id35

/ Journal /

E1 ? (starting to emphasize the epistemological side of ideas?)
previous save: 10/18/90. Why did I save this one as id35.E1? intended as epis bag?
borders, sea sky, Everglades, earth space
slowly coming into focus at 6:45 pm. deliberate no hurry in the attempt. stumble to the 22, load, see if the fingers want to find Brahms lullaby with no glitches or hesitations. getting there, getting here. fewer and fewer all the time. the repertoire of impossibilities conquered growing. the real test is how automatic is it when you’re not paying any attention nor are you capable of attention. you’ll come to attention when you notice the glitches. ah, that’s where it’s not assimilated, you then say to yourself.
the repertoire grows unwieldy. last night, 7 this am, the Bach unravels. fine, no complaint. I leave my head empty and try again. comes back quick. and now the lullaby and the Thanksgiving hymn. and the Schumann and the Elgar approach the same category.
earl & ellen return yesterday and I report on their plants and invite them to listen. i’m paying attention to which buttons i’m pushing to demonstrate whatever series of voices and the fingers fool with the once unconquerable Frankie & Johnny. whoops, rust, and lots of it. it wasn’t F&J that came out, but what difference did it make? It was an F7th sort of C followed by a Bb7 sort of F. somewhere i threw some G7 in and made sure of the Db part. No one was going to run out and record it, it didn’t matter. it was a legit noodle.
whoops, i’m gravitating back to the music, which was merely where I wanted to jack in. quick, don’t miss the connection. oh, yes. third cup of coffee and I begin glancing through the radio shack mailer. what a lot of shit. where you know your electronics, radio shack really sucks. where you just want some saccharine simulacrum, radio shack is great. I’ve bought plenty of it. (quick clarification: their batteries and wire and connectors might be great. but here i’m sitting at the 22, reading their presentation of their digital sampling and multi mixing keyboards, one or two of which I’ve recently sampled myself, and … Don’t mistake Monroe for Pamela.
so here’s a page on phones. here’s one that looks like a 3 figure version of what Michael Douglas phoned Sheen on from the pre-dawn beach in Wall Street.
what the fuck … i stammered to myself, seeing that scene with … ah, yes. Anne, in Lake Worth. so i just lied to bk: i have seen a movie since Witches with Debbie. who or what the fuck billionaire takes a 10 lb phone to the beach at five am? what the fuck use is the beach if you take a phone there?
what’s the beach for but to retune our monism? Yet watching Wall Street you knew it wasn’t wrong, that that lunatic would take a 10 lb phone to the beach. (if i ever did the same, i’d have Stephanie carry it.) (but that’s a lie. i don’t want Stephanie to carry it. i don’t want to take the world (humana) to the beach with me. i don’t want to take Stephanie to the beach with me.)
and flash, it hits me. Michael Douglas isn’t walking, jogging, strolling, meditating … the beach (of course, he’s got a towel around his neck, so the message really was: he’s been working out, his work out is over, and it isn’t dawn yet, now it’s time to jostle the troops …) to re-etch his pluralistic monism; it’s a patrol. military. Michael Douglas is a lieutenant so powerful he doesn’t need his platoon with him, just the telephone. he’s there, on the beach, pre-dawn, to make sure the beach can’t be enjoyed. to take it away.
the wolf, the eland, the le … what the hell is that most primitive of monkeys with the ringed tail? mark the forest with their urine, their musk, their some king of scent. lemur.
man slob stares at the beach. burp. and leaves his beer can behind. I was here, shitheads. it was virgin for me, not you.
next stage, Michael Douglas scares off man-slob.
and back to my still merely thought poem of two winters ago. how i love borders. beaches, cliffs, one geography, one ecology becoming another, places where the zillion details don’t register as different. seeing stars isn’t the same as seeing oh, there’s Spica, wow, look at Antenor. Zeubenelgenuibi, gosh. and a new scale falls from my eyes: that’s it! earth/space. the border we’re looking at more and more. piss on the sand. burp. beer can. till the future Michael Douglas patrols it, later than the late, earlier than the early, with some then-mudra of confusion, some 10 lb something to give a maya of superiority to his regimented emptiness.
bucky talked of doing more with less. how the perfect engineer dispenses with the jig, and the model levitates. the universe: planes fly over head. no wires yet found holding the moon and earth in proximity. where’s the wire to the sun? no, the structure has become minimal. immaterial.
and I see Michael Douglas. civ’s scion. $$. the wire, holding him from the obvious, so tight, so strong, so perfect, it’s invisible. so perfect, he looks free.
i wish i could remember the name of my favorite language teacher: german prof from Barnard, summering at NYU where I did my one month German: 0 (if you don’t count Gesuntheit) to speed reading. he talked about how his linguistic interest led him to pay attention only to the ads on radio. ignore the music, the show, the news, and listen closely to the ads. I winced at the “ignore the music” part, but took his point just the same. have found myself doing not the same but similar, relatable, ever since. not the same exactly, but tonight, once again, i was in love, listening to the sportscasters. several of my hobbyhorses were ridden. the truth of Melibee. similarly, in Troilus, Chaucer, esp for Pandarus, finds authorities, justifications … for whatever the hell scuzzy thing they want to do. moral authority for adolescent, or any other kind of behavior. like the universe, life itself, algebra it all up, and it cancels to … zero?
But sports here:
guy catches the ball. “that’s right, always catch the ball with your hands if you can. if you catch it against your chest …”; “no excuse not to catch a ball that hits you on the numbers. that was a perfect throw by blah blah …”
“this one doesn’t count. [preseason] they’ve got things they want to look at, and they know bettern than to be distracted by the score.”; “it may be preseason, but don’t let anybody kid you, they’re trying to win.” etc.
But my favorite tonight was a different category: literal listening. does anyone pay any attention to what they say? “The Seahawks have led throughout the game.” “Throughout”? Not: “since they scored first”? You mean the NFL let a team begin the game with points already on the board? `We’ll have the opening kickoff in a moment, folks. The Seahawks have the initial lead of four points, the NFL anteing a virtual touchdown and point after to them while the Bucs have only a virtual field goal for their opening chips on hand.’
a couple of hours later, Geo Maharis, The Satan Bug: “He’s floating at the bottom of the pool.”
why watch a real game, when another channel has the last half dozen years of football highlights, a bland hour, an ether of martial blare, climaximaximus? who’s the best? the narrative carefully structures its Q&A. a bevy of teams, quarterbacks, receivers, etc, all offensive, all recent. “is it Joe Montana?” evidence, evidence. “is it John Elway,” evidence, evidence, after the fact poisoned by editors who know what they’re doing and how to do it. doctor the verdict after it’s made. `who will win yesterday’s contest? hmm, (looking in the paper), let me see.’ Super Bowl XXIV. Hooray, the winner is winning. “Is San francisco the best ever?” “we’re the best,” gestures Rice or some SFan on the sideline. the narrative doesn’t make a conclusion (unless showing the scoring was a conclusion): it just sloshes past several logical levels. “SF wasn’t playing Denver; SF was playing Greenbay, of SuperBowlsI&II, playing the Pittsburg of the early 70’s … to be the undisputed best.”
that kind of blatant irrationality cannot be faked, as Vidal said of really bad bestsellerdom.
ah ha, says Alan Watts. but we’re all faking. wrong word: playing. hide and seek. the debater knows his arguments are fuzz within fuzz, but buzzing with civ password-attitudes (swallow this and we won’t obliterate you, please notice, big daddy alpha male, i’m doing this for you for free: please reward me. i’m just as much a geek as these turds in the audience. promote me above them. superratify the horseshit we’re pretending to ratify.)
undisputed. they spend an hour disputing, or pretending to, and then conclude: undisputed. `the 270 to 30 vote was unanimous.’ they never even reached a conclusion, much less made anything indisputable.
though personally, I, of course, agree with the point not made, Joe Montana is the best ever. Just like Bart Star was. YAT. Bradshaw. ??!! Unitas. GreenBay was the best ever. almost as best as the Giants of 40something. or 87 or something. the bears of 86 or something. undisputed.
whoever has today’s leg up in the dispute is undisputed.
what in existence (including of course, nonexistence) isn’t a dispute? chirality. left-handed won. though are we sure it’s over? virtual/actual. it’s a virtual certainty that the actual has it.
Xian theology has Satan disputing God for the universe, with God the foreknown undisputed winner. and us geeks in the audience undisputed with him.
the Optometrist recommends a book called “Evidence that Demands a Verdict” to me. the book store next door might have it. (whoo, isn’t that a nice juncture? bookstore/next-door) I investigate within the minute. uh oh. it’s not a book store. its a Xian Book Store. still, i proceed. 2 vols. $19.95. I flip around, quick survey. whew. it reeks, like dime store perfume poured onto the still fat and still old dame. quotes from the Bible up the ass. where’s the dispute? where’s the challenge? this book isn’t by the judge, it’s by the lawyer for the challenged. what’s the challenge? ah, no challenger is allowed to speak. it’s all mistranslated into the geek language of the lawyer. it’s all “they say” and “science says”. not “an implication of Einstein’s hypothesis is …” or “Gell-Mann provisionally concludes …”
it’s all attitudinizing. see, reader, nudge, we don’t have to define our terms. we know what evidence is. reason? we know how to gang together. virtual occupation of the water hole. from a few counties away.
attitudinizing. hey! that’s what I like to do in these scribbles. what in human behavior isn’t attitudinizing? even 1%? science.
what should be? theology. the theory (search therefore) (there-for) of a true god, whether he be plus or minus, 0 or not 0.
one thing after another to be awed by in Russia House. and LeCarré then has to provide the perfect illustration of Fiedler’s point about modern lit as voyeurism. the “private” “eye”. only with all the spies, it’s hardly private. we see Katya’s grief through monitors, crackling bugs, a huge bureaucracy …
golf is conspicuously ill adapted to headline size quotes. And here’s the Shark’s $250,000 three inch putt. He makes it! That’s what he did to win a quartermil? sheesh. but then football/baseball too. here’s Dykstra’s key go ahead hit in the sixth. hey, cheating. show the boring ninth. show the winning quarterback falling on the ball for the last three plays. show the fans wandering around on the field with 2 seconds left on the clock. drama isn’t in ahem real time. it’s in a perspective.
just thought of a STrek type situation only to realize a moment later, they’ve done it. repeatedly. though not perhaps with the same intention. or consciousness. Phaan meets Bream. Oh, yes, earth. I saw your undisputed leader on the synx once at Orloof. Huh? What was his name? Charles Manson. Ayatollah Willie Sutton. Huh? He said he was the undisputed leader of earthlings. Sure. How many earthlings said it?
