/ Journal /
1985 – 1997
|Id Intros||Scant Tech Style
previous save: 11/21/91: obviously, the babble slowed way down.
hooee, just realized: DM7 & F#- can be played the same!
last, 1988 somewhere. now, 1/91, C triad, left hand, move thumb to A, V to VI, and middle to F, III to IV, and you’ve changed chord from CM to CVI or FM. But move just the thumb, and replay middle as E, and you’ve got A-! Now, I knew that, but hadn’t fully generalized the pattern. Saw it while playing Linke’s Glow Worm, trying to identify keys and chords, ambiguity between GM and E-; D7, C0, F#-7b5, etc. When suddenly, my thumb on A, I see general pattern in the other direction. 10th! F1 to A2, damnable stretch I found in WhXmas, only to realize later I’d been playing it for my whole brief career, only in the other hand: JSB’s thing in D-! Only in White Xmas it’s down a CST: A to Ab; F1 to A2 shifting to F1 Ab2! Major, minor! But of course down a CST is minor: that’s what minor is, you schmuck. Yes, sure, still, learning the basic chord changes from standard fingers, thanks Bastien, … starts tying the whole keyborad back together, first you take what you never doubted was a unity and start dividing up. Etc, till, knowing each with some kind of intimacy, some kind of friendship, however faltering, hooee, you start stitching pluralism back into monism. The monism is doing it itself, you just watch!
But the monism is itself growing branches, misty tentacles like that first ghost of absinthe in water. I’m thinking “And so forth … Ad infinitum. Und so weiter … Et cetera … In both directions. Except no, not too far before you run out of sound in the bass direction, infinite in the soprano. Except, No, if sound becomes audible to h-beans @ c. 16 cps, and passes beyond h-b hearing somewhere from 20,000 to 50,000, most people hearing 20,000, 30,000, … but few to none hearing 45,000, 50,000. Dogs, etc. That’s high, but strictly finite. Well I never claimed it was extensionally infinite, must intensionally. All this while playing of course, not encouraging the intrusive thoughts in any way.
When, Wait: it’s just as infinite, intensionally in the bass direction. Fucking idiot, being mislead just because one number is approaching zero and the other direction gets bigger and bigger.
You can put an infinity of infinities of points into one point. And of course if makes no difference, intensionally, if you immediately get into “Imaginary” cps, when the cycles become lnger than a second, longer than a year, longer than the age of the sun, longer than the age of the universe …
and I should switch over to id. as other branches aren’t musical:
how old was I before I realized that there could be basses, themes, so profound, so slow, that the first wave, crest, hadn’t yet arrived? Close to fifty. They would be in the future. Would have no past, in this universe, that is, but would still be, in a sense, from the past, a potential infinite number of them! Points, I’m thinking, boiling point … Vs. “permanence.” The particular moment of fossilized energy we regard as “reality.” Ditto our own realities. Oh, I’ll never change … Presto, chango. When liberal becomes radical, when radical becomes reactionary, when virgins pant, spread, becomes omnivorous, when libertines take vows of abstinence … When slave holders see their slaves’ humanity. When slaves see the humanity of their holders. When exslaves enslave. Thawing, freezing, changing state. Hitler’s barber (Woody Allen). Mussolini’s people. Suddenly see the monster. How is the monster more or less illusion than Il Duce? Illusion … Reality … What’s the difference? Merely temporal. History vs potential. Ah, but however infinite the potential (infinite, minus the actual), is it all infinite infinite? Must everything happen? I sure don’t think so. No, this or that finite realization of these and those infinities. All those other infinities, forget about them; they don’t and will not (have) exist(ed). ‘Cept we can’t say which ones. Though mainly we can’t say which ones cause we don’t know them in the first please. “Eternally” invisible.
Question: which level of god could “know” about them?
last year’s star, feeling blue. Tries for usually reliable up: walks down street … and isn’t recognized! gets really pissed. no wonder they’re all junkies. (human generalization, of course.)
price highest at most destructive. only when lost does price go up? we’ve burned up “our own” oil, so now we have to have “theirs.” “They,” some of them, have sticky plans. So lets go to war … and burn of more of both ours and theirs. Bomb the oil reserves. That’ll show them. But, we never know when what threshold has been crossed, when the bias is reset, may not click audibly for a while. Ok with me. I no more know what we’re up to than our “leaders” are conscious of what program they are following. (The concept of free will, expertise, etc (covering religious and secularly expressed versions of the same error) is utterly incompatible with such recognition.
average conception, god, an obediant king, perf rep of culture.
*GG & Franklin
joseph’s coat: can’t root when gone to seed. 22 multi overload
Vict. Dict.: go see what baby is doing … and tell him he mustn’t.
abdomen, red spot, synecdoche
lawyer, jury, Potter, King, can’t satirise the group, unless you’re
Bunuel (who is no lawyer). the fool, the jester.
god is what we’re not in control of … so we must control the god,
because the idea that there could be a thing, process, chimera … not in our control and the existence of modern man are two totally
stamp collecting and the Bob Hope potato chip. the entropy game.
govt assigned, the protection racket has found a ploy to get the
marks to think they asked for it. Ford says You asked for it.
group/goy. printing money. why the jews have a leg up in being
presumption of innocnece? how about banks? why promote or preserve?
we don’t know where it’s going. queen, or decapitated abdomen.
Freud psych. carrot/stick: reify stick image
*control by magic. when you fail, call it a different name and say you succeeded.
experiment: show a group a need that they have no multi rehearsed
nurture for, and if their nurturing is stimulated at all, … they’ll give to the Red Cross. Charity is the Kennedies and Hammers
collecting the money and keeping 50% for themselves, and writing it
off the taxes they don’t have to pay to support their own programs,
paying themselves thrice and calling it points for heaven.
orpheus and Hardy’s xmas cattle
pecking order, gobbles everything
cop blob bk at macdonalds
sity in cint
govt feels exempt from own laws
“everyone” was told about the change of schedule for the garbage collection. first from Schilling, then Tod. ??? I don’t count toward “everyone”? in the army 1stSgt … spick knew his irony when he answered the Pvt whose face was in the mud (How long is the harrassment going to last?) “There is no harrassment at Fort Dix: Army Code #” blah blah.
imitation of X
ratio, not identity
Potter’s criticsmanship and sf
snake with tail in mouth, chimeras, paradox, etc, boundary where logic starts to break down. you’ve found the limit of the envelope, back up-it works; keep going-you’re lost. not that there’s automatic harm in being lost. you may find yourself. and lots of other things too.
sex male fe/ younger older give receive/ pleasure relief
law ought to be “say what I can’t do; then I know what I can”; but:
that assumes we know what’s what. now we know we don’t. recloth
nucleic acids with an antigen protein? no law against it. my land? flush radium down the toilet? how about dragging the moon out of orbit till its orbit intersects ours? what legislator could think to write that law?
