hong Kong depicted really is a microcosm of evolution, but the old “it’s ok to screw everybody and everything so long as it serves the chimera of property, privilege, and advantage” isn’t. ie, it’s unquestionably as part, a detail, observable iterated as though it were a theory, an explanation, a justification, but it sure isn’t a good description of the gestalt. These capitalists throw monkey wrenches into the “random,” rumor, confidence, then stand around and watch what precipitates from the human ecology. Oh, see? I won. So I was right. Strong. Smart. Outsmarted the other guy. Betrayed trust. Lied. Cheated. Did everything known or believed to sabotage the health of the group. Make sanity impossible. Joss. See, now they’re all happy. We’re rich, the survivors say, pulling a few others from the wreckage. (In NH, a coincidence. Nature’s rain reminding them (ununderstood) of the suicide of their urban architecture. Gornt throws a monkey wrench and is dismayed to see it rebound between his eyes. After he’s passed judgement on the Tai Pan, see I’m strong and deserve survival, you’re weak and don’t. But they’re both strong, and weak, and neither is really is charge. Powerful, sure. Nodes, cruxes, fulcra … sure. But neither is in charge. Now they conduct business in a non-linear way, but talk about it linearly. And when Saturn takes over, they have a cliche for that too. Joss.
So this 1990 super clothes and great service for the middle brow consumer company pressures employees to service the customer on their own unpaid time. ah, but you’ll get more commissions, maybe get promoted, win our favor, maybe, not get fired, maybe. win the lottery, maybe (fat chance, ha ha). see, it’s of their own free will that they enslave themselves. Freedom. that’s what it’s all about. your freedom to serve my profit. to the confounding of the biomass. employee status, management responsibility.
what I love best in all such political economic self (misperceived) serving, all deceiving unethical, unXian hogwash, an ethics to confound ethics, is the sine qua non of ideology, the fast shuffle assumption that civilization is a state of nature. oh yes, it is a state in nature, arisen in nature. but isn’t nature itself. natural. this is how we do it. we have precedent. antecedent. we’re still here aren’t we? don’t I have everything that you want? a Benz, a pool, a family, a hotel suite, a young mistress, a dozen?
then a minute later, also 60 Minutes, the binary imperative. Morality must be reduced, whether reducible or not, to that gross misrepresentation of nature and law, the human or at least civilized duality of good and evil. here’s a preacher iterating the stand against relativity, which has all the evidence, and absolutism, which has the iteration of forced faith. this time, it’s giving condoms to kids in Arkansas. the conservative elements preaching abstinence till marriage. great. don’t they then also take responsibility for “their” kids fucking left and right? so how come they haven’t listened? let’s look at your performance throughout their lives, here, parents, officials, churches, teachers. then there’s the health official preaching to the girls to carry a condom in their purse if they’re going on a date with a guy they like at all. sure, you’re not planning anything, but carry it anyway. as though that weren’t an encouragement, an enducement. she, the official, has no great record (nor opportunity) with the same kids younger. responsibility is complex, the rhetoric simple.
IQ & “know better than”: people of 90-110 know better than people of 89 or less. people of 111 up know better than average. except that neither believes it. except of course in the guise of a more dominant male (of either gender). or more zeros in the bank. the superstitious anybody knows better than the scientist, the genius, the saint, the prophet. the idolators know better than Moses, better than Jesus. Until it’s the other way around. Not uniformly of course in either’s life time. It’s an endless loop, who knows better than …
magic: suspend normal pattern. as personal favor, convenience. please, no gravity just now, not for me, thanks.
human law: that’s easy. the president’s son doesn’t stay locked up after drunk driving (and certainly not the president. of course he has a chauffeur), getting the peasants pregnant, etc.
then habit, then: Hey, how come gravity still broke my hip when I tripped over the skate I’m always leaving there. or the son is always leaving there. now it’s time to brain him. long as it’s not self.
it proves that, if you believe in the system, the system will work for you,” 12, 14 yr old Maryland kid says in getting his fellows fined if they bicycle without a helmet. next, fine wild animals if they come into the DMZ not having purchased the right armor from Sears. build the road, but give preference to those most heavily equipped. but that sentence! “proves”, “will”, …
democrats will seize on this to make bush appear “unkind and ungentle”: satan’s art: appearance. humana would cease to exist (in its Maya form) if people examined the source of their own decision making processes: Hatfield and McCoy can tt to original trespassing pig incident. Clear, Unequivocal, H’s pig in McC’s garden! a further glimpse shows McC luring it, not repairing the fence. feeding the pig last week, closer to M than to H, … etc. No, being Right requires hidden laundry, ignorance/knowledge binary, attitudinal below this point here. But then we goddam see ourselves doing it consciously!!!
NBC News, Berlin, 5/8/90. I try to catch the above couple, while eating. miss lots, monitoring the public epistemology. considering how coincidental I find more and more Piers Anthony to make my points, (sometimes a few years before me, sometimes a few years after. my DB precedes his Incarnations, Love of Evil, etc. Zanth is like my Haunted House grown up.) him choosing the appealing, bullshit line that then takes your straight to the heart of the matter: entropy, the mortality and perceptual reality of humana and its gods, but with a shy, sexually curious/ambivalent 9-14 year old, while I spit in the eye from line one.
god, what horseshit, some other show, tv imitating with whorish indiscrimination the pulpit, the Inquirer, Spillane & Playboy, “and now, as through a keyhole, Povitch or ilk says. now i’ve eaten, washed the ditches, played more keyboard, and lost the ends of almost all the threads. and i’m sure not going to try to catch/remember them now. exhausted from moving, working five days this week, the bullshit with Todd, how I hate to have to fight these bullies and not simply fucking hill them. ten’ll get you one i die having suffered my enemies where I haven’t forgiven them. but there’s that one chance I’ll say: no more stories, no more attempts to distill, but I do have a little energy left for justice. or revenge. why should I care at this point how impure the mix?
what will I tell god? well, I did forgive for 50, 60 odd years … i just decided that turning the cheek a zillion times, out of love, out of forgiveness, out of understanding, out of cowardice, out of not being ready, fuck, i was forty before i really put it together, found the right help, had absorbed enough, trusted my information, other’s digestions, my selectivity, I’ve only got one tooth left, use it. i did what i wanted, what I thought you wanted, now you do what you want. i have no more quarrels.
bk: extraordinary: I move. here’s this handful of pebbles. so? ah, but one of them is different. i don’t mean just an .0001 mm bigger or smaller D, an .0001 mg more or less massive, no, a different difference, also extensional. this one exists backwards in time. its past is in the future; its future is in the past!
send/receive mode. how attentive the Cern people to their bubble chamber. but would they hear a flash from the peanut gallery? ah, new formulation. now the scientist go as ambassadors, speaking, even to the peanut gallery. now can the peanut gallery speak back? how could the scientist think if he heard the noise of the PNutG? Hey: take a random sample from any PNutG. Noise! Just noise. And you want the great ones to listen? But then there’s Watt, listening not just to a non-anointed, but to a kettle, for Xsake! Or the sewing machine guy to a dream! Ah, but they were in receive mode. Can there ever be both?
How about interweave, like a good musicians hands. First: schizophrenia. melody here, rhythm, accomp … there. Sure, as an exercise. first a lesson, then an exercise … But not to be stuck in a division.
Playing Schumann’s the Pleasant Peasant. The weave is subtle. I’ve rehearsed and rehearsed my favorites. Bach passes the melody around in a way my hands have now been trained to. Adding Mozart was a new awkwardness. Now that too feels familiar and I can actually play something like music even when paying about 1% attention. Then Bet’s Eccossaise, the weave differently syncopated. Now Schumann. Again it’s different how the music is in the hands, and the hands are specialized, but the music isn’t in either hand, but in both, and neither hand retains its specialty exclusively for more than a measure and a fraction.
