id36

/ Journal /

previous save: 10/21/90
Damn. 300 or 400ish lines. First time in … six months? that I’ve lost a file. For the first time ever, last time having worked it back through PCTools, I wasn’t worried. Wasn’t even pissed. Hell, I’d been the one who’d put some torque across the case while the disk was spinning. Picked it up by the handle, but not straight enough. B: spins and spins while PARITY ERROR displays. So, just casually, I turn it off. Yawn, Futu encore, load PC, V, and it verifies! as an ASCII file of 0 bytes. Verify through DOS, the whole file is nothing but a directory location.
Now it’s only a couple of days since I wrap up id35, actually read through it this time, first such file ever so read, fix a bit of spelling, and suff it E1. First type editorial pass: just recognized typos changed. So what did I lose? I remember two subjects: a continuation of the now couple of recent football locker room incidents. The first such pass was gibberish which didn’t say what I meant, seemed to be an attitude about gender and access when it was really an attitude about classification, thoroughness, clarity, objectivity. The second was about my going nuts playing El Vito Vito: same scale as Shir, a sort of harmonic minor but structured between Vs. I don’t know what the Moors would have thought of the rhythm I played it in: I loved it: reversing a trochee to an iamb early, and being very cranky with syncopation. Since then, I’ve played El VV in every key at least a few times. Then Shir in several. I love the bridge of VV where there seems to be a straight-up major triad but which is actually V,+VII,IX. At least it is the way I’m looking at it.
must tell Brian: saw my first Spike Lee film (not counting shoe commercials). Spike and Debby Allen round up a cappella street groups. Put them into a hall in Brooklyn. Wonderful. I came in the midst of a polyphonic thing, the greatest piece of poly-folk I’ve heard since Early in the Mornin as recorded from Mississippi by Lomax. Great guys after great guys and What’s This? we switch to street gals. Like what Johnson said about a dog walking on its hind legs. It’s great that they can do it at all. But wait a minute. The girls warmed up or I warmed up to them. higher & Higher is the song. There was one gal, big girl, big black face, red beret with some 14 ounce medallion, tight black skirt with plenty of black hose visible above the knee: $4 from Brooklyn’s JC Penny. Like the street garb, the big black girl’s body fairly ordinary. That was my attitude before my jaw dropped open as I watched her face accent the music, the eyes glow with the modulations, the whole being radiates the spirit. Christ, was I in love! Then an African group, large, then an ensemble finale. There’s red beret again, still standing out, but partly because of her size. She wasn’t into this one like she was into her own. But for all of the best of them: like Michael Jackson, their bodies didn’t follow the music, didn’t lead the music, didn’t synch with the music; their bodies were the music. Perfect down to the demisemiquavers.
Also:
a cappella: this was the best vocal music I’ve heard since I saw a show with … shoot, I’m not coming up with his name, Robin William’s … Ah, Bobby McFarren. He’s formed an a cappella group around San Francisco. I thought everything they did was good, very good (especially if you consider that I’m not normally a big fan of the voice as a musical instrument), but one polyphonic piece was simply great. One of the all time best. Incredibly beautiful, simple, complex, elegant.
A singer’s got to be incredible before I think anything of them at all. Typically, to my mind, they’re not musicians. Typically, I don’t respond to words and music. The poetry is generally lousy. If it’s great poetry, then the music is in the way/ or/ the poetry is in the way of the music. Exceptions: choral music. The chorus and the single voice aren’t the same sort of instrument. One reason I loved what bop singers I did, was because they used the voice to make sounds that made no pretense to verbal messaging: ShaHooliaBop. Rhythm, pitch, timbre … yes. The solos in The Saint Matthew Passion are perfectly part of the whole composition every detail of which is wonderful. Performance requires the same kind of training and discipline as is brought by the organist and violinist. Words in music like the blues is different too. They’re part of the same structure that the music is.
And of course there are folk songs where the words are equally or even most important. But then I don’t listen to or sing those for the music but for the song.
Maybe it’s just our popular music where I’m something between indifferent and hostile to the words.
Unless a great musical instrument is singing them. Billie Holliday. Billie is the only one I’d put in a class with Miles for dissecting time and filling each wound with a different shade of salve.
Sometimes, Frank Sinatra. Edith Piaff.
And there have been plenty of instances where it’s just an incredible female sensualness of voice that makes me melt: Eartha Kitt, Lena Horne, Jeri Southern.
And no one’s ever been greater for all those things than Om Kalthoom. The last time I heard her (tape, of course) she was in her seventies and still improvising three and four hours straight in front of huge live audiences. All pretty familiar stuff to her, but still. I’m not even sure she needed the mike.
There’s something about those street groups though …
Here’s a binary division for music: this is sociological and economic to. There’s music produced for an audience. No symphony orchestra gets together for its own exercise or pleasure, even though they may derive both from what they do once assembled. I sometimes like that kind of music, Beethoven, etc. However much I may worship the Ring or the Eroica, that’s still the kind of music I like least.
Then there’s music which however much the musicians may need to make a living, and may actually make a good living at it, still, what you get is what they’d be playing for themselves. You may be privileged to overhear it, whether at a party, in an alley, a club, or Carnegie Hall. Sometimes something is lost though and what would have been great in the alley has less vitality in the hall. Like a butterfly on a pin. Maybe you can see it better, but it’s still more alive flying around the meadow.
These street a cappellas were that second category, and it worked in the hall, even then filmed and only poor little tv. Of course it was a good film maker who set up the translation.
Not binary: trinary: music of worship. music for ceremony. african drums. scotts bag pipes. a Bach choral. an audience, but not a consumer audience. not just a human audience. god, the tribe, history, something else is hearing it. something else comes to exist because the music is made for it. something greater than the musicians or the worshipers in the pews.
William Byrd, the great English Renaissance composer has a wonderful 10 reasons to sing. worship god is one. But the one I love the best: it’s great exercise!
The a cappella street people were dancing up a storm as they sang and would have been well breathed had they stood still. The gal in the beret, wow, it was like she was running an 880.
And what really showed: it must have been great fun, great society to participate. Lucky friends.
Earl just here to talk about the lawyer. Worried about my being stuck with a bill.
How I used to dream that if I were able to afford it, I would carry a lawyer around with me. Sue at every infraction. And not just against myself. Any that I saw. But PK, there’s no telling what a jury … Doesn’t matter. Just do it. That would straighten out a lot of behavior very fast. And evolve better laws. Gee, what a novelty: the law actually applied in a non-corporate situation. Hey, sue that cop for not giving that guy a ticket.
But what I’m thinking this early pm is: of course! eureka! there’s the proof. The constitution, the Dec, this and that Bill are phrased as though justice actually mattered. Laws are always phrased as though its society were one of principle. (The most conspicuously phony thing about propaganda anti some enemy is the writers’ misrepresentation of the other’s rhetoric as anything but equally unctuous. James Bond/Empire Star Wars nonsense. Jabba the Hut.) Wait! We are, all societies are devoted to principal, exclusively to principal. Risk a little income, risk all of their income, risk their capital, but never yours. Not your principal. (Hard to pun in print if it’s not spelled the same. (The pursuit of property was the honest version.
Wait: that’s not the proof. The proof is: if we were devoted to principle, to justice, as we are say to … ahem … education, literacy, ahem, we’d make them compulsory. By law, by a law exercised, every born USian has to consume approximately sixteen and a half thousand hours of ahem professional teaching.
If that’s what we think of literacy-increase the hours of consumed services the more the more of us are functionally illiterate, till we’re in school 100% of the time, achieving total and universal illiteracy. But then no one could pay the professionals-then we ought to prescribe the consumption of legal services. And to show we mean it, have the lawyers trained and salaried out of a public fund. Every citizen must consume x hours of public legal services. That would of course be independent of any the citizen provided for himself. Just like auto learning doesn’t count. Though of course real status would come from how many lawyers you hired after you’d consumed your quota. compulsory justice.
Ah. Now I remember something else I liked that got wiped out. Down in the Everglades, alchy Garry had said of some route crossing the canal off Griffin Rd, “They moved the road.” Now any child, almost any retard will understand, that sentence. It’s one of those nouns that seems to be physical. Now, since it spans territory, connecting things, it’s certainly extensional in that sense, but it’s all too easy to confuse the extensional material, the asphalt etc, with the function, what the road is. They moved the road. I’m sure they moved some of the old asphalt too, but that wasn’t it. The new location of the old road would have new asphalt. Anyway, ah, that’s another thing I’d been missing, a suggestion apropos of El Vito Vito and its inverted harmony (inverting a major chord, I Inversion, II Inversion, doesn’t invert the harmony, as I understand it), I’d thought it would be nice to know enough math to invent what sort of matrix would reveal things about these modes. Then, “they moved the road” memory, and I thought of a different matrix. Same sentence structurally, same words, but vary the noun in a linear progression of intensionality. They moved the pencil. They moved the desk. They moved the family, the road, the city, the government, the country … They moved the world. They moved the god.