timing of catcher vs trapese artist
king kong insane heavyweight. DB, what standard do you want your
sainthood iq judged by? not this one, next; not this one …
buddha ants and valedictorians
War Games et alia always has the palace inner guard bring the assassin with them to the king’s most inner chamber and handcuff him to the throne. so he can’t get at the king. But of course it isn’t the assassin, its the savior and that’s how he saves the king. but hives don’t get saved because it’s primarily in their fictions that they make this wise error. wise because though it ensures disaster 999 times out of 1,000, it makes survuval to the next step where thousnands are puny possible. Etc. OK, how to get the savior to the throne room. Send as a message not comprehensible to any palace guard. Then it will pass like a buck through the bureaucracy. and be filed somewhere and forgotten. A rosetta stone mihnus the demotic. The White House secretaries and little Bill Moyerses will never see that this letter that seems to be … um I’d better pass it to Erlichman’s desk, there it sits for 6 months till Erlichman’s Vassar girl passes it to Rosie’s, Dick’s secty … till it’s all shoveled aside when the king is dead, long life the king. then 20 centuries later, in Bethlehem …
knife, witch blood. exucse me.
what’s left out of this picture? Thor’s balls to body etc. In
manupulating things, one simple key thing that no one can mistake: the whip, the loe, the pussy, the sinecure. how we lie to each other and outseles without altogether losing our place. the monster’s tameness, the virgin’s black-widowhood.
how to back infer backwards, one step, toward a quantitative model of matter subjective. a la by complement.
ss: exs peel planets before eating them. crust like apple skin. young schumuck gets in trouble: we’re wasting the most valuable nutrients. etc. study it. what? it’s just iron, nickel, etc.
There is a nice correspondence between Hamlet’s relationship to his “problems” and the reader/play-goer’s relationship to the play. The difference between the 1991 or so or the contemporary audience and the 1600 or so of Shakespeare’s original audience in this regard is insiginficant. The significant difference is between the 1600-1991 audience and the pre-Renaissance, feudal court of Elsinore.
Miami Bills playoff. Marv Albert & somebody. Marino throws a get rid of it and hits defensive lineman in the numbers. Somebody says, How could he not see … etc guy 6’5 290 lbs etc. Defenseman is busy wrestling and didn’t even see the ball hit him and bounce to the ground, but … What I love about the public mind: Marino is as good throwing a football as I’ve ever seen. Camera, commentary picks up a lot, but still even amateur me frequently sees things the experts miss. Point is, a trillion things are happening, we sometimes see a half a dozen aspects of them. We put “the best” on the field, then look down on them, then look down on the experts. Every potato is momentarily better than the best. Would we like really good accurate commentary better? Not on your life.
cf. “intentionality” driving programs of the group, but not linear, not absolute, not consistent, not looking the same from different logical perspectives.
Hamlet to Russia Hous
1/11,12,13: days to remember. when does something begin? when you see a beginning to it. out of the continuum. tenish years ago I take up golf. after a year of golf mania the weather turns back cold. past Thanksgiving, it’s less and less satisfying to trudge to Lido. even with the ski parka it’s hard as hell to turn the shoulders. and when snow covers enough ground, forget about seeing the flight of the ball to the ground or finding so much as its entry hole into a snow bank. pay close attention to the frustrations of my 1981 business? no. I dust off the recorder and play simple tunes. get some facility going. try playing Zawinul’s Silent Way. can’t. no B below middle C. try the flute. why didn’t schmuckless Jeff tell me the flute had no low B either? or sell me a B foot with it? Who pays attention to what you’re asking? No, we pay attention to what we’re selling, trying to unload. Ah, but it has enough octaves that once I can play a bit above E, I can move the whole thing up an octave and Wow, I’m playing along with Miles’ record. Buy the Real Book. Go crazy for another couple of years, even as the idea for Comet derails me onto a mania I can wholly approve of. But that aside for this contemplation, the flute was always there, an alternate occupation. write, play, sleep, play, write, write, sleep, eat, play …
I got so I could play 90% of the tunes with some facility. and if I was playing enough, even with some sort of decent tone, occasionally a pretty good tone. very occasionally to actually reflect my soul a bit. not that even the writing does that often enough. But: comes the end of the written melody, it says solo 4 X 2 bis C#-7. It was my chorus, and I didn’t know what to do. Etc till living at 211 Windsor and meeting what’s her face I go to the Bryn Mawr music publisher and buy a book on improv. Incomprehensible. Except for: learn chords. Get a chord instrument.
Well, I had a guitar but it was under UHaul’s own lock on my outofstate storage. Could never bring myself to make the money to catch up and get my stuff. By the time I do, I’ve already spent $99 on the little Yamaha. Find myself picking out notes on the keyboard, but not chords, playing it like the flute, linearly, and like my playing of the flute, only the melody. Etc, catching me up where the id files begin and it’s now going on three years since I met that Toronto girl and her playing of the Rose got me onto my present two independent handed studies. 1991 and sure, more and more I’ve found my hands just wandering and playing nice things, still, no structure. I mean, I “improvise” a few bars in G-, but … it’s still far from taking my chorus when the Real Book written part ends. I know the chords stay the same: if no additional instructions are given, the already indicated chords apply.
Now, gradually, over this decade especially, I see what’s been clear to me all along. It’s all there, everything ever played, and everything yet to be played, at least in the Western diatonic scale system, on the one black and white repeated asymmetry: C to C to C to C … A to A …
I can now “see” what pros are doing like never before. I watch the key board players on the tube. Now and then a glimpse of Star playing the chords. Sure her hands cover the key board, but much of her comping is from within reach of wherever her hand was at T-1.
Bastien taught me standard Root V7 VI positions from the basic major triad, then the minor triads too. On my own I tried the same from the keys not much in Bastien: Gb, E, Db- … Following the Real Book, I mostly try the b keys, not the #s. Except then Seth’s Bb book, is trasposed to sharp keys and I get somewhat in balance. Bastien II then shows the same changes from the root in the middle inversion. Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen. And I go off on my own and try a bunch of keys till I can transpose that tune to some of the weird keys.
But still: it’s wasn’t till these past couple of months that I meet Gene. We intend to practice a few selected tunes together. We pick several. I promise to “learn the chords.” But he never shows up again. Till the Xmas eve thing forces us together for rehearsal. Silent Night “forces” me to rehearse four part chords, octaves … fingerings standard enough I’m sure, but totally unfamiliar to me.
It wasn’t till I broke my toe, reinvited Gene to stop by anytime … and he shows up, violin in hand that same night, that the discipline started. One tune, I say: My Favorite Things. Intending to pick one relatively simple. Now, hindsight shows me the too late wisdom of picking something only 12 bars long, with only four or five changes, all in familiar chords, and not all 7th chords!
Anyway, I put it into the MMT8. Part I, repeat, Part II, the bridge, repeat II and the bridge: solo.