That Romantic syncopation between “melody” and measure and what’s doing it.
Allstate ad: cartoon guy goes out, fire, theft, water damage, cartoon hands come in, sweep up, replace original setting, cartoon returns, and sits with paper. SirJ and the insurance industry. So “protected” by magic, he hasn’t experienced, has been insulated from his own experience. Good? Bad? No way to tell. Like a … circle? the think in the cell, oxygen processor. Not us, older than us, older than the cell, without which the cell couldn’t function. Protected. What does a c know of war or flood? oxygen depletion, yes.
Latoya Jackson in full battle paint on a Bob Hope service special: and the music … is of course fully electronic, fully recorded, processed, sequenced, effected. She lips synchs her cyborg self. Is it “her” voice? Would it be “hers” just over a loudspeaker? Just out of her mouth? in the sperm or egg? we’ll draw the line at the mouth. sans megaphone. then what it is? but what am I talking about? it’s just a tv tube, it’s no more her than it is her voice. audio and video both codes, transforms. Latoya Jackson: what’s that? a public delusion.
“entertainment,” perhaps even more than the news, “history,” and education, a tireless rehearsal in foundationless epistemological decisions, determined error, in the melody line, but, in entertainment, good comedy at least, there’s always the foundation rhythm of truth, the fingers crossed signal: “we’re lying. And you know it. We’re all lying. It’s what makes us us, the conspiracy of brothers (and so long as they behave, women, children and niggers too): civilized.
“beware the dwarf” Goldie Hawn & Chevie Chase, Hollywood and Vine admit while denying mortality.
I remember a tv special on “comedy,” “and here, to define it, ladies and gentlemen: George Burns. smiles, tokes his cigar, and says … “of course, no one can say what it is … but it makes us laugh.” not an exact quote. and maybe it wasn’t geo burns. doesn’t matter. that’s our “definition.” Cover of Life banners: inside, pres- candidate Barry Goldwater defines “conservativism.” Well, Barry, what is it? Well, I can’t say. But my constituents know: that’s why they support me.”
Full circle. Cybernetics.
like the church: practicing it, while denying its spirit.
perpetual carrot on stick.
but we all know. in mere entertainment, the real message is still there. how could it not? the message is inerradicable. civ just makes sure we never understand.
Goldie Hawn picks up hitchhiker. he puts film cassette in his cigarettes and stashes in her purse. blooding into the popcorn the dying Scotty talks about danger, mortality, fell purpose. all misapplicable to the “fiction” that goes with the unbloodied popcorn. we eat a grass while feeling and all too truly, with a revenge, being “safe.” the escape from the albino while Dudley Moore strips to the Bee Gees.
The mundane permanently, perpetually misunderstands the life and death issues of … everything; comedy reminds us of their presence in a way where from first awareness, fairy tales, tv cartoons, where fleeing the dragon is basically what it’s always-and-only about (St George is evolution and a few apollo asteroid/comets), Dudley Moore needs $30,000 to $160,000 worth of hi-tech paraphernalia to fail to get laid. But so too absurd is Goldie’s misunderstanding of Dudley’s misunderstanding. Who understands the essence of fertility better than the female? Another conventional lie we all pretend to agree to: that the female doesn’t know what the fuck is going on.
That was last night. Tonight, I’m ready to leap for the dial once Arsenio is over, anything to avoid even one second of the Love Connection, but there’s this offensively “cute” koala bear with a necktie. Sid Caesar the credits say. And Juliet Mills. God, Brit or Aussie Lewis Carrol little girl perversion. Soft kiddie porn. Amazingly attractive little girl. Got to be Haley’s daughter. And sure enough, there’s mom too. The little girl is impossibly neat, clean, pretty, well-spoken (the queen’s accent ie), well-behaved … that little ass never passed smelly shit. of course not, it’s a movie image. like Latoya. tv images don’t smell. though a “real” crew has to labor like Hercules to wardrobe a “real” organism, the “real” person, Juliet Mills, to change her clothes every five minutes. Anyway, the girl “owns” the “wild” koala. Paradise, plenty of “safe” land, and in Sidney, for Xsake. Uh oh, here’s “reality.” Sid Caesar, the con man, perpetually escaping, physical threat. but now the backdrop is urban Sidney. where’s the lawns, the koalas, the ironed and starched girls? now they’re in a zoo. ah, here’s a lawn, and there are animals. all nice and caged. but we’ve just seen where the money comes from.
BK’s first day at Haverford. I point out the window. Grass and trees. all you can see. what’s that? money. the lawn a false (and expensive) savanna. the grass, the trees support the Man, then a very few of the Man supports the grass, the trees, not as wilderness, but as a fenced-in Eden.
(and counter message, so false it must continually be rehearsed, that magic (money, special blue blood) can suspend entropy. the starched girl, the hair only caressed by breeze. and I remember that other awful movie where the fat rich kid spends all day spilling M&Ms on the polished floor, but there’s never any litter at the beginning of a scene. (now, in this one, the energy expense in maintaining the koala is formidable. crooks and all.)
human life must have been easy (not safe) except for the ice ages. once ensconced in a good high pass the animals had to come through it must have been easy again, however cold.
nigel calder says that the first agriculture too must have been easy. even easier than before. stick a few seeds. then you don’t even have to move for your food. until there are two hundred to feed where there had been forty. then two thousand. then two million. then the fertile ground infertile and the next two thousand fertile grounds hotly contested by forty two-thousands. a quick step to today. the starched little girl in a fenced in paradise. not a clue of what supports it for thirty seconds, till we can’t stand the perfection, and have to turn to Sid Caesar for relief.
but once in existence civ must preserve itself. how? confuse itself with the species it dominates. civ insists that hard is natural. invents original sin. acts as though what’s natural is the danger. insists we have it all backwards.
a population of a few million hss could live quite nicely for who knows how long. this child, that female, this male breaks a limb, falls in a hole, drowns, is eaten by the other predator … so what? population still easily maintainable. a hundred thousand now, a couple a million then … whatever the parameters. and the biomass would have only the threats that it always has. asteroid catastrophe, a Krakatau. long term stuff, climate change from continental drift outside any species life expectancy anyway.
as GB says, it’s not the species, it’s the whole ecology.
truth immediately switched for fear, prostrate subs, etc. civ knows what it’s doing
ad: “When the distance between `how things were going to be’ (`Sunrise, Sunset’ sets the mood) and `how they are’ (mutant-teeny-runaway is grim contrast) is tearing you apart (and that’s a humana informational universe if there ever was one), call Charter H … and recover hope.” !!!
End of Celebration Illich tries to get us interested in obscure myth. Pandora’s brother, Euri…, Epi…, meni…-Somebody, Hope, vs. Dr. Johnson’s “triumph over experience.” wonderful. ad doesn’t promise health or sanity. not a cure, but a restoration of illusion.
(How the hell do we expect to keep Pandora’s Box closed when it’s open full time for us to put more and more things in.)
music, a tune, a SSSSSset of relationships, not only D to F natural and A, and the relationship (or lack of relationship) of all the other keys, not to mention all other sounds, to that relationship (those relationships, but also the public to the Beetles, Susie Teen to the name/word/symbol/image Jude, US to Eng, pop to hip, white to black, poor to rich, illegit to legit, etc, …, and etc. And we think D is a thing?
God, how I would like to take the author of every technical manual I’ve ever seen over my knee. Oh, the plight of the linguist, facing the seemingly universal modern assumption that that discipline means prettifying, gilding the lily, and not the science/art of the pursuit of clarity. We know how to talk, we just do not know what we are saying. Definitions that don’t define. Or define in terms of other undefined neologisms. Now! To a large, perhaps total, extent, this is unavoidable. The least harm will be done if it is conscious. “This is an undefined term. Undefined does not however mean without parameters. These are our working limits.”