Yai! I failed to recover the most important part of the lost file. I’d spewed for an hour on the concept of sacrifice, really annoyed at Sol’s ignorant theories in Hyperion. Ouch! I’d thought it was safe in id35. Not so. Ay, then it’s got to be in pb.hyp. Nope. I go to PCTools again. Had recovered zero of the first id36. Recalled above: then I think, wait, the first part on sacrifice I’d put in a temporary transfer file. I go to recover that. No such thing. But a whole bunch of single character files from around the same time. Couldn’t remember any single character files. I know I’d temped it “sac.” I often temp a file a. for add or x. for the same thing, but not that time. So I undelete them. Have to do it manually. Reload QA and they import as ASCII. What do you know: fragments from id36 the Ist. that parity error really took liberties with everything. So, 300 lines or so of sacrifice still gone, but I’ve got this patch and that tatter. What garbage. It was my rewrite that had some spirit. But anyway: after deleting the ASCII gibberish …
… give up your second favorite thing to gain your favorite thing. Sacrifice your son, your daughter, your tribes’ virgins … Anything short of everything for the monster animus. though by the time we get to Abraham, all kinds of sophisticated problematical things are going on. Only layered interpretation, all very iffy, is possible. But I really like what occurred to me tonight. It’s partly an oldie. I recall my conversation of 1973 or so with that Bostonian artist, George, pencil sketches of nudes with cuny open. Oddly non erotic. Interesting amateur work. I said something or other about Oh, Please don’t drop that volcano on me, and Jewish George assured me that I had it all wrong. No, the Jews aren’t like that. The Jews really love their God. You should hear the men singing in temple, and he paraphrased some song about Oh, how much we love God, More than this, More than that, … And I said, And can’t you hear the “Please don’t drop that volcano on me” in that? No, no, George protested … And then, suddenly, he did. His whole universe looked to have collapsed on him. He was speechless. Could all that “love” be rhetoric? An attempt to fool some dumb animal? The animus, whose power, should he not use it in your favor, is terrifying: Love is the best policy against him. How convince him? Have a story about a king who sacrificed not some virgin, but a son! Not just a !son, but a son of his old age! His first son! His only son! If that don’t do it, nothing will. Then, have that king come back, and say, He didn’t take him. He didn’t really mean it. He was testing me. I just gave him some lamb instead. Wasn’t even mine: stupid thing was caught in the bushes. And listen, guys: we’ve got a precedent! Group hypnosis that the love worked. Now we don’t have to cut off any more fingers. We don’t even have to sacrifice our own flock. Of course I can’t conceive of this developing until they’d pretty well noticed that your own flock, your best virgin didn’t work very well either.
(SirJ is almost as good as Rabelais’ battle of Paris story when he says that … which AmerIndian tribe? used girls five or six years old: otherwise, how could they be sure they had virgins?) Suddenly I hurtle back to 1958. My first course with Mark Van Doren. I write on Abraham. “I think you really understand Abraham,” VD wrote. Wow. Thirty-two years later, I agree.
Then, I was just, once again, getting away with something. Not that I didn’t mean the Kierkergaard like things I said, a year before ever hearing his name. I did mean them. Still, it wasn’t mine. It was the best I could muster toward a standard answer, vividly felt.
Then other fragments, Abraham associations:
It loads back here next day. Different thought cascades: while in high school, finding in the attic two college papers of my father’s. I didn’t read them, just glanced at the title pages with the teacher’s comments in red. Didn’t take any of it in, neither title nor subject: just the August Knatz and the Professor Van Doren. Weird to have the same teacher as your father. Mid way through Columbia I went to the attic and checked them out a little more thoroughly. Sure enough, Van Doren’s handwriting still looked much the same. This time I started to read the papers: Ouch. Didn’t get very far. Were they lousy! Didn’t get good grades either. Why on earth did he keep those two?
T: the epis of lit
just after seeing the last dinosaur w Richard Boone … and rest lost. another fun western pathology movie
Joseph Severn. deja vue. Kassad isn’t the only one. … fragments mixed from .hyp.
… and other movie jabber … Angel of Death, can’t not check out a movie with that title. Jane Seymour. And here’s this strange looking actress. I know the name … She looks weirdly familiar, reminds me Marie, early salesman of the White Hat who wound up marrying Gail’s lawyer. Never forget her since it was she who handed me Martha’s phone number. (Of course it was her, Marie, whose ass my mind had been exploring until Martha walked in.) But otherwise, I can’t place this Jane Seymour. My mind has barely functioned yet today, but still … Ah, she’s English. I know she’s English. She’s um … right, she was married to Henry VIII. But now I feel so sure I’ve had this identical confusion before, that I’ve even mused in here, some id file. additional flashback: 961 Madison was street level entrance, then a few steps down once inside. At my desk I looked up to sidewalk level. Marie comes in, did I need any part time help? sure don’t think so, girlie. Well, just in case and she leaves her particulars. Circle was just excessing everybody, it hardly mattered whether I’d have needed anybody or not. ’73 industry recession. I hadn’t thought anything of her and it was only be coincidence that I caught that heinie striding up the stairs. What!!! Then again, flexed for her march downtownward, muscle bunching past the framed graphics in the window. Well, maybe I do need the mailing list organized. Chicago rubber stamps to my surprise. But then, actually there and working, I never got that stimulus again and she became invisible to me. Did the work though. But Martha walks in. Lucky confusion. Ted, whom I’d met at the Third Ave gallery, big show asking me abo … the rest gone. but that story I don’t need to be reminded of. enjoyed reliving it there.
ss: ante bellum swing-staters discuss whether to buy slaves, what to do about the Yankee busybodies. run a bunch of what-ifs. Hey, I got it. If it continues the same, no problem. If the south secedes, no problem. If the Yankees object … and win, I got a great new business. Ship the niggers back to Africa! Don’t be stupid. That would be like having to tear down the building you built once you no longer own it. What would the world come to? Well, you don’t want them around here, do you? Not unless you could hire them for the same it cost to amortize them before. If you could guarantee the work, that is. Cheaper to kill them, etc. Yeah, but what if you could deport them for $5 each? Don’t be stupid, etc. If the ships were free, sailed and returned by themselves, all for free, etc. You don’t even have one ship. You don’t even know how to sail, etc. Come on, there’s a half a million (or x) of them, etc. So who says you need more than one ship? Or that you need to know how to sail it. Who says the exowners have to know how many you could fit in one ship? Who says they ever have to arrive anywhere? And then go into the pet food business.
Hardly different from the real moral level I felt slightly beneath the surface of that Civil War thing on PBS.
A while back I saw Willem Dafoe’s incredible mug in a trailer. I do love actors who seem to embody paranoia. To me he’s a great physical combo of Dan Duryea and Tatsuya Nakadai. (Whoops, parenthetically, I’ve still never seen Roseanne Barr, but just this very second I saw a thirty second trailer of her: monstrous. some girl in a school cafeteria says Don’t act like my mother or anything. And Fatso (in cafeteria uniform) says So then, breast feeding is definitely out. Outrageous. I must check this woman out.) That’s the physical part. The spiritual part: still Nakadai, and Peter Lory, etc. Moments of Orson Wells.
Funny that Roseanne just comes on in the middle of my saying this, cause they’re related. I was just about to say that I’d seen this Dafoe trailer, some military hell thing, Vietnam but not Platoon. Didn’t catch the title and never saw the film. So I see an oriental whore being shot by soldier boy, am about to keep flicking but Dafoe’s name comes on. Hoo boy, maybe this is it. Cooking and all I can’t give it my whole attention. It’s on Fox, the worst station for me to receive at all, but still: some of the shots, he’s just a skinnyish sort of ordinary ugly guy, sometimes he’s sort of handsome, and now and then … god, what a gift.
Now there something I love, thanks to Live & Die in LA, and I still didn’t see it. Roseanne, as I believe I have mentioned, was something I had had no curiosity about till I saw a black and white or her grabbing her ample crotch on a ball diamond. With the print mob shrieking she had desecrated the sacred. Vowed then to check her out. Not just your ordinary pig at the least. But then, I never lifted a finger, never checked for a time or station. Here it just comes to me. Another gift from boob land. And just on top of my own insanity. Between tossing the shrimp in the garlic and oil, I try El Vito Vito for the 500th time in two days, this time in Multi with the Waltz rhythm on. I thought shuffle might have been better, but I would have had to make a new track of three or six beats instead of eight and sixteen. So I jack waltz up past 135 and count the measures as single beats. Weird. Madness. It was great. Not quite as crazy as my Hava Nagila.
meantime, Off Limits, which also has Gregory Hines, and I now see that he’s pretty good actually, as an actor, a physical, not dance, being. and here comes the Rambo theme. the whore killer is a Colonel. ah ha. can’t send grunts like these two after gentlemen, best to forget about it. but these two grunts persist. my god, blasphemy, they’re going after management! and what will they do when they get there? shuffle, and stutter, and wet their pants? sob like Rambo and stick the big bad knife in the naughty table? no, these guys keep coming. one colonel is throwing gooks out of a hellicopter sans parachutes (his cute way of interrogation) and jumps himself. Guilty. Case solved. But it’s a red herring. Wow! 2! colonels are killing whores. blah, blah, hug a nun, and … cop out. the colonel is just Sarge after all. pissed that the gentlemen didn’t like his tatoo.