For a week I’d written the chords, made them graphically logical, rows of four, a line between the parts …
I’d divided the 7th chords between the root and the III,V,7 triad and relabeled the latter as though the III were the root: C-7 = C + GM.
Now: repeat, and repeat, and repeat … till your hands just go there.
Except of course I can never get a line into it. For wanting to be “creative.” Trying this or that inversion … and never keeping time past three measures.
And then I did something very difficult. Took me 53 years to do it. I did something simple. I FORCED myself, just temporarily of course, to play NO variations! Just root in left hand, III 7, thumb and pinky in the right. E-7, F#-7, E-7, F#-7, CM7, CM7, CM7, CM7 …
That was 1/11. Then, that whole day: that. Then root left, whole triad right. Then R III left; V 7 right.
Of course I’d back slide, find myself cheating.
But basically, my hands are covering hung portions of the key board. After a while, they’re GOING there, they know where to go. In fact that’s when I’d cheat, and find myself quickly lost.
So Gene comes again last night. We play it and play it. Slow, a little faster. And I get lost less and less. Miracle of miracles. After a while, even when lost, I find myself! Pick back up a few measures further.
But that’s still not my point here: I try to articulate it to Gene. I fail. I don’t know how to articulate it to myself. But while we’re playing … I know I’m in a quantum neighborhood. I’m about to change state. Not to, but toward, that state where you may be playing C, but not only are F and G7 close to hand; so are A-, A-7, B7, D7, GM7 … it’s ALL UNDER HAND! at ALL TIMES!!!
And this morning, I awoke, and found it truth!
I don’t mean I have it. I mean I can see it. I can feel it coming. Now, as is my wont, I stumble out of bed, carefully with the fractured toe, get the water going, flick on the system, and start fumbling with the keys. Wake up at the keyboard. See if the Bach is there before the mind arrives. That’s what I was doing when I broke my toe, swinging to the bathroom and quick get back to the keyboard, when WHAM, my foot hooks the bathroom bulkhead.
But here I am: E-7, F#-7 … And the right hand is finding the inversions, the easier positions, WITHOUT derailing the TIMING!
So, first time in the big city?
You will see so many things. Witness
and, having just given bk his asg3&4: pk, muses at finding himself musing on paleolinguistic aspects of the Hamlet challenge. Who’s there? Who goes? Good God! all the decades I’ve been turning Hamlet around that opening pivot … and I never realized …! It links precisely with my muse on the origin of language: aboriginally: to 1) indentify (to friends) and 1b) to mididentify (to foes). to lie, to disguise. No, bird, I’m not a delicious insect; I’m a big bad you don’t know what with huge eyes. Wait … now also for the first time! Hoomans too! Misidentify physically. We don’t look dangerous.
And who’s friend and who’s foe is just like hooman international politics. The shifting identifications and misidentifications of the black widow. Male first as: as far away as he can get; then voodoo C-, cuny (Bowdlerizing K. 2016 07 29) charmer; then … just another bug. the genders attracting and repelling over Tnx … Tnx1 … Tnx+2 …
and alzo for the first time: BOOM! That’s why the general common sensical paranoid zenophoebic Nazi anybody is so hostile and suspicious of any use of language or intellect to tell the truth: it takes their (our) billion year old weapon away! I don’t doubt
that there have always been few enough truth tellers, but we allow only two or three, preferably only one, to be known. Another reason there can be only one god. among the infinity. or one messiah. among the thousands of miracle workers. Why a Jesus or a Buddha are great, so far as its up to 250 you’re converting. But just another devil across the next boundary.
all this is part of what the X symbolizes. X. Cross. X the lamb, X the sherpherd, X the warrior, etc. The Trinity puts the X into three dimensions. The ambiguity that tells the truth while it disguises.
their, our … identity …
Whoo! can’t keep up with it. Another thing from left field. Equal! Politically, it doesn’t mean “same”; it means “no difference significant to us. significant in a political context. OUR political context.” which is actually the same. A big apple and a little apple, an old orange, tinted and hy-bred from all flavor or goodness … all “one.” Next question: what does “one” mean?
Hofstetter’s point about the schools grouping both sides of the bell curve as learning dysfunctional: they’re not claiming that there’s no difference between a genius and a moron: no: it’s No Difference to Them! They can’t deal with either. Don’t want to. Don’t have to. Their survival strategy doesn’t depend on new maps, but on knowing the old password.
My orals group never claimed I wasn’t intelligent. They made such claims extravagantly. Or knowledgable. Or dynamic etc. No: not one of them. Which of course was my whole point all along. And the mass asks only: did he succeed? Not a new brother? (neer mind how disguised; so are we all) Not a new king? just either alien or enemy or neutral pleroma: same difference to us.
T: Difference. Best seller: not Information, but Difference. Anyone might start such a book.
“Women are dangerous.” Who’s speaking (where you don’t see the speaker, don’t hear the voice (and even if you do, how do you know an organism from a Disney or a White House simulation of a mouse or a president?). Well, a male, obviously. Um, probably a male. Just saying: That’s not me. That’s not what I am. (Would a martian find our utterances any different than we find a whale’s?) Uh, unless it’s a female, trying to pass (among males) as not altogether alien (or among females also practicing to pass as not altogether female, etc. The Nazi of Stalag 17 talking about baseball. Etc.
good god, 1/16 to 1/28, not one word, not a breath, neither did I have an itch, till now. petting a bob cat? holding a great horned owl? penetrating the most incredible textured depth as my fingers penetrated feathers to skull, seeing up close and at leisure the architecture of its talons. mix up mixed further in translation with Karen Wrede, she hears me saying that the visitor with her hand extended and the deer moving trembling toward it might have been trying to feed the deer. On the contrary, Karen was trying to gesture the just released deer toward the forest cover. she’s upset. Corrine feeds it straight back to me. I meet the woman. Incredible. A pair of kestrels, the horned owl, two barreds in an outdoor cage, the blind fox squirrel, the wingless red tail, the indigo snake shedding twice in two months as it sloughed off the scars of its wounds. David fondles the bobcat as he explains that it’s too tame to be released anywhere near people. Bob purrs and paws, purrs and bites. Jesus, a bob cat! Gorgeous! Those eyes. And those of the owl earlier. Took me right back to being face to beak with that great barred owl in Lexington.
Then helping Karen to feed them. Her throwing the meat toward bob’s cage from ten feet away, frisbeeing it straight toward the slot, a hard slider, the paw coming out a blurr, snatching, and doubling the speed of entry, guaranteeing Karen’s already perfect accuracy.
The blind deer running in circles at my approach. The curiousity and affection of the little unindetified male, his horn buttons just starting to itch him.
That barred owl turned toward me, and I saw the ravage of its face, however healed the hole around what once had been eye. My knees buckled. And had she not thought I was slandering her, I never would have met her.