Reading the D-20 manual. Back to Kermit and the Vax and which device is “master” and which “slave.” Whose “clock” masters? And I think: there’s a useful concept for philosophy: are we to go by your clock?
your working definition? or mine? Fine. Then a flag should go up saying so. A ref should halt proceedings the second a tentative definition is taken as assumed, understood when it isn’t, uncontested when it is.
Where we ever to try to take language apart, start from scratch, build a “rational” natural language (automatically making it artificial), start with clarity, build, add, always with clarity, we’d all run home, claim a score, when no one would have in fact made contact or touched first, second, or third.
end of Bullit: putting a doily over death
Sooee Generis. Some Hardy scholar, talking about Jude’s Sue said Sooee was a pig call. How about Latin? The witless 20th C being subordinate to the witless 19th. A little etymology is a wonderful thing.
Thinking about Hamlet again, this time seeing the following perspective as though never before: Hamlet talks and talks, nobody in drama ever talked more before, and I think only once since (Lawrence). ^ the irony is quadraphonic: he has no one to talk to! Not one person to communicate with. He has the tools. He’s articulate, brilliant, but the social situation is such that he’s pure solo, onanist solipsist. And that’s another thing that makes it the first modern play and still the quintessential one.
recent public-speak: “one of the backbones of this country.” what kind of creature is this a metaphor for?
oh man, Godfather II on again. some things never loved so much. deNiro’s masculine helplessness as infant Sonny is cupped by the women. The strong of the strong totally helpless before invisible nature. The old wives wisdom/magic/ritual/superstition takes over completely.
“It was once.”
what a show piece for the guy who plays Frankie.
This movie should be rehearsed ritually. I’ll never tire of the farewell cameo of Michael enlisted, Jimmy Caan with his suspenders and his male Marilyn-Monroe-absurd shoulders.
final shot of Michael, echo of opening shot of Brando, the hand, the face in shadow, the real focus in the end the fist, the ring, the fist.
wake at 4 after 48 or 72 hours of explosive bowels, Jordan is finishing up a 47 or 49 point playoff performance, injured, looks like he’s really hobbled this time, the dangers of his bambi aspect driving against, slipping though Goliaths. Now golf and I feel fine. My two drive mind. I can’t ever really watch the sports for more than thirty seconds at a time, cause my thoughts of day, month, year, decade are spinning. I can’t write this as coherently as first blush promises, because … now there’s that word. nested. “cause.” because coherence requires speaker(s)/listener(s) feedback, agreement on at least some defined and undefined areas. Ken Venturi is such a good golf teacher. But today, once again, he’s driving me crazy. the undefined terms. the insupportable metaphors. universal. yes, he has feedback. he has agreement, etc. but he’s WRONG, damn it. not his golf. his golf is great. no, his language. golf english. fairway trap. “I’m going to “pick” the ball.” Then he’s quite clear “defining” this and that, by an athlete’s standards anyway. the camera is right on the body part, movement, coordination he’s talking about. then the key part: merely a repetition of the key jargon. no definition. illustration? sure. he hits the ball. but the hit is a whole universe of things. not a part. no one can see what a hit is.
and right away, I’m back ten years ago. Leo & Lido Beach. one and two dimensional images to muddle a four dimensional situation.
here, today, the Venturi videotape says keep the lower body still, the left arm in one piece, the hips quiet … and he swings and his legs move, his hips move, his left arm bends … the intelligence Martian would just dismiss it all as insane babble we do while poisoning everything.
Int-elevision would have a dialable dictionary. An int-ictionary would have 24 hr challengability, and yes, from the peanut gallery.
when the king is secure/strong (that’s as much up to his society and its ecology (in creaura and in humana) as it is to him. a small slip and only his strongest baron can challenge … bad analogy. those challenges aren’t about right or wrong. appropriate or inappropriate. it’s all and only: “is it the right sort, a good representative of our special interests (no, don’t tell me about our best interests, special interests, you commie) … go back.
intelevision would allow a remote check of a glossary rules of the game.
expert coverage would have and need no glossary.
and that’s the thought that nestled nicely in the middle of the others: absurdity in humana has to do with populations mixing generations, information, agreement … always being incomplete, unclear …
I picture a golf glossary defining “keep the hips quiet” by sampling hip movement and sequencing in a variety of shots and situations. Drive, mid iron, hard six, soft six, pitch, chip, put. then here is a flexible amateur hitting a terrible shot. his hips moved x degrees etc. and you’d have a good program with hip Eigen value 4-d graphic analysis.
and here’s masters champ, So&So
now. now a beginner could know that Venturi’s hips were in fact quiet on that shot.
then for “pick” and good engineer’s 4-d analysis of simple spheres, scored clubfaces, the zillion possible lies, …
now, say I could do all that. had the math, mech drawing. computer programs, staff, etc, and the Eng command, and presented all that to a golfer. it would have to be totally non-threatening for them not to be alarmed and to counter attack. no, Sir: I’m just Data, Your Holy High Human Sir.
Goldwater: “What do I think?” and looks off into the clouds. to see his mind coming back from around the cosmos at tachyon velocity? unconscious cybernetics. consciousness verbotten in conscious creatures.
tv: top models say the odds of succeeding “are less than a million to one.” why does pop journalism so routinely say the opposite of what it means? and never have to say they’re sorry? never apologize, never explain.
(sudden vivid memory of a favorite, as old as Brian, now that I think of it. I start paying attention to football c. ’65. The black flower of Am culture. (my own value system is binary, oscillating between mono-polar puritanism and pluralist tolerance: hey, who knows what “evil” is really up to? might be just what the future cosmos needs. god moves in mysterious ways, etc still being the infantile rhetoric I redream my cybernetics in.) Ok, so Lombardi is the epitome of everything I hate and oppose, and I become a rabid, however reversed polar, fan. First two super bowls. Dies. Some tv tribute. Some other coach is electing himself to Vince’s team at Armageddon. Teary, beary tribute. “I know we’ll lose, but we’ll fight like hell” is a more of less quote. Wait a second here, black flower. You mean to admit, consciously, that you guys fight for Satan?
Theology makes pronouncements about what reason is cautious about, evidence fragmentary. How come the priests don’t ever stand up and correct the mythology of its ignorant soldiers?
to rule is to be in charge of which definition prevails when and against whom, whether the exception defines, or the rule. to rule is to be able to switch logic without seeming to shift, a seamless irrational transmission.
memorial day. war movies. hollywood. john wayne. why. human awareness of mortality. our impulse to disbelieve it. ie, belief, faith in afterlife, etc. is really disbelief: in evidence. but we know it ain’t so. we’ve got to test it. and for higher and higher prizes. am I special? is my “country,” another invention, valid only in humana, special. oh yeah, let’s test it further. till we’ve really proved to ourselves what we knew all along.
the less we can “know” something; the more the tendency (human) will be to be certain about it. so, in cosmology, we don’t know any details, but we’ll go to war to prove how certain we are about the whole.
the voltage of modern neurosis, frustration. man, the symbol manipulating animal. the difference between the bedlam of public norms and the private bedlam of meaning. I struggle to be consistent in which logic (set of logics) I’m using this decade. I also try my damndest to be as informed and responsibly creative in my epistemology as I can be. Not surprisingly the public, everyone I meet, everyone in “the establishment,” meaning, having a public voice, nearly every I hear of, the exceptions countable on a couple of fingers, GB, Chom, is self-servingly sloppy. Memorial Day news announces that those who desecrate the flag desecrate the memory of those who died to protect our freedom, etc. not lies so much as formally meaningless. irresponsibly vast generalizations. the “freedom” taken for granted. Iron Mountain logic. Accept the first huge error, and we’ve got you the rest of the way. Until someone else is speaking the “history.” Anyway, I get all wired up. Why? Just to get off on being different? Superior? I don’t buy lottery tickets. I don’t gamble even when my record would give me a ten, fifteen to one advantage in “winning.” Why do I always insist on going against the house when it comes to values? People are people. Some of me, some of Illich, and a lot of Nixons. A zillion vets. Lucy and her “common sense.” It’s just common sense to do things asinine. She’s saying that she’s common. Change meaning, and she’s right.