You gather in Brooklyn and the 50s Dodgers could seem undisputed. but the game was played not only in Brooklyn. US rules the world in DC, not in Tehran. The Kremlin isn’t even undisputed in Moscow.
Einstein said of the levro chirals: “They won the fight.” quintessentially illuminating. if not of pleroma, then of creatura. and certainly of humana. if pleroma isn’t (a human word/concept) (God is beyond such categories as existing or not existing) a field of dispute, it’s still significant for us to perceive it that way.
humana conspicuous for its arbitrary assignments of virtual solutions. The WBAs undisputed champion who’s not the same guy as the ABA’s undisputed champion etc. So and so is the Yankee’s team leader. George appointed him so this morning. god help so and so else if they come out of the dugout first. now the press knows who to talk to and what to say.
ads: a mini-documentary on Churchill. brave, smart, sensitive, stubborn, etc. how nice. USians remember Churchill. but it’s an ad. some company is saying it’s the USian Churchill. they sell telephones or something.
now here’s a guy gone fishing. not catching anything. some old guy with him. his father? misses a strike. phone rings. phone rings? he’s up in Michigan. Wall St strikes again. he catches this one. Jack Nicholson is poised over the putt. If he makes it, he’s the first 50 yr old to win the Masters. Phone rings. Blows the putt. It’s ok. Somebody wants to sell him advertising ball point pens. there’s a prize involved there.
me and Krager, bombing around RVC, HS lunch time. Dick’s bought some phony plastic phone. Screech, around the corner on two wheels, one handed. the other pretends to take a call. then we make fun of Eddie Toms when he puts plastic rockets on his Studebaker.
then here’s the Amer Churchill. some fat four-eyed stock broker pontificates koans. listen not just to what our customer’s say, but what they mean. our clients have a certain level of comfort. [dean witter] intercutting with some Saddle River celebration. Guy lays some diamonds on some broad. Anything else I can give you? Just the first dance. Shakespearian obliquity.
“random” ha thoughts. who owes what for what? do US spies owe soviet taxes? they used the roads. they breathed the air.
I flinched when first reading Inivisible man at the ripping off Con Ed of the beginning. When McHarg says “don’t shake his hand next time you see him; leap on him and bite his jugular vein” to some diamonded Mainliner of the Pres of PACon, I harrooped and hurrayed. frontal attack. bravo. is that why we’ve heard relatively little of McHarg? civ appoproves of using women and children to hide behind at the lynching. night raids. mobs in white masks.
wait. now I don’t even remember what I started to say.
two actor monolongue, flash: The Stronger, pixels arrange before my eyes. (ss:) IRS auditor. obvious nerd lifer, mixing up nice-guy/the- heavy moral appeals, threats, self-interest, etc. audience is responding to silent character’s inappropriate responses to the IRS lifer’s arguments. They’d be quaking, laughing, reaching for their balls, their wallets, etc. Meantime, silently, in shadow, the client’s costume is reweaving. and when he stands, … plucks out the lifer’s life, he’s Bergman’s Death a la 7th Seal.
though now I remember. had gotten ahead of myself, illustrating the argument before making it. society steals everything. and then charges for degraded versions of what’s left. again … can’t concentrate. the yankees are coming back. geo is out. Maas comes to bat. never seen the guy. strikes out. I’m losing my images. what does it matter? Everyone is entitled to make a nest in the random. random, order, etc, nothing but subjective, however much the subjectivity may spread through a culture, species, etc. a mouse tears up your shirt to build a nest in your drawer. to the mouse, the wadded shreds are order; your $100 designer shirt was chaos, the random. given. a dark forest.
you want to kill the mouse. how dare he? you think the shirt is yours. property. you paid for it. the shirt represents labor: yours and others, bought and paid, paid and bought. the mouse wouldn’t have dreamed of shredding the shirt had you been wearing it. how can property be property once its unguarded? you can guard one shirt. one wife. a couple. a couple of children. most of the time. but not a dozen shirts. not a closet full of stuff. mansions? all the females in the tribe, in the world, past and present? insanity. only USns.
wealth can only be created by destroying other wealth. it works by valuing the created and not the destroyed. best not to be aware of the exploited resources as itself an entity. the woods, the wasteland, enemy territory. not territory at all.
Rizzuto waxes philosophical. “all the greatest scientists in the world were at this garlic convention: and they all said, ‘garlic is good for you.’ all my life, everybody complaining about the odor from my body ….” keep back the … Eureka! vampires! the WASP = the bloodsucker, the … how did the eastern puritan, the bloodlineless, the no-class illiterate criminal become the Euro-Aristo to everyone else? other funny thing about class over time: Rizzuto’s other Yankees were hardly Cabots and Lodges. But Wop Riz would have been the nigger. to the Krauts and Pollacks. Come Jackie Robinson, and Riz would have become white.
ss: Marlow type (Conrad) narrative. and I alone am returned to tell you. other, human like, but safely alien, population behaving like yeast.
spirit: old word for synergy.
in TimeNow there will always be a behavior, a program generally followed, and if the behaviors are self-aware, the behavior will be deemed rational, conscious, etc, a cross population behavior, synergetically leading toward … well, the resulting, new born synergy will by definition not have been predicted (or be predictable, again, by definition) by the behaving population. could death too be a side result synergy? subjective. what’s dead or not living is that not perceived to be the population by the behaving population. nazis can’t have believed that jews were alive in the way that they, the nazis, were alive. or would be alive, once they’d fully triumphed. political leaders, religious leaders, etc, never know, and never know that they don’t know, where they’re leading us. which of course doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t go there. even if its death. rebirth. a new population with a new processing synergy, toward a new not yet born synergy. any TimeThen would be a different example.
how can such a thing be proved when the point of the point is that it’s unperceivable? it can’t be. not proved totally. (what can be? totally.) but when the new synergy is near or beginning parturition, some, educational failures of the previous synergy (and no synergy’s propaganda is ever truly efficient. after all, it’s only one synergy. or, as always, one nest, one stack of synergies. (do the thought police ever care if the faithful are really faithful? so long as they behave the behavior? pay their taxes? go along?) when the new synergy is in or near parturition, some, not perfectly previously synergized, will see it. the obvious. the key to progress is imperfect education. some Einstein will always not be totally numbed into the rehearsed way of seeing.
Brian knocks me for a loop reading me this Dan Simmons. A majority of my themes well expressed, published, and a best seller. so much of my stuff has been best seller stuff but only mistranslated, eviscerated. Death Wish. Quantum Leap. All the afterlife shit around today. And Simmons does Chaucer! good god. my faith justified. wait long enough and somebody, some several bodies, will do, say, think your best stuff. he found a way to make it palatable. or he was lucky. had the right friends. and so maybe too he’s ten times smarter or better or harder working. or less. it doesn’t matter. it’s there. it’s done.
pop culture is always the white breads (who ever is born to the currently successful hoarders of everything is the white bread. the wasps, the Chou, the Japs … color here as always is self-defined and self-flattering) claiming comfort with the art of the pained. I semi-watch this movie last night where Glen Ford is part of a con to get svelte blond’s 40 million. at a party, she grabs the double bass, plucks a string, and every one smiles as though she’s fitting in with, helping to make, not ruin, the music. she owns it. they throw a piano in the pool and the guy keep playing it. party, party.
Muddy Waters gets recycled by the Brit rocker’s recycling of Amer blues. Now, it’s already misleading of what I mean to mention Muddy Waters, cause Muddy did have a popularity beyond Chicago’s transplanted deep south blues men. so it isn’t Muddy that I mean. Nor Cotton. It’s the guys whose names (and performances) I don’t know and neither would Jagger, and maybe not Muddy either.
The Stones make what seems like a lot of money. But if it were distributed to the roots as well as the distributors and lawyers, it wouldn’t be much.
But of course, it doesn’t matter. Because the cultural matrix is already rich enough to have supported them in sufficient quantity. Slaves, maybe, but alive and with time enough to spare for the blues.
all our etiologies are poor maps for the real territory.
I love and keep coming back to the frogfilmed joke in the 50s version of the 7 Deadly Sins. WWI frog trenchmen about to die. 100 pool their couple of franks to come up with the 200 the local best whore gets for one night. draw straws, and lucky Pierre. Pierre goes to town, fucks their mutual brains out, and tells his story. Oh you poor sweet thing, says the whore. Here’s your two franks back.
The whore keeps 98. Pierre get laid for free. and the 100 proceed to die, 99 getting killed with their money gone and laid only by proxy.