T: truth vs control
“dharmac” great word. Bodhi Dharma and Karma? a little tarmac too?
Phila Sta. statue in the East! not S, as my Manhattan brain
misdirected me. foregoing I think while watching Witness once again. ie, the trailer comes on, and right away I picture Phila Station and the statue and find myself reviewing mystic directions. but of course! it has to be in the E! Once Manhattan rationalists organized NY like a north up 2 dim grid, how dare Phila confuse me by running east and west?
fool: not necessarily wise, not even smart; but different. alzo: exempt from the usual social fears, not because invulnerable, the fool may be butchered more readily than most, but because though perhaps extra vulnerable, hardly worth more than beating-or dismissing, oh pooh pooh, etc. But mainly, not sharing the same fears and conventions. cf.. witch and tram/bus. at the highest level of normalcy, we don’t know what’s a solicism until we look around and see the reaction.
heayweight god. devil so not to think self coward
T: escaping inward. invisibile in the cracks of the perception
“God really knew what he was doing-when he made you-to give this
tour.” Nicest compliment I’ve received in a while. Beats even the
bravos and the “standing” ovation. same day saw monster lactating
feral sow with two hoglets and a bunch of otters. And cleaned Charlie Creek!
Der following day! Malcolm says No as I offer to climb the live oak
with the chain saw. Same Malcolm who last week went through the bay
trees like butter while the other power boys nearly plucked my eyes
out each time they’d drag off a log, paying no attention to the vine
hooks. No way, Malcolm says: I’m expendable; you’re not.
Huh? I can’t imagine any of these people seeing any major part of my value, no matter what the public says. I play straight, sincerely: Huh? They can always get another ranger, Malcolm says; we need you to run the tram. !!!
T: Geeks with Guns
But best of all, woman comes up after tram, waits for other talkers. I always walk back along tram, ostensibly to check for litter, actually too of course, but also to message that even after two hours, I’m not trying to run away from them for a rest. However raw my voice or pressured my bladder. Woman comes up to me with a child crashed against her bosom. She’s not saying anything, but as I move to reach for a leaf on the seat she moves in front of me. “She wants to give you a hug,” she says. Child looks stone asleep, but then, head still on mommy’s chest, these arms reach blindly. With necessary awkwardness, mom tries to position the arms where they can reach me. “Let me take her,” I say. And I do, getting the most wonderful little girl hug, now with the face crashed agaist my chest. Stone asleep but with hugging arms. I return the squeeze, give her bottom a nice seat with my hand, and say, “but I haven’t even seen her face,” and hold her up while handing her back. Eyes closed, but still reaching for me. “She saw the otters,” mother explains. “She was asleep through a lot, but she saw the otters.”
van or wagon rear: what’s the message? a chaos of stickers: new: USflag with text: “it was too hard to earn to let it burn” or some such. US flag in X veterans license plate. Also: “These colors don’t run: Desert Storm. And a navy something sticker. But central: faded, icky: have-a-nice-day smile in deep frown. Text: uh … something really down. Eore. Everything is shit or some such. Also very faded purple rainbow, once central, neither cleaned, repainted, nor removed. And: failed sex education; need tutor.
status quo reproduction is toward vegetative relatively; the next paradigm is sexual.
Lucky Pierre (WWI) & his 2 francs: paradigm of official justice
what’s wasted? while what’s saved? created? etc. every action eliminates an infinity minus a small number of possibilities.
dichote: who’s remembering what of basic program while opponents bluff with laws constitutions and talk of justice etc. that’s why the jewsetc, mideasterns are so hated. they remember what you’re concealing from them.
$ an IOU. the more $ you have, the more you can feel the society- culture-etc owes you.
no thing is efficient except within a range. communication turns away past certain thresholds.
peace is what Abbot wants after he’s taken all Costello’s money.
I have whatever of the world’s wealth that money hasn’t destroyed.
sci-art. or sc-art
semiotics, synecdoche: HHSP uses cute icons for mens and ladies rooms. stick man, broad shoulders emphasized; stick lady, triangle for skirt. transvestite is found in ladies. who’s at “fault”?
T: The Book of Binaries
When is a binary not (appropriately) a binary?
language: a (set of) time overlaps of revised and outmoded “working” “meanings.”
deciduous trees let light through to the forest floor: that’s where their babies are! For one thing …
corps job to rough people up while being ironically to sarcastically violent about their “rights.” Rights are what you hae until somebody doesn’t care to regard them. (and who recognise no retaliatory power of yours. Black panthers’ sin was wanting justice.
chaos angels Fall of Statan
& anterior histories
math dreamer finds cosmic control panel, goes down flow chart and toggles values.
weed mid fertilizers
put welfare of man first and own last. great. then there should be another aspect which makes sure such leaders are maintained. If not …
as in humanity in general. then survival is … a pure sacrament.
40% committt suicide
The Yuppie blue collar and the teen suicide. the show shows you the parents not doing a good job. great. check out the bluecollar Yuppie’s performance in 10-20 yrs (or months or hours). Having cocktails. Being rubbed by the Geishas. Talking about how wearisome it is to be at the hub of morality. while the institution blizzed population sucies, drugs out. prison riot. Burn your crib.
ss: “blooie” this and that. turns out to mean Not in the Group. ie, evil, etc.
if you’re not in the group … then you’re not in the group. The Enemy of Eternity (this hour/week/month) is …
govt: is haing the benefit of the doubt … and milking it.
history of others is their having lost it: deservedly.
our own history is having been unlucky, overcome by enemies.
Believers in sovereign omnipotence will be unbalanced to find a hierarchy of it.
I don’t believe that consciousness has a competent or trustworthy ally in our species.
The will to do something, especially about things we don’t understand, make no attempt to see beyond of misclassifications, a simple knowledge of zoology too insulting to our morality.
1) How establish that there is such a thing as identity?
brain transplant: how about brain/body feedback? Say you have a missing leg; I don’t. Now your brain is saying: what’s this leg get signals from? Am I me? ha! p 24 [what was I reading?]
communications requires entropy
brain is a rat: nice thought experiment. But it should be follwed up with a real experiment. Talk to such a brain. Does it think of itself anything like you guessed. p 8 then & p 27
love Bird played with Miles rather than vv p 12 “virtually remembering.”
treats memories as things w. one simple location
[and now I remember what above scribble was from: bk’s paper!]
memory implants cf. reading a great novel. I’e experienced: Pierre, & Prince Andrew, & Hamlet, & Vito Corleone …
p 16 will/character
funny: “she’s” and then torture
AI duplicate human soul? why not? we’re reptiles with human souls. They’re all too familiar. I’d like to see what a DIFFERENT population of consciousness would come up with.
paranoia: a conspiracy by the priest-professionals to encourage the
pretense that there’s nothing to fear, not reasonably. No cause,
they’e protected us you see. The police, ahem, the er … courts …
cf. Mrs Ms Miss. dichote dynamic of universalization and jargon.
