id38

/ Journal /

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

previous save: 1/3/91
life isn’t fair; life is equal, basketball guy says during UNLV/ USSR game. (meaning, i assume, that opportunities keep occurring no matter what your situation. true i suppose so long as your definition of opportunity and other relevant terms are narrow enough.
trying to listen to John tell me something, but mind is spinning off into dimensions and fractals and i’m thinking: is there some rule (and could I discover, intuit, imagine, infer it) allowing creatures of N dimensions to maneuver freeling (freely? feelingly?) in N±n dimensions but only unidimensionally in N itself? ie, let’s say we are (ie perceive) ourselves to be 3 dimensional. we’ll notice a 4th d eventually (Time, eg), but be helpless with it.
but we’re not uniformly helpless in it. one cultural/mental level will see perhaps 5 seconds ahead, another a month, another a season, read sf and however faulty, your vision extends further or, however illusory the extension, at least exercises. the other culture sees 5 minutes behind, a year, a generation, a dynasty, a history etc and on to an anthropology, a paleoanthropology, a geology, a cosmology etc. getting into questions of which is bigger, older … the cosm or the theo.
an idea is only wrong if you think it’s the truth.
the truth is an idea. therefore …
institutions exempt from cause and effect corroboration: Illich’s hospitals, schools, government …
if Washington were never born, he wouldn’t be missed; he would, however, be lacked.
wolfe: said on DL that all the writers he knows say that they started writing because they did it well, not because they had anything to say.
the music comes first. sure, language making is natural to us, and some are especially good, compulsive, inventive at it. but woe if the meaning doesn’t follow. as it sometimes, not often, miraculously does.
today, hardly my first sip of coffee, haven’t rinsed or brushed yet, and I’m staring at the page in the Real Book, thinking: is print two dimensional? or just one? one if you allow a big enough pixel to be a “point.” and I’m imagining people saying, No, two dimensions. Now the page is two dimensional (discounting in both cases their duration in 4th D-Time). And then others, saying, Ah, but the music is definitely … this or that. Exists in time before all else. Etc. Yes, certainly, but the print isn’t the music. The print is ink on paper. And I don’t know if my fuzzy dialogue is making much sense, am all too aware that I’ve thought all these things better, more clearly, before, and who needs to be clear on it anyway, just see Mind and the eg of the chalk on the blackboard. But that’s not what I’m really thinking: I’m thinking how sloppy we are in keeping our categories straight even while making such distinctions. Not new either: I’m thinking about semantics again: my main obsession of five or six years ago. But this time, a binary, new?, occurs to me: all linked up with distinction making vs association, metaphor, syllogism in grass … separating elements from a metaphor just as important as jointing them.
which direction are you measuring from? if we compare our progress (or stasis) with any ideal of perfect sanity, then we’re pathological no matter where we are. yet if we yield the tiniest progresses here and there, then we are progressive, measured against anywhere in our past.
ss: J&S: always betting: Jesus as a litmus of humanity. I win again; I told you that’s how they act. The pain is real enough to the organism, but, if you’re god, so what? a smoke alarm ringing in the kitchen of apt 6G, where the apartments are guaranteed (god guaranteed) mutually fire proof, is just an alarm in 6G. 6G destructs, not the building, not the neighborhood, the borough, the city, the county, the state, the nation, the continent, etc … to the cosmos.
oh god, Thanksgiving night, and already it’s one Xmas movie after another. the first betrays me by starting by showing skiing. then two hours of soap opera and no skiing, except I’m too busy with my M7 scales. Great Expectations comes on. 3:30. I really don’t need to see that great movie again … but this one I see that the first credit is new to me. (fact that it’s color means nothing, alas)
great cast, but preposterous. James Mason? as Magwitch? scene in the graveyard and its’ worse than I’d feared. Great miscasting. They’re all doing it wrong. Butchering he lines. But ah Dickens comes through here and there. Mrs. Joe: accusing Joe of “making” her a blacksmith’s wife!
Yesterday there was an Oliver, the musical, yech. But they did the scene with the beadle and the magistrate. Verbatim. But ruined. Wrong pace, wrong accent.
Still, what a joy to be reminded of that greatest of novels. Esp. post Illich, SirJ, etc. Joe, the blacksmith, the example of ancient civilization, probably the closest Dickens could come to imagining uncivilized, vs everything modern as poisonous degeneration. And he tricks the modern reader into having the modern sympathies throughout. Sure, we love the Pip, Joe binary, hate the Pip, Joe, Mrs. Joe trinity, then love (though not quite so vividly) the Pip, Joe, Biddy trinity. And there’s the Magwitch everything bad resurrection into Magwitch the only other decent person besides Joe. But mainly, there is the perversion: perverted wealth, perverted primate pecking order, perverted female, perverted love … And we’re rooting like crazy for the perversion: Pip, the gentleman, Pip, oh please let Pip get Estella … And we’re all as bad as Pumblechoke, Haversham, etc. One of the great magic acts of all time, showing us the viable values, but leading us by the pathology. What a stroke to have Pip the hero, when he’s as passive a jerk as everyone else, pleased to think he’s winning the lottery. Hero by reason of suffering as a child. Solution: don’t address the injustice: root for the tiny minority’s exemption from its stings.
zero level Frankenstein, eye dilates, detergent bubbles, further unbalancing our map/territory discrepathology …
Another series of abortions to my attempt to regulate my sleep toward the night time. I awake this afternoon to find fish scales in the rug. And groan as I recognize the fall out from my compulsions. jazz, golf … Thanksgiving Day. The “community” is gathering for its too early big meal, while I’m in the midst of a fast. But I’m up. On my feet and showered and coffeed and ready to roll, however far from alert. Jump on the bike and head for Charlie Creek. Corinne is at the park gate, wearing a skirt! for god’s sake, FLSPs I guess recognize holidays with a little old-fashioned gender distinction: make sure the females observe this symbol of the pussy being available. maybe not to you, but available. She waves me through without bothering to check whether I’m heading for the park or the country road. It’s been months and months since I’ve paid them their fifty cents for entry. And the last time I insisted in the midst of their waving me through. The creek is the lowest I’ve ever seen it, though that doesn’t mean much since I only discovered it in late spring. My collapsible rod has allowed me to fit reel and whole tackle box plus several of Ralph’s worms in my bag. Decide first to try the black jig that Bill II gave me that AM in the glades what will be three winters ago. Jig jig jig with no expectation of anything happening. So when I get a strike, I miss it of course. Till then I hadn’t really been fishing. How many zillions of fishermen catch hardly anything cause they’ve never learned how to concentrate. Cybernetic feedback, no success, no learning how to succeed. But now the twenty months of not using my skill evaporate and I’m fishing in earnest. Garbage chokes the creek at the bridge, the one legal place to fish in the park. The last place I’d normally want to fish, but this creek has become mine and I’m bound to fish it at least once. Just now ending my six month procrastination of this claim to possession. Very depressing riding out. The road looks like that scene in Zhivago with the snow in the house. How much of what I see is drought and how much Floridians speeding over the dirt road? A little of the first and a lot of the second I soon see, as holiday traffic hits the bridge at 60, leaving a mile of rooster tail. The park and the county at odds over the road and the purpose of the park. I’d almost turned back as soon as I saw the road turned to clay desert, the lush forest draped in oolite dust. Quilty’s house after the orgy, draped in white, entombing the dissolute “genius.” But no. Here I am and that was the frenetic tugging of a bream forsaking his cover for a sally at food. A wood stork rises from that curve in the creek just out of sight and flies just over head. Followed a minute later by a great egret. Then a great blue heron. I’ve just roiled this water: try the other side. Dip dip Jig jig, and I time the set of the hook better on this one.
As usual, I play him and play him, no hurry to land it, whatever it is. Just a little bream. I’m not planning to keep anything I’m likely to catch in this little mud hole. If I get a bream of enough size, I’ll keep just one. That will be my one Thanksgiving Day meal. An ounce or two of flesh.
I can’t understand quite the length of his play. Ah, I haven’t checked the drag setting in nearly two years. No wonder he’s not coming in. No net, no gaff, none needed for anything this tiny. And what bigger could possibly be in here?
I tighten up enough to control him a bit. He makes a surface rush. A bream, sure enough, surprisingly big, a sunny I might have keep even in the Glades. I drag him over to the eight inches of mud beach, me still six feet up on the bridge, just so I can see him before I lose him. Wow, am I out of practice. Don’t know what he is. Not a sunny after all. One bream or another, but not what I’d assumed he’d probably be. The line doesn’t break as I raise him up. Hook comes out cleanly. When I see his size and weight, there’s my one keeper. I put him on the chain string and leave him in shallows. Big probability a gator will help himself before I claim him. Bill’s jig works wonders even up here. He wasn’t kidding when he said it was the best lure ever for oscars and bream. Caught the biggest oscar of my life within two minutes of my first ever dipping it.
I cross back to the other side and jig jig jig. Success has drifted my attention. I miss a strike. Set way too early. Never get a good bass that way and not much else either. I hook one and lose him in the weeds. It’s ok. I’ve got my one. I’m not really trying now. I’ve probably spooked whatever is left in the few square yards of water deeper than six inches, but I jig within a foot of the second to last spot. Yeah, something is looking it over. I’m a model of patience as I wait till he seems to have made up his mind. Not a bream, whatever this is. Catfish finicky. Can’t be a cat, can it? On a jig? Nah. Mudfish? I don’t know their range. Never heard of them outside of the Glades though Marty knew them from Texas.