But at least I catch myself. I’m always catching myself. The will to optimism. Whatever it is, look for the good. Man is man. We’ll live or die. Maybe we are the best possible. Possible being the bell curve, not the high end.
and how appropriate how humana makes it up as it goes along. “Would you believe …”
shows you how out of it I’ve been. the other night I’m babbling about Juliet Mills, never saw her before, never heard of her, just see her and assume that I’m looking at Haley’s daughter, John’s granddaughter. Now she’s on again. This channel must have a contract with her company. Except there’s no little girl. It’s this middle age female! Now I don’t know what to think. Twenty years have passed: i think it’s five. Ok, so I’ve missed a couple of movies. More like 25 years when I think of it. Funny thing is, it’s the little girl I wanted to see again. Here I thought Juliet was Haley getting older. Gotta be related. I see John in the jaw.
who knows where conventions come from? what future historian could possibly know enough to trace the dos-à-dos. this stupid devil film opens with hubby missing his vault into the convertible. wife and kiddies make fun. no protest from him. a minute later they’re all lovey dovey. current ad has smooth kid apologizing for his nebbish dad making a fool of himself at the plate. that’s ok, dad, I’m proud of you anyway. really? sure. he works for some bank. the sponsor. we hire schmucks. it’s the company that’s the lion. and the kid who’s cool. why should the fuckin dads still bring home the check? same reason the moms still made the beds for decades while they were mythologized as inept. a myth they largely lived up to. and maybe so do or will the dads.
“In 1066 Napoleon crossed the Mississippi,” the kid in Peanuts writes. And I think a new set of waves around my “what if we saw the real Abraham? could know the “actual” “event” of the Flood? see a Platonic “Form”? Who invented sex? and we think of Marilyn Monroe or at least Ceopatra or Eve. get to the Platonic Museum and we need a microscope to behold the hero/ine.
Arsenio is a big enough guy, but still has an elevated host seat we discover when one of his guests sits where she pleases. a down home schtick of his anyway. the judge sits at the bench and talks about fairness and justice to the people down in the hole.
we’re pedantic about Latin etymologies and don’t know shit about where the rest of our words come from. the tiniest amount about where Latin comes from. big deal to know three Ind-Eur words. It’s ok so long as we believe that the world is 4000 + 2000 years old. and mistake it for the age of the species or the age of the earth or the age of the earth for the age of the universe. the age of the universe for the age of the cosmos. before the Beginning was God. but he’s only maybe 4000 + 5000 years old. Eternity.
crossing the Delaware. crossing the Rubicon.
how about crossing the Amazon. only at some source where you can step across it. or a few yards further on where you step on it and not get your feet wet. cause it’s underground. walking on water. anyone can do it. a child.
you see the Delaware and you could wade across 15% of it and swim the rest. in summer. in clear weather. but an army? in winter? no nice fire, no Holiday Inn to greet you on the other side?
The rubicon could be a rivulet. that’s not it’s significance. but since it’s in the image, art has to make it “look” grand. And since we’ve heard of the Mississippi, that’s how you’ve got to paint it, or significance will have no communicated significance.
(I heard about Caesar crossing the Rubicon for thirty odd years before I had a clue to its public and historical significance. It’s always referred to as though it’s some decision that Julius made. Well, it was. But of an illegality, a treason that even Nixon couldn’t have comprehended. The trick was crossing into Roman territory proper and bringing his army, his personal army, with him, so he wouldn’t be arrested for blasphemy. Oh, Julius, um, er, how nice to see you.)
human vanity requires a small view of totality. we’re set back when we just look at the 2,000 nearby visible stars just of our own galaxy! know a little Beethoven and a little Rachmaninov and now you know music. Ha! and that’s just a human thing. finite, however vast. but maybe it’s all finite, however vast. that’s the thing. my unending thing. my schtick. we don’t know. the knowledgeable know that they don’t know. we’ll be arrogant about details when we have no idea of the topology. that’s why we need churchs. to simply tell us the answer. always wrong. always hopelessly mis-simplified, the image short by at least two dimensions, but certain. and that’s the basis of our Hope.
gracious: the egregious Sound & Fury, which I haven’t seen since the fifties, comes on. a top competitor for all time miscasting. ok, here’s Benjamin, and, good god, it’s Jack Warden! Well, I didn’t know him then. not by name. and from this performance, I’d never want to. some of Faulkner’s craziness is in this movie, but next to nothing I recognize as his Jefferson, Mississippi. Joanne Woodward has an altogether wrong tone of brass for Quentin. Yul Brenner being masculine as Jason? Forget his accent; it’s that he isn’t admitting any of Faulkner’s Jason’s slapstick. The way I read it. Jason is a son of a bitch, but basically cowardly and inept. The blacks are ok. Specially Ethel Waters. Though when JW’s Q goes sashaying through town while some band plays the Saints, and JW gives a little white bread jiggle, the sisters are there, jumping up and down no better than Mae Marsh in Birth of a Nation. (Shame on me, Mae Marsh jumping up and down is perfect for the white southern sentimentality; but the sisters shouldn’t be similarly, though more blandly, directed.) I saw this movie, first or second time, soon after reading S&F for the first time. I don’t think I read all of it. I know I didn’t make sense of all of it. partly I was distracted, pissed off that F was getting kudoes for writing Benjy the way I believed I would have. How dare he be thirty, forty years ahead of me? Anyway, even so, the movie didn’t make much sense to me.
Some contrast with how I read it 1969. Tannersville, July, one Faulkner novel a day. Finished S&F 5 am. staggered to my feet, donned my waders, tied on a self-tied fly, and thought sure I was going to pluck an ear off or my eye out I was so spastic, staggering into the predawn stream. tripping over rocks. like to drown myself. till I heard the trout jump. calm now, now more wrapping the line around my neck, no catching the hook on the bushes, no slapping the water. there’s a fish: cast so the fly settles to the current just above that swirl boiling off the rock cleft. I let the line out, no snags, I think the length is right and I let it settle. perfect. a natural landing, the tippet slack enough to look like a real insect caught in the current. it accelerates into the whirlpool, another foot or two … and bam! he hit it! then my frozen arms and legs started to tremble again, but I got him to the net. stumbled out of the stream. galumphed back to the cottage. pulled his guts, poured a scotch, threw him in butter, and slept till afternoon.
Light in August was next and that was no twenty-four hour stint. Took the rest of the week. Then a day’s dip into Absalom and I figured I ought to be able to finish that through August. By the time the class got to the Hamlet, I was finished. Never have read the whole of the Hamlet. that is, I don’t know whether I have or not. never straight through one time. though I’ve never seen any part of it I hadn’t somehow seen before. Maybe just as hard as doing S&F in one day was reading Old Man, The Bear and Spotted Horses as one novel. ie in one day.
anyway, the one part of S&F I know I hadn’t read carefully in ’58 or so was the Jason part. But I loved it in ’69. Never would have noticed the comedy the first time around. Like Kafka.
here’s Stu Whitman again as the carny. maybe he’s not so miscast.
all background to my struggling though Elgar’s Processional.
consciousness in relation to the double cone of expanding/diminishing choices. where in the cone of invisibilty the random lies.