ss: fisherman, watch out for the Xx, 19th hole, nymph grabs balls,
coitis paralysis, it’s the xs after all.
the jillionth western, formula formula, but it finally becomes clear to me … after too many decades of them …: family of asshole eastern liberal pacifists are traveling west, a nice prefab has been built for them in the Big Horns by brotherinlaw who’s now off with Custer, gravelly voiced salt and pepper bearded MAN combines personal Vendetta with protecting them. from EIGHT predators. brat starts to prefer gravely to fag dad, played annoyingly by Tom … Tom … how come I can’t think of favorite actor’s name? did The Norman Conquests, and Ruben Ruben … Shapely mom draws like magnet to MAN etc. Gravel plays England to Europe as family wagon lumbers on with silly eastern hairlooms. Watch the rocker, Mom tells their barbarian protector. Grace the Quaker Kelly lectures Coop. Actress who hectored Shane had perfect alto whine. This mom tries it too, but soon bashes the biggest baddy in the face with a club, after gravel has picked off four of the stupid followers.
I would like to see eight lions follow a runt buck, a finicky doe, and a confused yearling, herded by a ronan buck, have them loose HALF their force in the chase, and keep coming rather than find a squirrel to eat instead.
But in fiction, predators are as stupid as the devil. Dennehy in First Blood, for example.
Finally, the last lion stands there, daring Tom to shoot him. Tom does. Now, they’ve been defeated from the beginning, but they keep coming. Here, finally, even the leader is dead, but a wounded bandit still tries to shoot the winners. Gravel is wounded, of course, but plugs with the coup de grace. But mom and a far less faggy Tom whirl, guns drawn.
We’re eastern, we’re civilized, we’re christian, we’re moral, sensitive, gentil, high principled, babes in the woods … but Wyoming is ours, we didn’t take it from anyone, its was empty, and now our name is on the deed. And to show how sensitive and moral we are, millions for defense but not one cent for tribute, and no apologies either. And Tom invites gravel to Sunday dinner. Now that he wears the pants again.
ss: detail. Mia Farrow is Eichmann’s girlfriend. Friday nights, they play ticktacktoe on the Jews’ taut abdomens. Her pen runs out of ink. Eichmann suggests she jab the jew and use his blood. she does. on with the game. she winds up pulling off his balls or whatever. 1947. Jew, survived, shrieks at seeing Mia in the street. She stabbed me, she castrated me. Mia is very upset. Everyone is very upset. At the Jew. He hurt my feelings, she explains. No body should hurt anybody’s feelings.
playing my new drum machine, I’m thinking: musical dichote, with jazz on the generally positive, generally rare, side, the side where the music is for the musicians! the cogniscenti are welcome to enjoy it too, but fuck everybody else. early classical music was ditto. Ludwig etc wrote for people who played that instrument, or, with orch stuff, played an instrument. at least their voices were trained to some extent to the tradition. 20th pop, consumer “art.” plenty of conventions and traditions still, but mostly unconscious. while this new one has slipped in, and unnoticed, has become the uncon.default: it has to please ME and I don’t have to have any skill in being pleased.
it’s “latin,” not “jazz,” I’m listing too. same difference. the latins know their tradition. or they’re left out. the nouveau-nincom thinks the music ought to be telling him where the rhythm is and not confuse him with variations.
“the best is often the enemy of the good.” never heard that before last night’s supreme court, states rights, segregation bullshit.
meaning well doesn’t count; unless of course you’re the person who meant well.
can there be any waveform that isn’t the complementary “opposite” of itself from some perspective?
hierarchies are a way of dissecting and splicing messages, the “truth” hiding from itself. Tee hee. control, but also impossible to reconstruct.
the greatest luxury is a very moderater amount: otherwise … Pierre & his ballet slippers. the toilet paper ads. real butter.
wild pig, clams, shrimp, catfish, bass, bream … The hand lettered sign over the copy machine says “employee appreciation” & farewell to Malcolm party. Hmm, wild pig. I go, misgivings and all. Least of worries weather it’s 1) employee appreciation that Malcolm is leaving, 2) employee appreciation of Malcolm and sorrow that he’s leaving … N) … even with little worry whether the appreciation has been assigned to us without our consent or perhaps actually offered from the floor, seconded, and voted on but behind my back. but then there’s the further ambiguity: am I an employee? or do I just work there? but of course and as always I’m being perverse even silently to myself (I hear the irony; why don’t you?): employee appreciation could mean, or rather mean to mean, “appreciation of employees”: HHSP is giving a going away party for Malcolm, but thanking all its employees at the same time. Neither of course at any point did I really think that the sign maker believed he had communicated anything but the latter and unambiguously. blah blah etcetera. all too obvious. I say it only because of how genuinely pleased I was at how actual, spoken, genuinely unambiguous, thanks came about. Paul says that people have been saying that the park looks great while only we know how crippled the staff has been.
a DMZ: PR out for weeks and then on crutches half the time, Kyle on crutches at home since Dec, Henry in the Hospital or ill at home half the time, Malcolm run down and in the hospital, Andy forever having to put his arm in a sling, go home, and lie down … (Pete at home all the time, but that’s just his normal routine.)
Compromising Positions. Raoul Julia, Susan Sarandon (three times now I’ve seen her and fallen in love each time), and there’s the plot of DB in the last three sentences of the movie! I think it’s Eric Ashworth I’ve got to kill. Jun 10: ah, but bk says CP came out in ’85, based on a novel. So it’s I who duplicated!
sd: rational: means “we consent to it” far more than “we have examined its base.” primate unity. rational and rationalization have little to distinguish between them.
prayer as control over the god.
Sheriff Jim Bob Rouneck has arrested Leroy for … X. beaten, arrested, accused, beaten, etc, jailed. Judge Li’l Bruce Cracker suggests that they could jail him long enough to build the new country road by himself if it was premeditated rape (or something). “So, Leroy, did you plan to ravish the Widow Douglas or just feel the monster jump while you were breaking open her jewelry safe?” “And me home alseep the whole time? I don’t know, Judge: what did I do? What did I intend? I can’t wait for you to inform me.”
Jackknife grew on me by the end. Frustrated, abused sister says to DeNiro as he’s about to search for drunk, destructive, suicidal VietVet: “He’s not your friend,” she reminds him. Jackknife didn’t need reminding. He clarifies: “Right. He’s not my friend; I’m his friend.”
ermazing: the 7th seal on tube, wretched, abysmal reception, cut, with an electronic tick like a scratched record … but wow. the It Is Finished girl moves to give water to the marked man spasming with plague. “It is useless,” Gunnar Bjorgstrom tells her, “utterly useless. Don’t you see that I am consoling you?” Bibi Anderson as Mary, and unbeleivable how we’re still seeing her play beauties. Not just Babette’s Feast, but I saw her as Fitzcaraldo’s daughter’s mother from Wisconsin in that terrorist movie. Um, Claus, um, Nastassja Kinsky, and Rudolph Nureyev as the good terrorist: Exposed. credits promise … sh… brain like sludge, … Pierre Clementi. Haven’t seen him in decades … I look and look. Finally, ah ha. He’s the bad terrorist’s brother who is knifed right next to poor Nastassja in the back seat of the car. Still looking weird, but nothing like he was in Belle de Jour.