I like especially Dafoe getting to hug the nun twice, the second time less rather than more erotic than the first-look idiots, there’s been no question about the pheremones at any point-and the camera focuses on the grime ring beaded into balls of filth around Dafoe’s neck.
there was only one part though that I hated (I could hear the live audience cheering at that moment) Dafoe & Hines are Saigon “cops” (then how come they’re gringos and in civies?), oh, it’s good, cause it’s druggies and killers of women! that they’re after (good, cause later the movies is clear enough on how we were killing women all over the place too, from copters and up close and comfortable) (though worst to me is, ok, machine gun, arrest, cry shame shame, on anyone connected with drugs (including the “legal” ones, yes I mean prescription, not just booze) EXCEPT: a three century exemption must be made for any one in any way oriental UNLESS the person, society, polity can prove what sort of protest they made against England in the Opium Wars.
now there would be a good JD: story: Claude Raines arrests the cashier at Rick’s for cashing his chips for him. Thank you, Armand, and now, You’re under arrest. Graduation from Whartons: the highest honors get the longest sentences: you did exactly what we trained you for, rewarded you in, punished you if you didn’t, and now, go directly to jail.
but, what I hated: the pair have just been car bombed by a kid on a scooter, the kid comes back with an assault rifle, Hines is woozy, thinks he’s dead, is really pissed, marches firing at the kid with his own weapon and hits the firing kid first. now some indig informal cops, show up, they’ve been mutual thorns, mutually insulting; no, Dafoe’s been far more insulting, throughout. uniformed Vn cops want to arrest our pair. Not without a Yank to guard them from the cops and the crowd, no secret of their love. Leader has troops aim into car, bolts clicking etc. in a circle? around the car? civilians in a bigger circle? circular suicide? anyway, Sgt shows up in a jeep. very politely the Vn wait for him to arrive. Sorry, Sgt, we have you outgunned, explains chief thorn, We are never outgunned, says sarge, and a copter appears overhead. Big airborn machine gun trained on leader’s heart. The most hateful deus ex machina I’ve ever seen. Much as I love our pair, they should have lost that one. But they weren’t guilty? So what did Vn have to do with guilt?
Oh, here’s more from what was lost in a notes. file:
map/ter & drugs. insist on a false map, stall the bodies normal messages, get the messenger drunk.
And:
Arsenio may be good at a number of things. Very good, unique, in several respects, but one where he is not only unique but all time precious is how females are direct with him. Now I see plenty of choreographed flirtations. I don’t know how scripted the one where I fell in love with Kritie Allie was. But I’ll eat the tube if last night’s bombshell with Carrie Fisher was choreographed. If AH knew the answer to his question What does your title: Surrender the Pink come from? Then, Sh not withstanding, he didn’t know the beast with two backs. But when Carrie talked about walking down the street “with someone eighteen hours after you’ve had your face in their genitals”

failing to sleep once again last night, again having to put off Tampa and Dreams, I read Fischer Spassky game 13 in the CM around 4 this past AM. Watching the match back in NY after Mexico, my pulse raced in all these games. I was so in awe of Fischer (where I remain, of course) and also of anyone who could play the game at international grandmaster level. Now, playing a dozen games a day, having contemplated the 100 “greatest” games that came with the CM etc, studying and restudying for the Nth time Fischer’s two best known classics against the brothers Byrne, having come to be almost as much in awe of Spassky, that game with Larson! … What’s most impressive about the F-S games now is just that it’s them and that it’s the championship and that they both seem to make a few mortal moves. But reading game 13 last night, I didn’t see any moves like Fischer’s check by queen on the strongly guarded back rank, Spassky’s rook sacrifice, trying to fathom why Byrne quit, ahead in material, when I didn’t see how Fischer’s check on H-3 forced anything (not seeing the rook sacrifice to follow). But this game, this end game, had my pulse racing. Gligoric kept calling it a draw. I didn’t see how it wasn’t a loss. How can you immobilize the one rook on the back rank and still lose, Spassky wondered afterward. Indeed. The SOUL of end game chess is in that game. Like the Byrne surrender, so subtle the sparks are invisible. The heat so searing even the other grandmasters present were too mortal to sense it.
playing Bach’s Rondeau from the flute Suite for Orchestra, just out of the English How to Play the Flute book that’s been buried in the ware house since ’82, no chords written, no two hands, though a poly second player part is provided. Seems to be written A- Melodic. Midway through the second part of the second part, there’s a D-Melodic measure to a measure /Bb Bb G A/. I play the Bb, thinking “D- VI,” but then it’s Bb G, and I think, “Wait a minute: G-: so where was I again a second ago?”, and I think full simstim stereo of Gertrude Stein! A Rose is a Rose! and rethink my long iterated young man’s perception about that phrase: rose1 isn’t rose2 which isn’t rose3, the phrase being in no way redundant. Wow, a pair of Bb, the first in D-, the second in G-, the first setting the way for the second.
ph: reify the familiar
Prof Rice used to ask why reinvent the telephone? (as his phrase for “know what’s already in the public river,” which is my phrase for … why reinvent the phone, ie do your homework first so you won’t all just be duplicating what already known and in use. Great, but this has nothing to do with the proper development and exercise of intelligence. In fact the phone company itself should pay young phys, engin, cybernets etc to do just that. And in fact, they should start with as little technical knowledge of what Bell does to begin with as possible. Except for one thing. Society isn’t devoted to the exercise of intelligence; it’s devoted to getting on with the business of civilization which is anything but intelligence. Repetition, not invention, all in the weaving of grass memes over forest memes.
ss: tts want to find most aware entity in culture. one wants to look in the white house, the universities, the great publishing houses, Ok, says other (getting rid of him), you look there, and he takes his buried and forgotten dump detector to the ecology that looks most promising to have had old dumps there.
at the college with Doug today, so I missed the third game of Oakland Boston. all the hours sports were on my tube this year and incredibly little of it filtered through to my attention. but by playoff time I usually start paying attention. Well, this year I’ve paid enough attention to know when they’re on and to tune them in, but between the 22 and the CM, I’ve barely known the final scores. But here’s the third game of the Reds and Pirates, eighth inning, Pirates down 2 games to one, and behind 2 runs, and damn if these Pirates don’t really want to win this game. If you don’t follow all of it, what the count is, who’s up, who’s pitching, what’s the count, what’s his average, is the pitcher up to his usual, hitting the corners, mixing them up, etc, who’s short, who’s second, what’s their general defense, etc, you miss most of it even if you’re sort of paying attention. well, by series time, I generally have some sense of that, especially if it’s a team I’ve paid any attention to in the season. Even recent seasons. But here in this situation you don’t have to know much to see and appreciate Bonilla come up following a homer, boom off the wall, Hatcher falls down, Bonilla, big guy, obviously strong etc, pounding for third, here comes the ball, he’s out! then the replays of Eric Davis covering his fallen teammate and making is sizzling throw. Good coverage, the guys in the booth clear on how it was the right try for Bonilla and a great play by Davis. Marvelous, ninth inning now, reds got one back, bottom of the inning and big tv screen shown John Belushi in Animal House stirring the natives with his manic face. A two year Pittsburg tradition they explain. News showed the Athletics dashing Boston hopes, encore, encore, big guy coming in from third, Pena has the ball two feet in front of the plate, completely blocking the scoring path, big guy gives him an elbow in the chops, he drops the ball, Oakland wins third straight! Well, with Ricky Henderson & Willie Randolph, it’s really the Yankees after all.
Henderson is maybe my favorite ball player ever. Top of this show they had Darrel Strawberry as an expert on both pitchers. First time I’ve ever seen him interviewed in a non playing situation. I really love him too. Funny face, funny little ears, funny fine features, but even sitting there, just talking, you can see that incredible body. Tall, lanky, loose, and wicked. They talked about Aarons wrists, and I never doubted it. But I didn’t know enough to see it. But with Darrel … whhippp. What do you know? Here’s Eric Davis in interview and damn if he doesn’t look like Strawberry. Then, believe it or not, he mentions him, says Hey, Darrel, that one was for you! Solipcenter of the universe, I say something and an analogy if not an identity comes right onto the screen.
I would have no objection to a death penalty for murder, I would volunteer at least several other behaviors for capital consideration, provided that corporate persons are included. Let the incorporated state convict and execute all the indicted murderers it wants. But let there also be real funding for and real talent devoted to quality checks, endlessly after the fact, for the truth value of court and jury decisions. Once one convicted felon is found ex post anything, then the society must be indicted for … manslaughter at the very least.
The remaining problem while real is manageable. “Incorporated” is such a joke anyway, this legal fiction of a body (I don’t deny the life, only the body) can’t be put in the electric chair or guillotined. But its citizens can. I heard about a murder by a crowd convicted in a court in India, judge said twenty years, counted the perpetrators, divided up, and each participant served five minutes. Sorry, that’s too close to how real justice in real nature works: air just a little bit more poisonous each year never seems too burdensome in ho ho ho real time. Only in REAL time, you all die. The chief conspirator on Einstein’s life was fined $5.
Or there should be a real party system with each party infinitely composed of binary factions. Each time a society is found guilty of falsely finding guilty (of course there’s a geometrically infinite progression; you’d be at time1000 and still wouldn’t have gotten to half the cases from time1) the government falls, twenty years sentence? oh, that’s oh 27% of a life, so, kill 27% of the citizens and turn the government over to the opposition, try them, then turn it over to the enemies, the aliens, finally to the Nth faction of the second party. By now you’d be at time4 on the calendar and time40,000,000,000,000,… in real time.
and it would be no good using the necessity to get rid of your jews, your spicks, etc. (You’d only have to manufacture new scapegoats, anyway.) 27% of every group big enough to have a 27%. 27% of politicians, bureaucrats, police, secret service and turn them out of their sinecures.