Nixon never had a headache. and never told a lie: until the WH maid found the child-proof cap to the aspirin bottle gnawed but still intact. as reported by Burnwood and Steinsteen. I’m home by 7 am, a little surprised that I didn’t start to konk until around 6. Groggy, still aware of how starved I’d been around 5, and how short a bit of ice cream was of a meal, and only a handful of pages short of finishing Piers’ Incarnations V: Evil. Stalling now for a month. Pissed off at his dups of DB, pissed off at how pedestrian this one seemed after the sharp opening, after the wonder of Heaven Cent, pissed off how his reads like his outline for a plot, but he’s getting seven novel contracts cum advances, his heaven is getting read, etc. So fuck it, I’ll finish it now. Nosh some pepperoni and onions, and am awakened mid afternoon by the propane delivery man. One of those cusps: I could wake up and stay up, or I could fall back down. So then it’s dusk, 8:20 or so, and two aspirin haven’t dented my ache five minutes later. a cup of old coffee, a cold shower, a brazen third aspirin … oh oh ouch. What is this? I seldom get headaches. What happened to the days when one aspirin and a little patience would take care of everything? I take a fourth aspirin and think of Linus Pauling. Sure his book is read; but he’s not as powerful as the One-Two punch of the Surgeon General and Beatrice. Or is it Beatrice and the Surgeon General? Looking for the chicken/egg in a cybernetic loop.
I sit at the synth. Perfect time to see how my reflexes have absorbed Solemn March since my consciousness sure isn’t operative. Just see where your fingers want to go after the first chord. Only your ear will know if it’s right. Forget it: it isn’t working. I’m fucking up by the third beat. But it’s ok: how about the “instinct” to “correct” it? I muddle through. Not bad. For a moment it seems like I’ve never had so much trouble learning a stinking forty measures. Till I remember how similar it was with the Mozart Minuet in C, the Hayden Minuet in G, the Bach Minuet in G (two handed: the melody I’d gotten eight, nine years ago), Nobody Knows and the inversions of G and C with straight up of D7. The struggle to go past D7 to A and still be in G with the Bach. And that was sixteen measures, bis, and sixteen measures, bis. Thirty four. To Elgar’s forty.
But sure as hell the Elgar is closer to knowing all the chords latent around one simple inversion. ie closer to jazz improv. moderne.
And the highly viscous glue my mind is still remaining is perfect for remembering how stupid the consciousness is at every learning step. I remember Hil & I struggling with the different directions eighth notes were suddenly taking in Shepherd’s Hey. Our recorder book had been showing one new trick per lesson. Shep Hey had change pace and change direction of pitch: more than a Columbia and Barnard alumnus/a could coordinate. And they may be when Hil and I really separated. A repeat of skiing. Progress together. Difficulty and after difficulty solved. together. then one more tier of difficulty: juggle two balls? fine, now try four. I kept going and she quit. stem to parallel? fine. but add steepness at the same time? sure, it was more than twice as hard. a psychological element came into it. the choice between being chicken and being corageous sca-Reified. the paradox of safety: to be safe at the next level, you have to risk dismemberment. cross that barrier or you’ll never be safe on the steep. though of course on the steep you’ll always be at risk: you always have to be right. or close to it.
so I skied alone. and then I played the recorder alone. gone into together; emerge alone. and Brian thinks it’s his will not to try certain things. thinks it’s my will being opposed. well, it is (in part). will he ever have any idea how it’s only in part his will that’s not cooperating?
fuck me: I didn’t mean all the personal stuff. i let it start as a throat clearing to get to what I saw no other quicker entrance to:
learning, consciousness, information theory, topology … etc.
wanted to explain the usefulness of the fuzz. adding one more ball to the juggling isn’t just adding one more thing except at an already very high level of abstraction. an indeterminately high level. the only level consciousness operates at. consciousness operates only where the choices are way missimplified.
philosophy trying to define personhood, teach Plato. or Christianity. forever dealing with tips of tips of icebergs and calling them fundamentals. the human fundament: how the ass hole folds with everything, in its own way a center of the universe (pleroma, creatura, & humana). that fundamental a result of unknowable billions of years. any foundation in 1990 necessarily having zillions of all that’s before it. the earth’s crust seen as a bottom when it’s just as much a top. or as a top when it’s just as much a bottom. or center. what the fuck shape do things have? we’d have to know everything to know.
so i’m comatose, really stupid, but this comes to me. the learning process in music, partly if not largely conscious, ahem, on the part of people like Bastien and Trapp and Schaum, not to mention yours truly, is like a paradigm of my topology of consciousness (and intelligence) much I am sure the way AI and computer cybernetics is, except that the AI I just hear this and that about and the music I’ve actually gone through as an adult.
consciousness, art, intelligence, etc. always a crux between seeing choices (and to see them you have to be able to, or almost able to, make them) and not seeing them: having a complex structure of default decisions.
even in a “binary” situation, the ahem real choices are still ahem infinite. 0 or 1? how about 0 or 11? 0 or 011011001? how about 0 or 000000000000000…? and that’s only a one dimensional expansion!
and I hope I’ve caught enough of my point, however only barely I’ve begun to throw in this complication.
while I’m thinking this: wincing, playing, ouching as I forget the E Minor, forgetting that the fresh coffee is nearly perked, thinking do I take a fifth aspirin? the tube is playing out a pop art un/con-sciousness of the same thing.
now I go back and try to translate: fair trial, don’t worry, rope justice. humana: the real value of things.
the tube warms up. schmuck: I’d left the booster on while I slept. some economy. the fridge went off with the propane. two people needed to relight. now I’ve lost my half&half and who knows what else. some economy. can’t stand waste. my own bad enough, but the culture’s …! so my fingers aren’t doing so great at G, D7, E-7/G, G, C, G, A7 etc, B- for Xsake, chord change every two beat measure with some ambiguous chords, the E-7/G for instance, and … what the fuck is that? some muscled asshole is posing like a fucking woman. christ, I’ve avoided Cheers only to find some GD soap! I pour the fresh coffee, flick and sit again. G, D7 … and it’s hip cowboys and indians. Oh, he’ll get a fair trial, all right. The cynical white man lying through his face to some less cynical white dupe about their kangarooing the indian. And we all know what’s going on! At some level we all know what civilization and law and rights are. Who controls the definitions … But the indian just did the same thing to the young white hero, caught in the middle. Swear? Swear to God? Your god or mine? Yours. done! a minute later, the indian has betrayed him. but you swore. Ah, you swore to my god, but I swore to yours.
!!! I love it.
E-7/G, G, C …
and some white man is brandishing civilization. Those who don’t protect what they have that’s really valuable, will lose it. Like Property. !!! 1990 and we have an honest pop art history.
a minute before, mouthpiece for solemnity, Dan Rather is showing the Russia we didn’t know. Ah, and you all thought … and now we’ve been tricked into believing what he’s told us! Only now he’s correcting it. Glasnost. A more human/e view of USSR. Only it’s still his word we have to take for it! Like the general believing the telephone in War Games after he’s become doubtful about his pet supercomputer.