I don’t like the *SpDd’s attitude toward *varelse, not as first articulated by Ender, but as in everyone else’s attitude of slavering, dangerous, beast.
Orson Scott Card’s Speaker for the Dead. see which for varelse as for ramen.
vengeance against the … muggers, nazis, … We don’t see them as human. the joke is: they didn’t see us as human! So: how can either complain when either kills the other? BHC.
T: A.Korzybski: the Mad Count, and Mathematics’ Unpardonable Crime
the final notes of a symphony aren’t its end; the silence that follows is. And the coughs that follow, the murmurs, the applause, the exiting feet, or the next selection .. the silence of the empty hall. Or its creaking.
evolution vs existentialism: you’re not the point, evolution doesn’t have a point (ie Renaissance perspective is the wrong image); your relationship to others (narrowly interpreted: other humans; more widely: other *ramen …) …
us/them is always white magic/black magic
we believe in our magic, yet know it to be slippery. if not dishonest. dishonesty for the self, for the brotherhood. ie, against the father, the mother (nature), the aliens, the enemy. Then: is the enemy our 1) enemy? alien? or 2) our victims? the niggers?
me and the seizer weed. ordinary German citizen and the Jews. I have nothing against the seizer weed other than an occasional burr in my laces. But official policy is: they’re exotics. And I purge them. Fine. So where did the passion, the compulsion, come from?
ss: series of monologues, Spoon River like, but: hierarchy of consciousnesses.
ss: AI, waiting … tend hss population. culled to 1,000,000 and left fallow for Tx.
the brotherhood: cooperating, for a share of the swag.
quantum- … -step, -leap … difference. that prize moron … fuck me, I can’t remember names anymore … Nixon’s lickspit … the Times’ Emily Post … oh, well … said ‘after all, subatomic distances are very small …’ he should be forced to read Gregory Bateson on size vs. formal relations. it’s not that the star fish is big; but that it has five-way symmetry. it’s not the .000n mm; it’s the change of type!, scale! logical type!, etc. *off to the doctor today to see if I live or die. bed 1ish, but waking 8ish. do I keep my eyes closed till the alarm goes off at 9? this and that and it’s 10 before I actually move. with †Rudy Rucker on “life fractals” in the back of my head, once again a bunch of oldies replay before my mens-rasa. ah, but with one new clarity. a quantum difference never before juxtaposed like this time, same metaphor with a new eg. well, look at the coast of San Francisco, brushing just past Anchorage.
*ah ha: I must have met Catherine by now, as what doctor did I ever go to that she didn’t pay for and push me toward?
the scale at which we (males) (or dykes too?) (what? infants? in reverse?) experience pussy. all the clearer as my fifty+ year old vision focuses further and further out. At “Irrational” and “Imaginary” scales, what the cosmos seems to be most made of, we don’t have any “view” of anything at all. Except a very untrustworthy math. That’s ok: with luck, maybe we’ll get a little better at it. or not. it’s not our business. unless it is. we can’t be sure either way. except by just deciding to be sure. and jihad toujours après. at macro distances, we see just light. and that, with any discernment, only very recently. The StPete’s telescope club in the Tampa paper the other day, Venus, Jupiter, Mercury, Mars “lined up” with Gemini this July 1. Talking about who’s looking back at “me.” A bit, but not quite, like my joke in Mod.denu. A quantum difference in meaning of “me.” At anything but .00000n c, it’s just light either way. Though now Xrays etc too. Beginning to make some sense of that as well. Good for us.
It’s only at middle distances, something between the angels and the devils, between heaven and hell, ie on Earth, Erda: dirt! within a horizon, that Adam looks around as sees … Eve! Boing. The curves grab, like the red spot on the cardboard bill grabbing the attention and focusing the would-be feeding chicks. Tits for ass, keep him coming at her face forward. Red lips. A woman built as nothing so much as false signals, a flower to an insect, her ass on her chest, a C-, cuny (Bowdlerizing K. 2016 07 29) in the middle of her face. Adam gets closer and closer. The whatever rituals are performed. Circle away, around, narrowing. But who’s narrowing whom: the fly the spider? or the spider the fly? does the fly think he’s controlling the web? a nightmare in which the more he moves the more centered he is? while the central orb weaver moves to his epicenter? Adam doesn’t know if it wasn’t a pheromone that moved him within her horizon. No, he was moving about by Free Will, right? But now it’s the eyes that control things. Right down to reading distance. But at visual focus, there’s nothing there! Hey, it’s nothing. Empty. What’s this compulsion closer? When altogether different scale impulses and perceptions take over. We’re somewhat accomplished at verbalizing the visual. For the last few centuries anyway. Guttenburg to McLuhan. But here, we’re sub-visual, pre-visual. In fact, we’re pre-middle- or -human-scale. now we’re closer to the realm of the biotic soup. the swamp engulfs us. smell, taste and touch take over.
Here’s the “passive” spider. The web does all the work. The male supplies the web’s energy.
But forget the visual. Unless … they translate it to a quantumly different scale. A Georgia O’Keefe orchid. A blowup of an electron microscope scan. We don’t have to go quite down to a fractal landscape though. The tongue as a Martian evening. Not even to cell scale. That micro-photography of that black widow’s vagina in that West German film on spiders! Yaiy! A cathedral, for chrisake. Metropolis gothic.
Meantime, I’m also reviewing … the female and the tactile-oral, tastee-feelee-smellee. Angus licking the bitch from day one, till bam! she finally sets and turns for him on day 11. (And on 12 and 13.) Zap! it’s over. Twenty minutes later, there’s Angus with his poor schlong all gooey and hanging down, and Zat! she licks him. Once. And then back to sexless human dog. But pregnant human dog.
pk the chaste. till there’s an exception. in which I see things all of a piece. In the Keys: unbelievably sexy Dyan comes out of the john in this little filmy thing. “Well, …” she says. Me, I forgot to bring my jamies. Civilized pretense of being dressed for bed before getting undressed for bed. I hope. Up to her. I’m just exuding what pressure I can. Attraction, etc. Under the circumstances, her son in the room, her fiancé in Chicago, money oozing from her pores, it’s her move. So I’m sitting there blushing in my briefs. Shrug. “Really, I always sleep in pajamas these days. Don’t know why I forgot them here.” Really. The literal truth if there can be such a thing. I watch her tits loll about in the low cut shortie-everything she’s wearing. She turns off the lights. “I come to your bed,” she says. “Just this once. You have to promise you won’t press me for more tomorrow.” Sure. Once is more, infinitely more, than nonce. “Be there in a minute.” And back to the bathroom for Dyan. Bwong. My dick helps me fling my briefs across the bed to the floor. Dyan’s outline appears from the bathroom. She comes closer. “Are you naked?” she asks. “Absolutely.” Or some such answer. She pushes me back as I start to get up for her. Foreplay, darling. First, I want to put my arms around your buttocks, press my cheek against your mons. Kiss your belly. Nose your button. Move lower. Nose your lips’ front overlap. But it’s her play. Instead I hold the sheet up for her. She slides in. I decide that she’s not kidding: she really can’t see. Not everyone has the same night vision. But she has radar. One quick pass over the dick, same movement extending to a fleeting caress of the balls. And she didn’t touch me again the whole time.