Now turning things over to the opposition, it’s not the king, the president, the chairman who must turn over, it’s the bureaucracy. Keep Nixon, what does a president matter?, but kill 27% of the Pentagon. and it’s also the constituency.
How does what Hitler said matter nearly so what as what the supporting constituency wanted to hear?
Any discovery of science which for whatever reason accords with something the public wanted to discover should be put on the shelf as highly suspect.
everyone has their pet injury that they collect examples of. (that applies to corporate persons too: the US has our list of special rants). the justice of the rant probably has something to do with the honesty, imagination, empathy, integrity of the person. they can’t all be right. they can’t all be wrong. good design can fail in evolution, when it’s good design in the wrong place or at the wrong time, therefore not so good design. in that sense, in terms of his own survival as a person, person including organism, Jesus was WRONG in his time. but that’s the point. there are other perspectives, perspectives other than mere survival of the individual organism. he who tries to show the hive ITS survival can’t expect to survive as a worker or queen or drone unless its the already familiar stuff: spew out the larvae. blah blah all familiar.
to lead to something which just struck me with what seemed like freshness. (how should I know on the instant whether I’ve said it before? or something analogous.)
wait, one more familiar block for the building. pet injuries, that’s where I started. My mother’s special wince was injury to the eye. I suspect she way over dramatized the sensitivity of her breast, but not having a breast, not having her breast, not being her, I can’t know. and maybe neither could she. honesty, introspection is not uniform. maybe not even within an individual. Picture Jesus saying, oh, yeah, well I lied a lot in those days.
My special wince, at puberty, was sitting hard, that once, on the bar of my bicycle. since then it’s been: cultural sport at the injury. and it’s been my continuing interest how semantic analogs have changed shape and meaning. Once, a knee to the balls, was, its semantic analog ie, almost exclusively in the male province. Locker room humor, with only males in the male locker room. or sports field, battle field, let’s flex our muscles bar/alley/fight humor. If females were present in the male bar, male battlefield, they looked the other way, they didn’t see, any more than the Japanese smell shit in their beautiful shoji screened rooms.
how about real, non semantic injuries? for me, there was only that one, space changing shape in the most sickening way, all awareness suddenly shrinking from outside and all around to inward and only one thing, … etc. Now, I’ve been knocked a bit plenty of times, the unstoppable relays of pain between brain and groin, hint of loss of basic automatic functions, breathing etc. Ooff! am I dying? I know I’m not dead cause of this agony. Except in those cases it was terror, not agony. It was fear that the knock was major, like the original, not minor like it inevitably actually was.
Now, semantic injury: somebody says, I’m gonna kick your balls through your teeth, etc. Acting, gesture, mine, threats, posing. Somebody actually mimes the lifting of the knee. Melcher once on Canal Street, on our way to or from Chinese dinner. Hil and Sue just standing there, in the hiatus of polite notice. Did Michael really mean to kick me? Or was it vigorous semantics? Don’t know. I deflected it. Made no counter attack, and that was that.
Two accidents in bed, once which became semantic after the fact. Hil and I in bed, moving around in a long bout of love making, she moves her legs as gracelessly as usual and clips me hanging. The beginning of that feeling, the second of terror as I wait to see how bad it is, and then … just one of those. But still. No apology? No notice? I mention it. Why dja kick me in the balls? I like to see you squirm, she says.
Pretty quick answer for one of about zero probability of truth. I don’t mean she didn’t like to see me squirm; I just didn’t assume it was intentional: I just wanted acknowledgment after the fact.
And I guess the second time had a semantic dimension too. Goddam whatwashername? of the blow job drawings, Long Beach artist: I’m exhausted. Gotta sleep I tell her as I drop her off home, I’m gonna disconnect the phone for the next twelve hours. Six hours later, my door knocks. Halfway through the sleep I need, no drinking that day, or maybe I’d quit by then, but booze probably part of what I needed sleep to recover from, not to mention a long couple of days at the office, halfway through, I answer, stupid me, and it’s … ah, Andrea. Andrea Johnson. I look at her in disbelief that she should so blatantly ignore my pronouncement, especially when she’s supposed to be working for me, helping in the gallery, taking over sales there, getting the hall to hang her own stuff, a special show of sorts. Make love to me she says.
Now, I’d know her for a couple of weeks. Hadn’t touched her, hadn’t leaned toward her. On the other hand, what’s a blow job from this famous specialist like? I shrug and shuffle back to bed, brushing my teeth and rinsing my face on the way. So, shouldn’t have been a surprise, but she was a pig in bed. About as subtle as Disney’s hippo ballerina in Fantasia. And her blow job is no more than the perfunctory average. Basically an ordinary, quite forgettable screw. Except once when she’s clumsily climbing around on top of me, getting up with all her mass onto one knee, that knee between my legs, a corner of my scrotum receives part of that knee’s mighty footprint. Well, by this time, it’s decades of flinch, wait a second, naw, nothing like that first one, and on with life, so that this time, I know I’m not injured. I don’t have to mime any panic even to myself. Still, I can’t believe how careless she was. I let her know it. Oohhw, I didn’t know you were so sen-si-tive, she says, like the fault is mine. This was I think in the time following my deciding that this was a really low grade fuck besides being an imposition and gave all my concentration to just coming and getting it over with, get rid of her, and go back to sleep. She hadn’t sold anything in the gallery either. Strictly hot air.
One other memory. Central Park Zoo. The gorilla house. Two males in one cage. Mock battling before a crowd. Playing to that crowd, looking over shoulders for human approval. One gorilla makes a vaudeville swing with his right leg, folds the knee and swoops it toward his follow’s crotch, plenty of time to react, dead twenty times over in a real fight. His playmate doubles over, staggers backward, his assailant shows his teeth with plenty of lip action to the amused audience. I couldn’t believe it. Gorillas?! So, they have a clear semantic universe too.
clear may overstate it. then GB dogs not knowing whether they’re fighting or playing have a shaggy something. the initial semantic universe.
twice I’ve said I wanted to get to a new thought without yet stating it. background always imperative. sheesh, one more bit of background, the most immediate nonce occasion for this thought: trailer for a sit com or tv special movie or something. well dressed middle age guy sitting next to yuppie not quite middle aged, but adult female. shot under the table. his hand goes to her sleek, gleeming stockinged knee. shot back to face foward medium of both of them. her arm moves, clearly showing reaching under table movement. coordinated with look of Whoops, Shock, UhOh on his face. I’ll let go when you let go, she says. So ho ho, the audience assumes that MsLiberation has grabbed Touchy-feely by the balls. They keep showing this trailer again and again. And that too is necessary background consideration. In fact, I’d already started it. Once upon a time, knees in the balls simply didn’t exist in general entertainment. You could rely on seeing it on the burlesque stage, but guarantee that you wouldn’t on the “legit” stage, not even on the vaudevile stage, and NEVER in a movie, most definitely never on tv. Till the sixties. One or two exceptions started happening. Art can always make an exception to anything. For a reason. Lawrence of Arabia, knowing he’s about to be tortured or raped or tortured and raped, being a maniac, having just made a triply suicidal mistake in coming here, on the other hand stupid moves, failure and humiliation, were also part of his genius, and Peter O’Toole gives Jose Ferrer a vicious knee while Effendi is checking out his fair flesh. A heroic and romantic bit of semantics. You’ll lose, but you’r lost anyway: injure the injurer. (Actually that’s only some of the complexity, nice fag reaction (did TeeHee yet know he was a fag? was he yet a fag?) would have gotten him laid instead of beaten (and its on his balls and with a switch that they beat him in 7 Pillars of Wisdom, ah, wait, that’s when he says he discovered that he was a fag. And a masochist. Come on. We all knew both all along. At least in the movie.)
As Thoreau wrote, you don’t have to have a chance to “win,” to take over, for protest to be the right thing: at least your mangled body will be one more bit a friction wearing the machine of state.
Anyway, a great scene in a great movie. But somewhere around the same time DeBrocca films no longer come out with Jean Pierre Cassel, and start showing Jean Paul Belmondo. JP finds the one weakness in the gorilla in the Rio hotel (or were they still in Paris) in That Man From Rio.
After which the exception becomes a trickle which becomes a flood. And on the stage too. Michael Peter Kahn, whose hanging Denis naked in a net, right at the high front of the stage! for his Pericles, now puts old women gratuitiously kicking young men as part of the atmosphere setting up a scene in … um, I think it was All’s Well. Comedy.
Until it’s the average or one of the average bits of entertainment feaured in the trailer for this movie, that sit com, forty times an hour in daily boob land.
One last bit of background to clarify what my ordinary understand has been. In part, it’s this frantic what “taboos” can we break (always, so no one will notice what the real taboos are) (Hey, if you’ve broken it, it’s not taboo).
Of course our taboos are always shifting. The phallus being the most sacred thing, it’s what you can’t show. One minute, then the other, no, it’s the c- you can’t show.
And different symbolic levels are differently taboo. That English documentary on something pseudo-architectural from the early 60s. For the Pompeian mens room, the film shows a phallus. Clear enough. Ok, so what about the women’s room? They didn’t have one? No sign? That one was spelled out in letters? Silence. Simply not mentioned, let alone shown.
Equality?

What the hell can a bilaterally symmetrical, binarily symmetrical, gendered, and
hierarchical species mean by equal?

So we stagger back and forther, actually swirl around, if you take a large enough sample, No prick this season / No cuny next.
