/ Journal /

Digital Notebooks
1985 – 1997
Id Intros Scant Tech Style
Scant Editing

previous save: 11/17/90
?what’s this pile of scribble, been under my pencil case since I moved:
if your devotion to the truth wants only an ancient philosophy with little regard for consistency and none for modern science or for rigorous epis, then I’d say that Xity is as good a choice as you could make.
the white house is always telling us what “history” will say. Nixon was always writing, rewriting, and again revising his own. the magician unable to distinguish between nonpartisan perspective (with its own limitations) and a stacked deck. WH history is never wrong: because five months later it’s telling us that history has said it. Now: that’s done. On to more pillage. But history, whatever it is, is something that must have at least one major disjuncture in it.
A bio and an auto-bio aren’t the same thing. What Nixon thinks of his own accomplishments may be interesting, should be known, but don’t call it history.
what Napoleon, Ozymandius, Nixon would believe what a truly different age would say about them? need they even care?
has there ever been a civ that other cultures (not their sons, so it’s a little tricky with Greeks and Holy Romans) Etc
Well yes. in one sense we can all believe it. because there is one history set of histories written in advance: mythology.
Mythology has only vague predictive power. See? you sinned.
very ambiguous. But that’s where we’ll rec. oh are we ever stupid, venal, selfish, etc.
X exclusive, or xs would be a dime a dozen. as Xs were in X’s day. (still plentiful in other cultures. SirJ reports 500 registered living gods in one province of India in 18nn. Registered with the state! then some tv news show just claimed some large N of messiahs, JCs in San Francisco in 1990! but not allowed to be routinely noticed in our exclusive X church culture) & of course, plentiful in the sociophere. the more civilization, the more necessary
I would genuinely like to know how consciously planned some of DL’s schtick’s are. eg. Larry Bud Mellman is clearly the show geek. DL himself is part geek and plays on it: Hello, need any yard work? But, to what extent is Paul Shaefer a geek? Short, funny looking, bald, outstanding studio musician, but also, inattentive, only half bright, Peter principle inept. Anton is always missing drum rolls. if he really were, why isn’t he silently fired and replaced? does DL not care about his show? hardly. Anton has blackmail info? doubt it. I think partial geek-ineptness is a job requirement. last night’s repeat, Amber Waves of Dave. Paul doesn’t get it. tonight, the big nothing schtick is Jump Suit Drill. AhOooGah, and all crew swarms the stage in red jumpsuits. you recognize Al, etc. Nice blond. Cast of dozens, all red jumpsuited. DL throws confetti in the air and sets it off, or sets it off and cannon shoots the confetti. swarm swarm. anyway, then DL says to Paul, That time was a dud: Where was the music? Paul, drinks his coffee, shrugs, the equipment wasn’t turned on. What do you want, competence? Paul has a no fault contract? Or a little chaos is part of the charm. Well, I certainly think it is. Paul has on occasion been my favorite tv band ever. I just wish I knew how much is deliberate. K-Mar, the Discount Magician. Another house geek. David stands there and ruins all the tricks. Does the same when Paul Prudhomme or Julia Child is cooking. Or guest are doing stupid pet tricks, etc. When he insults beauties (real or ex), Nastasia Kinsky, Would you like to give blood? to … the reincarnation dim wit; can’t be planned, not with the stooge in on the joke, anyway.
Anyway, a big clue: who are his writers? Well, one is Chris Elliot. First time I ever saw or heard of Chris, he and father Bob were touting some father and son book with son the author. Oh, wow, haven’t seen Bob in ages. Grew up loving Bob and Ray. Can quote some of their gags now decades later. Like Mad. But I flinch this time. Where did he get than geek son? Why isn’t he hiding him in a closet? How embarrassing. Then I see Chris doing his own little gags on DL. They’re all embarrassing. Wait, the guy does know. He’s a professional geek. And I think of seeing Don Adams interviewed once, and being thrown all off balance hearing him talk in a normal voice and rather intelligently. Murray comes back from meeting with Don Rickles, raving what a prince. Jerry Lewis in an unmasked moment. (But Jerry Lewis without his mask is still 99% Jerry Lewis. A real fool as well as a pro.)
Anyway, I have come to tolerate/enjoy/some-combo Chris’s humiliations. Etc, But tonight, first time, saw a Chris humiliation and totally loved it. No sense of uncomfortable camp this time. Just delicious.
DL’s schticks are stitched. You show the prop. Top of the monologue. A really lame gag. Insult and blame the writers, insult the audience for not liking it. And then weave the loser throughout the show. Again in the monologue, with a pumped arm and drum roll. The bad gag gets better. And then just “random” (like music). So tonight, DL shows some three seconds of a trailer for Vanna White as the Goddess of Love. Vanna White, who stood me stock still mid step toward kitchen in 211 Windsor, upstairs guy had Wheel on. Sheesh, the most arresting ass I’d ever seen on tv! I even watch the game myself a couple of times. Marvel at the Stephen Jay Gould analysis of Mickey Mouse’s evolution appropriateness of Vanna White as a game mannikin. Then, she’s just familiar. See the movie trailer, and Oh, God, yawn. Who needs a mannikin making a feature? Anyway, DL shows just a touch of the trailer. “All your fantasies come true,” Vanna says. Then DL schticks it a couple of times. Paul, did you know … that … Vanna White … is … the Goddess of Love. OK, DL as usual. Fine. But then:!!! the trailer is duplicated, only with a guy, bare chest showing, a fag whore. Cheesh! it’s chris elliot in a blond wig! The shlock phone sex type “ad” quickly becomes vulgar. Chris says, If you have even just the bus fare, get on over here, we’ll work something out. And blond Apollo produces a can of Bud and guzzles. One of the best DL gags ever. followed by Top 10: snuggles the fabric softener bear. claymation obscene jokes. unbelievable.
or sometimes I’m just a sucker for comedy. flip, and pause at piss poor channel cause it’s Jasmine Guy being interviewed. She’s asked about her fan mail. Marriage proposals from Attica, Rikers. She winces. “You don’t mind if I’m a convicted murderer? I love your show.” But the second she’s said “prisoners,” the audience has roared. Host explains: it’s a plant. They’ve prep’d the audience to that word. Demonstrates. Graucho and his duck on a string. The Pavlovian audience. And I start associating, thinking. Psychologist’s experiments. Arbitrarily reinforce something or other. The lab rats think the test is math or logic or knowledge, when actually it’s suggestibility. But, not only is it true, it’s super duper true. and to what extent are the psychologist’s themselves lab rats? reinforced with MAs and PhDs and tenure to be Nazi’s? Bill Murray’s ESP tests. The CU campus!
and I think of SirJ. the “evidence” of the “truth” and whatever the current epis is. How do we know it’s true? The magician opens his veins, … and it rains! Maybe not immediately. Maybe not for months. But sooner or later, it rains. What proof could be clearer? So long as no one understands that same pattern in a larger context. The Temple brothers hold the bound Tora aloft and march it through the Temple. The priest holds the Book aloft. The Medieval peasant appeals to the stained glass stories. There. Don’t you see? How could it not be true? We see these things in a wider context. But what context is ever final?
What an awful day. Try unsuccessfully to sleep at 5 or 6. Go back to chess. To tired to pay attention. Can’t figure out why Petrosian quit at Kasparov’s offer of queen rook exchange. Reminds me of Fisher’s back rank check queen “sacrifice.” Yes, Kasparov’s move forces a decision, and yes, he’ll go a pawn up, maybe a pawn and a fraction. But a clearly won game? I put it on automatic, and try again to sleep. Shit, now the heavy equipment coughs to life right outside my window. Bulldozers, weed whippers, trucks. Hours and hours. Finally, I doze. Beep! My alarm? Don’t know. 2 PM. Again and again, Beep! Finally, calvary charge. And I realize that it’s the ChessMaster still trying to solve that resigned position. It’s 10 PM before I get up. Coffee, bike to store for bread, come back, midnight breakfast, more coffe. I’d bought some European dinner roast. Good. But they’re two or three more cups than my norm. All with the caffine very much present. I G- Bach and remember the CM. Retrieve computer. So stupid I can’t even see the checkmate, can’t tell who’s black and who’s white. Then I see it. 80 or so moves, when Petrosian had quit at move 20 or so. I replay the game. Beautiful. Brilliant. But I don’t believe for a second that the CM succeeded in discovering, even at Level 7, what Kasparov had done and Petrosian had seen. Like the CM couldn’t solve Fisher’s “mate in a few” against Byrne. And neither can I. Neither can I play at CM’s Level 7, at least I don’t think so. Neither will I ever test it. Couldn’t stand tournament speed chess against a screen. Against a human opponent? That too will never be known. Never had one any good. And if I found one, would I want to torture myself with the experiment? If he’s tournament tested and I’ve never played anyone but Mom, the Colonel, and Ken? Beating Marcie once hardly counts. I don’t know how often I could keep that up. You don’t just play behind closed doors and then play Carnegie Hall. At least I don’t think so.
But, that’s beside my point. Half way through replay, tschoon, the brain cuts off, I feel faint. Am I dying? Fuck, I haven’t mailed Brian’s letter. Even the rotten sleep I had should have been enough to feel half way alive. I was in bed long enough. Maybe too long. Maybe it’s the coffee. I check my calendar of life expectancy. Can’t quite figure it. My father died … I’m not sure. I’d already known Hilary long enough to have introduced them. Was I in graduate school? Through the Army? Can’t recall. He was fifty something. I’m fifty-two. Hil and I weren’t married. So it had to be before ’65.
Not that that means anything, even to my plain old human mind. I’ve never been obese. Didn’t altogether murder my liver. Neither is there any clear corresponce between parent & child longevity. They can duplicate; they can vary. Mom let herself go to hell and was still unkillable. And most of all, all my life, since childhood, I’ve believed it was all gravy. No complaint possible. Never expected to survive my sickly childhood. Never thought the world would see much of the ’50s. Each decade since, more and more unlikely. Moderns prepare for a future, whether or not there will be one. I never did. Not really, not seriously. It was all just treading water. Founding FLEX an As If action. We must behave As If there were a chance. Trying to convince myself? With my own metaphor?