Mick Jagger may put $1,000,000 of flowers on Muddy’s grave. Muddy had a couple of bucks of his own. But nothing for the others but to have lived and worked and died and sired what why can’t possibly keep track of the paternity of.
metaphors always inappropriate as well as appropriate. I say paternity. Does that mean I now have to find a mother? why not? the mother never understands the father’s role; the father never the mother’s.
we chant some morality redolent chant while destroying, misidentifying, the other. typically we celebrate manhood by having no respect for the trillion things that went into making the object of lust. the liberated females trample they don’t know what, though they certainly do know what they say it is and accuse it of.
once I thought I was arguing for a more enlightened morality. now, not at all. morality and the enlightenment (temporary, transient, a freak, though a freak an essential part of the vitality of the process) I speak of are mutually exclusive. it will be seen as immoral by the illiterate of the behaving group, as amoral by the discerning among them. but that’s not it at all. it’s simply seeing another level of the thing’s shape. where morality is an ingredient. like capital.
my communism, like my socialism, like my christianity, was always predicated on voluntarism. Give away your property. Share. Love. Not submit to a committee that takes it. a synergy of let’s all see that it’s what makes the best sense. for us, for everything. such a synergy may be possible. may be coming. but it’s not how the synergies I do observe are disciplined. no, something has to make the light reweave as a laser.
but that’s misleading too. there being, at another level, nothing but self-organizations.
sure the CIA would obey the Bill of Rights. If only it weren’t for the commies, the Panthers, the cheats. sure communism would work: if it weren’t for the filthy capitalist pigs. we’ll all be christian and loving and sharing and kind and considerate … as soon as we raid the ghetto and slaughter the jews. but then too we’d have to liberate the holy land. annihilate the paynim heathen. then we’d all be brothers. of course those frogs aren’t very good loving christians. we don’t need to kill them, just enslave them. then we could say mass all day.
ok, my own behavior doesn’t make any catalyzing spark that I can tell. but there’s Simmons. and here comes Brian. I can’t tell that I’ve ever communicated 10% to him. Yet he keeps coming up with all this stuff. Was I irrelevant? There I go, defaulting to etiologies just after denying them. I don’t know how it works. I don’t claim to. But it works. and I celebrate the result, whatever it is. goody, we’ve turned Gaia into a wasteland. Precisely the perfect matrix for the birth of … we die, the English become American, become Japanese, wonderful. the blues becomes the stones. aiyaiyai. but then I hear blues the best ever. don’t even know who it’s by. negentropy is operative however what we’re monitoring frays and fails. so I no longer root for anything in particular. I dig for what seems true and beautiful, and it appears … in different colors on the horizon. Who? never heard of him. young? how is that possible? how wonderful.
by definition, the consciousness can only be conscious of the tiniest part. the tip of the iceberg. icebergs which melt, drift … while unknown others are forming.
so you take a satellite picture. ok, now you do know which icebergs are forming. so there are still icebergs that you don’t know. and that aren’t ice.
and that’s where god is the ur concept, the only concept. the metaphor for the metapattern that’s part of, no, congruent with, what little we perceive, what little we’ve figured out, but is always on another level, an imperceived, imperceivable level, above, the growth and decay, or variation or invariance, both or neither, the art that our art can’t reach, but is aimed toward.
immortality: outlasting normal time reference. forever has no meaning except relative to some familiar duration.
soul: the life, the synergy, that isn’t just the particular extensional casing, weave, fabric of the particular physical organism. the soul isn’t mortal like the body. neither … what happens to your lap when you stand up? see, a lap is subset of possible relations among body parts of upright primates in relation to gravity, etc. when you stand, your belly and groin, privates, etc, aren’t in that relationship with your legs, buttocks, etc. did it die? of course not: it merely doesn’t apply. is the soul like the lap? the important thing isn’t to say yes or no but to see the several implications, appropriatenesses, inappropriatenesses. the soul is a richer abstraction than the lap. because the synergy of the individual relates in a variety of ways to the synergy of its forebears and successors, both of the same species and not. one can have a christian soul, not a christian lap. (where certain mudra apply, Buddha hand position, this or that fingering for prayer … relation among parts could have such meme associations. kneeling, eg.
(separate inquiry: relationship between culturally rehearsed body positions, folded hand prayer, fingers extended, palms together, fingers pointed up and away past head, away from anus, etc, kneeling, etc, and the politico-econo behavior of the population. “Of course Onward Christian soldiers isn’t militaristic,” Struthers said. obviously Jesus was not a Jew, Hitler said. I daily find the sheep herding metaphors of J/X objectionable. Ditto for its absentee landlord imperialism: burying the talents vs investing at interest. there’s no way that that god authored E=mc2 or galaxy clusters. let alone cybernetics or such complex thermostats as 50.6% female; 49.4% male, with its sub-stats of census relations, at birth, crib deaths, territorial deaths, birthing deaths, gender colored longevity.)
kneeling: servant, slave, conquered class. folded hand intensity, seriousness, nervousness. pointed fingers preference for abstractions.
which came first: kneeling to god? or having your face pushed into the mud by the human geniuses who invented the private water hole and you and your tribe to do the hard work on their crops? the latter, obviously. the J universe is 6000 odd years old, J half or so that age, while human agriculture is 10,000 yrs.
paying wages and letting (or is it making) you shop for your own address in the asphalt jungle changes things about as much as using linguini changes the spaghetti dish.
incredible flexibility, this species. it’s only about two millennia ago that the Germans would force a tribesman to wrap his own entrails around a wound he’d inflicted on an oak. to the ten to twenty-four year old PK, a totally man-made environment was perfection. Manhattan paradise. To say that it was crowded, ugly, gray, foul smelling, noisy, poisonous, full of murder, etc, was to say only good about it. Wow, the first time I saw that Gene Kelly dance sequence (to Slaughter on Tenth Avenue). alone, crummy room, fidget, go outside, smoke, hanging out against the lamp post. a female animal walks by, upright. what did I think I was looking at, age maybe ten? I was aware of the trumpet tugging my balls before I knew I had them. and of course that’s the answer. to the young. the probability of coming across a suitable female. Not once, for a life (generation) time, but again and again. not a church lady but a tigeress. that movie was on the tube recently. first time in 40 yrs, but I didn’t even glance up. oh, that scene is on. as I played the Chess Master.
human beans measure truth by weighing not the evidence but the constituency supporting it. no clout, no truth.
if you know how to see truth, the cheap, the imitative, pop is so often the most pregnant. of all our self flattery designed to lie with one face and tell the truth with the other, which Janus face is obverse?, what’s better than cartoons? Westerns? Here’s Virginia Mayo serving time as a bank robber. pulls a gun. the gun hand receeds. the tit sticks out like Frazetta-Conan biceps. here’s a scene: hollywood expressionism. composition lifted straight from Cabinet of Dr Caligari. twisted. the bias set in relief. the jailer helps Virginia move into a nice big room with shelves and all the ammenities of incarceration. “ya know, you’re a good looking girl. I could help make it real nice for you here.” “If you threaten me again I see you get hurt bad.” “Oh, yeah?” the idiot calls her bet. “How?” And she starts screaming. cut to turn key chewed out by warden. yet in all other respects the jail is designed only to lampoon rights. and the ever-present guns tell it all. the symbol of the individual saying no to the society. (of course the idea of the individual is as “virtual” as the idea of the society itself. yet patterns there are.) why at one point the warden or somebody says to the jailbird, Mayo’s boyfriend-society at war against law breakers: “And we always WIN.” but Hollywood makes all the jail birds the admirable primate males, the true alpha candidates. the jailers are craven sadists. then muscles becomes warden and uses a gattling gun to herd the now cowering heroes back into the prison.
hollywood’s fem lib 50s movie. mayo is a real man too. though the sexual mores are très imaginary conservative.
contrast interview in Tampa paper the other day with high school girl. I’ve fucked 85 men. I’m going for one hundred by the time I graduate. Bankrobber Mayo, whose sutton like morality (“I thought it would be a profitable business,” her reason respected by the warden) can have her privacy violated, should have her privacy violated, but not her female privacy. the virgin bank robber. the guards routinely brutalize the captive alphas, a billy club in the liver before answering the simplest question. but so much as hint toward a proposition of blondie and she summons semantic chaos. Janus, Janus.
the unmakable syllogism.
we’re human. right.
here’s sodom & gommorah, pilat, caesar & pompey, John D sucker punching the little guy, samson & delilah, little big horn, the KGB. all human behavior. right.
we’re human. here’s us. the same.

right? wrong.
check the model for good design. unless the design is more fundamental to your sementic universe than you dare look. clean the counter top. scour the surface. boil it, sear it. sterilize it. but never lift the rug. never clean the toilet. never look to see if the toilet is well built, where the sewage goes. or doesn’t go. (until there’s the Nth cholera epidemic.)
how could so many people who’ll be insulted like hell and make you pay and pay if you suggest otherwise never think through the inner logic of their basic cosmologies? of course The Model isn’t published.
look at the Constitution, the bill of rights. how’s the architecture? oh, fine, sound. so long as only the derelict inspect it.
politics. that to which rational standards may not be applied.
like the answering brass in a Beethoven symphony, here’s the ad at station break: you think insurance companies exist to give victims quick, fair, just restitution? You’re wrong. Hire us. We fight the insurance companies in court every day.
ss: astronaut hears of just society. it’s an ad in a space comic. quotes constitution, laws, etc. answers it. gets coordinates. goes. arrives. space pad crowded. host of teenage girls with leis kiss new arrivals and lei them. Welcome to Utopia, Effendi. Other than that, Ellis Island processing. Reconstituted SaltMine-DuneSpice planet. First thing happens to new citizen. He’s mugged. The mugger offers his insurance company card. Goes to free court. He mugged me. Did he now? How can you prove it? Well, he mugged me. laser zapper. Ask him. He gave me his card. Of course he was notified of the trial date. and here are his champions from his insurance company. where are yours? good christ. it’s a video game made flesh. tanks, heavy artillery, ninjas, virtual Gary Coopers by the gross. all aiming at him. What? You can fight them yourself, it’s your legal right. You’re not a citizen, so beyond providing you with that right, we’re not obligated to provide you with any but the cheapest public army. However, if you agree, we’ll fit you with a better. Sure, he signs. The print saying he’s let them impound his ship is invisible, but of course they’ve impounded it the moment he’s landed. That’s what the coordinates were for: their police compound. OK, here’s the price for a Grade B army. You want better, we can provide anything you want. Glossy brochure.
Loses. thrown in debtor’s prison. they’re smart, he realizes. the fine print took only all of his property, not that of his heirs. postcards are sent in his name. having a wonderful time. on to X. so, no intra galactic complaints about their utopia.
prison is the old DuneSpice mine. the urban desert planet.