Whether I’ve hooked him good or not, I’m getting plenty of play. What I don’t understand is how he’s just as strong against the drag as the first one. I meant to leave it loose, but I’ve overdone it, even after just adjusting it. Loose drag is the only reason I lost the previous hooking. I tighten. And again. This bream is still going wherever he wants. Sheer luck I haven’t lost him already. With the water so low, there are more objects for his to slip a hook on than water to swim in. But he staying in the “deep” part. Two feet and the most. Foot and a half, more likely. Now he heads for a big stick that’s just emerged. It’s our fighting no doubt that’s brought it up. I can’t keep him away from it. Tighten the drag further. He’s still swimming where he wants, but he’s still on. So he must be hooked good. I don’t understand with this drag. Cheap reel. How did I ever land my nine pounder on this piece of junk? So I play him with my right and pull some line with the left. Hey! That drag is on tight! He’s still swimming wherever he wants. I’m got something big here. Impossibly big for this tiny little pool. Now he fights in earnest. I bet he didn’t know he was hooked till I put serious drag on: swimming around, trying to taste the bit of black steel, wondering what was odd about it. It’s got to be five, maybe ten, minutes the two of us have been futzing around, neither of us guessing the other. I notice two older couples walking up the road. Never saw pedestrians other than myself on this road. Thanksgiving. I can’t imagine what I’ve got. Can’t be a bass, cause he hasn’t jumped. This one hasn’t even shown himself near the surface. Impossible as it seems, I must have a cat fish. Off a jig? Not never, just seldom enough to be the same thing.
I loosen the drag back up. Try to adjust myself back to the indifference that probably made me hook him in the first place. No way I’m going to land this fish in these circumstances. Never would have landed my nine pounder if I hadn’t kept her hooded while I paddled back and beached her. But there’s no beach here. More minutes go by. I reel while the drag goes the other way, maintaining stasis. Never dreamed of such a fight in little Charlie Creek. I know I won’t land him, but I would like to see him, to identify him if I can. All I’m doing is steering him from the obvious debris, not fighting him too hard. Wouldn’t dare if I wanted to. Two year old Stren? The half-assed knot I tied without my glasses? First guy walks up, passes by, walks back. I reel, the line stays more or less where it was, working every inch of the pool. “Any luck?” “One on the string, one returned, and a bunch of fights. I’ve got a big one on there right now.” I’m watching the line and the water, but I can see the guy check me over like I’m crazy. Now his buddy joins him in gluing themselves to the rail at my flanks. They can see that no line is coming in, but that can also see that the line isn’t just dead caught on some stump. No the line is very busy criss-cross circling the tiny space of open water. “Is that a snake?” Now the wives are there. “No, that’s just a stick this fish and I have brought to the surface.” “He’s got a fish.” “He’s got a monster.” “What is it? A bass?” Etc. No bass, I answer, and repeat my own reasons and speculations. Sans looking I can see them check me out. Can’t believe the calm. “Whatever he is, I’m not going to keep him. Though I sure would love to see him before I lose him or let him go.”
At which point, for the audience, I set the drag up a notch. Right away, the drag stops singing. He’s on a tight leash now. He’s got to be tired after all this. And that proves it: he’s not … Oh, yes he is: and he goes off on a charge. I lay off on the drag and we’re back to where we were. “I do wish he’d surface so we could see him.” And the obliging fish does. For a split second. Now I know I don’t know what he is. More mud fish than cat fish, but where were the barbles? Not that I got a good look.
However subjective fishing time is without an unoccupied companion, this has nevertheless been long. The only sign that the fish is tiring is that he’s fighting much harder. Desperation. So now I work in earnest, hoping to get him close enough to the little mud shelf to see him at least half out of the water.
I’m taking a chance as I walk him toward it. So what? He’s already given me a thousand times more than I would have expected from this creek in a year of fishing it. Yeah, he’s at the surface now. I think he’s had it. Up to the beach. I don’t know what the fuck he is as I drag his face onto the mud. Black slimed eyes. But so far just like the bream. Product of this stream. Another tug and I may have him half on the beach. But it’s the last tug I’ll get, cause the line just broke. “Oh, no,” from the bystanders. I drop the rod, hike over the rail. A five foot drop to the mud with no place to land. I hit half in the water, never taking my eyes off the fish. My jig is still in his mouth. Very reminiscent of the first mud fish I ever caught. Off EHP’s sunken picnic table. Held my cane pole over the rushes as I strove to get to a water level break. Kept him the whole way till I tried to lift more than his face out of the water. Snap went that line too. Now I’ve got the jig in my hand. I pull him at least half onto the mud. He tries to swim and adds another few inches of his body by himself. Dim light. No glasses. No tools. I remember my fear of touching my nine pounder by the mouth. Mud fish’ll take your finger off, I remember being warned. What is it? I use the jig to hold his mouth open. Can’t see any teeth beyond the same kind of ridge a bass has. I’m looking down this things huge gullet and he’s got the same kind of descaling mill as a bass. But he’s not bass. Front end I don’t recognize. Holding his mouth open with the jig, I try thumb and forefinger on the lower jaw. Yeah, sandpaper. Like a bass. And I heave him another … Ouch. Shit. Fifty-two years old and blind. He’s got teeth all right, whether I saw them or not. Dropping him losing the hook. The jig’s still in my left hand, the fish is on the mud but now facing the water! I’m waving my injured right hand in the air. And man, whatever his front end is, his hind end is mud fish. “Look at your hook. He’s bent it.”
Sure enough. “Bent it straight” would be an exaggeration (as well as impossible) but parabola has tuned hyperbola till it approaches ninety degrees. I’m looking at the fish, not moving since he splatted back down. Thirty years washes away and I’m back on Nausset Beach with John, looking at my striper-swiper wash in the surf while my first ever nine pounder rolls in the chop. There, I knew what she was and tackled her with my whole body, waders and all, rolling about with her in the surf, wrestling her toward the tide line, succeeding, only later noticing the destruction of the lure’s rear treble.
I ain’t gonna dive into this treacherous muck after a fish that’s just bit me. I hunt for a twig to hook his gill with. Nothing. He flounders, gasps, has his face in the water. Still a long half second to do something. And he’s gone. Right in the midst of my repeat monologue about letting him go, but if only we could all take a closer gander at him. Fish had to be six pounds. Five at the very least.
So I’m the only one who’s gotten any kind of a look up close. “Well, it’s been a while since I caught one, but don’t mudfish have little barbles at the mouth? Very little ones? Other than that, I say it was a mud fish. In which case, I’ll be able to catch the same stupid fish again tomorrow.”
Now the women are talking to me and I don’t understand a thing they’re saying. Something about some place I’m supposed to know and I don’t even know what state they’re reminiscing in. NY probably. One guy had said something about Syracuse and I’d said something about Onondaga.
Well, nice to have had a crowd for that one. All my other exploits since Nausset Beach have been solo.
I can’t imagine any more action out of that spot for some time to come. Nor do I need any. But I’m up. I’m out. I’ve had a few hours of sunshine! And I decide to walk back to the damn. Some kids are always fishing there, though I know for sure it’s off limits. For sure as to fishing, and probably we’re trespassing on state preserve just to walk to it to look.
Now that Pete has called and offered this job in the park, I really don’t want to do anything wrong. Yet he’s told me that they’ve given up on patrolling that area. But then I said it was too bad. Wouldn’t it be ironic if I got them to become more active and then I’m the one caught. Pete wouldn’t punish me, I’m sure, but would he still let me give the tours?
So what do I do? I bring all my stuff. Rod, tackle …
And it’s beautiful. The most beautiful I’ve ever seen it. Even though it’s sad how low the water is. forget about fishing on the low side. The high side is three feet wide and choked with duck weed. A great egret pauses in his own fishing to watch my approach. He stays put as I bend over my stuff. Only when I snap the tackle box back closed does he decide not to trust me. I step onto the dam. Smaller egret are a bit further off. But my god! Basking off maybe sixty yards is the biggest gator I’ve ever seen in daylight, not counting that dead one floating with a dozen vultures on its Michelin Tire Man belly, hundreds more, all black vultures, not a turkey buzzard yet in sight, lining the brush and few trees. Where Miami Creek crosses the canal to the Griffith Road Pumping Station. Miles into the true sea of grass.
A second later I spot a little one, six or eight years old, still with the yellow orange showing. Off behind a cypress is a middle sizer. Half the yellow of junior. Well, my jig is still attached. I’ve bent the hook back. Resharpened in a bit. And I take a few dips through the duck weed. Only places to fish at all are out of sight of the gators, out of sight of the effect of autumn on the cypress. It’s Florida, but here are actually some autumn colors back in there that a northerner would recognize. What the hell am I fishing for?
Some birds have been calling and calling from back toward the road. Man, do I wish I could decipher Peterson’s Field Guide sounds the way I can the visuals. Would take a month to look up a bird by sound. Linear search. But I’d have forgotten the original by the time I looked at the book’s second entry. Never be sure that way. But … And I stand stock still. I don’t have a clear view, but … Something is in a low branch just the other side of the narrowest part of the creek before me. An owl? No, it’s got that red breast of a Florida hawk, but he’s sitting like … And he takes his head out from under his wind and looks straight at me! A red shouldered hawk, I’m sure. I’m trembling, it’s so beautiful. But it’s getting late, dim, cool, I shouldn’t be here till I do or don’t get this job … Only now do I notice an semi-immature white ibis on another branch. He’s not bothered by me or the hawk! And I breathe in the cypress swamp for another few minutes. Papa gator hasn’t moved a claw that I can tell. Neither has mama or baby. He is one freaking monster gator. That one who came after me in the dark after hearing me piss over the gunnel of the canoe I bet was that big. My only moment of fear in all those nights out in the middle of the glades. And I go back. To pack up and claim my fish in daylight? No, to spin cast the flasher, to jig it, to try the green worm, the red. I get strikes on all. But either I or the fish are no longer serious. Or neither. And I haven’t tried a single one of Ralph’s worms. Strikes within seconds. But so near the weeds, I lose more than I keep even for a few seconds. I do get one more nice long weak battle out of a warmouth. I finally bring him to hand just as more car rumble over the bridge. A moment of close up and faces slow to 35 or so to see the little bream in my hand. I make show of arcing him out over the pond. He swims off instantly, the worse by only a tiny hole in his mouth, clean and repairable.