So this revisionist mythology is vastly preferable to me to the revisionist mythology of the soap movie. Sure the bad whites cynically hamstrung whoever had what they wanted, and gave them rights while going it. Steal their land and give them a fair trial too. and treaties. plenty of treaties. all to only one result. it doesn’t matter. the next group with the next more abstract sense of reality will take it from the takers. I don’t give a shit. the real point to my reality is, is the result viable to gradualism? or is it a catastrophe? ie pleroma may balance ever if we blow up the whole SS. poison the whole galaxy. maybe so will creatura. some viruses may still remain viable on some comet somewhere, if only in other galaxies … but will humana exist with any meaning? how about the creatura close to us? it strikes me that it’s us and our relatives in the greatest danger. it’s horses and pigs and cows that we’ve enslaved and now tigers and elephants and lions too. not cockroaches, not horseshoe crabs, not jelly fish. certainly not bacteria or viruses. are we our way of committing suicide for the whole stack of families?
anyway, those themes of “mine” are playing out with unusual nakesness on the tube while I see how well though short of rote I’ve got Elgar. I can sit down and play the Mozart, the Hayden, the Back, Frankie and Johnny, the Sea Journey, Memphis Underground … a hundred things all of which were once impossible to me. and no matter how little my mind is with me, only slip a little bit if at all. Onthothuhan’, if my mind is very much with me, I’m similarly liable to slip, to miss a beat, to hesitate. Like I play and play Nobody Knows, day after day. Then I take out the book and try to “read” it. Instant fuck up. Now consciousness is an enemy of performance.
So, what can I bring in to consciousness and give words to a la music about my themes of random, logic, order, consciousness, learning, etc and topology?
By the time you can stand you can stick your thumb directly into your mouth without much danger of poking out your eye instead. Hard wiring plus practice. By the same time, certainly by 10 or 11, the sounds we recognize as appropritae to music are rehearsed around our diatonic scales and limited adherance/deviation from them. how much hardwired, how much plemoma, how much culture? we don’t and can’t know. though we sure can narrow it down. (cybernetics again.)
Age twenty-seven or -eight, me, and twenty-four or -five, however old Hilary is in relation to me, we pick up recorders and a how to book. (And now I remember a double difficulty I immediately assumed: learning my own F instrument in a C world, while Hil learned to C, plus then learning the C part to help her and see what was going on. A skill I’ve forgotten, though I bet I could get it back fast enough, transposing F to C and v-v.)
The choices at first are simple. Read F/Play F. Play for four beats. Play four Fs to a four beat measure. Three to a three. Now E, now D. Now mix them up. Now divide the beats in half. Down/Up etc. Great. Hil and I progress nicely. One of the nicest things we’ve done together. Til we got to Shepherd’s Hey and the assigned choices proliferated. We could do half notes followed by quarter notes followed by eighth notes, provided they went in a pattern we already knew. But ShH wove. Our first real difficulty.
So it’s twenty-odd years later. Ten years ago I pick up the recorder again. Then flute. Then synth. The real book. Chords. Two hands.
High point of my life, Wayne, the owner of Sebring Music, comes up after I’ve been playing the D-20 for two or three hours. “Hi-ya. Where do you play?” he asks me. It takes me a minute to absorb the implications. And another several to think, maybe he puts all his prospects on the same way. Who cares? I decided to be flattered as hell anyway.
What would Galway go through if someone faced him with a raga in Tintal? He’d have a leg up, but would he be smooth? Could he do it at all? He sure couldn’t improvise alongside Ravi, not without an orientation period.
And what if Ravi and James were suddenly given Martian music? Sudden alternations between Tintal and “truly” “random” sounds?
Music is such a good illustration of relativity. What’s the beat? The quarter note in 4/4? Then how come most stuff is in Cut time. Play 4 as 2 beat? or play 3/4 as one? 6/8 as two?
Why Cut time? How about double cut time? I bet bop was played in 1. Down is first half of measure/ up is second half.
the math is endless. That advice Inez’ boyfriend gave me about just playing the first note of each measure in the Bach Gigue. 6/8 as one.
then, do you play the measure as On? or syncopate, as Off? The choice has been exercised since Bach in Western music and maybe before for all I know. There was no Western music before, like there was no America before a little after Columbus and 1492.
Anyway, choices. So now I’ve trained myself to where the Second Inversion of G automatically goes to First Inversion C and straight up D7, all without the left hand moving much. Ok, and straight up E- too.
But Elgar does other Cs and D7ths and inverts the E- as well. Not to mention A in every direction. My hand’s never done that before. But Christ, is it ever what I want it to be able to do! Elgar may be an infinity or two short of Bach, but is he ever more modern at the same time. Here I’ve got an inkling of what Bill Evans was devoted to.
But before I lose it: what’s the math of all this? the topology?
Post-Einsteinian astronomy has a concept of light/space/time cones. What’s in the cone is “history.” information. communication with a time/part of the universe.
now I relate to that my concept of the random as that order we’re not aware of. and the relativity of specific cases where the random isn’t the same for everyone. the magician stacks the deck. it’s random to the audience, but it’s order is known, or significant aspects of its order is known to the magician, showman, cheater.
our pop idea of god knowing the random. our scientific idea of some parts of the random not being knowable. how the glass will break. which link is the weakest before the fracture.
you hear the Processional and it certainly doesn’t sound random. but play it at my level (of a couple of weeks ago) and … where the fuck is he going? why that? oh.
(a different movie later on. Yugoslavian gauchos help downed pilot escape Nazis. Brady gives Congressional Medal of Honor to kid. “Is it real?” kid asks. piece of something gray pinned to chest clothing. Yes, Brady, Grady, whatsisname says. ah, humana. people don’t laugh at that use of real. that’s what’s real in humana. real art, fake art, real virtue, real flags, medals. rights. property.)
I’ve been to a phone a couple of times and back and still no answer at BK’s. I’ve also played Processional a dozen more times, all in my awake mind. but can I catch, put into words, words that will remind my of what I meant, specifically, not generally, about cones and choice and the random?
you learn three notes and can already play recognizable tunes. you’re aware of a number of choices. you can hold it for a beat. for two, for four. you can go up a tone, down a tone. you don’t know about half tones yet or the a/symmetry of scales. you can go up or down. you can go up or down a tone or skip a tone. then accidentals. minor scales. stuff you’ve always known but that the kiddie books hold off on for a while. then pick ups, up beats, syncopated ties. etc.
at first the choices are from the cone of your supervised experience. without the programming, you couldn’t make a choice: 88 keys, you could hit any of them. with what timing? the beginner is paralyzed from the wealth, nothing to crystallize, to precipitate a choice.
then, some “structure” “saves” us: if that was C, I’ll play E. of G. The tune went down, up, down, up … so no I’ll go down, then I’ll go up. Culture restricts, governs our sense of choice. Especially in a “non-symmetrical” situation. Like math. Math, as taught, doesn’t free our sense of order; it restricts it. the vanity of tests thinking there a “right” answer to series. GB’s single mentioned alternative in MN such a breath of fresh air. 2,4,6,8, 67; 2,4,6,8, 67; 2,4, …
(and non-symmetrical: what could be more amusing than the denial that something has symmetry. the conch denying symmetry to the starfish, the starfish to the snail, the snail to the bee, the bee to the man. the geocentrist to the helio-. culture too is an inability to see symmetries not taught by the kiddie teacher.)
it’s not that long ago that all thought I had of what the next choice might be was always single. a note up, a note down. major, minor, modal. third, -third, fifth, -fifth, 7, +7, octave, etc. then back to the real book and Bags and Trane or the Preacher or Blues in the Closet. chords! not just those accompanying, chords in the “melody.” then Sweet Henry, and Gettin It Togetha. The choices are proliferating into new dimensions. not just up or down, but up or down or up and down or up and up and down and all at once.
still Elgar’s harmony is very strange to me, to the playing me, that is, not the hearing me.