And Effendi? Not Neo-Turkish. Old Dune word. Traceable back to ProtoIndoDune. Means sucker.
oh: and of course the natives love it. it is a just society. they, the natives, treat themselves very liberally. and the economy is booming.
redefinitions. require change of costume. here’s the next movie. “What’s your name?” “Duggan.” slaps square jaw on the arm. “I’m an officer in the Union blah. You’ll address me as Sir. Now, what’s your name?” the porkpie-hatted loud-suited actor compresses a year’s acting school worth of body and face exercises into three seconds. “Duggan, … Sir.” and keeps his hands to himself. next time we see him he’s in union pleb uniform. put on a hospital smock and even the idiot nurse can order you around. take liberties with your body; not you with hers.
also article about actor who specializes in apes. played Tarzan’s father in Greystoke. here’s contradiction made flesh. he went and lived among chimps in a chimp costume. to study their behavior. all to play a role fiated to lie about real animal behavior. and he knew. called the alpha male alpha and everything. all informed. rehearse the jargon of reason to make a good mouthpiece for the jailers and costumed sadists. he says, it was easy. try random gestures, and if they respond, if they don’t jump on you, it worked. but ha! the alpha male did jump on him. so it didn’t work. bit hell out of his arm. it was ok, he says. costume steel reinforced. I left out an irony: he says, chimps look so cute (his real education is hollywood), but they’re vicious. (ditto hollywood, all in prep to make a Darwinian swan song.)
society. individual. fictions made flesh.
reality status. rs. [only days later: BK says Wittgenstein says “ontological status”]
an invisible coat
magic gloves.
2+2=7.
deliberately wrong answers
cartoon animals with JapIrish accents
etc. then, what’s the reality status of one reality status in terms of another? what’s the rs of Geroge Washington was reallly a big dyke, in pleroma? what’s the rs of houris in Salem of 1770?
we are environmental translation programs. walk into a room. gotta redocorate. guy laughs at silly dizzy blond, while he walks into office and gotta refinance, restructure, split the shares. how long ago since a human bean thought ooo much, ooo pussy, oo money, oo briar patch, and then wallowed for N generations?
so: ss: TransAI, best ever built, cracks hardest code Suun has ever seen. Goody, he’s got it. Wait. this calls for champagne. Lock him away while I alert the press. cut ribbon, ta da: and transAI and English have encore metemoed.
defendant admits he killed his neighbors, but insists he “doesn’t know what made him do it.” crime and punishment all mixed up. can’t determine facts till we’re first comfortable with consequences. can’t admit facts with uncomfortable consequences. straight to hell while working on the problem.
guilt trivial compared to reality status of WhatMadeHimDoIt. Six Defendants in Search of a Mojo.
other article tells of Sebring man who has a shed full of first quality lathes, saws, where he spends his retirement wrighting miracles from wood. photo shows him holding up schlock antique car wall plaque. all this wonderful tooling … to … the high tech green cheese moon. and the rest of us. quantum physics and cybernetics, all to make synstim holos of Gamoot’s universe.
whew: wright and wrong. check ety.
T: lethal semantics
the church resurrected Caesar, robed as Jesus. there can’t be more than one Messiah, simply because “many” is at least three more than the human mind can take in. can hold onto. therefore there’s one.
JX ideal is semantic stasis. we’re right; you’re wrong: and that’s the end of it. forever. meaning that’s where we fossilize.
i go straight to the plus, load, and it’s fading by the time i’m here. duality and Janus again. entropy (T: Where entropy reigns) and negentropy. this time though that’s the duality, the janus face. impossible to see both faces at same time and be mortal. fuck it, the in..p is gone. interpreting my own runes. where the fuck did this come from? what does it mean?
associated. encore, the random. man’s judgments at best are about what’s in our cone of light/time/space/information/information-construct. what’s the value of what’s undiscovered, ignored, or despised and consigned to the dump. in its way, the trash heap, the land fill is a new wilderness. a source of the future, future active or future still fallow. (but not in any sense that it’s all for us. the all that’s for us is only within the light cone. and not even all of that.)
`”Life begins at the time of conception until death, according to God’s plan, and not man’s plan,” Al Landry, with a Respect Life group in Pensacola, said after the ruling.’ God’s plan is precisely what can’t be known until it’s happening (with us in the middle of, and part of, its happening. But we’re not wired as spectators (wholly or even mostly); but as decision makers, actors. acters. glance at the gestalt and jump. the gestalt as implied by the limited evidence. therefore, man’s plan is precisely what any human utterance of God’s plan is and can only be.
Sanchez-McEnroe, 1st set. Cyclops doesn’t beep, umpire calls fault. Mac goes up and asks, “Are we playing the machine? or Not? What are you going to do? Do we play a let?”
For once, Mac was right on. the player has a right to know what the epistemology is. Of course the epistemology is what it’s always been. We’ll do it this way 99 times, but when we feel like it, we’ll do it a different way. And we don’t have to tell you the difference. Because we don’t know it ourselves.
Heresy is illegal. This is what heresy (obsenity, unpatriotic behavior, whatever) is. But when you do something that isn’t within the definition, we can still call it heresy and burn you.
CBS asks ref. “The ball was long.” “Well, does Mac have a point?” “Uh, sure he has a point, but he ball was long.” And that’s the ruling. And it doesn’t matter (to non players) how the uncertainty of what to tune your reflexes to affects play.
But later (as always), the linesman calls a ball good (or out. against Mac is the only point here). but now (as usual) Mac wants to correct the call himself. Hey, Mac: does tennis play the umpire? or the player? The umpire. it’s always been the umpire. So Mac’s epis isn’t too good either. His self-serving epis once in a while, by inevitability will be correct, but then pass right on, being anything that suits him. Just like the officials, only more conspicuously so.
the judge says, the jury will determine the facts, then I’ll administer the law as applying to those facts. Jury finds Bill innocent. What? the judge shrieks: and overrules. but by law, he can’t overrule the fact finding organ. unless the law says he’s the fact finding organ. in which case, what’s the jury there for? to spend public money? waste their time? window dressing? for what scam?
“I don’t want to see you do time for a crime you didn’t commit,” says Sharon Glass in a preseason tv trailer. some cop. some lawyer. which ever, is there any information contained in that sentence? is she saying a truism for the culture: allah akbar? or is some contrast implicit: the law exists to punish the innocent. or, the law is indifferent to your innocence, it just needs to incarcerate x number. or, the other lawyers, the press, the public, simply hate you, they don’t care about your innocence? Why say it, if it’s a truism? People don’t utter truisms about the particular in everyday circumstances. God loves you, Paul, is journalism for children at Christmas time. Saying: we are members of this fiction. (If it isn’t fiction, it doesn’t need iterated shibboleths.)
The ambiguity of the year: “you always know … when it’s CBS.”
ad drifts past me a dozen times, penumbra, before gravitating straight to focus. fat cat psychedelic montage, is agency’s style. some financial institution. insurance or something. secondary eg first: here’s Capriati looking fabulous, those legs, that ease, 14 yrs old and marched straight through the round of 16. now here’s Graf. station commercial: stutter, stutter. series of stills more jerky than old flip around a wheel movie. girl in billowy dress floundering around lawn while dad makes double-bind boyfriend jokes. “but daddy, I’m only 13,” she says. clearly a different species of female from Jennifer. ok. primary. board room. fat cats in shirt sleeves. an expense on the adgenda. junior (fifties) partner invokes standard way out of it: have to look at the cost-income-profit formula. “But SoandSo, these are our people … Some of them have been with us since we ran this place out of a garage.” (I’ve heard this garage business more frequently recently than Lincoln’s log cabin in the last twenty years.) “But senior fat cat, you’re forgetting … I’m one of those people.” And the beta submitts to the alpha by pretending that it’s alpha who’s missed something.
as endlessly fascinating as high tech information masquerading as low tech, primate pecking order displays, the permutations of logic, etc, etc, the focus that grabs that focus out of focus is: the pattern by which identity/ally/alien ideas form, shift, and evaporate. self, family, tribe, subsets within tribe (fellow hunters, fellow elders, fellow young males, fellow virgins, fellow wives, slaves, mothers), and the fuzzy struggle toward bigger group identities: party, religion, nation, species, etc. and bigger still: ecology, planet, life, etc. what’s worthy of attention and what’s wilderness?, random?, etc. and how can one possibly be born from the other which contradicts it. how can xity possibly come from Judaism. democ from monarch, etc. why democracy, xity, a “free” republic whose “business” is business, etc are so interesting. govts prosper by thinking statistically while its constituents feel human by thinking personally. but in business, rape the random by using transforms into numbers. then confuse all by seeing self as number. But Alph, I’m one of those people. (exactly what I try to do: don’t worry-don’t take it personally; it’s only life.)
But then, I may pack it all in. after knocking myself out, sacrificing all (ie, being utterly selfish), concentrating on nothing but the implications of Bateson & cybernetic information etc, I talk to Brian, share a few things, only to be told, correctly I don’t doubt that everything I’ve come up with, wholly original (though rooted), wholly distinct from the standard (set of) epis, that it’s all Tractatus. Of all the important books in my life, favorites, that’s the one I most never pretended, deceived myself or anyone else, to have read. It’s math. It’s philosophy. I can’t read that shit. Just above, I even make a macro for it: rs, rs. “Ontological status,” BK says. my infinitely expanding infitite universes of error, all in Wittgenstein.
So? what else is new? so why should I stop babbling? When here’s another. CBS sports gal says when she first came up, all those people gave a female in football-casting an iceberg in hell’s chance. “What ever happened to those people?” she asks. Glib, glib. What people? She’s cited no details. Nothing’s checkable. We “know what she (her writers) mean(s).” How much of journalism consists of these artifactual facts?
any pattern not perceived will serve as the random … until the pattern is perceived.
Alien. Visits me in the shower. I had nothing against the Alien. The humans are all shits for sure. All we know about the alien is how she makes her living, or rather how she feeds and stores her young. Now, if I were there, I certainly wouldn’t want her planting her egg in my face. And I’d try to kill her first. But if the area was lousy with aliens, I’d get out of it. Now if the aliens invade Earth, that’s different. You go to the woods, the mosquitoes eat you alive. You go home. You don’t need to exterminate the woods.
lie comatose with
1) orig Monty Python type fantasy: a la the humiliating job interview when no jobs are available: John Cleese is just enjoying the chance to humiliate Graham Chapman, with no compensation for Chapman. Context of this one: Player A assumes the conventional given for who’s where (at least between A & B) in the pecking hierarchy. It, A (let’s make him GrahamCh) is a psychologist, a bureaucrat, a lawyer, a judge, etc.; but B (JohnCl) is manipulating ambiguity into it. If he succeeds, ie is a good enough actor, A will doubt his own alpha role and begin to see B not as a rat but as CIA, FBI, angel, inspector general. If he fails, he’s simply a whacko. Note: the truth (socio-pol relationships) isn’t in the truth, but in the success of the performance.