More racket from those birds. And I stop fishing long enough to squint into the forest. Some little birds swoop around. Not them, for sure. Big black birds. Bunch of them. ??? Crows? Not if they’re the ones going bip-Behpi-bip-bip-bib. But they are. How can this be. And one lands where I can see it a little. Big damn black bird, but it ain’t no black bird, funny posture, not crow like at all … and he flies off before I’ve gotten a real look … only to settle where I can see him better. But he’s already shown me the white in flight. And now I don’t even need to see the red crown. Piliated woodpeckers. I’ve seen hundreds over the last ten years, but single or in pairs. This is a gathering of the clan.
Anyway, it’s a delicious day for nature watching. A few hours and I’ve made up for months, years buried inside the trailer, up nights, seeing only the screen, the keys, the tube, the book in my hands. Sitting till I can actually pinch an inch of belly. Disgusting.
It’s really dim now. Why am I still fishing. No bites. I’ll leave as soon as I get one more bite. There was a bite. I’ll leave as soon as I get another. There was another. I’ll leave as soon as … And it’s near dark when I finally have brains enough to find my string in the remaining twilight. All those months ten years ago. Playing golf. One more hole. I’ll play till it’s dark. I’ll play till it’s darker. Yeah, so it’s black but I’m still playing the same ball since sixteen holes ago: I’ll play till I lose it. Uh, no, now I’ll play till I lose another. And arrive home ten PM. In August! Too tired to eat. Then a taste of something and I rampage ravenous through everything I can find. Too tired to sleep. Till I sleep and sleep … and wake and oh my god no time for anything but one cup of coffee, I’ve got to get back to the golf course.
As soon as I get on the bike yesterday I feel how stupid I have once again been. It’s chilly. I ride home in the gathering dark, just me and my tee shirt.
And I bring the first fresh caught fish into my trailer since buying it. And thought there’s twice as much counter space as the Coleman and two! sinks, there’s still no place to clean fish. But it’s black outside. In the Glades I’d clean them under my banyan tree, throw the guts under Gerry’s trailer for his cats. Hose the scales off the picnic table. Of course it was dark: it was dark or near dark when I started fishing.
But SG isn’t EHP. Imagine me hanging a mudfish to bleed here. Scraping the scales into the grass?
So I’m about to eat a still very much alive fish. On the other hand, had I cleaned it still at the creek, 30 minutes before dark instead of 30 minutes into the dark … But I don’t do that, do I.
I leave the head on, but have the courtesy to stab the fish in what I hope is his brain before gutting him. Not that the bass or gar that ate him would give a shit for his suffering. Brain hit of miss, he’s still flipping around after he’s gutted. Scales spray all over the place. I take him outside and scale him over the grass after all. Never again. Next time …
He’s still flipping as I throw him into the hot fat. Another as I give him the first turn. That’s fresh fish!
It wasn’t till I cleaned him that I realized he was a warmouth after all. The biggest I’d ever caught!
The Cowboys are beating the Redskins as I make the first jab of the fork. And my one Thanksgiving meal is spent hauling scales out of my mouth.
That was two years ago that you could scale a fish blindfolded, you idiot.
Well, no harm done, and was he delicious! Butter and olive oil. Garlic, ginger, white wine, fresh lime, onion, and Szetchuan fish sauce. But an astonishingly tiny amount of meat for all my digging through the bones and skull.
hmm, all this babble about a few hours at the creek and I realize that i didn’t say a thing about my last couple of strolls about the cypress swamp. or did I? Septemberish. hundreds, several hundred white ibis feeding very close to the cat walk. i’d approach softly, and a few dozen at a time would get edgy, flap thirty yards away, and repeat the whole procedure as I’d get closer again. it was so great, I decided to circle a second time, curious to see what the appearance of who ever was in the car newly parked had effected. there were still dozens, all much further into the swamp. they sure didn’t like whoever had just been there. back to the lot, I see only my bike, I set a bit, and make a third pass. hundreds again, though not so many hundreds as the first time, nor as close to the walk. Never imagined I see some many white ibis in the wild, up close, at one time.
bk’s passing generations, always new faces, learning seems to dissipate into the void. exactly. the void being where we can’t see it, don’t know what it’s doing, can’t monkey with it, not Lenin, not god, not the CIA. And I think of Todd and SG, the impossibility of political change if everyone is always a newcomer, an alien, knows facts only by hearsay, so Todd can do it again and keep doing it and everyone moves out and others move in and ditto, ditto, ditto.
Except that what moves in is sometimes from the void, and we don’t know what’s been going on there. Todd will always assume that he’s taking a chance of getting a junky, a drunk, a deadbeat, and he knows how to take care of those. But …
spate of Dickens, xmas, bogy, and horseshit sf sorceropera. goliath is histrionically attacking david with monster mace. looks like bad roman’s chariot in ben hur. boom, boom, as the cavern shakes. but david ducks and feints and the mace doesn’t do much damage. wearing the hell out of goliath though. but I’m thinking … like the cop movies, a conspiracy to deprive us of our better understandings of our better laws (whew, seething brain from Road Warrior just appears in this sword and sorcerer! one of the great international film monkeys), but in general, all our violent entertainment has an important message for the future canon fodder: see people, all these weapons don’t really hurt, don’t really do any damage, all the car chases, crashes, mushroom cloud explosions … most of the decent people come through. We don’t seem to have any idea, any idea at all so much as what a broad sword does, let along our own weapons. Movies also deaden our imaginations as to what constitutes violence. Short of something blowing up, nothing has happened. A body is run over by a car, but unless it’s dismembered, unless there’s a geyser of blood, a loud Boom and a mushroom cloud, nothing has happened. Aw shit, he’s just lying there. He’ll be all right. He’s in one ice, right?
last night I’m loving the hell out of Cosby, and stay tuned for Jasmine, and it’s all military ROTC heroes, big student show biz production roast for some nam heroes. See folks, we have several generations, a tradition here of chivalrous knights, and, dig it? they all Black, see? But it perfectly illustrates my point that all cultures are always Chou thinking they’re passing for Shang. A generation ago racist americans thought that the mantle had passed to them, all the genocides, lynchings forgotten, forgiven, we’re the saviors of the world, you see, very moral, that’s why we break all our own as well as every other kind of law, etc.
another thought on bk dialogue re: liberal rights. we don’t like those laws, they protect the bad guys etc, because what they really are are laws to protect us against us. we’re wriggling like crazy to unlearn the wisdom that was foisted on us by our founders. society finds itself guilty only (and always) in myth, never in the Times.
narrow focus, see an inch or so left and right of a focus, spotlight vs scatter beam, different effects per same quantity of photons. radical conservative change color, dos-à-dos illusions of identity, contrast, incompatibility … great, but what it’s shape, topology: circle? ellipse? hyperbola? straight line? curve? open or closed? torus, saddle, etc.
life a chaos of partial definitions, everyone right in terms of the local distortion that the 2% you can be aware of is somehow 100% and “right.” How to be interrupted, reviled, ignored, invisible, crucified … the various forms that life uses to neutralize what’s not perceived as unity of the local distortion. just show the slightest misalignment of prejudices. the slightest out of skew with orthodoxy, and orthodoxy, the illusion of local majority NEVER has to prove anything: they’ll be tight no matter how glaring the illogic, in fact its the most glaring illogic that they’ll be most passionate about. (i’m not claiming that anything short of Russell’s concession to Finitism is exempt)
mixing metaphors with a vengeance. at my best. anyway, some combination of intelligence (undefined), integrity (undefined), and best of all, constancy (a bit better defined, but that easy since it’s necessarily constancy to something undefined) aka loyalty aka patriotism-piety-etc.
ss: Saul wants to kill the Oberst. The Reich too, if he can. But how? He invents a weapon. seems to be powerful, actually a narcotic. gives tiny limited demonstration, so humble but just barely obvious enough not to be mistaken. Reich confiscates it so Army can steal it. Saul can now exit gracefully. He demands royalties. Don’t be absurd, how could a jew etc. Shoot him. Rot him, makes no difference. Reich wins WWII. More and more of the weapon even after world conquered. So how come the paradise is so tawdry? The fatherland so brutish? And slide the long slide.
Revisionist view of Franklin, using liquor to destroy the indigines. fathering a society of junkies and drunk senators within two centuries. The Eng and the opium wars. The conqueror the long time destroyer. however many wonderful errol flynn movies celebrate the ascendancy on the way out.
now, first part so easy to picture, since the anti nazi propaganda won. but the semantic resistance to switching poles. can’t picture it: Cleaver letting US seduce self.
fatal attraction, then last emperor, I watch the tv closely, almost as I would a movie, or read a book. and in the week since, since hearing from AbSF really, i “watch” lots of tv. tube is frequently on, but now a week of actually watching it, actively wasting time, taking in the culture at large. for years, I flip for movies, see big band, some aged singer from the 40s, and keep flipping fast, don’t want five seconds infection of pbs esthetic. but last night, flip … and Wait! the formula is the same with one big difference. aged band, aged singer, silver hair, dressed in tux, except he’s black, it’s all black. no, it’s not joe williams. it’s a ballad, but he’s really doing it, and … holy christ, can it be? Not Mr. B? could it be possible? don’t look for the rolled collar with the tux. I don’t even know if Billy Ex is alive. Why not? don’t know that he’s dead either. how old would he be now? guy is singing fine. I’m sure it’s Eckstein. Wait, the bass is a little too bass. But what the hell. Decades since I’ve heard him, but the memories are deep deep. Now switch to a broad asses, ax faced female. She’s pretty good too. Carmen Macrae? Gotta be. And I’m riveted. A rolly polly comes on next and she’s got a voice that would knock down walls. A little Dina in the delivery but all Bessie in the boom. If anything, she’s outbooming Bessie (impossible to verify with technical differences from decade to decade. Bessie got recorded, but only a little better than Caruso. How really judge? Anyway, I’m riveted.