Eight year old what’s her name in Switzerland knew just where everything was, bouncing on my lap, looking the other way, babbling in German. But her hand was around my poor semi-trapped dick. It had escaped the briefs … No, wait, I wasn’t wearing briefs. A little diarrhea, yelling at Hilary to keep her skis together on the steepest slope she’d ever been on at Wildhaus, or anywhere else, by far the steepest, almost as steep as anything I’d ever been on, and Hilary frozen in a fatal snowplow. Boom, spray, stink … and I’d thrown them down the outhouse hole. So, that’s right, my dick was free to wander within the trousers, and with Schweitzetush bouncing on it, it had sought to extend down toward my left knee. I’m twisting like a pretzel to avoid hemorrhaging, and to avoid her discovering what apparently she knew all about, and, bam, she’s got hold of it. A Michael Jordan feint-drive to the basket. All the family’s German jabber failing to order her off me.
So, loyal to her fiancé I suppose, Dyan had decided she just wanted to get fucked. No suck, no blow, just “fuck-fuck-fuck me.” Even the second time … Oh, ok, an hour or so of finger and then straight up missionary again.
But that one fleeting feel. Right on the money. Blind doesn’t matter in the primal biotic soup.
What’s her face was 8. Dyan maybe 28*. And now, who would have believed … pk decides to do a favor for a nice friend in her 80s. pk is curious. pk certainly doesn’t expect to feel any lust. he’s just confident that he can offer without sounding dirty or pushy, and that if she accepts, he can do it without barfing. Actually get it up, at least once, if that’s what she wants.
just saw Dyan (& Chris) for the first time since. Gotta be 8 yrs. She calls last week, about 9 times, to tell me she’ll be visiting Orlando. She’s been sick for 2.5 yrs, lost weight, looked great! Even more beautiful than in ’87 or so. If that’s possible. Driving up to the 456 for dinner, I say that I haven’t been in Chicago since 1974. “That’s the year I graduated from high school,” she says. So, she was probably 30 or 31 then, 38 or 39 now. So wonderful to see her. But: I’d forgotten that she smokes! Seemed like she was chain smoking this time. And nipping away at the scotch. How great to get back to Catherine. She finally married Jerry last Dec. Honeymooned to Jamaica in March. End of March, vacations to Florida and sees me! The timing was actually actuated by Chris’s school break I’m sure, but still, I like the progression.
Ah, & as I read the rest of the paragraph I see, yes, that’s when I must have met Catherine. wasn’t sure, but now I see I do talk about her in these files.
who ever knows whether one is caught in a web or not? ten trillion webs? feels like free will to me. she thinks about it. for a day or two. or is she just savoring her web with confidence? made him offer right on cue. now be a virgin for a respectable couple of days.
“You’re a good friend: let me give you a hug.” How did an octogenarian cripple get so completely into an embrace so fast? generous paul, giving his friend what he believes she needs. discovering, without any real surprise, that it’s what he needed too. discovering that eighty-schmaty, it’s all there, smooth skin, nice white and pink tits, yearning nipples, a shuddering response, a genuine veritable carassable ass, the cleanest sweetest pussy of all time … but then a different shudder. a complete freeze.
when did pk ever believe anything a female ever told him? this time. wait a minute. that makes sense. does it? never been kissed or kissed with a tongue? and I only mean the lips? the mouth? it’s all lips and mouth: I mean the one on the face. never so much as brushed her lips over a dick let along gobbled it down? never had anything but a penis around those lips? I’d even believe she’d never, or so seldom to be never, had her own hand there. she comes as sweet as a teen porno queen. then it turns out she’s got a pussy that could go on the stage. A Nell Gwyne full set of muscles. You could both lie still while she did all the fucking just with her c- muscles. Unbelievably strong and independent. Etc. I comment on the talent. Didn’t know she could do it, she says. Lots of things she didn’t know she could do. Finds herself not needing to hold the rail in the shower.
And, day by day, the dick disappears further and further into the tiny mouth. “I’ll never say never about anything again,” she says. And I sing the song of similar lyrics. “I’ll never say never, no, never again, ’cause …”
But I’m getting ahead of my point. The point being: first naked, full dark, and she’s half blind anyway, schoom! slither: over the dick and around the balls. Once. Lightly. Then she wants to guide it in. No. They can do that the second time. All other times. But not the first. Otherwise how will they ever knew my radar? Other point: what’s this? No foreadoaboutnothing?
this one’s not used to using her hands. Schweitzetush: how could she be? I’ll bet the virgin mary got at least one second of feeling the spirit. If she’d been transported to the most zero light cave in the cosmos.
So what does one make of a girl who goes straight for the dick, straight down her throat before you’ve even kissed or fondled her for the first time? *Rebecca pulling my pants off before I’d gotten through the door? Gobbling the glans before the rest of the stalk had cleared the briefs? Then, like Gretchen, complaining, “But what about me?” When I don’t feel like doing anything just afterward. Well, I assume she’d been trained. Not by me, but trained. No training needed for the first feel, training for the successors.
schmuck, spell checking, I see Rebecca, and remember who I’d been trying to a few ids back, go back … and now I see, told the same story. Well, since I didn’t tell it quite the same way, I’ll leave it.
7/11/91, the 22 comes back fixed but the memory of all pkvoices wiped out: the year’s accumulation of savable stuff, some inspired, some too good, too lucky to have been inspired: just stumbled onto it, thanks to the SY22’s inevitability. So, I save a few voices from the card to fill the holes. Now I’ll find them directly instead of searching for minutes and giving up rather than fetch the microscopic list, squint, then have to fetch my glass. Eight banks, eight locations. Right: not 16; 64! locations. I write, 7/13, just after dreaming about that tool in helping me understand squares. E=Mc2 is running through my dream (dreaming about Mod3). The speed of light squared. How understand it? How explain your understanding? Or lack of it? How the fuck use it in a story? That was the line that stopped Dick of Highland Wheels cold. So, he’s a moron. So what? What’s my audience? Well, about zero, of course. No, what’s my intended audience? No, God read it before I wrote it. No, it wasn’t for him. Lonfyt Yemip. Yes, more than anything. But we kill him, so how can he? The other galactic explorers? Right. But how about just a plain old future hs? How about a future hs living right now?