So: GCh is being civilized toward JCl, ie treating him as a rat. JCl is going along with it. Till JCl makes a not too hidden aside to anything in the room behind which may be a spy, a bug, a camera. JCl gestures, cutting his throat, holding up two fingers, winding his hand like `roll ’em’. and proceeds to ask his own questions: clarifications, lawyer’s trapping rephrases, …
of course this is all DB revisited. DrR refuses to treat patient (in pain) not financially qualified, doesn’t even tell him where he could get free or cheap treatment, glad to get rid of him, not fast enough as far as he’s concerned, but, glancing up at his exit, he sees Jesus dragging the cross out of his waiting room and onto the street. ie, we never know who we’re talking to. if X is coming again, if, as we know, we didn’t recognize him last time, we won’t recognize him this time either, Xity being just as stupid and inflexible and complaisant as Jism was 2 mill ago. “with a sword.” but will we recognize the sword? Jism thought it was a sword last time. Xity just a recycling of the same errors: human glibness. any net gain though? yes. maybe. tricky.
metamorphosis without really changing subject: still comatose, now
with Nth -revisit of make-them-pay fantasy. a stranger shoves you on the street, is that J? don’t care, you want to make him pay. Ah ha, he didn’t know I was wearing my invisible ubiquity of razor blades jacket. ho ho, now who’s hurt? evolve into a porcupine. they’re stuck in that fantasy. only they’re not so invisible. … to god, whose ancestry is big magician, not the god who’s true, but the god who’s what upright-primates automatically genuflect to, as fantasist, rhetorician: ok, now deliver, and he can’t. it’s all been alpha rhetoric. he’s as frustrated as we are.
our created G as a prisoner of our semantic, epis, evolution.
not trying to fasten, absorb, fix? not planning to get up eventually and to write these phenomena down? so many years, decades, not writing it, remembering some, but forgetting impossible-to-measure how much. and then dark lady like diapason …
then I think of H’s phrase for hands: pickers and stealers. wow, what a characterization of civ man. a plural synecdoche.
framing, Beg like, action for King. sf after all. [couple of days later. just begun Soldier’s Tale in Hyperion. it’s a symstim class. I think of it and within 48 hrs find a full blown, published example. I still like the idea for me.]
free will is the name for a program.
jd/ big crunch. let’s replay that. oh, there’s an ambiguous detail, … till whole skein is unwinding, tangling as it simplifies.
Cane and Able, the more Ables Cain murders, the more Ables there are, the closer Cain comes to dying.
NY, the city of perfection in infinitely expanding disappointment.
It’s phonemic to me that it was Hil’s getting a car that reversed my attitude toward my chosen city. I use my student loan to lend her the money. After I had said I wasn’t in favor of her having it, not if it meant I’d have to drive, I’d have to park it, I’d have to worry about it. NY had long been to me the perfect place in which to have a great life without bothering to rise above poverty level. The next alternative was a quantum leap to great wealth. If you own something, then you’d better be able to afford to insure it, guard it, replace it with indifference. Have an army of wage slaves to polish it, clean it, fix each scratch, guard it at all times. Since you can’t park it yourself in your whole of the 8th floor 5th Av apartment. But who needed it? Except to leave the city? And who wanted to leave the city? Why spend several grand on the hardware, another grand on the insurance, the parking, the first month or two’s maintenance, when 15¢ for the subway, in combo with your legs, would take you anywhere a sane person would want to go?
But Hil’s mother had bought Elka Park. And I had taken up skiing. Still, a few weekends a year. Borrow a car.
Hil swears she’ll be responsible for it. The vow of course didn’t apply even to the first few days of ownership. Now I’ve got this fucking car. I don’t own the car, but I own all the responsibility for it. Not the financial part, what a joke that would have been, but when it needed new tires I’ve got to go down to the thieves and gird for war. Of course I’ve also got to fight with Hil clinging to my back: Paul, just let me pay it. They cheated me, but, so, we just won’t come here anymore.
But then, NYU, 3rd st apt, Hil on 116th, the West Side Hwy several times a day. Try to drive cross town. I never ride my beloved subway anymore. No more thirty second Puerto Rican love affairs, the spice of years. Esp in uniform. Within a few months, I’m ready at all times to commit murder. I give people the finger. I ram them. Then I buy a motorcycle. I’m still ready to ram them. Now I’ve got two things to park everyday. The mc usually within half a block, but even the little VW often takes hours and a quarter tank of gas to finally stick it down on 107 St. Or way past Grant’s Tomb.
My respiration fails. I have allergic or emphysemic attacks. Once riding with H, Anton & Rose somewhere in Queens, I’m passing out, trying to communicate my begging them to GET OFF FUCKING QUEENS BLVD. We ski more and more. I fall in love with the silent forest. I want to live in the woods. I never want to see human beings. We move to Maine. But civilization has arrived there too. We vacation to the north west. Worse than NY, but minus the culture, the mix, the delicious chaos. Just the poison, just the crowds, but not even world class crowds, nothing big league. just a clog.
Arsenio continues, like all his fraternity, to make fun of Zha Zha: she’s out of jail, says she didn’t like the food. Arsenio raises his eyebrows in mock sympathy. “But you in Jaill, Honey.” Much laughter. Startling (oddly) for me to see a black from Cleveland, much of whose persona is that he’s from some ghetto, latch right on to civ attitudes toward a criminal class. Once we put you in a criminal class, and it is of course semantic on our side, not guilt on yours that qualifies you, where xity, charity, bill or rights, law etc no longer apply.
two tv dramas within a week or so: all these nurses on trail for being doctors: what’s going on? the first one makes us sympathize for a nurse who’s participated in giving lethal doses of morphine for a dying woman. sure, I sympathize with the old woman’s agony too. that isn’t the point. the point is one of principle. should nurses (or doctors, or hospitals) be allowed to kill us without being asked to by us or by their own stated rules? of course the greatest criminality in evidence in this drama was the hospital trying to pass the generic blame onto one honest if a little stupid nurse. it ought to have been an occasion for hospital, AMA, judge, jury, everybody to say, Hey, high time we reexamine life/death/drug/professional etc policy. She’s terminal? She’s in obvious agony? Call her relatives and say, Unless you say no, we’re giving her a gram of morphine, and to be sure we’re adding a half gram of strychnine. instead there’s all this horseshit about what the doctor did or didn’t say.
a minute later there’s another. some CA lifer entraps Death Valley nurse into giving him a prescription medicine. Routine for that particular nurse in that particular doctor’s office. Now she’s on trial for the misdemeanor of practicing medicine without a license. Do they say, Wow, are our definitions in chaos? No, they want to apply the law. Except you’re got a jury and a courtroom full of citizens who don’t want no fucking law applied if it means they lose the only medicine they’ve got. Therefore, out come the jesuits. Well, you see, the law isn’t the law, the law is the law. Horses ass law. Not guilty. OK, fine. But why have the networks chosen this fare for us all at once? They’re preparing to reduce the proportion of doctors to population, raise fees, and assign more to the nurses? Now we have to be killed by nurses as well as by doctors?
Where is Hemmingway’s indestructible crap detector among the perpetrators of Murder, She Wrote? Fabulous format. Some Mickey Mouse happy crappy music, Mary Worth riding a bicycle and waving to … her adoring neighbors? a full life for the middle aged. But, every child in boob land knows that the one sure thing that’s about to follow is a murder. Mary must be on vacation, cause our detective today is an English gentleman complete with umbrella. He visits the forty hectare mansion of this week’s guilty family. There’s a bronze bust of Persius. “An early Cellini, I see,” says Public School to the poor mistress of the house, cheated down to her last unit of millions. “Yes,” she says, with “of course” overtones.
Doesn’t anybody know that Cellini never did any bronze until he did the big Persius and then never did another? That in fact it was Cellini’s signature never to repeat himself? One silver plate, the best ever. One gold lock, the best ever. One behemoth bronze, a new casting process invented for the purpose and never even tested except for the singularity. Simply the closest to perfect in the entire history of W art, including since. The exceptions can’t have been known to him: the Shang bronzes. And since I specified W art, there are no exceptions.
elision: “following the game, 60 Minutes will premiere for the [14, some N]th time. Like Doris Day’s virginity? A Bikura dying? What’s left out? Taken as assumed? Season Premier.
G+, switch to G-. familiar enough now to be confused in a whole new dimension. eg. odds of particular bridge hand. all 13 spades to one of four players. or any particular combination, where the deuce of clubs has just as much identity as the ace of spades. Now, all four get all one suit? Now, they come in a particular order! If the first is a very big number, the last is a quantum leap in level.
Inside the system, we see things in a certain order, with a certain perspective. How about the deity programmer? Can he bother with the mega details of perspective? Or is he just playing two dimensionally. Miles writes a few chords on a napkin. The sextet plays All Blues. Record it. Thirty odd years later, how vastly more relationships are based in those same few chords? Associations of hearing Trane’s solo after 30,000 listenings. Then, with Trane dead. Then, with all but Miles dead. PC, Ball, Philly, the other drummers too, that was Bill Evans on piano, though not a regular sextet member at that time, still, I guess he’s gone too. But then, hearing a trillion mediocre performances. Then, playing it myself!
Post Hygira arch fetches Statue of Liberty back to Hyp. Look what I got. But it’s plaster. Only 8”. Inches, decikms, what’s the difference? Finds Lincoln. Sorry, that android is 8′, Lincoln was 6′. Disney World almost passes it though. His critical superiors don’t know any more than he does that Lincoln wasn’t an android. At least not known to be through 1990.
just feeling it with a fullness of never before: art and epis are one!: relationships! with a human analogy. get up, start playing Minuet in G- as I wake up, good: see what the fingers, the auto memories, the retrained instinct … will do of themselves. A triplet of G-, one of D7, then ascending chatter of C-, to counter chatter of D7 … um, um, what goes here? I’ve got it half right, Eb in the right hand, middle finger, um .. G in the left, hand position wrong somehow, stare into space, don’t look at the music, can’t see yet anyway, no glasses on, haven’t washed my face, coffee just dripped but not yet sipped, shit, four measures, and I can’t even get to the second line. sip coffee and squint at the sheet. Holy fuck, why can’t I get that G & Bb, pointer and ring of the left hand, Eb, middle finger of right … what’s a two-handed Eb chord doing here anyway? (Though I’m not awake enought to think that, that’s the more awake memory of the first thought.) But now, smooth as silk, I’m half glancing at the sheet now, all the way through, not too bad. More coffee and see if I can do it twice in a row, only thing this time without fumbling the beginning of the second line. Fine. Till I’m half way through the second part. Bb in the left, about to jump up an octave. Something’s wrong. Fumble, stall, look again. No: jump up and octave and a third: to D and descend to C. What the fuck? He’s in Bb again, about to be G major. I don’t mean that’s the key he’s in; that’s the chord he’s in. Maybe key too.