With more exposure I begin to doubt that Mr. B is really B or Carmen really Macrae. Funny funky comedy duo, guy in bowler, chick mauling her tit to the audience, stretching her mouth with an extremity that Martha Ray never tried (that I ever saw). Some chick announces some guy, rhythm is set, silence, repeat his name, a blues intro … and guy stands up wailing Hoochie Coochie Man. Best sound I’ve heard since Cotton. Pure Muddy. But it isn’t Muddy. Can’t be. Muddy I know is dead. And it isn’t Cotton. But good, very good. Mississippi gone to Chicago. And there’s mention of a south side, and I guess it’s a Chicago blues scene show. 47 St is mentioned. Maybe Chi has numbered streets too. 47 wasn’t anything special in NY, clubs would number in twos and threes, not dozens to hundreds. Gotta be Chi and 47 is its 52.
Now they show a Billie pastiche, repertoire, gardenia, everything. and she’s good, but she sure ain’t Billie. A minute later I’m positive I’ve id’s Diane Reeve. Then no, not sure, then, No, it’s not her.
Piano comp to narrative just like Jazzbo used to use. A minute later fabulous piano blues, good as I’ve ever heard. Damn stupid camera shows the singer, never the accomp. Either a bunch of real players there or one very versatile piano. Organ some of the time, always off camera. stupid PBS. but this show is great. I tune focus, stand an inch away with glasses on to read credits: never heard of any of these people!
So: a first rate company doing historical simulation. the “real people” are the elder citizens, restaurant, bistro owners; not any of the real performers. Though these performances are real enough. Just scholarly, not original. Fine. So glad to see it. Good enough to have had me guessing, confused, second guessing myself. Best pbs sentimentalia I’ve ever seen.
our mythology isn’t anything in the bible: it’s that we have freedom, no censorship, a democracy, …
any state that can’t write all its laws and maintain all its revisions and amendments in as much space as say Leviticus, better, half of half the space of Leviticus, should lose its charter, become a temp protectorate of a UN or something, for a prescribed period of legal first aid. UN may not act even in advisory capacity as to what those laws are apart from their length and that they not go against any global laws (which should be shortest of all).
some comedy show: UCLA: Charles Fleischer does mitosis!
is it humans who generally don’t know what they know until someone tells them that they know it and that it’s ok? or just civilized?
“It’s not just a car: it’s your freedom.” in itself a whole logic tree of formal meaninglessnesses: however semantically complex “car” may be, it has some extensional rootedness; freedom, zay more semantic complexity and zero extensionality. it’s set up like a formal proposition! quite subtle is the “a” vs. “your.” (and so funny to hear that ad repeated just after reading Russell.
Butler so clarifies so much of my own thinking on evo and intelligence and consciousness etc. Consciousness, as bk emphasizes, a sub-routine at best, is only needed where genetic certainty is absent. an explorer in a changing eco-niche. temporary. randomly driven, with feedbacks, sure, but halting, for the Znth time, merely thinking “G”, to coordinate the command for Get with Atl-i for id.file drives the mystic from my mind.
… fractal cause and effect looking from one sub-bug shoreline across inner-bug ether at another, patton looking at ike could perceive him as … commie, martian, nazi, atheist … the image coming under the influence of what ever bug-feelers and continents are waxing and waning as the bug-Bug-BUG … rotates, torques, … we don’t know what: we’d have to know what we can’t know to know that. I see Patton feeling himself possessed with free will and I see Ike feeling himself so possessed: “I am exercising my free judgment to see Ike as a traitor, to unbutton my holster, to call the Klan.” While seeing both from another continent, another alignment of filigree, another density of intervening emptiness, ether … (we don’t know what because the infinite is unexaminable: Intuitable perhaps but not confirmable except locally) a different reality/illusion reigns, and just before the neighbor’s saw went off, my dream had Thomistic Realities, Platonic Forms … reveal themselves (from my perspective) to be THE cause and effects actors. From still another depth, angle perspective … etc. Till you get to someone, Mandelbrot, or just an IMB flunky, setting up the program. While from … Ad infinitum? Thank you, thank you, Russell, at long last (I was tardy in the reading; not he in the providing; though yes, in the providing he was twenty centuries late, my reading twenty-one centuries late) for providing the word Finitism. (but nothing is ever late in the fractal plot, or early.) From our perspective we give Einstein credit for seeing “before” (an angle) us, what in another moment becomes obvious to a dozen, and in still another, obvious to all, until it passes, and we see think believe it wasn’t so.
it isn’t that everything is right, or that everything is subjective, or that there’s no different between Einstein and Eichmann, Realism and Nominalism; difference is exactly what there is: information. coordinates to your position. which is of course changing, dynamic. there may be as much fractal perspective dynamism in a proton not decaying for one times ten to the Ntyeth as there is in the electron’s zipping all over. just as much energy in Kansas not having an earthquake as in San Andreas ripping apart, slipping north, pushing east up and over, buckling under.
we go to another planet, get a different perspective. ah, at last, we’ve got it right. now we have objectivity. and the next N to the Nty planets confirm, agree, are smack in the middle of the new Kansas. while from P to the Pty … whoops, that was just superstition.
My dream is slipping further and further from me, Brooks, some motel on Hilton Head, Ma Bell and Fed Devils, Uncle Asimov having the help of aligned everything to publish his 400th book, so much so, that now the Fed is monitoring, editing input to him. Etc. Well, I caught at least the tail of one of the two things I wanted to catch: fractal cause and effect. the other has slipped away quite, but now I need to try to catch something that’s appeared in the meantime:
First Week, Judgment, King … all related.
SirJ. there is no magic that didn’t start as science. is there any science that doesn’t soon merge with magic? the sun appears on the horizon for a brief arc of the day’s time and again at setting for a similarly brief arc. but for a Kansas long time above, and a Manitoba of night. How could anyone ever know whether he’s coast or mainland, promontory coast or just coast coast, the promontory furthest east (furthest east of what?) or just furthest in territorial US? etc. we sift back through our fossils. ah, galileo was etc. or oh the pope etc. Genius Ptolemy is central Kansas till the day turns from him and he sets as purest silliness, a long night coming. or a short, can’t tell, predict sure, but not confirm before the fact. Euclid gets poked as full of holes and a moon made of cheese. Plato reigns, then Aristarchus is resurrected and Plato moves through an afternoon. Meantime, Promontory GB mentions the mute Greek who left no disciples, mocking him, but I begin to worship …
now, there are generally more continental points than coastal points more coastal points that promontory points etc. but can there possibly be ANY point which isn’t promontory by some perspective? How about when that bit of granite in Arcadia, Nebraska after N continental migrations, splits, mergers, pangaia’s, becomes the fulcrum of that future San Andreas which will begin a new series of mitosis?
who can see the truth of the just dawning till it’s been propped up and cosmeticized, replaced with a paste blow up.
Charlie comes on, I pay attention when there’s something interesting in the music. credit: Ravi Shankar. Then I see what it is. First time since having to endure my students’ enthusiasm for its showing in Waterville. Mr Knatz, you have to see it. And they were so anxious for me to love it. sf me somehow hadn’t read Flowers for Algernon yet. another overrated classic, but real anyway. What I can’t stand about the movie is the schooled attitude toward intelligence. as usual, the writers don’t know shit about what they’re writing about. there’s all this psychological this and that as gobbledygook background. the one thing it has is the zero level morality of the scientists. the human goons hardly count compared to that. another let’s substitute this attitude (gosh, look at the moron) with that attitude (gosh, look at the moron spout history). and we’re supposed to be impressed with the acting for Charlie. cheesh.
school. where are trained to accept the ersatz for genuine, indeed, to prefer it. of course there are more than one type, but the false analog exists 1,000 to one.
another Diff’ worl’, thrilling to see the students cooperate democratically on what should go into their 20 year time capsule, and they’re videotaping themselves doing it as part. as it’s astonishing ecology and condoms for pop tube; BUT the fascist shit is still very much there. a school more duped than normal to-and- by-and-for the maya. to make a prime arch conservative, not for king, but for palace guard, promote a serf.
sci method, repeatability. not truth (necessarily), but confirmable evidence. and cultural truth value of grade B C & Z movies.
everything (so much, anyway) in “entertainment” reinforces our worst
SirJ homeopathic, imitative, magical horseshit. A really terrible Ray Milland in a wax museum. The Jack the Ripper manikin is supposed to be killing everybody. The only evidence, eye witness etc, is Jack. But Auntie won’t listen to such crap. What? Prefer no explanation? Autie is hardly rational. Though in the double horsecrap ending, Jack didn’t do it, it’s the landlord dressed up as the wax characters. That doesn’t matter: my point is the epistemological double of the D movie.
I am becoming not only fond, but respectful of Lynn Austin. Dumb blond probably isn’t so dumb. (I don’t mean so smart either; just not so dumb. Nice tongue in cheek that she somehow doesn’t get stale at. Just because she’s pretty? Don’t think so. She must be getting old at it.
sd: mod society, a complex ecology mislabeling itself a simple one. the lie a prescribed religious faith.