Trying FLEX, to save the world, without the belief that the world was savable. The point was never to save the world, but to be on the right side. With the prophets. With the angels, even if you have no doubt that you’re an angel in the front ranks, the doomed ranks of Armageddon. You don’t do it for you. You do it for God. no doubt who wins there. And that too is metaphor, since there’s no more Armageddon as a war than there is God as god. That’s not what god is. And that may not be what human destiny is either. A stupid habit. Merely another example of how we’re all lab rats. Reinforced with what’s bad for us. Religion as a weapon of civilization however much it may also contain antidotes for it. The question is, is it 1% antidote, and 99% poison? What difference does it make? It’s how we live. No alternative. The natural world all but gone, destroyed, irretrievable. To us. Natural here of course meaning only pre-man. Never not thought that we weren’t also natural. That cancer isn’t natural. But it isn’t the order I’ve learned to respect. What order is it? Can’t know yet. Can’t know anything without samples from a multitude of times. Exactly what man can’t have. Not into the future, for all our speculation intelligent and otherwise.
Anyway, living my life always as though there’s no future, particularly so in the last few years. Must finish DB. Did finish Mod. Must publish it. Can’t do it all by myself. publication is a more than one body problem. takes minimally two. optimally, many many. anyway, i sit here like a schmuck. chess, music. ten years ago it was golf. then golf and music as the weather turnd. then music and chess. then the awakening. shove that all aside, survival, everything. write at least one decent thing. be business like. business again a more than one body issue. I’d thought to myself: ok, Knatz, very impressive. you take up golf at forty-something. even harder maybe than skiing at twenty-four. like skiing, you beome somewhat accomplished at it within a couple of years. play better than 90% of the other golfers even if they’ve done it all their lives. but in no way do you do it really well. keep it up the same and you’ll still never be in that 1% who can really do it. on the mountain, I am one of those 1% who can really do it. very impressive, self taught as an adult, but so what? you’ll never be, nor do you want to be one of those 1% of 1% who can really really do it. whereas, you’ve never not been one of those 1% of 1% of 1% who are deep into their own imaging system. always a drag how the GREs etc don’t show anything more specific than the 99%th percentile. But even if it did, you know it’s a stupid primitive instrument. no public test will ever test what it is that you’re really good at. unless you happen to be really good at one of those silly limited things the public cares about. ritual territoriality. there are ways of measuring this half-back or that general. this or that heavyweight, middleweight. though there too there have to be infinities of aspects totally left out. like the samurai film where the one guy develops the nice life preserving move of cutting the opponent’s right thumb off. He duels his old buddy. Wham. the climax and they both fall down. I won, says the guy who’s disembowled as the other guy looks in disbelief at his remaining four fingers. That’s a fiction. We could even imagine the unlikely, that thumbless is going to go around like the Ancient Mariner, telling of his defeat by the dead. But how many zillions of such are invisibily woven throughout life?
anyway, no feedback. and after a few years of trying in sustained bursts, I’m back doing what I was doing ten years ago. The music is wonderful. But whatever talent never got developed, I’ll still never be in that 1% who can really do it. It’s wonderful to entertain myself so, very fulfilling in a way, but still, it’s not the talent that I really can do. Day after day, not doing anything to preserve myself. Watching the world go to hell. Can’t even bring myself to reread what I’ve done of PA.
But then, BK calls and reads me a four page marvel. Very well done. Very likely to appeal to the same people that I merely disconcert. On the one hand, I firmly believe that it’s insane to think of ourselves as anything but our children. (Not necessarily genetic: priests have more children than the merely fecund. The prophet in the desert, even he whose ravings don’t become part even of the apocrapha, may, may just, have the most children of all. And even if he has none: so what? The biosphere is 10% field and 90% waste; the waste just as much a part of the overall fecundity as the much fostered hybid.) Any way, I devote a couple three weeks to Hyperion. Now a couple more to jabbering about it. On the one hand: joy. Fulfillment. Hey, Dan Simmons is doing it. What difference does it make who the author is, so it gets seen? The age is happening after all. The literature is getting done. So what that it isn’t me? But then, The Fall. What crap. He’s a fucking Jesuit after all. All that good matrix stuff: phony, bleach blond, a whore. It’s not that he’s after understanding at all. It’s the Chicago reporter perfectly shamming understanding Buddha etc only the more successfully to palm off Teillard and more Western imperial hubris. A Disney production of Lear. Hollywood’s cut Brazil. But what if it’s Brian? Isn’t that what I’ve most slaved for? My mind far more devoted to his than it ever was to mine. Long distance the harder, but still.
Stallone is driving a big rig through nice mountain roads. Over the Top it says. Cut to some military school graduation. One kid alone is slow to throw his hat aloft. He’s called to the Colonel’s office. Stallone is there. Your father will drive you home. I have no father, the kid says. My grandfather will arrange something. Col says, It’s your mother who has custody and she wants your father to pick you up. Kid wants to see ID. Stallone complies. Wedding picture. And here’s Sly choosing a worthy topic. The modern family, the modern state, law, power, morality, survival, sentiment. Sly stops at a truck stop, and right away, some earringed giant is bulling him. “Hawk! I got a $1,000 says I can tear your arm off.” Ah, so Rocky goes arm wrestling. And I go through a whole series of thoughts about what a good spectator sport boxing can be, though it often isn’t. And what a piss poor spectator sport arm wrestling is. I’m not that respectful of it as any form of sport on a high competition level, though I credit myself with no authority on the subject. It obviously takes strength. I don’t doubt that skill is involved. It may take conditioning. Other than beer, drugs, stupidity … I remember Wide World of Sports doing a thing on it once. Ok, I responded like to Pumping Iron. A weird world. Interesting to see. Once. For a few minutes. Well, Sly is too good a film maker to … Wait a minute! That’s what the title is! Sheesh, well he’s no giant among filmmakers, for all the heart tugging of Rocky. An unreasonably effective film.
Now here’s the kid’s mother, lying in the hospital. Her whole function in the film is to be bedridden, waiting for an operation. And to have at least once had a taste running to trash enough to have been bedded by Sly.
And I run for SK to make a note about Hemingway and hospitals. A point I shall return to shortly.
Grandpa lives in giant estate. Has FBI type bulldogs by the dozen to enforce his will, skyscrapers full of mouthpieces to find loopholes. They still don’t think grandpa can retain custody. Daughter is dead. Blah blah. Shitty kid sees the light, and runs off to Vegas after dad. If the movie ever said why dad had left in the first place, I missed it. Too busy remembering how much I loved James Caan’s handling of Tuesday Weld in Thief. Lies, bluffs, play acts … not loving her. Out of love for her. It works. There’s never a retraction. No secret letter. My kind of fiction, what ever trash genre it too was. Was art wasn’t top class trash once? The novel. Poetry. Jazz. The waltz. Only those arts associated with ritual. There we may have to look further than we have evidence for the trash period.
Anyway, I’d intended just to note the hospital and the parenting, but then, we’re at the arm wrestling championships. All these crazies. Drinking motor oil. Eating lit cigars. All the crazy psych jobs of competition. Tal with his cigarette and his stare. Marcie with her cigar. But these guys are monsters by any homo-ss standard. Ok, he’s getting mileage just from the freakiness. But no. The final is really really well done. Even looking a bit old. A bit shrunken in the jaw, a bit sunken in the eye, Sly puts on an awesome Rocky finish. Had me standing! away from the Plus, away from the 22, standing! an inch from the screen, breathing hard and jumping up and down. While this squawky little kid yells for his dad.
But the first subject: what perfect little state sheep we are as we watch all given prerogatives preempted. Who owns the children? Now certainly not themselves. The parents: unless the church, king, state says otherwise. Yet parents can “prove” their general competence. Some quality has resulted. Beauty, genius, whatever you value: it’s had parents. But what has the state fathered. How many nobel prize winners come from orphanages? From state education? public school, community college, state U? No doubt they could come up with examples, so long as no one could compare the comparison. Like the creationists coming up with their own “scientists,” their own predictions. Fine, so long as no one knows what a prediction is.
Hemingway has hero after hero lying in a hospital. Hero meaning protagonist. And special meaning “hero.” Anti hero. Hemingway hero. And all the contemporary, post-modern, post-Hemingway, post-war, fodder: everyone lying in hospital. Now, students: compare. And contrast. How about similarities? Now how about the differences between the similarities? In the fall the war was always there but we didn’t go to it any more. These are the fallen. The defeated. The failed to die. Not the victorious. The hospitals are there to swaddle, not to cure them. The promise of cure a known illusion. The men sit with the machines, day after day, not believing.
But not so quick now. Do the patients in the soaps believe they will be cured? Or are they just anxiously competing to consume what they must? Burn the farm to pay the doctors. Sell the silver to be terrorized by the orderlies. At least hospice was once supposed to be Christian charity. A little comfort for the dying. Not addiction to services; just plain mortality in a society growing in complexity.
Do we even know what Sly’s kid’s mother is being operated for? Why is she in the bed three, four days before the operation? And she dies! No surprise.?! Good God. Maybe it’s still Hemingwayesque. We are all the defeated.
Amazing. I’ll never be done with Mind and Nature. Nor half begun. I finally have it with me. The first time in years. Yesterday I begin my History of Mathematics. Vol II. Did I ever have Vol I? Do I now? Not with me. 1925. Drag. No symbolic logic. No Reimann space. No eigenvalue. But I start reading it anyway. Not a bad book. Except of course I don’t know the fucking symbol system. Have to look up aliquot. Check radix. Not enough to know it means root. Ah, but here it has a vague semi-comparison between cardinal and ordinal. Hey, I know that. GB showed me. So what is it? Damn if I can remember. Ah, but my Mind is right here. And I start rereading. So stupid. I’m 2/3 through the example of the sum of the first ten odd numbers and I not only don’t see the rule, I don’t remember it. Having read it carefully a minimum of seven times! I’m slower to see 102 than in 1979 when I first encountered it. Hopeless.