And it’s Thanksgiving feast to a child. Everyday, day after day, it’s mom and sis, dad now and then. Every other month or so somebody shows up, welcome or intruding, turns out this stranger is your cousin. No, my cousin is Pat and Don and Tom, we see them all the time, who’s this Dale, and Isa, and Roy? Till you know them too, though far more formally, with far more reserve, etc. … Till one day it’s a big family get together and you don’t know who all is showing up.
The Xian family knows it’s familiar peasant self and knight and king and priest and trinity. then Chaucer brings in Saturn to shuffle the cards. Not unknown, just forgotten (or not yet met by the temporal individual), out of the everyday picture.
Like: Protons don’t decay! The laws of physics! etc, till new knowledge, new memories, say ah … The mortal part won’t recognize the imaginary numbers, chaos is come again, distress, protest, and die, while the flexible will say ah! chaos, I’d forgotten how beautiful.
The whole first part (half,-temp,-pre)resolves on Bb major. The third, minor third, of G-. It’s Uncle Charlie’s son by a past marriage: what’s he doing here? But so glad to see him. After the shock.
Mid Sept and the traffic is back. Ride up to Camper Coral to get holding tank chemicals and the push from behind is ferocious. I go 65 and it’s still ferocious. I pull over and wonder how long the death convoy is. Ah, there’s an empty space not eight trucks back, but I’m there already. Now the motorcycle is dangerous again.
Finally eat something, now a new wooziness. But I return to thinking about human family relationships as an example and metaphor of the relationships within art tautologies like music. How can Aunt Alice be done as a three note chord? a triad? Simple. How many attributes do we ever think of for one person at a time anyway? A curtain of dark hair, the black bush I saw through the cracked open motel bathroom door once (Bear Mtn or someplace), and with mom, finding her passed out between back porch and garbage can, a long string of spittle hanging from her mouth to her chest. Black hair, drool string, black hair. Wait, that’s a Root-Fifth-Octave chord.
satellite photo of S Fl. plane geometry as a cancer of, and to, fractals. the canals vs the Everglades. [couple of days later, the Orlando paper has article on the Glades. author makes same point, only doesn’t use (may not know) fractal image.]
ss: cybervalve. CIA shuts it off, puts on heavy semantic lid, and society blows. meanwhile, other alphabet has been measuring the dimensions of the soul, projecting in into a 3D holomodel.
ss: post Gibson, prostheprofs sell zillions of this and that. our hero here has bought them all, found that they all do what he was told, except … Lucifer has misled Dudley Moore once again, what’s wrong with them is in the gap between what the prof says and the ignorant assumptions of the consumer. I’ll take you to Paradise. Where Paradise turns out to be some slave mining asteroid. Here our hero has ripped them all out, prefers life with the little stubs of what’s left of his own teeth, his own eyes, his own penis, his own skeleton, his own muscles, his own brain, his own memories, his own pains and ecstasies. Not much, in fact there’s not much more to him than PiersA’s torture hero. Totally helpless unless, as now, sustained. as a god. but even otherwise, so? die.
catch up on my sleep, but not at all on my timing. just after dawn to just before dusk. steak, melon, apple fritter, four bean salad, some italian bread, and I’m ready to lie down again. Earl visits. by the time he leaves, 8 PM is rolling around, and what movies are on so I can ignore them and rehearse the G- Minuet? uh oh. Slam Bam Van Damm. Not too much problem there, the reception is the pits. Something called FIST, but the music is like Murder, She Wrote. Here’s … Bruce Willis! About time I actually saw a role of his after falling in love with him on Letterman. Blake Edwards. Always clever, but what a fine line between being extra special and just awful. Ah, speaking of things virtual, here’s another Singing in the Rain, Hollywood looks at Hollywood: Willis plays Tom Mix, rescues the girl (I’m thinking, of course there would have been all kinds of male mammal heroics in the West’s efforts to import pussy safely for the intended. So who should deserve a handful more than the one gunman who kills six other gunmen who might only be trying to steal the gold.) James Garner plays Wyatt Earp, imported to Hollywood as adviser to Tom Mix’s portrayal of him. Of course the studio doesn’t give a shit about authenticity and Earp understands that perfectly well. It’s the publicity about authenticity which is box-office. What the studio wants is what the audience wants: myth writing to support the current duality of good guys and bad guys. And of course who knows better than Blake Edwards how to play both sides. So the movie is about epistemology, two or three percent, and ninety-odd horseshit.
But fabulous, it occurs to me with extra clarity: entertainment, ubiquitous. Part of which is the prosy news media’s perennial weepy solemnity about violence. But my dears, violence is exactly what entertainment is most fundamentally in every major civilization. The question is which class’s violence is approved in the cybernetic relationship between studio/state/core-civ-economy and the consumer/ audience/constituency? Sunset is a smorgasbord of violence. A clash of alphas. We approve of the Earp/Mix Willis/ Garner brutality because they have the best pheromones of alpha. They’re 90% publicity/fraud/lies but with them, there’s 10% truth. ie for their behavior in the culture. Genetically, they’re close to 100%. At least the part that shows. If they have this or that propensity for alzheimer’s or Lou Gehrig’s disease, we don’t see it yet. They look alpha. And what a groove, in an overpopulation of everybody to see them getting along so nicely. It’s not mating season quite all the time.
But there are zillions of other alphas competing: the studio boss, the bootlegger pimp, etc, etc. Plus a whole bunch of tough samurai hirelings.
Violence is assigned in every civilization. How else will ordinary, mostly cooperative upright primates know when to be drafted, when to support the police, when to applaud the hangings …?
Born again Todd quotes me the parable of the servant who buried his talent vs the servant who invested it, this all to support his rightness when I wanted my trailer delivered after he had missed two agreed upon deadlines. He had let me be late with the rent once. Sure, I’d asked and he’d said yes. So, an agreement kept. Now he’s broken two and therefore wants to be seen as the master calling in his good servant and his bad servant.
After that, it occurs to me with freshening freshness how much the J god is the god of civilization (and therefore entertainment) and how much Xity’s god is a compromise back toward the genetic human. Turn the other cheek. Doesn’t make sense from the viewpoint of any point in the destructive circuit, but it’s the only way, cybernetically, that the circuit can remain a circuit. Civ’s antidote to itself.
Now Garner/Earp beats up a lot of butlers and hired muscles, but when it comes to facing down the crooked police chiefs etc, we’re back to Rambo. Though not quite. Earp bluffs them down (they’ve got the guns; he’s got the myth, even though our noses are rubbed in how they don’t “believe” it (the typical state of atheism).
Meanwhile, back at the Tampa Tribune, I recall an article about some organization trying to get the Giddeon bible out of hotels rooms: unsuitable reading. violence, rape, homosexuality, etc.
speak of the devil: 2:30 AM, I’ve eaten, played my Bach, watched my David Letterman, emptied my bowels, am ready to go to work, and … uh oh, here’s one of the most core movies from which I got my sense of violence and who’s good and who’s bad. A bit of a revelation to me 40 odd years later. Long John Silver. With the first I ever saw of Robert Newton. It’s as good a parable of post-Renaissance civilization as Cain & Able is of pre-Ancient. No wonder when I saw Treasure Island I’d felt something was wrong, left out. It’s in this movie that Israel Hand shows up with his nacreous blind eyes, threatens to force Jim Hawkins off the cliff. Now, actually I probably saw TI first and this later. But both where um preconscious. If I’d seen this one say mid-fifties, I’d have said where’s old Blind Pew? Where’s the squire? Where’s that terrifying castaway starving for a Christian word and a bit of cheese? Where did this technicolor come from?
What I notice this time in particular is how it’s all played to the boy. All these pirates spend all day standing on deck with a ten year old, explaining things? justifying things? to him. That’s like taking the War Games kid straight to the War Room so he can’t cause any trouble there.
But Treasure Island, pressing crew, sailing all over hell, perjuring, murdering, for buried gold. Gold that somehow seems to remain elusive: everyone’s tasted it, no one has it. Till the phoney ending of this one, where Long John joins the Shriners.
The legitimate claim to the treasure lies with those who wear wigs and hire guns rather than with those who wield them. After all they had the luck to have the possessor of the map die in their inn, right?
Clearly the dozen of people who talk funny (but who know all about the map, who have been to the island before, who’ve seen the treasure, or who helped to bury it, have not a less legitimate claim, but no claim at all. They’re rough. They’re missing limbs. Who should get it but the boy?
Seeing Robert Newton is always a pleasure. Though for one of the earliest character actors I’d ever seen, his malapropism to Israel: “I give you my solemn AffaDavy,” may have been the first I was ever aware of, it’s funny how I never really saw him till I was an adult and witnessed his painting the portrait of James Mason’s dying soul. Odd Man Out.
Leno introduces a comedian, George Wing. Best control over the invisible dimensionality of puns I’ve seen in the current tv generation since … I live at D-5 … I’m not going to sweat his name now. I made mental notes of the some of the puns, and listing them, they’re obviously all the same class, but the misdirection between his seeming narrative and timing, pauses, tone …
In a different way I’m also reminded of Chaucer’s frog chorus of queynts in the KnT.
My name is Geo Wing. Wing is a Chinese name. It means air-foil of a bird.
Wanted to be a doctor but cant see them naming part of a hospital after me. Where’s the Wing Wing?