half successful yesterday getting up to alarm at 11, all, as usual to no effect and I sleep through nearly three hours of this morning’s alarm. gotta talk to Pete tomorrow, gotta be ready to get up and function at dawn, as routine, not just an occasional exception, or accident of my perambulating circadian, ha, metabolism. almost noon, time to slip for football. the whole of saturday can go by without my having any idea of which teams the drone is about, who won, who what, while Sunday, I notice at least one play. more, if it’s the giants or SF. last second of Sunday’s Tarzan, the coffee just ready, sip at time to flip … but a movie is coming on that promises Melanie Griffith. how many years now I idly intend to getting around to seeing if Miami Vice’s wife is in fact that little girl in The World of Henry Orient grown up. I’d vowed to watch for the future careers of both those girls. Just like tv’s Cindy. Did they all disappear? Or do I just recognize them, despite my vows? I see tabloid photographs of Griffith and Johnson: she looks fat and ugly, so it’s got to be so. why would Don marry such if she weren’t a great actress and he actually no dope. so i make a mental note actually to notice her in this movie, hoping I’ll know which one she is, hoping I’ll remember why I wanted to know: as I play Handel. The Bourée. Except it isn’t hard to pay attention to the movie. First, negatively. The intro music I hate. David Byrne, if that’s his name. I hate the rhythm, the pitch, the voice, what little I sense of the lyrics. It’s interfering with my hearing my own Water Music. But another two seconds of movie and I’m fascinated. Woody Harrelson is sitting in a cafe. Some weird broad at the counter. She’s the only female in the flick for the longest time, so that’s got to be her. Black page boy; I’d thought she was blond, but so what. wigs, bleach. box in box, as character can be played cyborg. but the actress is a cyborg to begin with! Clairol, silicon, etc. commercial, and I’m wrong. Jeff Daniels, Something Wild. So Woody Harrelson has just become two. I know I’ve seen this guy before, but when I tried to think if I knew his name, Woody Harrelson was what came to mind. anyway: only a few days after telling bk how i loved the amorality of Lana in Risky Business. We have the contrasts of the “secure” industrial managers looping Lake Michigan and the whores and pimps and transvestites who regard the Loop homes as their own. Why not? What makes them belong to the managers? Any more than they belong to the trees cut down or the animals ingested or the minerals mined. Well, Melanie Griffith was riveting as a false wrasse. Not heart stopping like Rebecca Demornay’s Lana, but very striking with a little girl voice I know I’ve heard before. So, maybe I have seen her a jillion times. Or, she’s doing a clone little girl voice well enough, one that i don’t have someone else’s name written on. Elizabeth Taylor had one of the best of all time, but that was a voice that said: I’m a little girl, and I’m a little girl, and really, really, really, I’m a little girl, completely at your gentleman mercy. Whereas Melanie Griffith’s little girl voice says, I’m a little girl like I’m wearing lipstick and bracelets: watch your balls if I feel like I want them for myself, Buster.
So: goofy, normal enough guy slips cafe check in his pocket and slips out without paying. page boy calls after him. He tries bluffing etc. but she’s the real poker player. (between the two of them. as we are about to see, the universe doesn’t end there.)
She offers him a ride. He’s gotta do this, go there. It’s on my way she lies and takes him to NJ. and in rapid order shows her complete sociopathology. Ouch, she’s even handcuffed him to the motel bed. and dopey doesn’t look like he minded a bit. shit, I hate that. If Michelle Pfeiffer wanted to handcuff me, promised the everything of my life (what could she know about that?), I’d say, Sorry I pass.
they go to a high school reunion. at first I assume that they’re still goofing, just walking into any reunion and reading name tags and pretending to remember people who are pretending to remember them. but no, it really is hers. and some other lynx approaches Jeff at the bar, another false wrasse, really pissed that he wriggles away from her to get to the Platonic Original (of his zero till now experience). Wrasse II is with a guy: Ray. And we’ve been wrong. The girls are amateurs. Melanie Griffith really is just a little girl, just a little bit a thief, liar, pervert, flagrant female … Ray is the champ sociopath of the movie. And now Melanie “Audrey” really does long for a little normality, to keep, not just to fuck over. nice climax in Jeff’s Stonybrook house. More handcuffs. nice From Here to Eternity who stabbed who sequence as Jeff stumbles off on his gold heeled cowboy boots to die.
Nicely choreographed dance scene. either the music got better as the movie went on or I was getting used to it. I’d stopped playing my Handel, Xmas carols, etc. by the middle I thought the music was good. but it wasn’t the same music. even if it was still Byrne and Heads. anyway, jeff starts to get into it and starts “improvising” some goofy Aztec hieroglyphs precisely in (or off, same thing) the rhythm. and then the movie really pissed me off, cause it was obviously a stand in. male actors just as cyborg, or almost as cyborg, as prosthetic, as the females. (Not, of course, that I have anything against cyborgs: I’m just noticing it. Hell, I’m the one who wishes AIs would take over.) Close up of feet dancing. Less connection to Jeff dancing than a voice to Mickey Mouse. At the end though. Jeff hold the door of the Platonic Original station wagon open for little girl Melanie. now she’s blond. Now I recognize the fat girl in the tabloids. Now I see why. Cause the hips, legs, etc, are slender. She’s female, but Howard Hawks would cast her for a male jaw. Sheesh! now I see she belongs with Don Johnson! They can pass on their jowls. Anyway, she, her face, is off camera, in the car, as she lifts her leg in through the door held for her. Uh uh. They wasn’t a stunt double. That was the same actress who could do the little girl voice. Signorney Weaver letting her little strap slip from her shoulder dancing with Mel Gibson. Femininity ACTED. Or: if what was a stunt double, the stunt double could have been doing the lead.
Funny thing about getting older. As a kid, everybody famous was an adult. Even if they were kids. little girl Taylor was adult. hell, she must have been thirteen! there were exceptions. Shirley Temple was a kid, but actually she too was an adult. She had been a kid in these old movies. Jackie Coogan etc. Then a real kid would come along. But they were easily marked exceptions. Brandon deWilde in Shane. Then you’re eighteen and noticing that you’re nearly Keats’ age. Then Keats is younger than you. Michael Jackson. More and more exceptions. Then Byron is younger than you. Then everybody is younger than you. Then, an eternity of old movies, with adults, and contemporary movies with kids. And funny how the genuine contemporaries or near contemporaries seemed like interlopers. Brando was adult. But James Dean was somehow cheating. An idiot view, I know. ie “id”. mine alone. My “peers” didn’t feel that way. They wanted to “identify.” I only look up or down, never level.
Reminds me how in my lifetime the level of general view has changed. USians looking up at themselves, no matter what they’re doing; where they had looked down on themselves, no matter what they were doing. Now the Brit-snoot of PBS looks more tawdry than … er … legit. Course nobody looks down on themselves better than the English.
and I am reminded of my old crit point about “realism.” Realism is where you accept or simply don’t notice the conventions of presentation. Or, you innovate new ones which slip by. ie, are accepted. Nobody finds Ibsen realistic anymore, simply because we don’t go to the theater anymore. The mere fact that it’s on the stage makes it creak. I notice stunt doubling more than the next. (must be so, or people would stop buying tickets. there would be no more movies if people only watched what happened to came up on the tube AND didn’t buy the advertisers’ products.) what I don’t and can’t know is which ones I don’t notice. and my point here has nothing to do with the fact that you could, theoretically, research it, ask, and the participants would, theoretically, tell the truth. John Wayne. Sure I did all my own fights. The recent stink over Millie Vanillie just shows how little we’ve kept up with out own reality. We know that presidents don’t write their own speeches, handle their own campaigns … yet we constitute our king as a person rather than king as a marionette conception of history.
JD, J tells us that every aspect of our “lives” has been a fiction, and all done with stunt doubles. But then of course we are constructs. Mental products. What we think happened. What “we” did, what was done to us. Etc. We sure don’t want to hear: Knatz: voice by X, dick by Y, … and those great scenes with Martha? we used Z for those parts. Yet, sure. Mentally, I know some of the etiology. I’m proud of those thoughts of mine for which I have yet found no antecedent or counterpart. But will never know, can never know, that they won’t turn up in the next Dead Sea Scrolls. But of course. Only a modern would be surprised. Culture is an attempt to remember certain things. How the Russians invented the light bulb. And a conspiracy to forget others. The great cities of West Africa. Who we stole what from.
measuring the material (with a “ruler”) is digital; tracing a pattern is analogic.
bucky taught me to work on the invisible structure of things. good line I heard on him once: they thought he was offering an invention; what he was actually offering them was an entire new industry. Ditto for Illich/me and FLEX. But industries don’t get bought that way. As Bucky & Illich and I knew perfectly well. Still, there’s no free will involved. Once you see the choices. If we were rational, if we were to save ourselves, if, if, if … then, then, then. Make a living like the rest of the damned? Duplicate the standard dominance/submission displays? Or offer what we might take IF … There’s no choice at all.
always instructive to be introduced to somebody for the first time only thereafter to learn that you’d seen them on the street at least one hundred times or bought your paper from them every morning. Beverly Hills cop and wow who’s that weird fag, Serge? Then a couple of fruits get a sit com on the tube which I successfully ignore. But then one is interviewed by Arsenio or somebody and wow it’s Serge! Then Risky Business twice and the second time I can see that it’s the same fruit had played Joel’s accountant/friend/blow-pussy-ice cream-&pot. See Lee Van Cleef once and then spend the rest of your life noticing that he was part of the wall paper of every room in the house. And now I’m noticing that fag two of the tubecom I’ve still never seen has been woven into the rug. He’s the Mr Rogers of those inconceivably fay Peter Pan peanut butter commercials. They come on during movies; a different strain comes on weekends and mid football Sun I see the cousin. It’s of the competent wives tolerating inept husbands strain. it’s little things that tell you where it’s at in pop-cul as well as in Shakespeare. Here wife has sent hubby shopping, and clutz hubby brings back … the wrong peanut butter? super mom thinks so. He’s brought back Peter Pan! But, honey, he whines, I’ve loved PPpb since I was a kid.
Now look around: they’ve got three kids: five to eightish in age. Look, he says, waxing demonstrative. He holds the open jar under her n*ose. Mmm. Now waxing dominant, he spreads pb on bread for the kids. Mmm. Etc. And instantly I think of Sh’s JC. Brutus and Portia, she telling him she has a scar on her thigh. His fucking wife! and his doesn’t know her scars? The pb freak hubby, and they’ve got three kids growing up, and he’s never told her about his favorite?
A nice test of human rationality is how Brutus’ bullshit, his perpetual running for office, his rote liars’ poker, still impresses us 21 C after he lost the war. And the agency knows: the transparent bullshit makes more money than the honest design. Our politics as ersatz as our detergent-bubbles lie.
definitions, who controls for how long?
we play the game without knowing the definitions, or even the procedure, we place our bets and roll the dice. knowing that the long shots win in the long run, the short in the short. The shortest shot today was a long shot once.