But. I’m rereading that whole couple of pages on double description, up to and a bit beyond the Stevens quote. I have to fight the temptation to throw the math aside and just start Mind on p. 1. But damn it, I determined to read the math. A semi-preparation semi- procrastination to read Wittgenstein. But whoa ho hoa! GB introducing parthenogenesis vs sex: “The process of chromosomal fusion is essentially the same in all plants and animals, and wherever it occurs, the corresponding strings of DNA material are set side by side and, in a functional sense, are compared. If differences between the strings of material from the respective gametes are too great, fertilization (so called) cannot occur.” and a footnote on Butler on parthenogenesis which “runs loose.”
First I think of Dr Schmidt’s readers trying to compare my Beginning to what they expect in sf. No relation. The readers anywhere with Mod. Surely they think of the Bible and of Milton and notice at least one line of Shakespeare, see that it’s functional in English … but mostly that it’s not one of their gametes. GB talks of the Janus face of this use of sex, simultaneously, dynamically guaranteeing heomeostatis, preserving the limits of the information, and variety, guaranteeing all variety possible within those limits of population! So then I’m thinking of another Janus: is my writing parthenogenesis? Absolutely. The list of what didn’t fertilize it is endless. But, of course it’s sexual. Fertilized by the bible, by Sh, by GB, by Twain, by Heller, by Calder-Asimov-Sagan, by Milton, Dante, CU, you name it …
I write a new marginalia in my greatest book. And … spend the morning reading Erewhon. It’s Butler that I’ve really been neglecting. Shaw’s GB. There’s not much left that’s more overdue. Proust? Nah! What did he have to do with Creative Evolution etc? Clarissa? Be serious.
Maybe it is neither coffee poisoning nor the disintegration of age that’s causing my nerve stem to unsynch. Maybe it’s just too many days weeks months of sitting in the same place on the same little pillow with my hand at exactly the same level, to 22, to T1100, or to eat, my eyes at only two levels, screen, angle slightly left and slightly down, and tube, quarter right and eighth up. I wake at 7:30. Very careful how much coffee I measure. Three aspirin headache, terrible for me, one is usually plenty. I’ve let my banana go quite soft before breakfasting on it here. Peanut butter, rotten banana on pan warmed rye bread with the mold rubbed off the end. since I’m going to have only one tablespoon of real coffee, I use the Vienna roast. A tail of Cheers is on as I try to come into focus. Makes me laugh out loud. last Sat Night Live with Geo Steinbrenner had a bit where staff blond is supposed to be Shelly Long, being asked what she could possibly have been thinking to have walked away from Cheers. But that was a major part of what was so very sharp about this one; she wasn’t in it. But also Danson, who I thought was incredibly stiff at first, couldn’t believe it was the same actor dancing with double iced teas in Body Heat, has developed a timing for this role, after years I should hope so, that’s really very good, understated slapstick. His face isn’t just stiff, too- good-looking; it moves in subtle ways. But over all: its how red-blooded Kristie Alley’s humiliations are; how anemic Long’s. Woody Harrelson too seems to be much freer as a straight up and down schlepp. Or maybe it’s just this particular skit. Danson in cocktail waiter’s silly little costume trying to pick up a pampered blond by assuring her he’s just as shallow as she. Together they couldn’t make a wading pool.
I’m way too wasted to try to match yesterday’s accomplishment, 14 odd str hours at the plus. 8:00, flip for the movies. I catch two titles and reject them. The shittiest channel for reception I’ve yet flipped in has the trailer for Stephen King’s Graveyard Shift. And then it begins. What gives? I’d thought the trailer was for a new release, a theater first movie. Well. Fine. King is exactly what I’d been thinking of turning to next, after all that Simmons. Something clean. Cleansing. Time to get to The Stand. But too late with the library closed till December, bookstore closed (Simmons’ latest there, waiting for me) and no stock at best. So I’ll watch. Except after a minute I recognize something. The perpetual carp of John Houseman. Fred Astaire. The Chowder Society. Telling ghost stories. Making much display of brandy and cigars and being old and feeble and cranky and rich and New England. Sure, it’s that egregious novel I couldn’t read more than a chapter or two of. But not King: Peter Staub. Or both in collaboration. Why would King, the genius, work with this phony?
First reading King with a definite feeling of slumming in trash, but I’m stuck at my mother’s and it’s the least of awful choices from her library. Cujo. Then Carrie and The Shinning in a couple of gulps. Not quick, but as quick as I could be careful. Simply awesome. Well, I couldn’t tolerate Ghost Story, but leaving the movie on is different. Two hours max, while I can breakfast and get in a little music. Didn’t touch the 22 yesterday. Not for one second, not one note. Unplugged and moved it when Brian called and it stayed on the bed till I needed to crash, late morning.
But right away, this movie, maybe Ghost Story was the King Staub collaboration and they’ve retitled it Graveyard Shift and are mentioning only King in the ad. So maybe it was just a watch our movie Wed evening trailer. uh … this movie though is getting me meditating. Somebody is in a room. Nice brunette hair hanging down a back. A la that Degas. Guy comes up on “her.” And the face is a cadaver. The gall falls backwards out a window. So it’s one of those can’t-trust-the-author movies. Just after all that can’t trust the author in Fall. And my mind spins off into Cardinal and Ordinal Numbers. Here’s Houseman and Astaire, ordinary enough human beans except that Astaire was once the greatest dancer ever recorded for a mass repetition transform of dance. one of the great artists of the 20thC. and here no doubt we are supposed to think of them as remote, powerful, some epitome of civilization, assuming the movie voyeur audience not to be Cabots and Lodges. But that’s my point exactly. The Cabots and Lodges were also no doubt ordinary enough human beans.
But that’s what I’m thinking simultaneously to thinking: in the series of odd numbers 5 is 3. Cardinal 5 is Ordinal 3. GB. But when you’ve counted the series, eliminated the evens, the Ordinal series will look and behave just like a Cardinal series! One two three. And here are the even numbers again. It’s just that they’re Ordinals, and all the even numbers refer to odd numbers! So, their reality is different, they’re of different logical levels; but on their own logical level, they look the same!
And I’m relating that to what I do: writing dialogues with God as a speaker (and I make fun of Simmons for Keats!). But it’s what all transforms do: ceremony, drama, … The merely human priest we pretend to and do see as a divine something. Marlon Brando is Marc Antony. whom Shakespeare in fact showed as an extraordinarily ordinary human bean. venal and petty as sin. good rhetoric, though, and a natural athlete. slippery. As GBS Cleopatra. Etc.
The trick, from the lower level, is to pass. Is my Cardinal passing for Ordinal? And the more you know, the less passes. Some trash movie comes on, and: Who are these kids? What are these silly unscarred fledglings doing in Roman costume? Kyle McLaughlin as Paul? Maud Dib? Please. Some fucking blond mannequin as a tough biker with a pseudo classical cape/shawl and a luminescent fiberglass broadsword? She can’t even hold the twelve ounce fake.
Cheers once didn’t pass to me. This evening it did. not quite for the first time, but never in spades like that. so, do I know less? or did they come to know more? me feeble tonight, or them right? it’s still just Ted Danson etc. But it was Ordinal.
Except that in human society, my counter point throughout this is that it’s all still Cardinal. Nixon just an ordinary human bean. But with human semantic power so believed in that it in fact mega-impacts on pleroma as well as on creatura not to mention on humana.
Now here’s Brian with Haverford’s actual president. A very ordinary human bean. Relying on the humana semantic horseshit of office to try to palm dirty dealing off as integrity.
Now of course it is integrity. To sloppy slow witted humana. An Ordinal masquerading as a Cardinal. Or do I mean a Cardinal masquerading as an Ordinal?
But Brian’s integrity is of Cardinal to Ordinal! The devotion is to adherence to supposed commitments to improvement.
Improvement is always ambiguous. We can’t possibly know what will in fact preserve or kill us. That doesn’t matter. It’s the quality of the guess that counts. The guess may be wrong, but may still be the right one in terms of information available. law ought to be a better survival tactic than paranoia. this year’s law, ought to be better than last year’s. especially when this year’s is 200 or 2,000 years old and last year’s is ancient.
Now when it comes to evolution, even to softwired evo, the natural reflex is toward the limbic brain, not toward the cortex. So what’s the cortex for? Gravity boots. Heft, damn it! Haul this motherfucker up.
I just wrote bk about a language binary. Ditto map/territory mismatches. how much of the latter is stupidity? how much lazy habit? and how much deliberate concealment? Funniest thing of all, 9:35 and night reception starts to come in. Meaning my lousy channel ghosts! Ah, while scribbling the above, I learn something. Grave etc is a theater movie and this is Ghost Story and so titled. I just was scrambling through partial information. But now it snows. The ghost of Ghost ghosts completely. The dominate night stations are clarifying. For the next minute, I find three different movies on this one UHF channel, the new two both stronger than what had weakly dominated for the last ninety minutes. Except there’s something still funnier. A different third channel ghosts in. Good gosh: it’s Nixon! A documentary on preWgate WH burglars.