My family is from New York State. (applause, waits, looks like he hadn’t expected such a thing.) Maybe you know them-the Buffalo Wings?
How much directed confusion between particular and class can there be? Well, an astonishing amount of the rest of the schtick is all catholic puns: puns with a profundity. Not just random, scattered ding dong misassociations, hey, that sounds like …
His church didn’t have an organ, had an accordion: Lady of Spain.
Go, the mass is ended. Let’s polka.
His sister: I don’t want to say she’s fat. Enough other people tell her that.
Named after a saint: Bernard.
Took her to the opera and nobody would leave until she sang.
On the page … this was good material? This was great material.
A minute later. DL is doing an exceptional schtick on the news, systematic misdirection between “significance” and “trivial.” And or insulting, satirical, etc.
OK, so far that’s just DL brand comedy. In fact, the only thing DL about it in the description is my saying it’s DL. But, it’s all Saddam Hussein, Kuwait, oil-brink stuff. (Wait, getting out of order, next schtick, his top 10, govt has taken over Vegas whore house: now tee shirts say “I got screwed by the government. Scots guy, Billy something, from Glasgow says, “It’s exactly like New York: in the event of nuclear attack, it will look exactly the same as before.”) Shows assemblage of three good looking actress models or something, says names, I’ve never heard of them. DL says something, ok, that’s the gag, you think, camera back on him, as per usual, but he says, “Wow, is that an unfortunate cut?: three beautiful babes, and then me.” Of course actually, I’d rather look at him (for longer than fuck time) than any female since Giulietta Massina, but DL goes into a self-satirical routine! “Hello, do you need any yard work?” And he goes on being some nerdy nebbish. That’s how he sees himself! Alfred E. Newman, Melvin Cosnowsky, but with a mind only a little affected by the iodine deficiency. At what infinity of depths can you analyze those ironies?
A minute later, DL derisively encapsulates Disney, “brain trust there in Orlando”
She said No. A political synergy is political only if it isn’t obviously true. That’s what inquisitions are about, not failure to assent to some truth, even a moot or ambiguous truth (some division within a tautology, like 2 + 2) but failure to line up and pretend, failure to be amenable, ductile, malleable. [coming upon this a week or so later: just after mis-jabbering about sexual harassment in the jock locker. God forbid I should try to explain any of this even to BK. Right away, there’s the assumption: Uh oh, he’s not against rape. Of course I’m against rape. Of course I’m against sexual harassment. Neither is to my point. My point is about what doesn’t get said. “She Said No” is the supposedly dramatic title of some made for tv special. and in 1990, I’m sure they’re right. I bet a lot of people watched it. The new push for a no rape synergy though is just sloganeering, it isn’t a very good examination of the problem. Ironically, it’s the mastodons, the idiots with hair between their toes who do though in fact sometimes raise the neglected questions: so? she said no: how am I supposed to know what she means by it?
I have never fucked a woman who said no. I have no idea how many more times I could have gotten laid if I had known better how to interpret their meaning. (Actually, not many. I never heard that many to begin with, and, in addition, I don’t think I heard as much of the coy shit from women as is standard for most.) It’s still the case that many women don’t expect you to take their no for no and don’t mean no by it. So, it isn’t the word that conveys the message.
We’d do much better to discuss (sorry, that sorry edition of It’s a Different World on the same subject) female obliquity and simultaneously the set of messages, non-verbal that signal the sign of the verbal “No.” Gertrude Stein said Picasso didn’t know the word No. The trick was to figure out whether his Yes meant Yes or No. Also to confront sub-cultural differences. The guy who date raped Hilary at Haverford either didn’t believe her No, or pretended not to. I wasn’t there and can’t say how clear or forceful she was or tried to be. If she was as clear as she could be, she should have put the guy in jail. Gotten him expelled or something. Don’t do that to me.
If we’re going to retrain the guys, it isn’t fair unless we also retrain the girls: Don’t say no unless you mean no. The guys have to pretend to believe you. Or will it be that the guys will now (for the first time ever) be responsible for a literal standard, while the girls can still play with all the tricks?
Be interesting to check out human population if we’re around in 500 or 5000 years. Any movement toward insect distributions? A Queen, an army of females, and a couple of drones? There, the females took over all the territoriality, all the martial stuff. The males are just for seeding. Why not? We might be a better species that way.
It would be fine to remove the territorial business from the male in an overcrowded, over poisoned SS, if the females can come to do it when necessary. The danger is in becoming like Lap deer. The males don’t have any balls, but neither do the females! Tough shit if they’re not tended.
Better title, but wouldn’t sell: She Said No: And She Meant It.
And my other point: they act as though a political fashion is going to change all cases of behavior. Hey, I won’t rape the girl after I’ve seen the movie. I didn’t see the movie. I wouldn’t have raped the girl before the movie. I’m not talking about me: I’m talking about the whole of human behavior. Don’t did yourselves. Rape will continue so long as we have males and females and this crazy culture of clothing, ever escalating titillation, improved nutrition, etc. AND postponed gratification assigned to all whether they’re suited to it or not.
Even Anton didn’t understand me back in ’70. Adorable Barnard girl in a very see through blouse, the early days of no bra, and till then the most daring nubility I’d seen. More daring that the more adult female totally bare breasted at Serge’s party. I’d said she’d better watch herself if she tried that off campus. Over trusting of the control of the males around her. Try it in Saudi Arabia. Wading at Jones Beach and wading in the Everglades aren’t the same thing.]
is angst proportional to politically agreed upon deprivations? or is there a given capacity, dependent upon mind-in-circumstance more than circumstance? Tolstoy’s Pierre’s ballet slippers pinching/ T’s P’s ecstasy at Platon’s simple, accepting philosophy. Vs a fashion of easy sympathy for … whatever ghetto that fashion is recognizing.
I believe that the capacity for mental virtuals like pain, agony, angst, joy, ecstasy, sexual or metaphysical, are given within certain limits within the synergy. Some individuals don’t suffer in the ghettos, some suffer in palaces. And that the suffering, or the ecstasy isn’t merely personal. It’s always in the context that makes up the assumptions, double binds, etc that make up the matrix. (sex to some extent is genetically given within the King Phillip Cuts Only Fairly Good Salami. sure the partner can have something to do with it, dampen or promote additional synergy, but … say you fuck Marilyn Monroe. Already, we’re not fucking an individual female whatever identity her measurements may have with some core-robin, seldom realized, average. You’re fucking a public virtual. Could be extra spice, could be wilting pressure.)
tv. the public epistemology visits me by my simply pulling a knob and pressing the button for the reception booster. and we have half a dozen or a dozen broadcasts to select among at most hours. I watch DL, was I particularly receptive tonight, or was it exceptionally good tonight? (a false epis question if there ever was one), gotta work, play my G- only a few times, bit by bit, after what must be a week now, it becomes more core, my flowers came today, gotta get to them right away, discover the potential, two months already passed since I initiated inquiries, six months or a year since I intended to, now, tonight’s the night, but now Reggie Jackson is interviewed by Costas, so I keep the 22 set up a moment longer, the Plus at my side. Ok, now turn it off. But dumb habit switches to UHF, the post midnight movies. I watch three minutes of Escape from Devil’s Island. armed guards mouthing law and order as they parade their slave prisoners. Ah, disobedience. Knock the guy down, shoot past his head. And all the other prisoners go on a Ghandi sit down. They get kicked in the back, yelled at. Swagger stick asks the accused if he has a counter accusation. J’accuse you, he says.
This Glasgow Billy had a great comment with DL, politics, too many bombs, too little smack in the mouth. Mr. Bush, you said No new taxes: now you’re saying … Yes, well, you see … SMACK! M. Hussein, you … Well, the situation is very complex. You must see … SMACK! I love this guy.
Can there every have been a better lie invented by a government than US’s that the people are in power? Now, ecologically, cybernetically, it’s true, but that’s never not been true. True with King James’ England, true in Hitler’s Germany. Somewhere, some constituency has to be getting what it wants, or thinks it wants, same difference, and you can’t altogether destroy your peasant matrix. Any Kremlin will become Ozymandius in sand if either of those two are violated. And they’re all violated in time no matter what you do. Question is always, What’s the duration of the bubble?
The hard thing for the semi-aware USian is one moment to have a mental construct that we can put a citizens arrest on the government at any moment with the continual reminders that Big Brother IRS, FBI etc has all the firepower. Our fictions alternate rhythmically between the good cop, good cowboy, good spy, good common citizen solves all and the cops are crooked, FBI=Gestapo, media owned by XY&Z corporation, if we’re lucky and keep our mouths shut, we can have a little house with a little poisonous lawn and bowling gets us away from the shrew.
So, I got rid of Devils Island, but minutes later, I’m still thinking, how stupid can the guards be? They act like Gh Khan but don’t know his lesson. Of course you don’t want to kill more than 3% of the slaves, you don’t want to kill any, then you have fewer slaves, but if challenged, believe me, you don’t have to kill more, never have to kill more than a few percent for the rest to believe you will kill all. Start shooting the sit downs and the rest will get back in line, back to work. The horror of Buchenwald is the infrequency with which the modern world sees the other, maybe older syndrome of X civilization not wanting to conquer Y civilization, merely seeing them as undesirable competition. Eliminate them.
Of course there too is Khan T1 and Khan T2 to Khan Tn. First angry, get rid of the agriculturists, the wilderness, grazing land thieves, salt their fields, etc to Hey, there’s no fucking grazing land left: they’ve already stolen it all, so fucking enslave them. The militarism of strategy I is good practice for strategy II. And great advance publicity. They still think you’ll salt their field.
Tonight, I’m thinking … hmm, there’s a new wrinkle: my (and Ivan’s and GB’s (and I suppose SirJ’s) schtick about this absurd pursuit of immortality in the face of all experience must be encouraged, enforced!, by the state. cf. Back to Life vegetable’s imperative to consume medical care. Just like the lottery. You might win. You might be the one. To be helped by medicine. To come back to life, really. We must believe there’s still room at the alpha. I’ll put up with all this shit because there’s a Ted Turner. You never know. I’ll be bullied by the police, by the IRS, I’ll swallow the media shit, I’ll watch the world disappear, because … you never know.