We’re still here, the fellow CC grad, now DC conman, says to Gold.
turning the other cheek an eg of Not “can I survive” But “can any of us survive?” my bet is that the answer is: Only if enough of us turn the other cheek. Still, it isn’t the only program. Sometimes you have to grow eggs, sometimes break eggs.
The other meaning of sacrifice. Curses: on losing that file, AND on not yet having attempted to reproduce it.
game theory, liars poker where there are no cards, no possibility of any report, any statement, being verified except by appeal to who knows what nest of poses, betrayals, double-and-triple-to-the-N lies and bluffs of the “allies,” players, liars, bluffers themselves. Mel Brooks’ Maxwell Smart’s Would you believe …?
liars poker where you don’t know the rules, the stakes, or even the number of players, not even if every one or thing is a player or not … you don’t know the topology of the game: open or closed, zero sum, plus or negative …
this possibility vs that p
illusion of identity
synecdoche: the caterpillar seeks the light and finds food. There’s the syllogism in grass working fine: light = food. here. for now. for a very long now.
the idea of reason about everything, weighing alternatives, etc. suicide for the main body, the only survival for that part which sometimes partially liquefies, makes decisions. the king need be a king only occasionally, and woe to the group if he isn’t when the need is there. but the rest of the time it makes sense to lock up your Washington’s, to crucify your Jesuses. Your money is on the other JC. (Augustus in JCII’s time.) Ah, but the princes must be princes no matter what. Getting executed is part of what they’re for.
the ordinary “mind” hears about scientific epistemology but draws the wrong extension for it, thinks of it as a special case rather than the best case human can discover (or have discovered). “Oh, that applies to science. Scientists have theories, whereas I, following my priest, have knowledge. My knowing is of a higher level that their theorizing”; Not, “it’s all theory, it’s just that mine fossilized long ago, so long that I don’t even know whether it’s broken, distorted, in one piece …” The automatic bet.
But design is liquid. The main cast has to come from things frozen out, of known shape. You can’t be worker and king at same time. Neither can you be prince and king. The prince is always more important for the long run than the king, even if the king is in the middle of holding the dyke together with his finger.
conductor, king, synecdoche, cause and effect: popular (mis)apprehension of …
moving close ups, day after Copeland’s death of Lenny conducting Fanfare for the Common Man with tiny little 80 years old raptor nosed Aaron beaming from the box. Close close-up of Lenny conducting the ritardendo. Now both these men are an important part of the wonderful music that’s happening, but the audience no doubt has an entirely false view of their “causing” it, in a 1 ball 2 ball 3 ball chain. good for survival, that error? in general, it must be. so long as we don’t have cars, bombs, super stars or super nations.
Yet what is one, after of life time of “science is the search for causes,” renge kyo, “universal laws of cause and effect,” etc to make of what the physicists are doing with math & probability? the probability of the electron being x when y applies is zero.
Dos-à-dos and turn full circle. Penthouse pinup on tube equivalent of jerk magazine, says she sees no difference between posing for Penthouse and appearing on the beach in a bathing suit. Exactly. Exactly what any of the good Puritans would have said. Female who shows any more flesh than hands and face in public, beach or anywhere, is a whore, pure and simple. Now these girls who spread their cuny for the lens, let it get smack up against their ass hole, for money, see the same logic of one, two hundred years ago; but with opposite! implications.
a minute later narrator says Who says nice girls finish last? Blah Blah. and once again, it’s the rhetorical question that must be answered, the writer so dumb as not to see that it can be, let alone must be. Nobody ever said Nice girls finish last that I ever heard. Sounds an awful lot like Derocher’s Nice guys finish last though. Etc. What do baseball players and whores have in common other than being human?
Thanksgiving comes. Ok, can’t be helped. The Xmas stuff of the parade I’ve learned to ignore, so well, it’s an effort here even to realize that that’s it, the start of the full time Xmas hype. Fine, I’ve experienced that all my life, known it all my conscious life. What I haven’t learned to prepare for is the day after thanksgiving, and the day after that. But tonight I experienced one of the benefits. I’m cooking, so the 8 o’clock movie has started before I flip. Instant recognition, but something strange. The Steppford Wives playing Hamlet. It’s a Wonderful Life, very well imitated, the actor they’ve cloned for Jimmy Stewart is astonishingly right, right down to the bone structure. But it isn’t a Wonderful Life, it isn’t Jimmy Stewart … something … it’s … it’s … shit! it’s colorized! I don’t give a fuck which movies they colorize so long as they leave the great ones alone. I saw Errol Flynn colorized the other week. Fine. Little lost. Maybe something even gained. But damn it, It’s a Wonderful Life is one of those where the black and white is perfect.
Well. I watch it. After a while I get used to the colors. A worse sin was to come. They cut the scene in the bar! One of the great character scenes. Nick, the bartender. Clarence. Stewart encore. Everybody. Then the color of the money spilling from Billy’s basket.
And every time I see it, I realize that I’ve forgotten in the meantime how influential it’s been on me. Quintessential science fiction, but not science. Take a situation and work through one variant logically. What if George hadn’t been born? It’s probably the most rigorous eg of sf most people ever encounter. In some ways it’s more rigorous than say Back to the Future. But it’s heaven? And angels, made free with. And Xmas this and that. Yet when I thought of The Model and of Dark Beacon and of Judgment, It’s a Wonderful Life is the one thing not at all in my mind. And by the following Xmas I’ve forgotten again. Not the quality of the film, but the theo sf element.
But then, alas, there are other things I notice, new to my adulthood. Indeed to my recent adulthood. (But then I think a couple of decades passed without my ever seeing it at all. Hmm. That too puts what I’ve just said in a different light.) Now I think that actually the sf rigor is a little soppy in a few things. George comes back into what’s Pottersville in this alt u. All bars, strip joints, pawn shops, cops busting whores. The cast of Butler Falls is great in transforming themselves into mean spirited, defeated, hostile, suspicious creeps (though this time I was least impressed by Donna Reed’s spinsterhood: you look at her face: what, are they kidding? but her walk, her spinster’s fear and hysteria, the physical part is well done), etc. But mostly every body is the same. It’s the same cast, the same small town, masquerading as a big one. Actually, I think anyone who wants to try an sf script of their world without them only has to visit any place from their past. And unless it’s Bountiful, run down and deserted, the place will really be Pottersville, but with no duplications of cast.
I think of the court house scene in DB. DrR isn’t a NYer, but had he been, … Geo Bailey should return someplace and find Spanish spoken, everybody Black, he should turn on the tube and see Arsenio. What country is this? What happened to racism triumphant?
Two coloreds appear to give Bailey money. One invisible, the second gets to give a strong three seconds: her if she ever gets married money. So where’s she been in the rest of the film? Unfortunately, we all know the answer. And in fact it is a wonderful life. As GB says, everything’s degenerated; so how come it’s better in so many ways? Racism not defeated, but retreated and in hiding. No, now we get to watch what I long looked forward to: Israel the fascist pig, intolerant blacks. Different World having invented a mythic past for itself.
But of course: it’s a small town story. I’m not for a second denying the reality of the impact of a single life. On the contrary, that’s one of my constant themes. Thank you again, unnoticed, … um wait … Kukor? Whose film is that? Shoot! His name is “George”! But the visibility.
But nonsense. What am I quarreling with? It’s myth.
Still myth works best when you don’t notice the falsity.
And again: myth, schmyth. Myth in itself … Like any tool: power for evil as well as good, explanatory power, cohesiveness on the one hand, deception, manipulation on the other. Part goddam Xmas is this ad coming on every other minute. Commodore Computers. “There are thousands of scholarships for physics, chem, match, fine arts … but none for excellence in playing video games.” True enough. So what? Since when are scholarships ever in step with what’s really affecting the future? Some of the most influential, powerful people living devoted their creative youths to exactly that: video games. The VIPs at DEC. And a jillion little CA companies, Rte 128 garages.
What parent, what U, has any idea which time wasters are going to father the next revolution. Of course there won’t be scholarships for it.
Course for every cyberdropout who invents star wars, there were 10,000 bridge or chess players, novel readers, poetry writers who just blissed out completely. Their Geo Baileyism quite invisible.
Fresh evidence that I’m losing my mind: I write bk about seeing Melanie Griffith. I’m so out of touch with things I don’t even know how to calculate how old the almost teenager in Henry Orient would be now. Maybe I’m talking about granddaughters … of people way younger than me. Tonight I prep the Sy22 for community xmas carols, reheat the second half of last night’s fabulous pork and cabbage, Arsenio is coming on and promises Melissa Gilbert Brinkman as a guest. Oh, goody: maybe I’ll unconfuse myself on some issue or another. And I never saw this girl before! Yet: she was talking of having been a child actress. ??? But where’s Don Johnson? She got divorced? Remarried? Brinkman? Marshall? Or is that Brickman? She’s talking about some Bo (Beau?). I can’t figure any of this out. Then I realize: the actresses have nothing in common but 1. their initials 2. being female and 3. being unfamiliar to me.
[as usual, notice something and then you’re in a forest of it. it’s a couple of days later and here she is: movie Donor. Maybe that’s why she was on Arsenio, to hype the show.] [a minute later: so nuff, there’s the scene ArsH clipped. So it must be a made for tv thing. Not the same NET though.]
By now though the world has turned some more and Geo Carlin cracks me up: to Johnny: “I’m 53 now (that’s 11 Celsius) …” Carlin gives a Mad Magazine style autobiography, and I’ve never been more impressed by Carson as a straightman: because Carlin is being outragous and C is listening right along as though he believes 100% of it.