Cardinal and Ordinal all mixed up. But it’s all the same! One humana.
my neck still buzzing but I feel the best I’ve felt in months. three days in a row of exceptional productivity, following a week of not bad productivity. 8 and I flick tube on to make dinner. what I said about last night’s gotta be true; must be feeble, cause I’m really gassed by the first thing I see. I got all excited in the 60s when Batman did comic book tv, then the comic book star wars. the stupendous Superman I, actually starting as a comic and then taking the To Fly route of geometrically expanding the screen to size. but since then I haven’t seen anything. maybe Batman the Movie was a comic. Dick Tracy. Dark Man. This David Lynch whom I haven’t seen except for Dune. must be, cause the other week there was some phantom avenger done as a comic with animation and actors. so feeble me stands close to the tube, standing, admiring something or other. I could look it up, since I mentioned it above. So here, 8 PM, I’m already standing there, getting the crab and tomato sauce out of the fridge, and Wow Pop Zowie. After a minute I realize: it has to be The Flash! I’d heard it was coming. More than any entertainment since Star Wars, I’m on my feet, started that way, but stay that way, move closer, and as it climaxes, I actually applaude. Out loud. Me. Alone. Comic book bad guys, but closer to human than to the joker are in a car worried about speeding. Don’t get stopped. Sure enough, there’s a police blockade. cop talks about fruit fly scare. Has to see trunk. Driver has goofy guy in back seat do the honors. he’s closer to Lex Luthor’s Ned Beatty than to the Joker. says it’s stuck. asks cop to help. cop opens trunk: bazookas, heavy artilliary for the trunk of a car. by which time Ned Beatty shoots rear cop, driver shoots first cop, and whoops: the roadblock cops start to realize their mistake as out comes the bazooka and WHOOOMMPH! Man. I’m jumping up and down. The water has been boiling for at least a few seconds before I can turn away. Mmm, good sauce, wonderful salad even though all I had was cuke, celery and onion. But the show’s mostly over by the time I can turn again and see any of it. It’s ok, I heard the predictable silliness in instantejiately turned into. He says he can practically outrace a phone signal? He’s actually approaching c? That’s interesting. But they photograph it jerky fast city traffic speed. Illusion of maybe around 40 mph. Probably shot in a ratio of 1.3 to look 4. But then they show him blurring into invisbility. Ok, that’s faster than 40. And we’re supposed to think that even plasma powered alloy limbs with actual joints no matter what they’re make of could human run at that speed? Even 40 strains possibility. Give NASA 8 billion and as them to come up with a model that would hold up at 40. maybe. but much faster? Get outta here. Still, it was wonderful. But the intro was priceless. And just writing pbi1 to bk I’m full of understanding of precisely why I loved it so much. Very simple. Because a gang that thought it outgunned anything around was outgunned. It made no difference whether the cops were good and the bad guys bad or the cops bad and the bad guys good. The guns outgunned. Ça suffit.
(A minute later the dialogue was that the cops knew who they were, how they were armed, had their whole perfect dossiers on screen. Then how come they’d just Galipoli’d their own troops? Cause it’s a tv comic. A real comic would avoid that absurdity more often than not. Tv? Don’t hold your breath.
But the blurb said that Doctor Doctor would follow. Good thing my eating was under control enough by switch time for me to up and twist. Diner so good I can’t fuss. Just so long as it’s not doctor. Didn’t know what channel or show I had, but in two seconds I’m laughing again. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have born the whole show but several parts got to me and I actually laughed again toward the end. Losing my mind.
Joke 1. -By the way, So and So, the band you hired for the reunion isn’t coming. They got a better paying job at the car wash. -Car wash? What does a car wash want with a band? -Oh, they’re not playing; they’re washing cars.
then some broad assed broad is flirting with a geeser, 70sish. Clear shot of his hand on her ass dancing, they turn and she’s got his little ham in hers. End of show, she sits on his lap. he’s ready to turn in. I think we could have a relationship, she pushes. -No, no, he says. -It’s the age thing, you see. Why in twenty years, I’d be in my nineties and you’d be in your forties. And I wouldn’t want that. Even if you exercised!
Man! Fabulous. Hollyfield just knocked out Buster Douglas in the third round! I’m watching the 10 o’clock news with that interest my sole reason, never expecting they’d keep Bob Avarez wired in a pay cc-tv theater. He’s just done his schtick after round one. 10:55. Looked like that had wrapped it. And suddenly he’s back on again! It’s over! I’d hoped so but feared not. I think he’ll humiliate Foreman and then Tyson will take charge. I think Tyson will rise to his best. Though I don’t think Tyson will then maintain his best. Love to be wrong.
today “graser” thought and Mailer’s `undefeated “heavyweight” must be insane because he hasn’t encountered a limit’ come together. It is unhealthy to be or want to be any sort of No 1. A curse. We want it, we’re rehearsed in it, but we also know it: and that’s why there are so many vampire etc movies. Carrion Comfort. Funny how I didn’t recognize that as Hopkins.
Jack Nicholson in Going South objects to being treated as a side of beef. but that’s exactly what he is and how he treats everyone else. Mary Steenbergen amazing. I feel like a schmuck not to have recognized Belushi or DeVito, though I noticed Lloyd in Western garb almost immediately.
riding, freezing, to Winn Dixie I’m thinking of kings and intelligence. Everyone is familiar with both sides of the oh the leader is so intelligent/ the intellectual doesn’t have a chance stagger. reagan is mocked and popular. the people will demand the highest intelligence among the qualified but what qualifies is intelligence circumscribed by loyalty to the limbic. the deliberately vague patriotism. the not necessarily hard wired but deepest ingrained program. what the real religion is. the people will survive/maximize as what they are. With notable exceptions. GB’s peyote prayer. Jonestown, Ghana? SW Caribbean. The Jews, dying to survive intact.
something astonishing about how the Japanese post WW movies all have monsters coming from the radiation, while we have the Flash & Spiderman. Their mutations are perversions; ours are super conventional law-N-order vigilante.
Back to EST. write another 500 ll, 4 am, actually 5, and make crab sauce. first thing comes up on the tube is cute girl with her cute little sports convertible overheating at the side of the English lane. blue collar comes by, helps, and cutie pie is acting like a 12 year old. straight brown hair past her shoulders, neat little skirt above her knee. good posture. little girl dress, little girl tits, little girl hair, little girl stance, little girl How much do I owe you, not change of expression, no thank you … God how I love the British for their consummate nyphettery. I think it was that Autralian outback walkabout movie with Jennie Agitur as a school girl in a tiny little skirt that never quite showed her pussy, then as the one girl woman Logan’s Run who didn’t fuck around that made me gaga for the little school girl look more than Lolita (who didn’t have it). Loves her too, but Lolita was pure pussy, not that exquisite simultaneous show it and deny it that the school girl look perfects. Actually, it just occurs to me, it’s a confusion of ages. What’s her face, eight years old, wriggles on my lap and grabs a passing feel of my dick, my poor dick squirming to keep out of her way. No little straight up and down school girl there. Heidi was definitely Lolita and not Jenny Agitur. She knew. She knew everything. Sits on the counch, spreads her legs, pushs her pussy as forward as it gets. Like *Rebecca after fucking. Stares at me. What? To see if I stare back? Well, I did and I didn’t. Twelve. Technical innocence, I’m sure. I don’t doubt the hymen was intact. I wasn’t going to find out. But the unbelievably bald sensualness. She knew exactly what her pussy was and where it was, what it was to me, if not yet to her. Shove it in my face. But then Lisa. Ten. No consciousness of it at all that I could tell. Showed it or didn’t. Her posture no different in a dress, a skirt, shorts, or slacks. This wonderful English actress in this cheap horror film, Island of Flaming Death or something, aliens land in sheep country, is dressed to look 14 but act a combination of 20 and 10.
for the life of me, I couldn’t remember who I meant by Rebecca, as I spell check this. then, in id39, it comes to me: Becky Cooper! NYU summer school. Grabbed me by the dick while opening the door the second time I visited her. Had my pants off before the door was closed. Had me in her mouth before my dick had more than cleared the wrestled down waist band of my briefs. Finger ends wrapped around my balls, mouth firmly ensphinctering my dick, she leads me, waddling, tripping over my trousers, constricted by my drawers, to the bed, where she finished blowing my brains out. My first time where the girl never bothered to undress more than the minimum required.
But the stare with her snatch was after the first time I’d visited her.
Let’s see: now more comes back to me. That first time, I’d started necking with her. Ate her through her panties without her showing much response. She responded plenty as I fucked her though. Afterward, we’re talking about this and that. Oral sex comes up. (Nor for the first time: nearly everything vulgar had been an open part of her speech from the beginning.) But now that we’re actually talking about it, me probing to see why she didn’t respond more, she says she’s never done it. “My grandmother says come can poison you, just like urine.” “My friend in med school says you could tube your urethra straight up into your mouth, pass it around and around, with no harm.” Talking about piss. But her logic skips ahead. Down she pulls my pants. I’d thought my dick thoroughly spent, but she proved me wrong. So, it was after I’d fucked her for the first time, and then after she’d gotten herself her first male blow, that she’d put her somewhat stained panties back on and spread eagled me for the remainder of my visit.
One last comment on the vulgarity of Becky’s conversation. She told me over coffee after class, before she’d ever invited me over to her Bleeker Street apartment, of a time she and a gal friend were amusing themselves by grossing out some couples at some club. Mr. Young Republican defends the honor of his date by standing up and chastising her. “Ya want my phone number?” Becky challenges him. “Yes,” he says, crushed.
Now that I recall the above, the second time I got blown with my pants still on also comes back to me. I forget her name, but god, was she gorgeous. Worked as a framing apprentice for Sally in McLean, VA. We go out into the woods, me and her, and the guitar I’d just bought, and my little soprano recorder together with a six pack of cold Bud. The funny thing there was I never had solid footing. She’s sitting on a stump, I’m reeling and spinning on uneven ground. I think she was a Becky too. Yes, Becky Anderson.
Next time I see Sally, she says, “Becky says you’ve got a big banana.” What’s her name, the fag hag that gave me that awful brown cat, that always sneezed snot all over the place, son of her world champion for the breed, was there too. “Is that true?” “I know one way you can find out,” I answer cleverly, practically falling drunk on my face. Fag hag exits and Sally finds out. So drunk I never did come. Would I teach her to give a really good blow job, Sally, who had to be at least sixty, wants to know. Says that that night had been her first try. Glad to, I say. Never saw her again. Years passed before I again revisited McLean. When I did, Sally & Jack had moved to Florida.
Jenny Agitur in Australia and in the future. The water gardens of Fort Worth. two feature length films I rivet to: and nevery get any more pussy than showed in the very first shot. If they take their pants off and flash, I look and then look away. Change the channel. C-, cuny (Bowdlerizing K. 2016 07 29). Yawn.