2016 07 29 I’m Bowdlerizing a bit, editing a bit too.

Having stupidly agreed to check Emile’s mail for the year they were in Switz, I was amused at the rapidly changing fashions in porno. For three months it was all blow jobs, then it was all lessies, then it was all bondage. While (that was mail order) what I heard about the porno films, what was on 42nd St, was Oh my God! they actually showed a cock squirt!!!! Civilization, as it always is, was at an end.
Anyway, one thing that has definitely been going on in the semantic world, is Uh oh, they want change: how about we give them these symbolic destructions instead? Nobody in the senate has to say, Hey, Porno Auggie, how about kick a lot of guys in the balls so women will think things are different: the culture has a mind with those communications and no need for an actual phone call. But, since it’s a semantic world that’s at stake, such a semantic change can’t occur without the other semantic world changing also. And in fact women’s power, long in the ascendancy, though not nearly so long as overdue (how about 10,000 years overdue), is more “real” as well as more cosmetic. (Of course it’s an altogether different subject: noticing that the political shouting comes long after the actual revolution. With blacks, with everything. The political shouting and lynching is a semantic adjustment to something already adjusting. Racism is a recognition of the other’s importance.) (And also, of course, thank you Freud, this male dominance business has never meant that all males are dominant, no one group, one alpha. US is many groups with many alphas, a super group. There’s a level where you can have false alphas, show alphas, like presidents.) And at another level, there’s no actual alpha anyway. It’s entirely semantic. Alpha is mythical, infinitely receding, like wealth, or power. And this chimera is something where women want to join the pathology and pursue ghosts for themselves. Ok, what’s an easy door? Make male vulnerability (exaggerated male, exaggerated vulnerable) a routine joke.
What I particularly love is the false symmetries in a people without a vocabulary of symmetry.
The pair at the table look symmetrical to us who only know bilateral symmetry (without knowing bilateral symmetry). Thanks to Morris we have occasion to know that sex is of many types, Ten basic. Still, for simplicity, I’ll begin with one of the ten as an assumption for the male’s hand on the female’s knee. It’s an invitation to eroticism. (No, obviously, it’s the power, the status category: sex for status.) [Stupid: back up. There a more efficient way. It’s a manipulated ambiguity. The male’s action may be erotic, an invitation to eroticism, or a power/status display-I dominate you, treat you as property, my property, which because it’s mine, and I’m civilized, I don’t have to care for. Or AllofAbove. Her reaction is unambiguous. It is not erotic (of course that’s an answer to the invitation part); it is a power move and status counter claim. Cold blooded war.] Of course it’s also a response to an invitation, women’s bodies being permanently that, especially if groomed so that the knee glistens. Who’s raping who is always a real question. Rather always a false question. Now, if it’s his balls she has hold of, that is not an erotic response.
Wait, one other binary: GB’s two symmetries of behavior: symmetrical and schismogenic. If his hand on her knee is an aggression, then her clutch of his balls is a perfectly appropriate symmetrical escalation: in a relationship known (except by world leaders, maybe by them too by now) to be mutually destructive (if the escalation continues symmetrical and isn’t rescued by schismogenesis, the latter being traditionally the female symmetry.
Symmetrical: my old man can beat up your old man. oh yeah? my old man can beat up your old man (with a push added).
Schismogenic: see how strong I am? Yes, I see how strong you are. Wow, are you strong. And no fight.
What if such behavior were to be symmetrical and equal? Nonsense to begin with, but I’ll try to invent an example. How about if it wasn’t the man’s hand on her knee, or her thigh, or a couple of fingers into the lips, but up her channel past the wrist, the uterus bypassed or punctured, and he had a very non-erotic squeeze on her fallopians? To approach an analog, you have to pass it. There is no symmetry.
Symmetry having several different meanings in the foregoing.
Ok, now my point: I guess it’s an oldie to, but new for me in quite this context. But the juxtaposition is powerful: males bashing each other with bar furniture is an old struggle with its own ecology, leaving plenty of males living to breed, plenty of alphas so long as there are plenty of groups small enough. Lots of bars in the world. Nobody kills all the men in all of them at any one time.
Women, catting each other, or knocking down, kicking, scratching and biting if it comes to it, have their own ecology. Plenty of breeding goes on. Plenty of hens with their temporary hierarchy of roosts seeming permanent. Permanent enough. Let me settle myself here and let me be, or there’ll be blood running next to your eye.
males and females have their own ecology of whose cock is the most alpha: my cock? or your clit? these battles can be peaceful or violent, won once, or constant, but they work. no victory is final, thirty years of submission can suddenly erupt into secretly changing the will, or going to the lawyers, or lots of things. Arsenic in the cake. Where did that come from? It seems sudden. Or the nursing homes filled with long suppressed and now unending obscenities from passive one.
lots of ecologies, coexisting, none final, none permanent, varying durations of stability.
and even the most basic ecologies of male and female change in history as they changed with the beginning of history. the male used his hunter’s combo of single stealth and cooperative gregariousness to steal agriculture from the female inventors’ more cooperative cooperative gregariousness. the male is alone with his spear beneath the elephant no matter how many clamor at its flanks. the female is alone in delivery no matter how many attend. specialized dangers.
the female endurance is political and victorious on the most basic level.
the male Now Politics, hunters turned military, organization is the one immediately political and immediately dominant. for almost ten millennia.
but, as Fuller and McLuhan both pointed out, the industrial revolution has considerably modified the physical requirements for dominance and or competition. the female can now compete in lots of ways to the point where her basic competition from the delivery bed may be perverted, outgrown, cast aside … and with no possibility of expertise, intelligence in the costs, because it’s new. Oh, sure, I can do all that. My car has 300 horsepower, doesn’t it. My phone goes where your phone goes. I can speak. I can push buttons. I’ll have babies when I want them, if I want them.
But there’s no established ecology for the mix in the hunting fields of civilization. So how do women compete against men where they haven’t been, haven’t been able to be, before? And at what cost?
I love an epistemology of statistics. The more modern the “fact,” the less “verifiable” it is by traditional ways. The census taker knows or should know his factor of unreliability, which factor itself cannot reliably be known. I think it’s accurate within 12%.
Candor may be rare in all circumstances, but it is in science that it’s least rare. Jesperson’s “10% of our etymologies are correct beyond question; but we don’t know which 10%. 10%, beyond question, are false; we don’t know which 10%. And 80% are … probably … false.”
what’s the suicide rate in X community? Now, how taboo is suicide in the community? How does the degree affect the statistics? By less suicide? Or less acknowledgment of the occurrences? Are the police reports facts? Sure, it may be a fact that it’s a police report. But is it accurate?
Anyway, I don’t know how accurate any such statistics could be, but I would truly like to know the relative frequencies of men kicking men in the balls, I mean kicking, not gesturing, in A, B, C, societies at Time 1, 2, 3, and the relative frequencies of women kicking men in the balls in the same. Children kicking children in the balls, etc. Children kicking men in the balls, etc.
And then the frequencies of prior and/or subsequent compensating violences and destructions in the other direction.
Also a list of a hierarchy of damages: temp pain, semantic freakout: how dare etc, sterility, death, etc. But, still, that would only be individuals in numbers. Then, what symbiosis would be happening? in what direction? how new?
the one thing that isn’t new is that changes are constant, at all levels (though the frequency may be beneath perception. how would we know a wave whose frequency is less than 20,000,000,000 years per wave? the first crest wouldn’t have arrived yet), that changes require improvisation and that improvisation makes more lousy music than good music (however much the best music may be improvised).
Wow, i turn on AmLg Game 4 inadvertently a couple of hours into it. Clemens ejected? What did I miss? This is incredible. Henderson just stole second, Conseco is up, so there still plenty of game, but a second ago, station break, two very weird things. 1: further revelation of what I was just talking about: another trailer, a different one for the same show, now I can almost name it, IOU or something. Another sex situation. Or not a sex situation, a female over male, or female ascending and ascending against male power situation, and what I was just saying is the more clear. 30ish femYup interviewed by two gray hairs in paneled leathered room. How do you feel about men? “Oh, I’m always right on top of them.” Or “I stay on top of them.” Any soft spots? “My one weakness is … older men.” And gray hairs fumble and stutter like pubescents stumbling on a doxy. Same show. So, no question about the titillation.
Now, in the past, the titillation has been for procreation, basically. So it seems. However complex actual ecologies may be, real systems acting with systems within systems, relationships repeating but never identical.
[later: here’s another one. It’s WIOU, and that was a news desk they were sitting at. This third trailer is just as bad.]