My mouth is still burning like crazy as I chew the last chili wrapped pork medallion (and need a hammer and chisel to serve the ice cream) and I’m buckling again as DL comes on: intro “the man who can’t convince the French that he’s a genius.” 1960 or so Dwight MacDonald edits that parady antho. and the french are finding deep symbolism in Zane Gray. ho ho, I laugh. How much time passed before it occured to me that the French could actually be right about something? As right as any other view that is. I’d never read Zane Gray. I’d never seen a Jerry Lewis movie. Martin and Lewis cracked me up when they were first appearing on … Sullivan? Who had them all the time? Extraordinary to have laughed my twelve or so year old self silly as they tore up the stage and see that thing repeated decades later and realize that ass hole gigolo was baiting wacko with anti-semitic cracks. No idea. Had I, which one would have been the jew? Which one looked jewish? Martin? I didn’t know anything about any of that. 1949, visiting Aggie’s family in Princeton, I could recognize the Italianism because of the 50 gallon spaghetti pot, the home made vino …
But French: then I got sick of Martin and Lewis, stopped watching them on tv, and never paid admission to see any movies that either ever appeared in. Now, I’ve seen enough of Martin watching this or that John Wayne western on tv. Martin was in the Hawks film that Gail walked out on. Hawks had to reshot from scratch with some other actress. Etc etc.
And I’d never read a Zane Gray novel.
Anyway, a minute later (year or two), Truffault is talking and talking, and being heard, about Hitchcock and suddenly Anton eg is all Truffault Hitchcock and Hitchcock is no different from Zane Gray as far as I’m concerned (with the important difference that I had seen a couple of Hitchcock movies and by 1960 was actually jarred for a half a sec by Psycho. half a sec twice, come to think of it.
Truffault first sneaked up on my dark side. Half way through college I knew very few movies. I’d been smitten by La Strada of course. Not the first movie to impress me, but definitely the first permanent religious experience via the silver screen. Roshomon … very impressive, very challenging. And all the rest of the stuff: John Wayne and giant octopus, Errol Flynn, Sinbad, and ubiquitous Chaplin. Chaplin was so much part of the landscape I was quite taken aback to notice Modern Times as a movie! 1959ish when Sheri took David to the … 56 St … and brought me along. Full blown revival. $2 each to get in. Colombian coffee in the receiving and holding area. But I was already escalating my own movie going by then. Anyway, one movie I definitely noticed in the later fifties was Black Orpheus. I think it had already won the Oscar when I went to see it, but it was more up my alley than any Oscar winner I’d yet seen. Really knocked me out. My first bossa. Marpessa Dawn. Bruno Mello. Time/Eternity contrasts. Reification and renascence of myth. So when I heard that the French had given the Cannes prize to some movie, The Four Hundred Blows, some young guy, Francois Truffault, he was instantly on my enemies list. I then had a limited sense of the possibility of greatness. If Jehovah is God, Allah can’t be. If Hamlet is great, what can The Tempest be? Uh oh, The Tempest is unbelievable. My niggard sense had to revise Hamlet a tad downward.
I emphasize that because early 59 was my time of conversion to broader horizons. I finally saw Les Quatres Cent Coups. Wow. It wasn’t Orpheu Negro; but it was also great. Orpheus was still my favorite between the two.
And the final curtain of limitation tore when I discovered that Nights of Cabiria was of the same soul as La Strada.
I feel my initial hostility afresh. Some party. Somebody said Cabiria was so great. I didn’t know what they were talking about. Neither was I paying attention till they said the magic words: Giulietta Massina. Suddenly I was all ears. Ravage held forth on its qualities. Stutter stutter “… Um, Massina? She was Gelsomina in La Strada,” I offer. Right, and someone says she’s even better in Cabiria.
Blasphemy. I’m reeling. I’d never though of her as an actress before. I didn’t really think of La Strada as a movie, made by anybody. La Strada was a sacrament. A miracle. I knew Anthony Quinn was an actor. But that was ok. I had already known that he was an actor. The rest of it … No, that was a ritual, a mass. Then: 1960, I see it. Double bill, Orpheus and Cabiria. I request (Ravage and Judy) that we see Orpheus second, so I can concentrate. But I’m so wiped out by Cabiria, I hardly see Orpheus that time. Go home and go into a coma for thirty hours, etching Cabiria deep into my experience. That’s when I first realized the name Fellini. Started my quests for El Sheiko Blanco, I Vitelloni, Il Bidone … And then La Dolce Vita comes out. I postpone seeing it for a while. Don’t know I’ll be able to stand still another. Never ever ever more smitten by an artist.
Anyway, 1958. Orpheus and 400 Blows. You mean more than one great movie could be made in one year?
And that was the beginning of my love affair with French movies. I’d seen La Belle and Le Bête, but that had been ten years before. Then I start catching up on Jean Renoir, René Clair, etc.
Anyway, Truffault writes homages à Hitchcock which Anton repeats as a litany. (don’t mean repeat as an insult or even literally, since I know Anton’s view and don’t know Truffault’s: I just assume an identity since Anton referred to him. It was scholarly stuff, like this 80% is mine and this 20% his. Or this 99% his and this 1% mine.)
Now, whatever the actual chronology of things, as a sponge soaking it all up then, I knew it in order of my experience of it, somewhat tempered by dates of origin. So when I hear of Truffault and Hitchcock, I already know the Zane Gray satire. Then, height of absurdity, the Gauls are hyping Jerry Lewis. So, I’ve still never seen a Jerry Lewis film. Not beginning to end, paying attention. But why not?
In one sense, members of a culture are the only ones qualified to perceive something; but in another sense, members of a culture are the ones definitely NOT qualified to perceive something.
DL comes and goes, and I don’t know what happened cause I started to scribble right at the intro. Very profound show in general though. It should be analyzed by the French. It’s the indirection of the denial that I so love here. They’re not claiming it; they’re denying it. Still: irony of one sort or another.
a la Ffeif. you can say anything you want so long as it isn’t seen as applying to the audience. ie contep. once that audience is dead and gone, then you can say anything you want, make any generalization, so long as …
what a straight-man. thoughts after watching Carson do a beautiful straight for Carlin doing a loony autobio. and J or S proceed with their dialogue/games. question: which one is the straight man?
What a day! I lose track of time, but it’s got to be a week, maybe ten days since Eno asks me if I’ll play a couple of carols for the Xmas thing. He asks me for Gene too, up to me to invite him. OK, Gene says yes within minutes. But the next day Eno comes back: Silent Night and White Xmas they’ve decided. Who’s decided? Gene and he. So what was this pretense I was the leader? I can’t believe how stupid these people are. If it’s policy, it’s so gauche. If they’re really just thoughtless, rude, innocent … I don’t understand it. I’d tried a couple of choruses of Hark the Herald Angels Sing already. And God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. A-7. Another book, E-7. Not used to playing chords in both hands. Course I could just try the melody and fake simple chords in the left, but first I’ll try it as written. Got a couple of weeks to practice. But now it’s Silent Night. Well, that’s simpler still. Could there be a simpler carol? It’s not worth questioning Eno about why he didn’t tell me he’d be music program director too. He let me waste a day with the wrong stuff, making my own couple of choices. Do I argue? Threaten to take my synth and stay home? Fuck it. I pretend not to notice. Silent Night.
The same C F C change I’ve been playing for over a year. Can do it with my eyes shut, sound asleep … in the left hand. But this is written for the right hand: with the left hand doing octave chords. Herald had tenths! My hand can’t stretch that far. I ask Doug. He plays tenths all the time he says. I see him. But that’s a day later and my hand has stretched. Not comfortable, but I can do it. He bets me my hand is bigger than his. By god, he’s right.
Etc. Anyway, day after day, again and again, I play Silent Night, and fuck it up one way or another. I try to remember how long it took me to make the C to F change of Frankie and Johnny. The A passage of Minuet in G. The final G chord, Inversion I. Probably more than a week for either. But after a time, they’re automatic. Then the agony of Nobody Knows. Not just playing out of inversions, but playing stretched normally for sixths and sevenths. And I remember a dozen other things impossible at first. The rhythm in the right for The Rose. The syncopations of Memphis Blues independent in either hand. The total impossibility of every aspect of Sea Journey. How long did that take me? Weeks for one part, a year for another, a year and a half for just a bit more.
So suddenly, simple as Silent Night is, I don’t see how I’m going to be able to play it with any confidence by Xmas eve. I know I’ll be able to simplify, but I’ve made up my mind to play it as written! and damit, automatically, with confidence, with élan.
So yesterday I’m still slaving over it. Sometimes I’ll do the first two measures of C ok in both hands AND get to the awkward for me G7 fingering on the beat. But then I screw up the F. I forget the C in between. I play it backwards. What the fuck difference does it make? It’s C. Play C, C, G7, C, F, C, F, C … what could be simpler.
And of course it won’t matter what I play, because the first thing I did was record it all on the 8 track, 4 parts in six voices, all perfect because I edited them to perfection. Multi will play it right and I’ll just be playing along, my mistakes masked. But then I can see myself frozen in the middle, lost for a measure, then two, not touching a key, and all this sound coming out. If I play along, no one will imagine that I’m not doing it all at once. If they see it’s automated, neither will they be able to imagine that I put it there, that it’s still me, specially for them. And I sure wouldn’t try to explain.
I must have tried to play Silent Night three dozen times yesterday. My fingers are screaming at me, the left hand stretched to spasticity. I turn it off. I play chess. Mid move, the 22 is back on again. 4am I’m still playing, still butchering it. But I know I’m closer. Question is: will it be in time. I have gains, I have relapses. Though the number of pieces I’ve got cold increases and increases. I lay off the minuet for a few days, I may fumble some part, but a second later it’s all there again.
The G- Minuet. How long have I been playing that? Months. I’ve finally got it where it’s almost automatic. I play it fairly well. I know I know it when I can start anywhere and proceed. Transpose it to another key. But months!
I can just see myself. Cold on Silent Night … next March. Playing it everyday. I don’t want to play it everyday. I never would have put this piece in my daily repertoire. But Knatz, I keep telling myself. This is regulation stuff. White bread. These Cs and G7s etc will be useful all over the place. Get it cold and you’ll be doing the same in a few more. Then more, then in all of the keys. This is the standard shit, that all the pop music is written in. Who the hell but you just plays Bach and jazz, taking up at 50?
Actually, it’s nearly ten years of a fair amount of playing, but only a couple of keyboard, of chords, of those extra dimensions.
That’s the thing about Silent: it’s 4 parts. Solid geometry instead of plane.