As I write, marvelous, … actually, I’d lost interest. she’d shown up at the inn, continues to look 14 acting 10 for a scene, accepts a drink from the doctor after ignoring the blue collars, next she’s in a bikini and acting the whore for the writer owner of the inn. here comes the martians, everyone sweating, and now as everyone tries to rape her, she just acts like a 30 year old whore in a short skirt. but now, they run out to her car, writer, rife and school girl, Ill drive he says. Wife takes passenger seat of two seater, writer drives, and school girl perches her little rump on the rump of the car. knees together, skirt about to parachute open folks. Of course it doesn’t there’s no wind at 50 kmph when a little girl’s pussy might show. Now she forces the car into the ditch, runs toward the lane where another car is coming, flops forward into the leaves. school girl rump in the air. oh, good civilized british audience, you wouldn’t do anything to an unconscious school girl in a little skirt with her rump in the air, would you? ask benny hill. now she’s rolling down a hill side. now she hates the guy, hunkers down on the ground. still no pussy. this little skirt is lime, not blue. has there ever been a more poderastic culture? fag jokes and tiny skirted girls. I’m so innocent, I couldn’t protest anything you might do. the marvel of course being that women know everything before they become so innocent. an evolutionary costume.
I haven’t loved everything about life here over the summer, but boy, did I have elbow room. If anyone ever heard my tv at 3or4 am or my synth shaking the trailer on its springs am or pm, no one every said anything. But over 3 days, temp from 90 to 75 to 40 and back up to 75, clear that the never less than 90 has cycles away from us. (infantile view the usual way of saying things, I try to see us a clumps of pattern turning amid other patterns, the extent of which can’t be known.) on the clearest day you might feel one drop of moisture. it isn’t rain. rain is when you notice one, then one mo … uh, two more, five, many, soaked. or mist. or what ever. rain is also just a binary. one or no drops T1; rain T2, next microsecond. Well, the population has changed here by one person, by one trailer at any time, but After Easter it was on a steep decline, and now, over the last couple of weeks: who’s that person? think I’ve seen them before, to every day, who’s that? or that? to the place filling up. weather turns cold, 90% of the residents are here. Including the one I’ve least looked forward to. I wake at 10pm and lights are on in the hitherto closed up trailer on my flank. Everyone has warned me that if anyone objects to my habits or music it will be them. And too late to knock on their door and give my don’t mean to be inconsiderate schpeal to the one couple it will be most important to.
But in other ways, other complementary seasonal changes have occured. When I first got the 22, blast, big voices, high volume. My old head phones were driving me crazy. Got new ones. They worked but I hated them. They maxed out way short of rupturing ear drums. The trailer didn’t shake. I couldn’t feel the basses in my belly and balls. But recently, I’ve been playing at lower volumes at all hours. So just now I put in a session just earphones. I didn’t even have the volume at max. I’d play a big voice and switch to a little voice. DixiLegend was fine. Or my JazOrg5.
and more and more the windows will be closed at night. if I can keep up the activities of these two weeks, I’ll just be at the plus anyway. seasons are internal as well as external. they follow, but also anticipate.
I turn on the tube and see a man fixing a christmas light on his porch, dog running from truck. Oh, man, Danny Glover, Mel Gibson! And it’s over. I missed all but the message that I’d missed it. Flip, news, news, news, talk, talk, talk, and oh shit, fat jowl and serious tie. Bill Moyers has never and will never look like anything to me but the little suck bussing off to DC to suck capital socks. Only now the thirteen year old licking the Kaiser’s helmet is 55 or so. and he’s talking to some woman. and they’re drivin me nuts. all the clichés. life begins, woman’s control of her own body, rights, ethical, biological … Why haven’t these people heard or read my perfectly simple distinctions? But wait, I sit astonished as the murk begins to clarify along those lines! The woman is making all the clarifications, not clearly, but the soup is clearing just the same, and she’s leading and Moyers is following right at her heels. And once again I think, wait now, Moyers could be a very good straight man, like I finally conceived Howard Cosell was being, feeding the stupid lines to Ali and letting Ali belt them. When does life begin, a question which is itself merely a semantic error, starts getting mixed with When does a “person” begin, and stage for the possibility of discovering semantics begins to be set. She’s done her homework and reports some five or six competing views: at conception, at the onset of brain waves (14 or so weeks), when the woman feels the fetus stir, at viability, at birth, and then she reports some radical feminists pushing it further up: not at birth, but at some later development … Charting points in a continuum in search of making a binary division. Yes and No. So it has to be political, she leads and Bill immediately discovers to be true. It was never mentioned that the gametes are alive to begin with. As are potatoes, even after we’re grubbed them from the ground. So the question never was when does “life” begin?; but only when do we acknowledge personhood? With a non binary answer seeking to be binary. Or so being sought by binary minded people. But the semantics itself was never discovered. The whole hour could have been delt with in five minutes given the right tools. I was amused to see her go onto an after birth answer & really had a giggle that it was feminists who were pushing that convenient expansion. She never got to my college distinction of “when my son is old enough to discuss John Donne.” Or the best of all of Raymond’s joke: “Life begins after the children have grown up and gone off to college.” But the actual discovery of semantics was never made. And yet, to these two anyway, some sense of it was never absent. They do know what politics are. When does personhood begin? the Nazi: for Jews? Never. The slave owner: for my slaves? Never. For the male jingoist: for females, never. Except now and then, at my convenience, for my daughter, my mistress, the peasant I’m more than fucking at the moment, sometimes at least officially, my wife, all at my pleasure. For the warmonger: personhood eclipses for the enemy while I’m at war with him. All the tv shows are now pulling Russians into the situations and giving them at least baby status. Oh, you poor dupes, it was all your awful leaders, who are now gone, or are now ours.
I though it was especially funny to trace the ditto colonizing of the radical feminists: now that we’re persons, we want the control to deny it to our offspring till we feel like claiming them. The one limit never in question was that it was humans and only humans who could be persons & have rights. it was only yesterday that that was the title in dispute, well surely n-s aren’t human. not injuns. not atheists. not chinks. etc. [Bowdlerizing K., 2016 08 03 Offensive terms go dosidos in fashion.]

but then the woman brought up something very serious. again without an efficient vocabulary, but she brought it up. more shades of what’s subsumed as Plato. she wanted some ethical invariance to show through the political muddle. she didn’t like the binary borders. if X is a person in 1990 but wasn’t in 1989, something has to be wrong. she wanted a continuum of right.
And lo and behold, just after I was thinking of the radical feminists as a new racism, religious intolerance, on comes PBS’s ad for its Austin City Limits. Now, we’ve just come out of a period when Ed Sullivan wouldn’t let Richard Pryor near his show, and if you saw a black on the tube it was Rochester or Bojangles tap dancing. Sammy Davis dancing his ass off and then going away. The Kate Smiths and Paul Whitemans kept the camera. Jazz wasn’t Benny Goodman and certainly not Basie or Ellington, it was Artie Shaw. And now for some real music: Guy Lombardo. The Boston Pops.
If you wanted to see black talent on the tube other than Sammy, PBS was were it would be found. But only of the wholly subservient to whatever white thought it was kind: no, not Paul Robeson: that fat Aida gal. Big voice but sure couldn’t sing Mozart. Wogs but only if their accent was Oxford.
But do-si-do. Now commercial tv is all Cosby & brood. The fresh prince. Arsenio. Bo Jackson. Michael Jordan. And its Austin City Limits that just has the token here and there. PBS is stuck twenty years ago. It’s still applying racial policies, instead of just going with what’s hot. I don’t doubt that commercial tv is still performing its perennial function of censoring in advance what may spread, what’s hot whose hotness must not convect, but it isn’t racial any longer. Certainly not in the old way. Not visible to this viewer anyway.
or some slightly different clone of what’s hot. but then, isn’t that what reproduction and evolution are?
order and disorder. do other binaries relate in same way? GB’s stochastic process, the random; and order. but if chaos is order not perceived, then …. which doesn’t at all mean that we can ever perceived what all the orders are. the random solved here will still always leave a random not solved infinitely there to any intellegence in the same system as the various orders and not perceived orders.
(does that mean there is no such thing as “true” “disorder” (Nseries of nested quotes implied)? Can’t know. Or simply don’t know. None that we’ve ever perceived.
on first looking into Columbia’s Homer: proof positive that literature was not what was being taught there, not without a reversal of meaning.
Name: a substitute for description, an invalid substitute except where description can precede.
Description: can be accomplished only after something has been named.
Humana: a cybernetic and semantic whir of the above.
binary/ not binary/ false binary, where binary becomes trinity.
like so many tests. the test taker is not in a position to falsify the binaries.
Initiate Scavengers
Good Gosh AMighty! 52 years old and I try looking into Russell’s Principles of Mathematics for the second or third time since giving up on his Principia for the third or fourth time. I see a mark or two in the Intro so I must have read at least that much of the Intro before. But this time, it’s easy. It glides. Yes, Yes, WOW, exclamation points get added to the margin. And then I’m shot between the eyes. Finitism. The basic epistemological questions of my life, the ones that the establishment in my experience has always simply turned its back on without answering. Can’t answer? don’t hear? don’t understand the question/objection? don’t know. but here it is, with a name, a history. evidence that others before me had made it. and formally, not just sort of like Carol Emshwiller in Mr Morrison. Or the guy who discovers that he has no nose in Mind’s I. Not only that, Russell sees its implications and doesn’t simply turn his back on them! Has the guts to admit that the disasterousness of the consequences has no bearing on a theory’s truth. Sees the improbable solution: only “a complete theory of knowledge” could answer or test it. But of course the establishment never volunteers that it lacks such: though to give it some credit, it’s seldom loud in proclaiming that it is totality. Neither does it censure those who would so attribute it.
Now I certainly claim no such thing for myself; neither do I believe that knowledge is impossible: Finitism isn’t my creed. I only wanted the teachers to touch that base. They never saw it there even when shown.
But: and if there’s any single reason why GB is so important to me, it is that it’s the first giant step I ever saw toward such a theory. One can go with this, it explains a zillion time more, doesn’t dismiss anything as the enemy beneath contempt, and is a jillion times more humble.
Simultaneously, I’m rejoicing about how much I’ve expressed to Brian in these past couple of weeks, but also recalling the despair accepted as chronic a year ago that there are certain truths I cannot possibly communicate to him, or illustrate or identify facts for, because of the one recess into which he will not look with adult eyes and that I promised to cease or to try to cease bringing up.