And I think as usual of basic natural paradigms. My awe in first reading about the wrasse. Photos of monster predator fish lining up like good students, waiting their turn, species mixed, for the wrasse to get around to eating the parasites from between their teeth, their scales, etc. Wrasse prophylaxis station here. Then, a decade or more later, I see a tv doc on the false wrasse. Looks just like a wrasse. Same size, same color, same Oh, I’m just a wrasse, here to clean your scales movements. But it isn’t a wrasse. And as the grouper looms up close, ready to hold still and read a magazine for a while, luxuriate, the false wrasse darts in and nips flesh from the great flank. Ow! What was that for? But the false wrasse has fled. Next month that same grouper will see a wrasse and think Oh, goody, more often than Kill that devil. Now, the false wrasse must be very careful always to be in an extreme minority. As soon as groupers get bit say 5% of the time, both species will fail and groupers will remain permanently lousy with parasites.
peasants ploy their fields. generations go by. oh, look, men on horses, armor, lances, swords, torches, had they known the words. and peasant mincemeat. the knights won’t do very well if every peasant runs or dies of a heart attack every time a knight appears.
all of which makes me want to ride another, related horse for a moment. a good grazer is an important part of almost any species’ health, right? but we’ve killed everything that we could even imagine ever could graze on us. ceptin insects. and there we simply don’t know how. nothing’s worked so far. not a dent in any insect population other than temporary and local. I got the cockroaches out of my apartment for a few months or even longer, but never 100%, and certainly never out of the building, or out of the city, or off the continent. I kill the ant nests near my trailer, and here they come right back. I could keep the raccoons away from my state camp sites for a day or two at a time, but I never killed them (assuming that one I accidentally clonked on the head instead of stinging his flank went off and died in the palmetto). anyway, we desperately need a grazer … so, who else but us ourselves?
there’s a new wrinkle. can it be done not fatally? what would be a good proportion of false females: ones with Marilyn Monroe asses, groomed within an inch of our lives, but get close and they have hands like the implant freak in Neuromancer? the Shrike. the Moneta confusion for real? 3% at the most. but then there would have to be a much large population of real females who never-the-less looked just like them and who behaved very differently up close.
as I’ve said before, sex being what it is, even a one or two eggs fertilized at a time species, can do fine with one male to a dozen females. common even among mammals. there may be other males, but they’re not breeding, or much the same, they don’t set up the harems, the households. what difference does it make if a little of their sperm seeped in? it’s still the boss’s turf. that many calves for that many acres. Before the tolerance of the larger local ecology is tested. Before other factors, famine, predators, etc come in.
well, there’s nothing new about that. it’s already true. what about males like me: females think (used to) Oh, a provider. Hmm, I’ll nuzzle close here. Huh? Provider? Who said anything about providing? (Of course there are endless complexities within that one.) Hil knew what I was, found it irresistible, until she wanted to be provided for. A mother now. Or females like Hilary. All the equipment, but with a sterile semantic network. Oh, this male thinks he’s so feral, I’ll fix that. I know how to put an end to his career. But our genes and our culture, both, package us much the same. We look male. We look female. To those with a falsely simple, falsely coherent model of male or female. But the ecology there’s been hasn’t been adequate to the environment there is. So new things develop. Both increasing our numbers in new ways and culling us back, trimming us down. Question always remains: how healthy is it? How pathological? Fatal?
Oh, 2, the other thing really weird, the middle of an inning, the commercial trailer, then, no sound track, noise, but nothing anyone but Andy Warhol would leave unfilled, unedited. Stacks of money, wrapped in plastic, close up. $100 top bill in deep bundle. A bale of bundles. A warehouse of bales. Some barrel heads saying something. Industrial type pan of collection. Then baseball again. Where did that other stuff come from? Footage from a newscast. The director falls asleep on the network which monitor broadcasts button?
one year since I wrote that stuff about umpires and the need to make decisions, not the need to be right. I know it’s a year cause it was playoff series time, therefore Oct. Unless it was Oct two years ago. Or October three years ago. So through the game, the 6 o’clock news, throughout the 7 o’clock news, throughout the NL playoff, 10 and then 11 o’clock news, the Clemens story. Some umpire executive, another umpire executive interviewed. Neither of them can explain it. Either we control the game or we don’t is the closest they come. Tim McCarver and somebody [Jack Buck] think it ought to be impossible to throw a star like Clemens out of a game. Esp a game of that importance. ie. obey the law, so long as it’s not important. “importance” justifies everything. no umpire says, look, we waited till he had cursed so 30 million people could see him for the third consecutive minute, we already didn’t throw him out. but he wouldn’t stop. at some point even a political cop has to acknowledge the law. If we don’t apply that rule, why have the rule? why not go back to mayhem? of course it will cost you billions in revenue cause we could not have an international corporate schedule, if we were never going to know from game to game if the team could field a quorum after the civil war of last Tuesday.
trailer last week made me realize the degree to which tv has a carton section. I don’t mean animation instead of camera, i don’t mean just production instead of production and cast, I mean a “page” or two, the style and object recognizable a mile away, of just anomalies. it’s in jokes that conventional cuteness and profundity are not distinguished. doris day and akira kurasawa both made movies. dennis the menace and peanuts are both cartoons, nancy and calvin and hobbes. now, I am well aware how the real importance of our culture fodder is the reverse of that which is most apparent. the most important messages are given to children Sat morning. but it’s end of the Cretaceous Age news. It’s generally eliminated from the front page of the Time cause you can bet the adults already are ten thousand times beyond triple load redundancy programmed. our most important news comes from 58 million years before humans even appeared: look out for the reptiles. second most important: what happened to the reptiles? there must have been a big flood. in any case they’re all gone. we won. we can crawl out of our crack in the rock now. but watch out, watch our for reptiles. Every saturday morning. cartoon after cartoon.
but to say really profound, post cretaceous if not cenozoic things, also look to the cartoons. the marx brothers, mad, as brian and I have long discussed. so here’s one advertising itself to prime time. actors, not drawings. a little blond girl. they’re watching baseball on tv. manager throws bats, kicks the gatorade, shuffles dirt on umpire’s pants. a fit on national tv. a billy martin. “You mean,” the little girl says, “it’s only kids who aren’t allowed to stamp and kick to get their own way? … Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll understand it when I’m an adult.”
exactly like my opening to Comet. only this little girl is aware of the discrepancy, does attribute it to her poor understanding, but not to that only.
of course, get their way is an oversimplification.
not that Clemens looked anything like Billy Martin, he was just mouthing. on and on. no talk of putting him in the same dock with 2 live crew?
gould wrote about, no wait, it wasn’t gould, it was a dog trainer, about how the various canine breeds are various stages of arrested development, all domestic dogs having been arrested somewhere short of the hunting adult killer. well, that’s what we human beans are too. a society which requires many breeds, all something short of the adult otherwise long past bound for extinction.
but it’s complex. part of the “adult” is to know how to kill, to have no brakes there. but part is also the cooperative. the chimp wouldn’t press buttons that seemed to hurt another chimp.
anyway, “adult” here is a fictitious vanishing point, no extant species is fully adult. we’re all showboats, actors, impostors, ie in intra species and inter similar species competition. the male lion is all strut and roar. it’s not prey he’s designed to kill; it’s other male lions. but the male lion of modern times has to be just a cute little kitten lion compared the lion which would be too ferocious for any ecology. it’s all: design it and then compromise way back. the ideal individual and the ideal multiple, flexible environment are incompatible. you never get the real either. the lion is like US nuclear policy. it’s only any good if it never gets used.
and we’re specialized to allow different tolerances for infantile tactics. Tim McCarver and some other pirate really incensed and confused, challenged, on the baseball news. sure, we’re a democracy, everyone’s the same, we all know that, but you don’t mean baseball players too? not the good ones, like us, I mean not the really really currently good ones, like Clemens.
I remember … DC Post coverage of big John Riggins. “I’ve been a b-a-a-a-d boy,” too stupid or drunk or over indulged, over blown for over a decade or two, to realize that everyone in Post land isn’t saying how cute, our hero in the big plastic diaper pads got drunk and passed out on the first lady, puked on the white house lawn, fell asleep, found with his pants down in a missile silo. Gee, when ever I got drunk and passed out before everyone thought it was cute. How can he have been a good equal american, watched all those end of the cretaceous cartoons, for three decades, repeat in unison, we’re good, we’re special, we’re the best, the most moral, now KILL! and not know that you can puke on the best looking cheerleader in three counties, but that was the first lady! Do you want the sun not to come up?
When Julius didn’t stand for the senators, he may have been burned out, as Grant suggested, may well have been, but I suspect it was deliberate suicide, like every one of the infants under discussion eventually commit, Napoleon, Hitler, Nixon. On the one hand, they know: sure, it’s ok to suspend habeus corpus on niggers, not even a lawyer will notice. it’s ok to beat up on intellectuals, this is a blue collar supporting royalty, me, world. it’s even ok to scuttle the DC Post, some rich c’. Everybody, even the rich, hate the rich. But Dick, what’s come over you? That was the ARMY!
anyway, much as NONE of it is what I would choose given free choice, none what I would design from scratch (the actual design being infinitely greater, more profound than a million times smarter me would be capable of while at the same time being stupid beneath contempt), the Escher hand drawing the Escher hand draws an Escher quality hand, but the actual hand drawing by being drawn by is just using what ever pencil happens to stick to whatever happens to be fingers.
could it be that the army, much as it really does kill and destroy and enslave and rape and despoil now and then is really just the cutest possible baby infant puppy arrested artificial godforbid adult army besides which the shrike would look like patience in the monument?
the reason I’m smarter than everybody else is because I don’t understand the obvious.
Chiles says he’s “against abortion, but in favor of a woman’s right to choose.” The quote is from EyeWitness News. Gibberish the semantic norm. I’m against murder, but in favor of the murder’s right to pull the trigger. Or hire the pro to pull it. The second is not the same as the first. The hyperbole I seldom avoid. The second does have certain formal similarities to the first. Neither is an example of I disagree with what you say but will defend to the death your right to say it. Though if speaking were regarded as a crime it would become similar. The point isn’t what you say or why you say it; the point is that it isn’t illegal to speak. I don’t think it’s ever been illegal to speak in any culture. It has and continues to be illegal to say certain things. Or, if not illegal, inadvisable. There’s a law that I may not assassinate the president. There’s also a law, constitutional, that I may speak, and speak freely. There is no specific law secular or religious that I may not say “I am going to kill the president.” But anyone who thinks that it isn’t illegal, or worse, whatever is or isn’t written down someplace, may experiment at his own risk. We may not bottle arsenic and label it sugar, not publicly. Nor salt and label it sugar. But the first is a lot more illegal than the second.