So, what’s the solution? Any good american always believes there’s a solution. And of course I’m ambivalent. On the one hand, maybe there’s no problem at all. All problems are chimerical. Our semantic perversion. Maybe we’re going someplace too wonderful to be predicted. The anthrops are saying evolution is over. Horseshit. We ain’t seen nothing yet. (Not literal, of course, unless I mean we haven’t perceived the infinite wonders that have already passed from the scene.) And, on the other: what? like me, ask government to go away? Wish people would grow up? No, the only solution I see is to fail, fail monumentally, fail till the past ice ages will seem high tech compared to what we have left. Primates too limited to do much harm over too wide an area.
See? What would we have left? Certainly not the rich hunting opportunities of those passes through the Pyranees. that would be an appropriate JD. Hey, you’re the fuckers who killed the golden goose: now you still wants eggs? You got what you wanted. What you acted on. Now enjoy it.
perspective I of random, II, etc. Geni-Nty3 doesn’t know that your random number is actually a sequence from π; GeniNty4 does. GeniNty4’s random number though, is actually also from π, but from π 63,000 places further along. Which GeniNty5 sees: but …
Sometimes I try to imagine a perpetuity of life in the everglades without mosquito repellant. Or an ice age with no animal skins to don. How dynamic, how flexible would we be?
“For true innovation in television, quality never looked more like a Zenith.” It’s got some competition, but that may be the finest invention of no content disguised as content I’ve heard. That could be analyzed like a good poem, except of course that it’s an anti-poem. The brilliance isn’t in the packing of meaning, association, promotion of experience, perspective, etc, but quite its opposite.
driving me nuts … can’t focus. plenty of sleep three nights in a row, brain all mush. damn it, I just read it … comment on facts, Kassad and the Ousters? can’t say it clearly … different groups, times, cultures, having different agreements on what the facts are … generally unconscious. what’s most temporary most has the illusion of permanence to a consciousness within the system. except ages of growth. that’s what modernism is. Sh-Ham neurosis. all his talk of mutability. a stable consciousness will seldom notice those things.
Pitts/Miami half time. story on Patriot’s players “harassing” the Boston Globe’s female reporter in the locker room. Victor Kayam, that schmuck who sells his own remington shavers on the tube, apparently he bought the Patriot company too, sniffing up to the likes of Doug Flute, apparently said some things that didn’t agree with the contemporary safe solemnity. Politics. Bob Costas et al discuss it in political terms. Not at all the way I see it. For several years now it’s been officially accepted that female reports can cover sports. therefore, like the male reporters, have access to the locker room. But they were never invited or welcome by the all male hunters. So she’s there, so here’s a little after-the-war-is-politically-“won” skirmish showing that such wars are never over. I can easily picture the hulks sticking their cocks toward her mouth, Here, suck this, honey. she takes exception.
male hunter attitude: a lady, a legitimate female, wouldn’t come in here. therefore, she’s a whore. therefore, we’ll make a point of treating her that way. the crassness with which the society mucks with taboos. the retrograde populace, seldom noticing when things are changing. the generalizations don’t wash. `there will be no exceptions in this case (of male sports lockers)’. does Bud Collins walk into the shower with Gabby Sabatini?
ok, she probably didn’t walk into the shower with them. If she doesn’t, she’s making a distinction between shower and locker room that might be more real in a female locker room. point is: that distinction was never equally clear in the male hunter’s locker room. Yogi would still be nude at the buffet table. among males, this isn’t sexual. gender yes, sexual no.
Now the law declares that real distinctions and real lack of distinctions have no validity. though if it were tested in the other direction, all kinds of laws would be found to apply: rape, peeping, assault … it’s clear that what the football players did to the reporter was sexual harassment (and was so intended): it isn’t clear to us that what the reporter was doing by being there was also sexual harassment.
of course my point isn’t that there should or that there shouldn’t be sexual harassment, but that it’s absence is impossible and would be unhealthy if possible). so long as we wear clothes. so long as we’re outwardly, visibly devoted to concealment, deception, believe my advertising, disregard my truth. so long as we’re super sexed and subdivided. the species is growing. floundering, clumsy, yes, but changing. the change is ambiguous. we can’t know whether is trivial, is saving us, or is exactly what will be fatal.
as usual, I only wish that there would be a greater willingness on our part to define ourselves in biological-zoological-anthropological-ly aware terms. You can’t have N-thousands of years of role distinctions and then just high-handedly say it ain’t so. courts are bouncing around in evolution, devolution, dissolution just as much as the press, the reporter, and the football players.
best in all this is how the alpha male owners misread their audience. har har guys, chick was asking for it, when suddenly their companies are facing boycott. Wait a minute folks, we were just joking, um, quick, write me a public apology or they won’t buy remingtons for xmas.
If the courts really want to do us in, let them for once mean what they say. let’s really mean it this time. Let’s outlaw all male fraternity (while winking at female fraternity). Let’s give male hunter groups no privileges. No football, no hockey, outlaw poker. Get rid of the military. Or thoroughly degenderize it. Hey, it’s politically improper to recognize varying degrees of territoriality or aggressiveness between the genders. And the arabs will take over within six weeks. Then how will the reporter get into the locker room. Why, she wouldn’t because there wouldn’t have been a locker room. Wait, no, there’d be locker rooms; but not football: they’d be for hawking, polo, preserving the Koran.
I like how the Ousters seem (Kassad’s story) to be integrated, but, the Consul tells us: they’ve evolved.
But then of course on the other hand political simplisticity is no more a blunt weapon than any other ever used by our species as a group. I doubt that taboo make clear definitions.
Then: reverse: mea culpa. like GB pleading that we recognize not that the syllogism in grass is a better syllogism than the syllogism in Barbara: merely that it is the case that humans use it a lot more and continue to whatever the schools think we do or exhort us to do or pretend they have succeeded in teaching us to do. Politics, whatever contempt I hold it in, is how we behave, how we have behaved, how we continue to behave. If we won’t be accurate about our own behavior, then at least let me be accurate.
I remember that day at the UN, Etta & Hil, merely two of thousands of excited women, running around, being more openly female than ever for their husbands or lovers (not counting the actual intimacy) more openly excited running around, content to see him the size of an ant crossing the quad from 12 stories up. The rush to get into the lunch room. Ché was there. In his fatigues. The air redolent with his stated wish to nuke NY. I saw the hubbub from the high floor. I have Hil’s testimony to the lunch room. She saw it, but I aslo saw her excitement.
The tame gawking at the wild man’s less hidden, less bound, less swaddled dick. While also part of the pack which would tear him limb from limb. Would shoot their daughter before letting him bring him home. The old women with the hoe in The 7 Samurai. Did the crone also blow the bandit under cover of the hoard? While raking his flesh off?
Mon Night FooBall: they’re still talking about the locker room incident. I hadn’t felt impelled to scribble a few thoughts until I’d heard about it for the second or third time. “There’s no place for that, not anymore, we’ve gotten beyond that sort of thing …” Gifford is saying. These moral luminaries must really have been pinched.
Why is it so hard for me to be clear about my own reaction? ie my own reaction to their reaction (as well as their action)? Once again, I’ve never done any such thing. Never would. Such nonsense is one of the reasons I’ve never been willing to ally myself, to be mistook for, the football bullies, the cop bullies, the … DS’s phrase “authorities and brigands.” What I’m looking at is the mask, the multitude of masks that the shakers and movers are always hiding behind. That it’s always still Nixon and Reagan telling us about Glasnost, instead of them pilloried or jailed and the opposition in office. OK, Wallace isn’t governor anymore, but it’s still in major the same bureaucracy now not being racist in Georgia.
But every now and then it slips out that the pigs haven’t changed. Jimmy the Greek gets drunk and lets a little honesty slip out. Andy Rooney, etc. The power of the new synergy. I see the light, says the drunk. And now we’re all reborn. Well, “we” are somehow. But not all of us. And reborn to what? since constitutions seldom get rewritten and are never adequately written, reviewed, updated. But what human polity could possibly be like science is in its ideal? Nice quote in today’s newspaper preview of tonight’s Nova. Clifford Stoll: “A lot of the time we think the idea of science is to come up with answers,” he said. “That is so bogus!/ If you’re doing good science, you don’t care what the answer is. You want to find the process, the method. You passionately want to find the procedure. It seems to me the work I did in catching this hacker would have been just as satisfying if it had turned out to be some teen-ager down the block.” (Instead of a KGB sponsored, German cowboy hacker group, breaking into their records.)
OK, now it’s also my routine to notice that even scientists do root for the “truth” of their theory, the difference is, their most basic allegiance is still, when science is really science, to the evidence. (ie of course, the set of theories, all evolving, by which evidence is evidence. Nothing my be thrown out of that court.)
But I don’t mean to go off on science. That’s an ideal, sometimes actually practiced.
My point is the poker game of actual establishment life. America puts aside its religious wars so there’ll be no distractions in our rape of the earth. Then we’re flabbergasted when we see an Ayatollah being no more and no less than what we used to be. And could be again. And are still, by some possible analyses. I try to see the Bleylok in USians, the Gamoot in the Bushians.
The fact that what we’re all so righteous about all of a sudden is still 99% unexamined, and 100% in an atmosphere in which it may not be examined. But, meantime, persistently, invisibly and invisibly, actual thinking about human reality(s) is going on. Desmond Morris isn’t the only one.
I love Morris’s list of ten reasons for sex in The Human Zoo. I should do similar lists on a number of things. The multiple meanings of “truth.” “Complete”? Like his? Shouldn’t need to be. I’m no specialist. Mine should be the start of such lists, not their finish(date). Korzybsky’s Science1933. Morris: human zoology1976 to just guess the year of publication.
The year of publication. What a joke. If there’s a big enough gap between conception to near completion and publication. If anything of mine ever gets published, it won’t be properly published unless includes The Model1969, and folks, that’s 21 +N years in which it wasn’t permitted to be published. In the Park1969. And folks, how many of you can conceive that that was before Death Wish? DB1987. Does anyone remember the state of pop art before Quantum Leap and the sudden rush of Ghost movies? Of course there were plenty of precedents: to Mod, the Bible, The Human Comedy, Paradise Lost … plenty. to DB, Ovid’s Metamorphoses for a start.

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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