Simultaneously other JD permutations are parading: JD as a series of ss in which J is this or that logico- philosophical type. When he’s a Finitist, the whole of Eternity is spent failing to prove the first point: that Adam, the first in the dock, is a Man.
Simultaneously I’m thinking about the tail I didn’t include in any of the i files. the knatz’s tendency to fight whoever or whatever is tying to help them. Hilary responding to love as if to attack. Bk too. They can’t both inherit it from me. Cause H had it when I met her. But we’re not alone. And then my mind is back on College Walk, and then on Broadway and 115th in 1957. The Platonic Original inappropriate response to aid.
Memory kissed yesterday’s report of the unwritten Neighborhood Free Fuckery to bk, the first time it was even put, in any part, on “paper.” And of course I never wrote the story of that night. A week after I’d announced that it would make a good story, DeJong comes and hands me his execution of it. Sheesh, what bull shit. “I love you,” the narrator calls down into the sewer. But it wows Prof. Nobbe. I had no impulse to fictionalize it: just to sort of dreamy report it.
So, thirty-three years later:
It was the first semester of my sophomore year. Fraternity initiation time. Had nothing to do with me. I had circulated for a beer or two the first semester, then yielded only to Walsk’s entreaties from SAMmy the second. What were the Jews chasing me for? Now it’s my third semester of such shit, and until the following happened I wasn’t even aware that this was the night for fraternal climax, unaware that the wooing had been going on. It’s midnight or so. I’m walking across College Walk, back toward John Jay having just gotten off the uptown subway. I don’t remember where I’d been: I wasn’t yet a regular at the White Horse. I seldom go to the movies in those days. Birdland hasn’t yet closed. I was never at the latter nightly. Nor weekly. Not quite. Just more regularly than anywhere else. Maybe Basie was in town. It seems to me I must have seen Basie ten times more regularly than anyone else those couple of years before Birdland closed. On the other hand, if Basie was in town I’d be getting in much later. But that’s speculation. I don’t know where I had been. Downtown. And now it was time to go home: too late to do any studying: home to feel the tiniest, most resistible, sense of waste of the expensive excuse I had to be in New York and eating while unemployed. If the assignments were all more than I could do no matter how hard I worked in one day and night, then how this time was I going to cram it all in a few hours before the final? Didn’t know. Didn’t much care. It was time to crash.
Before I get quite to the Sundial two Black women come staggering from Amsterdam Avenue. I guess I was the only male in sight, cause they come straight for me. Umm, skinny little me. Did I back up? Shuffle sideways? I know I neither fled nor advanced.
Now, I had been smooching pussy with my eyes, dipping my fingers in it, since barely past toddlerhood. By the time I was ten I had probably had my hands on and in more C-, cuny (Bowdlerizing K. 2016 07 29) than some noncelebates in their whole lives. But, simultaneously the Christian, I was still technically a virgin. Once past puberty, the dick stayed chastely outside. In fact it generally stayed buttoned away. A habit I paid dearly for as detailed elsewhere. But between Dorothy in the seventh grade and the Presbyterian red head from Astoria that coming New Years Eve, not even Sheila had once touched it. Her mons bumped at it but with four layers of fabric between. And her own two layers stayed on her bottom no matter how far my hand was up her coo.
So, still on the Broadway side of the Sundial, these two bodies come reeling at me. I’d no doubt had a couple of drinks myself, but Shaish! did they reek of booze. And other smells I wasn’t used to. The shorter, fatter one stank and reeled far more than the other. Shorty was also the aggressor. “How about a kiss, Honey?” I stand my ground but flinch away with my face. Then I realize that her sally was a cover, a feint: was she really going for my dick? My God! She’s there. And I didn’t flinch that away.
A mistake. All those years of holding back. Not testing what Jane’s reaction would have been had I whipped it out and stuck it in her hand or waved it in front of her face. I had avoided Carol, the last to have wanted to view it routinely, since the sixth grade. Avoided her like the plague. Yielding to a nice feel of Carol (and simultaneously, Dottie) only when safely with the other Carol, my wholly unlusted for prom date, with whom I went quite rigid of body, not of member, when she sent overtures.
Yep, Carol used to gaze daily as the wand stood inexplicably on end, but I don’t believe she ever touched it. I don’t believe I’d wanted her to. It was all visual. I don’t think I touched her when she took her pants off half as much as I had the Babs et alia of the past. No, the last to grab it had been Dorothy, just after repeatedly refusing to. There I was safe with Joe. I think Dick had gone home, embarrassed that he had showed up uninvited, having somehow heard that Dorothy was having a birthday party. Present and all. All dressed up. While Joe and I were just dressed the way we spent everyday. Neither had Dorothy dressed or even bathed. As I was to learn in a way new to me. Joe absolutely wouldn’t let her touch his. You can have this one, I’d offered. No, No, No. Joe, Joe, Joe. And then her hand was in my pants and I was struggling not to faint. She had pinched my nuts on the way.
So boozer goes for it. Yoi. My knees sag inward. Stupid c- has given the fruit a very ungentle squeeze. I pitied even the dead chicken carcass being plucked by that set of beefy pincers. Had she gotten the dick and not my nuts I believe it still would have sent me sagging. “Five bucks,” she says, “for both my sister and me.”
By which time I’ve got my hands covering my wretchedly spasming groin and have backed up. But come on, Knatz. What ever she did to you, remember, you’re cool. And I fought to keep a froid face as I declined, politely. Then comes the stream of “motherfucker, faggot, …” But they’re moving on toward Broadway.
I’m past the sundial and angling down the steps when a crowd erupts from the quad. Drunk, loud, aggressive. “Where the fuck are we going to find a whore?” one complains. Was it because I hated these boors that I suddenly decided to be cooperative? Quick directions and the platoon was off. One or two though laid back a bit to thank me. I received an explanation as part of the thanks. They were pledges to Greek ___. This was initiation night. They’d been beered and paddled, whatever, and sent on a scavenger hunt. They had gotten everything: a fifty cent orchid, somebody had known about Time Square; the Wall Street Journal from last February 12. They even knew where, last thing, they’d collect the NYC manhole cover. But no whore for the brothers. And they’d already been all over Times Square.
I decided to wander back toward Broadway to see if they caught up with the merchandise they would become merchandise to. They hadn’t had to. Sister and sister must have felt the hoof beats, because they had turned back. It was still on College Walk that I saw the really drunk one counting her prospective wealth with her finger, losing her place and beginning again. “Ooho Wee, fi’ dolla, ten’alla, fiteen’alla, twenny dolla …” while big sister looked to swoon with happiness. One of the times she lost count was when her finger punctured the air in my direction. My gestures subtracted myself from her accounts. She didn’t at first recognize me. I doubt that she knew how disabling her ardor would have been even to a willing consumer. She had given up her summing by the time they all headed off toward 115 Street. “Tweeny’fi’ … ooo, lots and lots of fi’dollas.”
The pronunciation was nearly identical a couple of years later on 125 Street, just a bit west of the Apollo. The most pathetic whore I have ever seen. In broad daylight, she broadcast her offer at a volume that carried it far past her own NE corner. She was old, dirty, ugly, disheveled, spastic with drink yet with no hint of grace if sober. “I suck yo’ DICK fo’ fi’ dolla.” Repeatedly she cawed this to the wind, to the store fronts, to the flank of the bus that passed just as her face came momentarily to bear in the direction of the wide street after a twirl or two around the lamppost at last succeeded in keeping her clinging but still on her feet. A repetition, and she hung there bobbing, staring blearily at the crowd as though we disbelieved her.
And another reflection from many years past: how adult the college freshman appears to the high school student and to himself. Yet the sophomore will see the beanie coifed cherubs and think: what are these children doing here? A few weeks later the beanieless fraternity initiates maraud the streets like footballers the Saturday night they’ve won the championship. Down in the Village it was fortunately only once a year or so that we’d all have to flinch and say: Uh oh, here they come. Fag, hippy, and just plain visitor alike. `We’re men, right? No? You wanna punch in the mouth?’
I remember squirming with Christian discomfort, and more than a little good Christian cowardice, moral more than physical, the first time I ever visited Greenwich Village. My high school pals suggested it, and in we drove in Almer’s dad’s company’s hot ’55 Chevy. Great: I loved everything about NYC, but had never been to the Village. We get there, and my buddies go crazy. First, they want a whore. Short of the wreck on 125 St, how would we have known one? She would have had to wear a sign. Well, they do wear signs. She would have had to have one we could read. No whore? Then they want to bash faggots. “Hey, where are the faggots?” they were screaming from the car. All over. But again, not one of us knew the signs. And I would have concealed the knowledge had I had it.
Ah, the most pathetic fag I ever saw held his chapped mouth over a long stemmed rose on Sixth Avenue just off 4th Street. He was boxed on something. Frail frame levitating in a scimitar curve, blunt no doubt, while a crowd gathered around him. Him we would have recognized.
Now here’s cool Paul: walking home after an evening of the most sophisticated entertainment, Miles or Basie or Brubeck or whatever it was that he had done that night. And here’s the first whore he’s ever seen in his life. How could he tell? Cause she’d had poked his privies and given a price. And the initiates? They were given a map.
By the guy who had himself only that minute been given one impossible not to interpret. The first such recognition in his life, and, he is sure, in any of their lives. Cheesh, the guys had just roamed Times Square! Maybe one out of five women they saw … Maybe nine for ten. Maybe ninety-nine out of a hundred. By the time you get to Cully’s point of view in Vegas, you err in the other direction and call it one hundred percent.