But all I meant to do was one quick, clear comment there and on to Eye Witness. Having been neither, I drop it and proceed.
Repeat. Bis. Ad nauseum. Eye Witness. I recognize the news in its tv variety, but where is the eyewitness? The show itself can’t claim that title except as a title no more responsible than galaxy or the Ritz or Ford Maverick. Ok, its a visual medium, or seems to be. The reporters, the camera men have eyes as well as cameramen, editors, writers, owners … sure they see what they to visit. But that not being an eyewitness, that’s being a reporter. Going where news is suspected of being. Not just standing there when a body happens to fall from the third floor. The gun went off and I turned.
What’s the difference between eyewitness and witness? Eye witnesses see things, but witnesses hear things? Then you’d need at least one of each. The eye witness could see the body fall, but the witness could report hearing him as he came down, “I jumped, I fell, I wasn’t pushed. Joey Bonnano didn’t push me.”
Of course part is as McL says, Fiedler says, we’ve been as distortedly visual culture. Past, passing, says Mc. But how many would be aware of the difference in association that I am acutely aware of: witness has strong Christian association in our past (and still, in pockets of, our present). “Eye” witness is secular, no nonsense, extensional, none of this mystical crap. A bulkhead in the epistemology of Xity is that Thomas saw J resurrected, felt the holes in his hands. Xian epistemology is: I heard it from the guy who hear it from the guy who heard it from the guy etc who saw Jesus resurrected. And was already pretty weak within a couple of generations. (weakness or strength of course has nothing deterministic to do with truth, only with ease of one’s making up one’s mind. “I read it in the book” isn’t mentioned even in the book. It is mentioned in the service of this or that sect. The literate priest hold up the bible for the illiterati to see, to witness. Yeah, ok, Mike, but did you see Jesus resurrected? No, stupid, that was 2,000 years ago. But don’t you understand? I heard it from the guy who heard it from the guy who heard it from Paul. Paul, for Crisake! So, did Paul see Jesus resurrected? No, um um … Yes, he had a vision on the road to Damascus. Visions, eh? And so it goes.
So, once upon a time, Xian witness was supposed to be convincing. What could be more convincing? Thomas, even Thomas saw it. But since, it’s taken a dive, come to mean the opposite of what it meant. Oh, so no body really saw anything after all. It’s all this faith business. A different epis level altogether.
Eye witness is supposed to be fresher than the 2,000 year vintage. Great. Courts are big on them. But what does that have to do with television?
gug. coffee dripping and I turn of the tube, not yet knowing what I’m doing. can’t read the dial, don’t know what channel I last left it on, the boot default. Uh duh gug. it dimly occurs to me that there can’t be any baseball. the National League Yankees, the Lou Pinella Yankees from Cincinatti won the pennant last night. First thing that clarifies from the pixels-how annoying-a pretty girl. very pretty I suppose. quintessentially, sort of like Annie. and here’s one of these annoying young actors, a face at once ordinary enough, so … so how come it’s so noticeable. increasingly. there are actors, the gal who played Cindy-erella, Mickey Rourk, you see them once and it’s instantaneous; then there are troops of them that you never notice, and platoon who enter the consciousness a bit more glacially. So, first reaction: Zing, pretty girl (Kim Catrell the final credits say) and Uh, oh, that um actor (Timothy Hutton). Though as I’m too busy with the french toast to change it, then become absorbed in what this is mere prelude to, a white bread graffiti movie, I realize what a decent actor Hutton is and am moved to admire his geniuine star candidacy. No, I really don’t think this is just maleness in me: it’s basic human: the girl: instant attraction; the guy: once you start to see character in the face, there’s no way the pretty face, even female, maybe especially female, can compete for attention. Marilyn Monroe at her all life sexiest shouldn’t dare to stand next to the mature Bogart. Though Meryl Streep could. Gelsomina. Now there’s an all time experience: switching back and forth between Anthony Quinn and Gulietta Massina.
Now, I’ve said some version or other of that before. I repeat it here cause (I felt like it, and) it’s the first time I ever paid any attention to this Hutton guy. (On the one hand, a weirdness of growing older, is a sort of perpetual low grade annoyance at Who are all these kiddies being shoved at me? shit, you’ve gone through the routine cultural indoctrination of Who’s George Washington, Jesus Christ, Einsenhower, Churchill, John Wayne, and the forced villains: Hilter, Stalin, Mussolini. then you have to notice these damn Kennedies and Nixons and Kruschevs. who’s this Jimmy Dean when you already have Brando? baseball for the not quite even semi-fan at the beginning of the season: who? but by the end: Wow, Bobby Bonilla!!! Once you’ve got Achilleus, why should any ever have to learn the name of another athlete? Except Hector. Civ requires an enemy. Sophistication requires granting them at least a Goliath.
But not 100% of another generation remains invisible, discontinuous to you. You flip. Some old farts exercising. Flip. Kid show. Flip. And there Keisha Knight Pulliam. You stay. There’s ninety-nine year old Lillian Gish, still more beautiful that 99.9% of other women of any generation. you stay. then there’s a movie of a bevy of kiddies: the Breakfast Club. How can they all be so very good? Stand By Me.
Anyway, I’m looking at the pretty girl. She’s not Michelle Pfeiffer. But the same kind of perfect blank human template. Virgin of pain, no evident double binds.
No big tits, no visibly plush or tight ass. She’s standing on the square at Worth St in front of the court house, straight up and down. If that’s what she looks like in the movie, how skinny must she really be? And some kind of a plot emerges. Oh god no. Another majority rip off of a minority. Again, majority and minority aren’t numbers, but apparent power. 5 billion people don’t have any majority like the 1% who own it all. 100 million species don’t have any majority like the slaves of the grass.
So, Hutton takes her home to Brooklyn. Some ugly half finished mural on his wall. He goes out for pizza. She looks around and finds evidence that he’s some kook graffiti artist who’s screwing up some mayor’s race. Turk 187. Some number. Now she’s in her panties and decorating his apartment to lead him to her in bed. I watch the movie with a bit more care. This is New York? Ok, so Hutton somehow got away with parking his side car cycle on court district Broadway. It’s possible. But crowd scenes all white? The most visible ghetto graffiti artist a nice guy type anglo saxon? No explanation of why he’s ripping off third world american style?
Cheers the other week. Mr Jaw does a tv sport show. His gimmick is to do a rap section. Except he can’t rap. The words are no good. The rhythm is lousy. Shoddy goods. The kind of plastic we accepted from Japan in 1950. Back at the bar, nothing about Well, at least you can fuck, you know how to pour a drink, you’re tall at least, you could play a little ball once. No: rap is dead, they pronounce. Not, we don’t know what it is and it’s none of our business anyway. We can’t do it, we can’t critique it. But it’s not our culture. What, do we have to coopt Everything? First trivialize it, own it, then dismiss … our wrong map. The territory remaining untouched.
tragedy. our modern non classical use. a key word change. we’re modern: individual, personal, not public. tragedy is public, not personal.
we have symbolic kings. elvis. a self-appointed tire salesman. but no public symbols that we’re honest about. oh, we have them: the president, the flag …
The Seventh Sign. Any movie made with that title: ie after The Seventh Seal, has got to be horseshit. On the other hand, and this point makes me think a little bit about the one that it’s the shit literature that most accurately shows an age, ie give this best anthropological evidence, being crap is no knock on almost any eschatological movie. I say almost because I have to except Apocalypse Now. It tried to be profound and made an ass of itself. No, I love the straight forward, slick Hollywood let’s made money with old magic and a few staged omens. The Ecorcist, etc.