I watch Star play the chords on Arsenio. It’s the kind she’s doing. All together or all over the place: all easy, all familiar.
still, the choices are coming from a cone of familiarity. it’s just a continuing expansion of what’s familiar. the whole thing is moving. the cone progresses. but we must know that, always, what’s in the cone is more finite than what’s outside the cone. the cone of time, the cone of light, the cone of what’s possible to invent. what’s possible to invent and to communicate. no (public) good, inventing what can’t be heard. maybe not even by the inventor. but maybe future good. what will be included in the cone? hey, where the hell did that come from?
humana invents money. the downside, the hidden future, is its tendency to uninvent humana back into pleroma.
every choice limits choice. inchoate chaos, maximum possibility stymied by too much possibility.
a couple of days later, about to catch the train to PA & BK, I play Processional again. Billy Crystal is making fun of Phil Rizzuto, much to Dave Letterman’s amusement. The cheese is bubbling in the broiler. I remember starting to say something about how ill equipped we are to see choices. the id files. start a thousand times and never finish. because I can’t finish? maybe. but no one else ever has either. not in public perception. not in public perception as I perceive it.
once I knew this piece in my bones the whole perception will go away. as it has with n pieces already. the right can go up while the left goes down. the right can go up (or down) while the left goes down and goes chordal, goes minor, goes to the dominant, sub-dominant, goes to or away from, the standard harmony. you can repeat it once one way and vary the next repetition. humana bets on the simple repetition. it’s right one, two, three times … then, pow,
I throw a curve ball, Knatz, and you knock it out of the park, Sgt Bradley said to me as I was getting trampled by the company his repetition had thrown off. I was right, and nearly dead. All the wrong are retired colonels and generals.
now I see a different sort of relative of the same thing. how beautiful Kepler’s 2nd Law. how long and well I’ve known it. but the third law. last night I’m looking at it again. as soon as anything says “the cube of,” the quantifying part of my mind is post-suggested into paralysis, wait till it’s over, it’s the teacher again, sleep or die and she’ll go away, she’s give up, she’ll leave you alone. society practicing to be a fossil. it’s a problem reading science for me. it makes sense, it makes sense, then it throws the clutch and disengages me. why the fuck can’t they speak English? but sometimes, as here with T Ferris, the book is good. I want to read every word of it. so I go back. and I go back. what’s the problem? I’ve seen the Third Law before. ok, I can’t spout it out like the others , but give me a minute, I know it. So I try and try to read this simple sentence. can’t get past the “cube.” on the other hand I don’t let myself off the hook. I condemn myself to actually go through a sample calculation. Jupiter. 5 AU more or less and 12 years more of less. proportional. you can map them, chart the relationship, in two dimensions. We’re all counting one, two, three, four … that’s legit. what about one, two, three, nine, eighty-one. one, two, three, minus the square root of a googol, … Kepler is two, going on three, toward fractals. he’s at the fulcrum of the recursion though. I mix the metaphors, maybe they’re not precise, but I’m planning my trip, gotta go to the john, want to play Elgar again. yesterday I went back to Nobody Knows for relief. Oh, come on man, too simple. Simple?!?!? Yes, and a building block toward Processional. I don’t mean Processinal is “better.” I don’t really suppose it’s as good. But it is another dimension. or way further into choices seen and taken. Maybe Nobody is way further into choices seen and not taken. but I don’t think so. the “radical” choices are taken seldom. it’s not quotidienne when an occidental starts playing or even hearing ragas, or Satyjit Ray starts painting like Barnet Newman. or a human hold his breath for five minutes, or a dolphin breathe regularly. or a anaerobic bacterium start processing oxygen nontoxically.
Ptolemy’s epicycles: circles trying and failing to behave like an ellipse. then turn it around: circles are ellipses, in a special case.
what a wonderful crux: is the formula real? or a, ahem, “useful” artificial construction. which is real the volcano or the hardened lava? certainly not Plato’s Forms. but maybe only because his math was so unsophisticated, frozen, infantile. maybe forms anyway. which we may then “call” Platonic. Plato isn’t Plato. which is true: history? or Kepler?
Either/or. coffee or roll. either the sun moves and the earth doesn’t; or the earth moves, and the sun doesn’t. they never say the next choice. hey, it all moves; unless you want to see it as all still, in these recursions. so then, what isn’t moving? me, the fossil. us, the fossils. no, it’s not god who’s stuck. it’s humana. then how is kepler possible? so that too isn’t true.
the best we can do: prove something not true. therefore, there is no truth? false. maybe true, but false as a conclusion. false logic. wrong categories.
maybe it’s the universe which is still (in regular motions) and god which moves.
trip to the john, where the backgammon board resides. six and three. disaster. unless you can equally well see it as a three and a six. oh, doubles: therefore, I’ll move in pairs. that’s always the right solution. wrong. it is often to usually the good move. “the” good move. no such thing. a non-existent catagory except in so far as it’s what makes us mortal.
“god’s algorithm” Hoffstetter says re: rubik cube. is that a reality? or a convenient fiction? precisely what we can’t know, even when he speaks deeply, “personally” to us. sacrifice your son? sure. but know that it’s right, uh oh, no, know that it’s true? no. just how you have to behave.
Woody Allen: a useful fiction told me to …
god doens’t play dice with the univers, Einstein preaches, limiting god’s choice for him, being doctinaire. new question: did Albert “intend” to be doctrinarie? did Galileo mean to be an authority? Luther? um, sure they did. they’re mortal to.
uncertainty doesn’t get you the White House, but certainty certainly makes you mortal. the key ingredient. good. I’m for mortality.
and binary. in humana, a way of limiting choices. it’s ok, the nitty gritty of DNA. are you for us; or against us? left or right? right or wrong? two wings. a deliberately limited topology of possibility.
perceptual, allowable perceptual, possibility. the heathen can’t have known anything, can’t have been good, moral, pious, right in their actions or thoughts, about anything. then how come some good xians kept finding them to be superior?
but binary isn’t just yes or no, 0 or 1, on or off, flowing or not flowing, positive negative: it’s a series of such. interactive, it can go to an infinity of places. it too can square and cube. it too can interact with “irrationals.” it’s a simple, basic number system. it has as many choices as any other number system though other bases can have other types of strength. but then it has strengths the others don’t have. it’s not that they’re all the same.
right or wrong, left or right, isn’t just one yes or no among a population of millions interacting with billions, deforesting, perverting charity, being “strong.”
what’s so lovable about humana is how perpetually it knows that it doesn’t know, knows that it’s wrong, limited, turns its back, doesn’t see all sides even in one plane. Costas, the pop soul, talking to some actress I’ve never heard of (in no way a comment on her or her skills). they’re part of and addressing the pop consciousness: if it’s in shadow to us, it doesn’t exist. at the same time marveling: gee, you actually got the job by auditioning? amazing, when we all know that it’s all sub rosa politics, me-first economics, even PBS. maybe especially PBS. most self(&public)-deceiving. oh, look what I found in a Kansas drug store: Grace Kelly! Then what didn’t you find in a Nebraska drug store? or a Kowloon laundry?
what a schmuck. the school bus driver comes into Circle K this morning. for a month I’ve had a letter printed to her. rewritten, reprinted six times. last week, I chicken out and don’t hand it to her. this am, Lucy chooses that moment to run off to double take my gas readings. I’m alone with her! first time. “Amanda’s mother?” She smiles that radiant smile my letter says I’ve seen so seldom. she opens the letter. sees lots of printing. does a mouth open dumb show of amazement. “I need some napkins,” she says. But I’m futzing about something or other. And she’s gone. And I haven’t even see her behind! chicken as a teenager.
yesterday Tom is showing me how to change the air filter. and some other red neck chick comes in and starts shoving herself all over him. I’m standing there dumb faced as she sounds like one of those hysterics in the diner in Nevada. first female rednecks I’d ever seen displaying. now she has two in her audience. now she’s leaning all over me. hikes her skirt to show the black and blue areas. shows me a picture of her 16 year old baby under the covers with the man who beat her. “And they took my baby away from me. He’s after me. He wants to kill me. Now the cops are after me. I haven’t eaten or slept in two days.” I’ll buy you a sandwich. “No thanks, I just ate.”