It’s only another month or so later that Myron and I leave the Composer Room. Much as I had enjoyed listing to John Mehegan, sitting at his table, being in the inner sanctum, having Mingus shuffle by to mumble his good night, weaving over us, “Sheee … mo’fo … sheee … mo’fo … gu’ni, John” (Mehegan barely raises a finger. Professional cool. Me? “Night, Mingus,” I cry), this is the time I had looked forward to. Having Myron to myself. For at least the half hour it will take us to get back to Morningside Heights. I had never been alone with him to just talk. But we’re not three steps down W 58 Street and Myron is looking at the woman approaching. She’s a goddam adult, for chrisake. Thirty, or thirty-five. A haggard twenty-six, at least. Myron has flagged the taxi that wasn’t even passing till that second. He holds the door open for the approaching woman. Rain coat. No make up. She says “Thank you,” very nicely, and gets in! “See you, Paul,” and there goes my conversation with the genius. All of just turned sixteen, and he knew. I don’t see him for weeks, and then it’s all just telling me about how she kept sucking even after he had come. The first time I ever do get to talk to Myron, even after ahem sharing an apartment with him for a semester, it’s years later and he’s an exjunkie, exjailbird, very ordinary graduate student. Uttering coherent sentences, but ones only ordinarily worth hearing. When I’d first met him, his sentences were hardly coherent, but man, were they killers. Only later realized he was quoting the soon to be murdered Bobby Fractor half the time: “Like … you gotta … Listen … between the notes.” But i hadn’t met Bobby yet.
Anyway, the pledges have gone to become brothers. I run into I forget whom and we head to Riker’s for coffee. It’s three or four in the morning. The wind is blowing a minicyclone of trash that confines its wandering to the limits of Riker’s big front window. I should check this out from the other side of the glass. Time to crash anyway. My opening the door must have disturbed whatever was holding the litter spinning. Though it starts up again. I skirt around it to see it with the street light behind me. Who’s coming up 115th, still counting? It’s actual cash she’s got in her hands now. Her sister is in the same mellow heaven of wealth I’d last witnessed. I don’t think she’ll tweak me now. I hold my ground. Think I’ll say something congratulatory to them. So far, they don’t recognize me. So far, they don’t see me. Both sisters had been boozed, but I wonder about the mellowness of the big one.
They’re within ten feet of me, beginning to tuck their treasure away before they get to inhabited Broadway. I see it as filmed by David Lean. Something from the not yet made Lawrence of Arabia. The slow telephoto of Omar Sharif’s galloping approach to his well. For all the one’s brutish everything of before, their stagger is now lyrical. Big sister is weaving a head taller than her banker.
Suddenly, before my eyes, big sister is much taller. Piggy sister’s head is at the other’s waist. I can recollect its plunge, still counting, savoring, past her bosom as it continues its descent: shrinking to thighs, passing knees, ankles, and … she’s not there! I’d never seen, I’d never imagined, anyone disappearing like that. Time slowed even further in my bewilderment. Big sister’s eyes grow wide. The moment was absolutely silent. Or my mind could register, fumble with, only one input at a time. I stood there without a clue, looking where I had been looking, at the two heads of vertical space where two faces had been. Perhaps those long moments took only a hundredth of a second. I hadn’t moved my eyes. Then sister is starting to look down. I’m shifting my eyes. And I hear, hear as memory as well as hear, the Whoosh, the bump, the Ooof on steel, the bouncing and bumping, the scream, the plosh of flesh, the impossibly sharp crack of bone, the splash.
Sister starts to buckle. Now I see it: the open man hole. Sister’s ankle is turning at its brink. She’s catching herself just as I’m ready to leap and push her back. I’m thinking: open man hole, the fraternity scavengers, one of them had said they knew where they’d claim the final souvenir … Then big sister is screaming. Her screams are in the open air; moaning up from not yet perceived depths echo the screams of Piggy. I hold my arms out to keep people from walking near. I don’t know if there are any people near to guard. I’m only looking at the hole, down the hole, as I get closer. Some foul mist is rising with the screams. I see a cross-conic of light penetrate a few feet of the top. A ladder of steel rungs descends like an infinite series into the dark. I’ve never looked down an open manhole before. It’s deep. Very deep. It goes for ever. I can’t believe how deep it is. It’s maybe only a second since I was first able to move after seeing her body swallowed. It’s just beginning to occur to me how long it had taken to hear the splash. I don’t know when I heard the splash. I can’t trust my processing. Actually, I was probably thinking faster than usual. So fast everything seemed to be a vast glue.
“Somebody get a cop,” I called. “Keep back from the hole, Sister,” which the latter was doing on her own. Or rather she was on her knees, looking in the dark, calling to her sister.
And things started to return to “real” time. Big sister was secure. I was secure. I looked around. There were people and they were respecting the hole, craning over to look. “Did anyone call a cop?” I ask. Someone gestures to the occupied phone booth nested between Riker’s and the Robber Baron’s. Or Take Home, if that’s what it still called itself after the renovation into a fancy deli and mini mart. Riker’s became Sutter’s Book Store, then I forget what after Chris went out of business.
The cops came within a few minutes, time racing then. It’s cool autumn as well as predawn. The one cop shucks himself out of his outer cop coat, simultaneously wrestling himself free of big sister’s grotesquely physical entreaties for help. His undervest puffs insulation from an untailored arm hole. All his batman-cop junk still festoons his belt and shoulders and pockets as he starts down the ladder, not too slow for all his bulk. I doubt that he was taller than five ten but must have carried two thirty-five just in flesh. I see this or that kind of shit slime the plaid of his frayed flannel shirt before he has drawn below the wedge of light.
Piggy’s screams are ardent but discontinuous. She could, should, be unconscious. But seems to be only for intermittent seconds. Big sister’s howl in continuous.
The true depth of the hole wasn’t apparent until we had a long couple of minutes to trace the cop’s descent. The second cop is keeping everybody back. Sister is hopeless, but not an apparent threat to chute down on top of the rescuer. I yield maybe a foot. My squatter’s right is respected by the cop and the crowd. Crowd? Maybe a dozen others by that time.
A shadow of beam rises from the cop’s flashlight. Now we hear him begin his assessment, much interrupted by Piggy’s tortured enthusiasms. She’s got at least two bad breaks. No room to get her into a boson’s sling, too narrow to keep her clear of the walls hauling her up. He’ll have to fireman her.
“Oh, save me,” Piggy is screaming louder than ever. If we can hear her like that up on the sidewalk, what decibels are assaulting the poor cop?
We hear him struggling with her. We hear him start his ascent. And everyone there not drunk or stoned or blighted with bestial stupidity can decipher that a blasted eardrum is the least of the cop’s problems.
“Save me,” Piggy is shrieking. “I fuck you,” blubber, “I suck you,” blubber, “I eat yo ass. Save me.” Blubber. “I don’t charge you nuttin.”
I didn’t think it was in any degree funny till quite a bit later: but we hear the cop struggling to keep his grip on her in all the crap. He must have been a third of the way up before we hear an ultimatum: “Keep your hands off me or I’ll drop you.” A bluff, I presumed. Moans only from Piggy thereafter. He could have belted her one for all I know: like a lifeguard the failed swimmer who threatens to drown both of them.
It was a long time of huffing and cursing before his hand gripped the lowest rung visible. His filth smeared brow caught the light before her rump became apparent for what it was. The standby cop’s help is grunted aside until her rump comes almost level with the sidewalk. Her one hand gripped her carrier’s sleeve by the biceps. The other arm hung useless, shaped funny. Another rung and I could see the jagged thigh bone jut not just through her flesh, but through her clothes! That bone was the only thing I didn’t see slimed. Shit smeared her cheek right to the edge of her mouth. Still working, and I mean working, from the hole, the rescuing cop took care to see her gently secured onto the sidewalk before hefting himself the last few rungs and out. Some of the now mucky money still showed from where Piggy had been stowing it. I can’t imagine any cop ever better or more gladly relieved of a burden. Immediately, he begins stuffing his shirt back down his pants, tugging his fly into place. I’ll never know how much of his disarray was from her trying to reward him down in the pit.
These decades later I picture something I don’t think occurred to me then: some portion of her earnings floating away far below.
I had lost track of big sister. She had been removed to the squad car. Even at her sister’s emergence she remained back. Both must have figured out that the cops were best left to their business.
An ambulance was there. I hadn’t noticed it arrive. White coats were taking over. So far as I can tell, I was the first person there, the first person to act in any way. Not that I did much. It wasn’t me climbing down the ladder. But by then I was just another rubber neck. I didn’t hang around till it all dispersed. Emergency flags were placed to guard the still open hole. Somebody told me the hole was still open later that day. I’d told neither whores nor cops that I knew what had happened to the steel cover. What paroxysm of Columbian paternalism would have quivered to life had I? But no: Paul: the observer.
Back at John Jay Hall I ran into DeJong. He’s still up, just gotten up, or maybe I go and wake him. And I tell him the story. “I outta write something about that,” I say. Fat chance. And not many days later he slips me his silly story of it with the narrator calling “I love you” down the hole.
In another five years that’s what Phil’s boy will say as the bird that’s eaten the worm the boy has turned into shits him back to earth. I liked it better when the boy repeats it, metamorphed into steel bombs launched from an alloy plane. Shakes of Simmons’ medieval physics. How can I so love the medieval view of the universal plan Love, love, and perversions 1,2,3,n of love, so love Dante’s vision of it, and just tremble with contempt at the Fall transform?
it’s only in myth that a society ever finds itself guilty.
for the trillionth time, I’m just eating, the whirl of thoughts for the last 24 hrs, 2 secs, 6 mos, 30 yrs … can come, go, stay, evolve, transmute, play jokes, disguise … when like a machine gun … then a machine gun they sprays patterns ^^^ ^.^.^. ^^^ … The Zen kind of thing, it can’t won’t doesn’t come to you if-when you reach for it etc. but how could I have reached for ^. when I didn’t know ^. existed? Did the Camb snits “reach” for the double helix? of course the nonsense part of zen is the unspoken, unapparent reaching. the daffodil or camellia has all the right qualities for bowmastery according to the descriptions (they too have to use English or Jap, some natural language). what it lacks is hands, eyes, muscles, … more importantly any capacity for bushido, for violence in a hierarchy, ie they ain’t in humana. but the Plus is in ChM, I’ve got crumbs on my face and grease on my hands, the 22 is on … i’m running to grab a camera I’ve forgotten in some closet stacked with junk to photograph the incredible circus of all the dot matrix possiblilities of fonts, in 4 D array, and the act of flipping for the QAI boot disk sends it quivering. you turn the light on and the ghosts that are showing you the structure of humana, its own incredible math, are forced to invisibility.
it’s all right. so many revisit. already more than I could record in ten life times have revisited. Everything gets stuffed in here. Leonardo’s notebooks, Beethoven’s Seventh, the burned potato, the bout with the flu, the barf bag … all in the one string which will never likely be distinguished from an overspilling garbage can.