And as usual I’m learning the basic stuff last.
Already it’s helped. I play the E octave on the downbeat and go straight to the inverted C for altered E on the upbeat. But that’s in Gettin It Togetha, which I already have down. Ah, but a precious detail added. Toward what the whole thing should really be. Just the chorus. Before beginning even to talk about a solo.
5. I go to be. 5:30 the 22 is back on. Shit, that last G7 is hard. But a couple of times I do it, almost smooth, and even get half of the last C G7 C before botching it.
And I think of how important to learning a break is. Leave it alone for a couple of days. Come back … and you’re advanced without practicing!
Back to bed. No sleep. Dawn. More no sleep. I read till I don’t know what I’m reading. 7:30. 8. Toss and turn. Bells ringing in my head. Hallucinating. And driving me nuts. That crazy G7: an eighth to a sixth to a fourth to a sixth of C and then a different sixth of C. The right hand I can do: no problem. The left, no problem. But put them together? And then do that succession of G7 and C and the end? Fifth Fifth Eighth Eighth Seventh Third, all syncopated. While the right hand is playing G7 as though it’s C! Madness. But I think I’ll get it in time.
Alarm for noon. I actually get up. Plug in the coffee, turn on the 22 … and it’s all there. All day, I’ve played it mostly right! Now I’ve got a week to make it really right. With élan. Style, on top of the perfect edited work.
But this is crazy. The sun is shining. Football is on. I’m not going to wreck my hand again today.
So. Back to the fishing hole. Yesterday, hours to get a single faint nibble. Then I’d gone back to the dam and gotten strikes. No fights, but tugs. Could have been warmouth too small to take the big worm. Or mudfish screwing around. Or me teasing the lure out of it’s mouth, over-playing coy. Trying to send a little tease of life once the fish was mouthing it. When will I learn to just leave the damn lure lie still once he’s shopping?
But the hole was so depressing. The water mournfully low. No space to jig without disturbing a duck weed. Giving the game away.
But so what? The dam is so beautiful I could weep. Always at least one nine or ten foot gator.
So. Today is just as pitiful as yesterday only 24 hours worse. Not a nibble. No sign of life. The days I got my good action, only a couple of weeks ago, the fish were jumping all over the place. The hole was dead. But that’s only one reason I go. The least of my reasons. Still, it’s the ostensible purpose and I like a little communication with a fish now and then. So I drop the black jim on the duck weed at the edge and something is swimming off with it before it’s penetrated the surface scum! But then he leaves it alone. I must have dropped the lure right on a fish’s head! Or in his nest. He was house cleaning. Escorting the intruder out, not feeding. Or fighting.
So I’m thinking: I’m so close to getting this job in the park. Do I risk everything by a trip to the dam? And along comes the tram. Do I run, hide, quick collapse the rod, say, I’m not fishing, I’m er just carrying the rod. Well, you’re not supposed to be back here. And Pete hears about it. Oh, that guy. He’s all right. We won’t prosecute. But we don’t need him to run the tours either.
So stupid me, I go back there again. And I take more lures than ever. And I get a half dozen good tugs. Nothing hooked, but that’s ok. I’ve communicated with the fish. The ten footer is there. A pair of seven footers side by side on the other side. A giant great blue flaps deeper down stream. And …
I catch something out of the corner of my eye. A large animal is crossing the path, the dam bridge road maybe three hundred yards down. A deer, I shrug at first. I don’t need to see any damn deer; I’m supposed to be watching my lure. Watching smatching. You fish by feel. Yes, but paying attention. The eyes concentrate the feeling.
But it can’t be a deer; it’s as big as a horse. But too low to the ground. And too dark for a deer. And it can’t be a horse unless it’s walking on its knees. It’s hardly half tall enough to be a horse. Not with that girth. A hog. A feral hog. But it’s at least twice the size of any hog I’ve seen. And that bruiser I followed around in Myakka was as big as they get. Having seen hundreds of them in the pastures, I know.
But he’s off the path on the creek side. I can’t see him any more. He was already half way across when I saw him. Ambling. Slow, but covering ground.
And there’s only one thing it probably was. The one thing it very probably wasn’t: a bear. A Florida black bear. But there’d been only one sighting in the history of the park! Florida’s oldest state park. But it was last summer. So there’s maybe at least one bear around.
Then I see horse, deer, and other shit all over the dam bridge. One I don’t recognize. Could that be bear scat?
Ah, and I’d seen a hawk today that wasn’t a red shouldered. And there are piliateds around. And I hear a barred owl. And the dam pond is so beautiful … The cypress have gone bald. Another great blue. And a little blue. And a dove acting like I never see around the camp grounds.
Three new to me warblers second to last time.
More casts, a couple more tugs, and for once I should leave before I freeze on the ride home. Especially since I want to stop at the gate and tell whoever is there.
Same guard as I came in. One of the nicest of a very nice bunch. I tell him. Coy about where.
He tells me that there used to be bear in the park. That the sighting was the only one this year. So the newspaper had it wrong. As usual. Or I misread it. Or supplied the exaggeration myself.
Sure. Maybe a bear is feeding on the hog young over there. They’ve had a lot of pig damage back there. And the park has just bought new land, the previous owner said had bear.
Could it be? Only the second sighting in 1990. Why not? Just like my bass was the second largest out of EHP’s glades in 88. The biggest out of that pond in anyone’s memory.
Home. I still catch the last several of the Eagles’ scores over Green Bay. On with the 22. No mistakes! Not altogether smooth. Not style exactly, but I did it. Three in a row! I’ll make it yet. Plenty more mistakes and regressions to come, but a good chance of playing ok for the event. Certainly good enough for the cover of the MMT8.
Training wheels I called it to Martha, the usual accompanist. Never bought it with that purpose in mind. But it sure works that way. Playing with a group. Where the group is you. Was you. Cosmeticized you.
Other great training. I vary the speed through the MMT8. 92. 70. 62. 120. That’s when you really know it. Too slow and you lose concentration. Too fast and you’re bollixed. But not if you’ve got it down. Never lose concentration if you’ve really got it down.
Throw the chicken breast in the pan. And more pk nuttiness. Chicken paprikash, right? So what’s with the olive oil? Oh, hell and butter too. A little garlic. A little ginger. Ixnay the paprika. Onion. Bell pepper. French fries. Those good Prince Edward Isle taters. Cheap but fabulous. My wicked Chinese cabbage is still good. Ditto the pork and tofu soup with enough red chilies to have split my palate at the gum/upper tooth line. So what’s with the honey I’m pouring onto the chicken with veggies? Simply fabulous. pk wop chink that first aimed Hungarian, a little diabolo but minus the mustard. If I ever cooked it again and shared it … the classic of the future.
A bear! Man, what a great day. And a chance of actually sleeping maybe this time. This night! Or part of it.
it’s the purpose of the law to be lawless
liquid, intelligence, patter, duration, music.
change, stability etc
intelligence a virus
addiction : only purpose to run out.
Milton
mute Milton, messiah, imitation of marty’s commies vs mcluhan
ideas only wrong if you believe them
the morning the indians defeated columbus
accura ad: a “reflection”: of things to come …
Back to the Future again. theater. then again, perhaps just tv, and now: tv. third time. and loved it best of all. already know what it was and what it wasn’t, and could relax and enjoy the aspects I liked. but other become your own grandfather movie, Baja biker. with Eddie Lauter.
“well, history’s going to change.” says Marty McFly
lawyer is insulting doctor in civvies, committing every solecism, sloppiness of thought, etc. the doctor asks him not to, asks twice, adding a warning the second time. ditto, ditto. lawyer gets home.
same but different. like there are six things different in this picture, can you find them. one roller skate missing, big deal except it’s the pro pair the kid needed for her performance at the next county over’s dance, etc. lawyer gets bill, itemized and marked paid, one pair roller skates, one dog kidney … one lawyer’s thorax. No, not MD: AI, specializing in topology. He’s moved those items to another dimension.
spotlight vs broad beam, but still all that darkness. evil, scary?
hardly, just can’t light, be conscious of, have a map/theory for more than a bit at a time. I find that thrilling. far more thrilling that if everything looked like Horn and Hardardt.
Hotel Reserve, with the very young James Mason, one of the great idiolect affectations since the recorded persona. and a wonderful Lom/Yul/Boyer type for the villain. so refreshing, a little 40ish Brit expressionism after all this tube Hollywood.
Coke’s ad of Gramps Wilfrid Brimley type showing kid how to plant magic formula: grandma’s plum raisin rum xmas cake and a pine cone: camera pull back: Rockafeller Center. Boom, and there’s the big tree and kid’s eyes light up. XMas our most intense rehearsal of credulity: where we know we’re doing it! Even young kids know it’s a hoax, but get the real message loud and clear: these are things we pretend … you don’t have to swallow the santa claus but you’d better fucking not question what the tv anchors mean when they choke and talk about “the real meaning …” Of anything.
local anchor gal other night declares Jap xmas to be “pagan” because theirs is about Santa while ours is about Jesus. !!!
fun redo of The Blob on tonight: very much a la ET. Uncle Remus with army in asbestos suits. this blob is US issue. the feds are the martians. bully everybody. all the prom queen types obey. they’re pushing us around for our own good. the bad boy Triumph riding vinyl jacketed hero in contrast. asbestos fed says: “we’ve got everything under control” … while blob eats everything and everybody except the crowd which remains. a jesus wine bottle. God, how I love that word control. Now: consider the two juxtaposed: is it really santa? wink wink. I’ve got everything under control. I’m beating you up to help you out. if you don’t like the way we mock your “rights,” go to russian and see what they give you. Etc. If it weren’t for tens of thousands of years of shaman, and going on ten thousand of santa wink wink, why wouldn’t the people flay the asbestos fed right there and then. He says it’s in their control, and they’re getting eaten left and right. therefore: the fed is to blame for the blob’s appetite. don’t wait till 1945 to roll Mussolini across the plaza. take them at their word.

Journal

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About pk

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