This one reminded me of my thesis that old theories never die, they simply don’t fill out the census form. Reincarnation! in a supposedly Xian ha movie. A Roman soldier strikes Jesus in an inn. Some woman is there. “Will you die for him?” The soldier asks her. She just drops her jug. So here they all are in the 20th Cen, the same people in the same relationships. And it used my Release joke to Nixon! There are, it says, a finite number of souls, and the “last” baby will be still born, soulless. So Demi Moore is pregnant with the soulless baby. They go through Jona 2/27 and Revelations (speaking of old theories never dying: that’s a hodgepodge of all kinds of stuff I don’t think the church fathers ever established as dogma. The last religion martyr is a guy who executed his parents for being brother and sister. One thing fun about this one was how ecumenical it was. Hero desperate to get some Hebrew translated. Finds Hassidic rabbi. Oh, thank you for seeing me, and she puts her hand on his arm. Rabbi and Mrs freak out. Young talmud scholar talks to priest about Hari Krishna. Priest hears all the young man’s proofs that the bible is coming true, so of course, like any true professional, the priest dismisses him. Come on: God’s will is being fulfilled and everybody opposes it. Except the recycled Roman and some angel.
what a nightmare. Hilary and I planning to share an apartment again. how common is it for one to enjoy nightmares, terror, dismemberment, death, both dealing and receiving, as much as normal dreams? I’ll deliberately fall back asleep to finish any of them. I didn’t especially enjoy this particular one. At times I was aware I wasn’t using all my faculties to save myself in it. A little extra realism? A little less still dream at that point. the dream begins with me financially in this identical situation. But i’m simultaneously in graduate school, saddled with a huge inventory of joke art, I’m in the city, winter is coming, rents are minimally $600 and I’m thinking if I can manage that at a couple of hours a week at less than $5. The elevator man says that the movers will have to use the freight elevator. I’ll be doing it myself I say to this uncomprehending me, a hand cart at a time, and I see his eyes start looking for a tip. But that’s a minor detail in a whole situation maybe, even including Hilary being there, not worth mentioning, and not what made me wake up in wonder. It was the fractal labyrinth the apartment turns into. To start, it’s a 1 bdroom apt. a sleeping balcony allows the thieves to avoid calling it a studio and charge theoretical 1 real bedroom rates. though of course one real bedroom would cost double. possible or impossible its done. set to move in next month, start cleaning etc anytime, the key mine. i’m standing there trying to figure out at which point i’ll be obliged t make love to her, whether her ass is the same as once upon a time, and I see a little extension of the room not noticed before. It’s a spot for the broom, for the trash can, it’s a hall, huge, a community hall for a community of trash cans, except I don’t see an community. I turn back in. It’s made the room seem bigger. Trash, but middle class trash. And what’s that? As I investigate, wander the tiny apartment it shows features of 305 RSD, 440 RSD, 450 RSD, 106 N Forest Av, Falling Water, The White Horse Hotel, Balston Spa, awful Charlotte’s awful mother’s in Dedham, Alice’s on 10th & 4th, the whole West Side, the whole East Side, Martha’s at York & 76th, Grandpa’s 8 Pilling Street. Where will I put my now nice & healthy tropical plants? Why here’s a garden. As I penetrate this corner to investigate, it grows, it extends, but indoor urban, not outdoor wilderness. It’s already very well planted, though my Florida giants will draft all this stunted stuff. My Florida giants will quickly wither to size. Hey, look. But Hil of course is ignoring me.
I’ll never be sure whether this is a revisit of a childhood dream or a childhood experience. My father showing me some place in brooklyn. A hidden dimension to grandpas? A back room never used? Somebody died there? It’s where one keeps the Rochester first wife? Or was it not a Knatz house at all, but some estate property my father was overseeing? I’ve had this sort of dream before. Some hidden dimension. Not an Abbot and Costello Gothic hidden door, but a depth not realized, even after one thought one was familiar with something.
But never before combining fractal and human architectural. I’ll never forget my day at Falling Water. Carey and I had experienced the empty Guggenheim as music in space, silent Beethoven, massive grace, a pyramid in a pirouette. But Falling Water showed Chopin intimacies, free will unknown since Eden, privacy without clothes or doors. The dreamed apartment complex was a Falling Water without drama or genius. Except in how is wound and changed perspective. A step further into the garden and I can’t distinguish my apartment from any other, Better go back, but look, there’s a parallel garden. I turn to look back. I don’t know where my apartment is or which garden I’m in. Did I cross a border or not? The fractal architecture uses borders you can’t see until after you’ve crossed them. Neither can you then see where they were. Only that the whole view has changed, your particular passage of entrance eclipsed. Birth? I pass a cafeteria. how convenient. as though I’ll ever be able to afford public coffee or muffin prices. Steam from a gym. Now it’s the CU underground jock city. Now there are people all over, a city street, but it’s still as far as I can tell the 11th floor, or 7th, or whatever I’m on. Though I get into one neighborhood with little stair cases, duplex type stairs. Still after one or two, I don’t know what floor I’m on, only that I haven’t and can’t retrace my steps. So ask somebody. But I don’t know my apartment number. I just made the deal. “Honey, I hear a prowler.” And here comes hubby cum shotgun.
I can’t give myself intelligent advise. How about directions to the landlady’s place, she’ll take you back. Yeah, in a second, maybe I’ll recognize something around this next node. What does it matter? I’m not lost; I’m fascinated. I wake up sweating. It’s 10:30. Groan and piss. To my surprise, I’m right back wandering. Same dream? I don’t know, but the same architecture. What a termite hill must look like to a termite, termites not navigating by vision. And I think: if I haven’t recognized the structure in once glance, there can’t be anybody who lives here who’s in his own place. (a city of chronically lost people, couldn’t retain property, since they could never find their own apartment, though if there’s some correspondence between population and niches, then all could always find a nest, if the niches generally had provisions, then all could provide. but no longer be “individuals.”) Or is this vision of it reserved for me? The others live in Euclidean space. Till it fades. I wake up really sweating. 1:40, 90o out, and not even all the windows open. stumble toward the AC.
couple twirls on dance floor, hemp weaves to rope in a sailor’s hands, other fibers intensionalize sin waves as the factory spins thread onto spools, bean sprout grows twisting in exquisite Fibonacci ratios, but get closer, look at the digital moments, attribute individuality or free will to the cell platoons torquing their walls with water pressure differentials, to the nation states accusing each other of being themselves: the evil empire. yes, go inside, listen with one of your virtual minds to the virtual voices. then, any bickering, sandbagging, writing of constitutions, plantation owners punishing a slave for avarice, the CIA judges Eichman for following orders, both implicit and explicit … the preceding comes, with sample dialogue as I’m tossing my omelet. ten minutes latter, I’m fed, but of course the same dialogue is gone. is there any point left without the virtual extensional “flesh”?
literature is the “virtual extensional”!
shared function, while burning my thumb, I manage to jot those two words in SK. breakfast is done, I insert where planned, but that point too is gone. Sure I member the comparison, but not the compared. the genitals are a specialized cloaca. shitting is older than fucking, one celled creatures gave back transforms of what they had taken long before evolution got the quantum boost of information diverse sexual reproduction. eating is older than talking, but we came to use the mouth and tongue in this incredibly powerful digital as well and analogic information exchange. analog: you may yell loud in proportion to the immediacy of the danger (very soft is an irony of the same: shh, don’t move, a snake), but in YIKES, a lion, the analogic YIKES is followed by the digital “lion.” YIKES, an earthquake, is a different content, not just one more syllable. the tongue developed for moving food, but was then very handy for forming phonemes, the mouth (and whole body’s cavity system) a nice acoustic box. ok, great, I’ve said the above a zillion times before. so what was the new point? some new thing perceived as a double function? it was within a second or two of my little playlette, my dialogue of arguing hemp ends, circling each other like enemies, thinking they’re fighting, winning, doing great with their feints and taunts, but with no idea of the rope forming, its length, its strength.
ok, I can make it fit in a way, but was that it? I guess it’s good anyway. sure. territoriality, aggression, self-maximization, huffing oneself up, screaming war cries, painting and posturing, having a stick that can draw blood as well as wave in the air, making us look bigger, fiercer, etc. but making us fierce in truth as well, but also doing something else, weaving a new logical category of species, of weaving, of antisocial socializing, a new creature, possibly very good for a different future, possibly having invented the only way the too successfully self-interested can commit suicide, who knows? who should know? did the savanna wanderers know they had gone from analogic to digital the “first” ha ha time some general image perfectly in accord with interests common to many levels of life-danger: predator-something the rooster’s begawk is perfectly articulate enough for, becomes an abstract symbol, something particular in the environment: a lion? cave carvers know they had images, that the images had associations, mating salmon, rutting ruminants, running water, but how about the moment(s) when their picture of the ibex became a pictograph? a symbol for spring? a “letter”? the first symbol? I don’t think that they knew that they had a symbol, though they surely knew that they were now drawing that one differently, different because of a certain minimum requirement sameness without which it wasn’t an ibex, it wasn’t their one and only letter, “A” (upside down of course), it wasn’t spring, it wasn’t Good, possibility is thawing once again, in a rhythm, soon there will be more meat than we can eat, soon we can bathe, fuck like bejesus. no. then it would have been just a bunch of scratches. a wasted bone. in a people who probably didn’t waste too much.
neither do we know that the eight millionth tactical missile might not just be the nine billionth name of god, the key prayer, the last straw, triggering the unraveling.
ad for that same obscene IOU show says “it crackles with taut Hassidic dialogue.” what? I look up at the graphic where some review is quoted. but it’s dissolved. what did they say? ah. had to be “acidic.” [week, later, I heard it the same way again: Hassidic. even after the above. also, saw a longer take of that feel the knee/grab the balls bit they’re making so much of. ok, this time it’s not quite the same. he’s put his hand on her leg, she’s asked him in front of the live camera to remove it. but still. should cops shoot speeders? even after one warning? in a history of the warning being meaningless?]
how can I have misheard that? must be because I’d just been weaving comments on tautology, identity, etc in my virtual file for bk.theo re hyp. something like: all niggers may look alike to the bigot, but that does not mean that it’s so. if the bigots form the only universe (in their minds) and it somehow impossibly could be the only Berkeleyan universe, then it would be true. if all italians stink of garlic to the pale palated bleached bread … and there’s no difference between a wop and a jew because … and the ad came on. meantime, my thoughts were making me miss play after play in this incredible game two of the series. Ricky Henderson’s lead off hit, steal second, that had all my attention. but even Canseco’s homer in the third … Willie Randolph almost hits a rbi double, just fading foul … then more have scored and I don’t know how.

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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