But you never know. We worship the Mona Lisa, dutifully in line behind the creators of the worship: Pater etc. Generations of painters then compete for a minor share of that worship. 100 gold pieces: wow. a jillion dollars: wow. In Leonardo’s & Ludwig’s case we pour through their garbage cans, ardently seek for one from Shakespeare. What would we make of Leonardo’s notebooks without the mona lisa? if the acid had been even worse in the Last Supper? or if the chapel had fallen to earthquake before the … or merely that Suliman took over, the Sistine Chapel also then never shown, cared about, preserved, studied?
We discover a couple of caves with paintings from 17,000ish yrs. How much humana occured between their abandonment and their discovery? RC and I were 100% in agreement: there have been no significant improvements in painting since Lascaux. What caves haven’t we discovered? What cave paintings that are neither paintings nor in caves?
And of course my question isn’t at all like what if Apple lost its master of Taxman or HeSaid/SheSaid
it isn’t even really Gosh look at all we know about without having a clue what it was in the lost opi of Sophocles, Eur, Aesc.
It isn’t Gee, the millionaire misplaced X were it isn’t known whether X is a groat or a quadrillion. It’s the difference between the pyramids and Euclid, or between the pyramids + Euclid but with Pythagoras buried, resisted, a population drilled in blindness to even just two dimensional permutations.
I look around and see everywhere the old culture gritting its teeth and suborning all good citizens to crucify Jesus, the Communist, to resist Chomsky, the crazy irresponsible egghead Jew … We may see it from GB’s own life, we don’t even need my example as well, though that’s the example I live in 24 hrs/day for 52 years. My neighbors, Melanie’s catspaws … with only every once in a while a bump in Marvin’s conditioning.
meantime, as always, how do I know that this isn’t the precise proportion of awareness to delusion to deception that’s the necessary background to the best of all possible futures? what good would the honest man do stumbling into Melanie’s house and blurting out the first thing he notices: Hey, that’s Natalie; not Nina.
SNL’s if superman were German: Superman blows the whistle on Johnny Olson’s being circumcized, not on the Reich not representing anything real or at least healthy and real.
But of course I don’t believe that. Jesus’s efforts toward a less lethal civilization weren’t a linear control, and exact formula. I put the plastic here, the detonator there, go 2000 yrs and ∞infinities of c-years away and … Satan trips the switch: Boom. There go the bad guys. No there’s no guarantee that history, evolution, takes this or that turn. What pattern it has will depend on there you are, at what level of focus within the fractal. You can be infinitely far in and still think you’re outside it! The highest level you can be aware of may still be an unknown, unknowable number of levels down.
So, even at the God level, he sees that he’s looking at a whole Mandelbrot bug, but can’t know that he’s looking at The Mandelbrot bug.
Here I am, knowing I’m way inside, believing that the chaos is beautiful, gorgeous, intricate, seeing this pattern, that pattern, believing my gestalt that the patterns I see, their nestings, their hierarchy are homogeneous with a Whole that can only be imagined. No, not imagined, only its existence imagined: never its extent or state.
We don’t know that Hitler isn’t just as much Christ as Jesus. We don’t know that our opposing the one and admiring the other (safely dead) isn’t also Christ. I looked at Todd addressing his cage of elderly mice yesterday. He was an automaton, a defective DS voice synthesizer, but so were Ralph and Donna and everyone else too. maybe I was as well. I certainly didn’t feel free. trying to tell these people what’s happening to them. you don’t help them at all, only get tangled in the Reich itself. Except of course that there isn’t anything that isn’t the Reich. Illich enters the church: and finds the Reich, finds that he’s joined its gestapo. Phil and I go into teaching and (can’t speak but for myself here) find the one thing civilization is always and only offering. The new Sanhedron claiming virtue for having exposed and defeated the old.
the old gods / the new gods. the father / brothers … the children of the new gods don’t even see the old gods past their own toddlerhood. the age when this and that part of the label ROM is being etched on top of the genetic ROM. then grandpa dies, is forgotten, it’s father who’s impossibly powerful, just, jealous, vengeful, potent, wise … the brothers are such wimps they can only drive the father away by ganging up on him, raiding in a pack … where father beats his chest alone. The all of us don’t add up to the one of him, but if we sneak up, poison his soup, hide razor blades in mom and in sister …
and so, N cycles of murdered gods back, Chronos, Saturn, Jupiter, Satan, Jehovah … they look impossibly great, causing earthquakes, eclipses … and also weak, starved, senile, effete, forget them … though there’s and infinite-proportional-to-humana series of antecedants you never heard of who are at once Stronger and Weaker that the three or four you can trace.
Except, cardinal, ordinal, in some sense the Baal and the Jaweh is just as generic as the father and the brother of an open series.
Week2: recipe book
“In the name of …”
“… Cheesh …”
48 hrs. i watch extra carefully to see the nice half second of perfect ass on the blond whore. saw it on tv once where flash had been reduced to about 1%. still 1% of a very special flash was nice. best nano second of ass I’d seen since the nano second in the second remake of 7 Deadly Sins, the Eddie Constantine section. But now it’s zero, just the blonds face, brushing her teeth, telling her troubles while Rensor watches space kid. it’s just ass. who needed to see it, right. it’s the same movie only better without it, right? And I imagine censoring things that the censor would notice and insisting it was all right. of course if they’re culturally dull enough, there may be no such thing. (there delete his wife’s ass, his daughters.) but I’m thinking: delete just 15% of the Eb’s in Beethoven. Censor … that’s it. ss of Soviet Bible with God censored out.
SirJ King taboo Conn Yankee, Nixon & Bendix. buying lunch legally free and free: why I don’t like to use words like free. except of course that those words, god eg, are exactly the words I do want to and do use.
Jack Johnson was convicted on the Mann Act for crossing sate lines with his wife! his white! wife. that had to be prostitution, right? That’s what Johnson served time for.
initiation: show that you don’t bite while we pretend to bite you. of course if we actually bite you, pretending by mistake, accidents will happen you know, you musn’t mind. or you’re not properly conditioned, not one of us, not fit to graduate to the biter.
i.e cf a book in a library to files on a disk. does the book “contain” anything while it’s on the shelf? information is an artifact of the perceiver. but, old materialist us, we imagine the book to be the same whether or not we are looking at it. (cf the ?: is the Sh I read the same as the Sh Y or Z reads? Y or Z may be more literate than I or less. It would be difficult to impossible for I, Y, & Z to be of “equal” literacy.) But find it easier, a bit, to realize that the Lucy Show isn’t hiding somewhere in the tv cabinet while you’ve switched to Who’s the Boss. Good Bishop Berkeley takes Protean shapes.
horror genres, battle, cowboys … me on the British anti Nuke war of the 60s. No, no, sorry: first, audience, you have to imagine that you’re not here. You’ve already evaporated. It isn’t you looking left and right while the DI tells you that one of you two isn’t going to be here in six months. There, it’s always him. You’re the survivor, however much you may not trust your own imagination, however much, the second you see yourself surviving, you’ll act to make sure it’s the other guy who’s still there, in your imagination the only possible picture of survival has your face on it. so, you’ve got to do the impossible. imagine you and the guy to your right and the guy to your left as gone. not no survivors: just not you. and not politely standing on lines for services from neat trucks. (Not that I doubted for a second that the chaos in Britain wouldn’t look like a Hayden sonata compared to anywhere else. anyway, the survivor isn’t the John Wayne, the Kissinger; it’s the drunk who was passed out under the abutment, the baby who fell from the third story window and bounced off the awning.
DS: sure I wanted Nat & Saul & Rob to survive. sure I also wanted Mel & Willie to destroy the world, Harold to run Hollywood for ever. As he has been indeed. But when it came to it, there’s something filthy about them emerging from their battles.
Sh kills his heroes. but as with the sculptor in MOMA way back when, after his machine had hacked itself to pieces, a new little machine popped out of it and ran off into MOMAs bushes. Fortinbras leads the future, not Hamlet. Fortinbras isn’t a pimple on Hamlet, but he’s the one.
a colorized War of the Worlds is on Dr Paul Bearer. actually, it’s annoying me less than I’d’ve expected. Love the human thing of we see the quality of the scientist because
I librarian knows who he is
II he was on TIME;
Not because we see him understand anything. Rays, working on an “atomic engine,” heat rays, but they only fizzle like kid’s sparklers to anyone who’s seen Star Wars. Funny that it’s the special effects that have depreciated faster than the fashions or the cars. the movie’s what, 40 years old?
I love the pair of incidents of guys walking at it waving, holding stuff, talking peace, and get sizzled. no reason to assume the martians have any primate messagings, but if they assume they’ll recognize white flags, waving palm forward, how can they possibly not see their own much stronger counter signal: they’re advancing. one big aggression signal, a trio of tiny little ambiguous counter signals. but the second of the pair, the priest, he’s advancing with book and crucifix and psalmic mumble. meantime librarian is screaming her head off. and to prove the priest’s non-aggression, the military instantly fires all its artillery. but then that is the standard use of priests in history: the white flag cover the military sneaks behind, everything cocked.
I do love the levitating cobra necked, rattle tailed green winged swan things that hollywood costumes the martians with.
But: here there’s this tendency to think (for those who have heard of Wells) that it’s Wells that we’re looking at. And: in terms of Martians, rays, total military invulnerability, 99% conquest, earlthling despair … it’s a more primitive science and a far more primitive fiction a half century later. What are we to make of things like the six days business? Couldn’t reread Wells too often, but it wasn’t scheduled. But it would make parallel matrix lists of Wells//Holly.
whew! Lyn comes on and one station break schtick is Star Drek, The Next to Nothing Generation. Fag Mr. Spock and dumb snatch (Lyn’s personna) wonder what to wear while they save the universe.


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.
This entry was posted in journal. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s