If you could see syphlis it would probably be dripping out of her nose and into my handkerchief. I’m still getting a hard on. Please let Tom go about his business. Give me a minute to give him my undivided attention. And then I’ll give that same undivided attention to you. She can’t stand back for 30 seconds. Barges in again. Decided I was a dud, I suppose. now she’s all over Tom again. Stupid fucking broad. she’s knows she’s blown it and pedals off. saved by her stupidity. I really felt like giving her a day’s shelter. Back to Tamara and her habit of 25 years ago. Has it been that long since I’ve been that stupid over a cuny (Bowdlerizing K. 2016 07 29) in my face? I suppose so. Not bad.
talking about choice above: back from PA, my Yamaha crowding the front of the trailer, the Austrailian pines vibrating from the power, I can hear, for the first time in years, Miles … Billie’s rhythm was perfect. None ever more perfect. Miles is equally perfect, and light years more rhythmically dynamic than anyone else I’ve ever heard. Play on the beat? Off the beat? Up beat on eighth up? Sixteenth? Eighth triplet? Staccato? Upbeat triplet with a rest in the middle? Siesta, Siesta, Siesta, then Jack Johnson. Silent Way. Siesta. Jack Johnson. Now Sketches of Spain.
Just ordered the Yam synth. Playing the alto recorder while Getz plays with Charlie Bird. I never kept up with their key. It didn’t matter. It will take me months to come down from this ecstasy.
theo: conversation bet self & Billy. god = truth, by definition.. and that science has come closer in missing the truth than any other human method of generalizing, etc. where the old model is seem to differ from the latest observational/deductive/inductive/abductive model, which should lean toward which? the average human mind, group mind, individual mind, age mind more sessile than ambulatory, but in time, the generations follow the light. the meadow, the forest creeps this way or that.
the bolt-together mind vs the architectural mind: you’ve got to listen to Fuller for 2 hours before the structure can assemble in three dimensions. he can put a real dome up in 15 minutes with a team and a chopper, but speaks solo.
51´ years old and for the first time I have an opp to watch the whole Ring with sub titles. trouble is, no tuner, no good simulcast for me. so I’m really watching the tube and thinking, writing the above. flipping here some prog was on with great Miles/TD like fuzz synths. but that was just intro to some drama. here’s 23 hours of Wagner, and my great 100 year old bible.
here’s a case where we’ll deceive ourselves greatly if we are guided by the authorial fallacy. take W’s prejudices to be his meaning.
did W sympathize with Alerick? No? Does that mean that I can’t? DNA/evolution metaphor. The RhMaids guard the gold. They’ve done so for X eons. but now they’ve fucked up. and deserved it.
“Awake and think” Frika says to Wotan as he dreams of man’s coming.
Wotan’s realm is fuzzy. these giants and dwarfs and gods aren’t species; they’re meta-something, meta-aspects of species. they’re both characters: phenotypes: and invariances: male power, female power, beauty, thunder, etc. Loge isn’t affected by lack of golden apples. how god is this god? incomplete. how god will this man be? incomplete, but less so. more god so. but they pass, they all pass, for human. hell, it’s a music drama.
of course they don’t pass with us. us USians are too busy with the gold, the rings, the apples industrially grown, hypermarket distributed, to notice how completely we’re controlled by the ring. forged by the magic of loss of beauty: integration.
cheez: the descent into the industrial hell. the Neibelung hammers, insanely repetitive (insane in the context of Wagnerian rhythms). never so moved by it.
Hitler must have imagined that he wasn’t a Neibelung or that his Ger wasn’t the hammering bowels. (not at all good behavior for bowels.)
what I love about Loge is that he leads them all they know not where. does he know? does he care? can’t tell. they’re in a fractal propagation none of them see. however grand Wotan’s plan, it’s in the universe, not the thing.
Wow. i’m watching W’s refusal to add the ring to the pile and Erda sings. I’d completely forgotten about her! Nox. Saturn. Another level. We’ve been watchin the gods etc and supergod speaks! The KnTale. :A day of doom dawns for the gods.”
The honest giants get the god, and … murder! Fafner bludgeons Fasolt. First, tease, then theft, then the double dealing of reason, then these elaborate deals, among meta-thieves, then murder. god, how i love this. the eggs beak. for the hero. the future. the better than them. but born of this.
Das Rh ends and PBS gives us a postlude of coming attractions. There’s shadows, this enormously fat spade lady and the skinny little silver haired sprite of a conductor, and … by god! it’s Lenny! turn your back for a measly couple of decades and … he’s older! I think it’s him. who else could it be? Salzburg 1987 or something it says. anyway, christ, is he administering Wagner! and this broad is really singing Sieglinde. bar none, the greatest Wagner I’ve heard since Furgwangler & Flagstad! I mean unbeliebable.
Then, now next night, here’s Levine starting up Die Walkure. He did a perfectly comendable Das Rh last night. Very good. Just no genius that I could see. Then a moment of Lenny in the mists. But tonight opens, the prelude of Die Walkure, and … these guys are getting better, or I’m going soft in the head.
Too tired for opening of Siegfried. No laugh for “Das ist kein man!” ??? They must have anaethetized the audience. That’s it! There is no audience. Met prod for video.
Multas thoughts watching from the talk/fight with Fafner.
W’s R, where in relation to Darwin’s 1859?
romanticism, learning to sing from the forest. a little bird told me. Sure, only a century to Aleph.
younger older, sexed gods, Wotan, Erde, Saturn and Nox too, have to be younger than evolution! J proves he’s a youngster by being male. the youngest gods are the oldest when time runs backwards, when the future, even a never to be realized future (I work for an alternate universe that may in fact never be born)
Siegf disrespectful of Wotan, respectful of the heights. Sword cuts spear and the fire, Loge’s fire, just disappears. It isn’t even important in the opera! not from that point forward.
talk, talk, talk, sing, sing, sing. I love Mime’s trying to deceive Siegf and actually saying what he intends. The only one. Boy was I unqualified to understand Der Ring when I thought S wasn’t honoring his parent, however step and foster.
Brunhilde awakes. Shit, Levine just fucked the G chord. No, he didn’t. I was anticipating. It’s the second and third that ring. Still, he didn’t really get it. And fourth: I greet you sun. And fifth: I greet you, light. And sixth: I greet you, radiant day. !!!
Whew. I was saying, talk. except for Mime, the narrator always has the story wrong. Wotan shows the audience that he doesn’t understand his story as he tells it to Erde.
Joy of my world, Br sings to S!
Like Oedipus, they act out the plot that they sort of know about, do everything to avoid, and rush cybernetically toward.
talk, talk. ritual talk. like formal warfare. stand around and brag, threaten, give your genealogy, before hurling a stone and running away.
Sumerian, Babylonian, Chaldean cosmologies: theology is no longer a search for truth, but a stubborn, a graceless, mindless, defense of no longer brilliant or even intelligent models.
but the human mind can’t wait: it must be certain. we can’t begin to think what god is till we have some basic topology straight: is the universe open or closed? is the universe coextensive with the cosmos? can information cross singularities? is there any correspondence between our sense of cause and effect and how things actually happen? ie, why should the u or the c need to be an artifact? or, is the u an artifact of the c? then are g and the c coextensive?
teaching: teaching “truth” (ie, horseshit, obedience) vs. teaching the history, the story, impossible of complete reliability) about the thing, set, meta-set. one problem of censorship is that your standard patriot, standard of morality, etc, has the one kind of “truth” training, obedience school-don’t fuck without the ring-and can only conceive of threatening versions of itself: a sunday school of demons. except of course for technical training. what’s the point? the students still sitting there four months later still expecting you to give away the magic formula.