Anyway, in my dream, I stare at the bank of eight buttons over the bank of eight locations. “Each one of those (the bank buttons) holds every one of those.” We think of numbers linearly: 1, 2, 3; pebbles lined up in the sand. in the geography of the 22 the top bank is lined up 1-8, left to right. And the address bank is right under it. 1-8, left to right. Two parallel lines.
Two parallel lines, multiplied times each other, adds a new dimension! I start thinking of each unit in our measurement of the speed of light as pebbles in a line, each pebble being a mile/second and there being a line of 186,000 of them. c2. Ok, each one of those 186,000 pebbles (and I point at them serially, one at a time) is itself now a c.
Which instantly illustrates my reading of The Stand. A dozen survivors walking, cycling around US. Oh so many miles and miles. So what? that’s nothing, that’s just one dimension. Every foot of every road in the US still misses almost all of the territory. They’re looking for survivors, and sure, the road is probably the best as well as easiest place to look, but riding up 27 through Sebring isn’t meeting the fractally immense lives of the people living there not to mention the fractally rich lives of those departed. How about those long departed? Aboriginal fires along Sharlo Apopka. Millennia before Seminole existed as a language. I’m not, of course, quarreling with The Stand, accusing it of some silly epistemology it doesn’t actually have. No, the dozen who will find Abigail amid the corn do so by a mystical inevitability, not by passing all possible points, thinking they’ve got the problem licked. The hubris of dealing with a fractal territory via a one or two dimensional model. The crime for which I find humanity executable. (The crime isn’t the two dimensional model; the crime is bullying others into surrendering their perception that you don’t got it quite right yet and becoming loyal patriots who won’t be able to get it right because they’ve given their intelligence as hostage. We’ll always be holding paper up to territory and saying, See? That’s this. That’s just us, a semantic given, how we’re wired. … That’s not the crime. In fact, metaphor can be viewed as a sort of joke, Obviously, ha, ha, that isn’t this. But pretend see, cause there’s an analogy between them, which I’ll be able to say instead once we get around to having the concept analogy.
Except I won’t because we’ll all have given ourselves as hostage to the leader. who rules by power of absurdity: our tacit agreement Not to say But of course that isn’t this, not really.
Uh, wasn’t very clear about that challenge to poshlost, but tough, I’ve got to get back to playing, fix another cuppa … Thing is, I get a new clearie on my old gripe. We are binary in the following (among many other things: the number of things about which we are binary is not two): salvation/ original sin. I) oh, we’re so smart, progress, progress, civilization is so great, sure we don’t have all the answers, but they’re coming. so have another sweet. Our justice is just, our intelligence is intelligent, our leaders lead, our inventories are, um, fairly accurate … II) Schmucks! morons! losers! Sinners! Clowns! can’t fight city hall, snafu, Murphy’s law, Relax, stop being a martyr, Truman?! that haberdasher couldn’t find his ass with both hands, Reagan?! that actor can’t even read a single line right Etc Etc.
But we don’t-can’t see both at once. We see (I) when we’re conning somebody, an outsider, an enemy (of course we ourselves are that outsider, that enemy a good part of the time)
We see (II) when we’re at home, having a beer.
And of course apropos of me and mine: harks back to my response to the Twain joke Phil told me at Whitehall. Get to heaven, greatest writer of all time, Shakespeare, of course, Wrong, God says: it’s Jill Smith. Jill Smith? Who? Jill Smith: from Carthage. We remember Hannibal and not another detail.
So: our heroes. MacArthur, Ike, Swartzkoff … Invincible. Best of all possible leaders in best of all possible USAs. Would we really maintain that the all white all stars could beat the all everybody all stars? Would anybody really put up money on Ruth, Gerhig, Foxx, Dimage … vs. Ruth, Mays, Gerhig, Aaron, Foxx, Clemente, Dimage, Satch Page …?
But that’s just racism. Would anybody put money of Ruth, Mays … vs. Ruth, Mays, Oh …?
How can we make judgments when we don’t know all the candidates, or when we know the candidates represent a special interest, not the population?
The publishers, when they’re at home, having a beer, know how catch- as-catch-can it is. But to the public, just around the convention, our star is the star. See this paper, this map? that’s that territory, gesturing vaguely. See that mountain over there? We’re right on top of it, says Graff Bobby.
Anyway, I get finally to the line I dreamed. The Schwartzkopf fans are offered a bet: I can raise an army that can beat your all stars recruiting only from people who’ve never been in the army! Oh boy, gimme a piece o that action. Then you realize it’s God offering the bet. Uh oh. Never bet against the house. But then betting against the house is exactly what gamblers are always doing, generally losing, always losing in the long run.
Now, awake, sort of, I see: wait, that square business is true geometrically too. The word comes from the geometric application of the arithmetic. Square: put those many pebbles in a line. Now put an equal number out perpendicularly from each.
logic could be much helped by fractals. fractal logic. the latter
being what we actually have (ie, “being” = “is a better model of”)
while thinking we have the naive, long hoped for, never realized,
Godel-proved impossible, perfect, complete, noncontradictory, finite math theory, etc. Like flat-earthers or infinite lightspeeders living in … whatever the hell pleroma it is we live in.
sf is to reg.lit as algebra is to arith. the alien, the future, the imaginary as a metaphor for “any.” as in Take any life form, and run it against these parameters …
hmm, funny to see above “sf is to …” as last id.thing entered ?Tago, cause the reason I just loaded this file (god, must be 8 mos since I began it, some id files had gotten filled within 18 r 48 hrs), was that math metaphors are chasing around in my head right now more than ever. or they were a minute ago. Just re”programmed” a DTF for the third or fourth time in three or four days. Then searched and checked my work by recalculating everything. Each check added $1 to the figures. Whoops, what did I do wrong now? Turned out to be simple enough. One strike-over fixed things up just fine. Why am I wasting my time phutsing with wred.dtf for? The thing was good enough for the nonce the first time I sketched it out? Cause I’m a perpetual phutz? Maybe, but it’s also the first time in several years I’d done any QA programming. Was pleased at how much I remembered. And bold enough to try “complex” statements. Soon saw how I could have done things simpler. Next thing I know I’m trying alternatives for everything: using @sum(list) instead of #x=#y+#z… Did an IF THEN ELSE formula. For the first time ever. immejiately saw a way to accomplished the same result simply with an IF THEN, but so what? I left it. for the time being.
all this in the context of reading Rucker’s Mind Tools with some leisure and some care. Fuckin logic. What a chuckle. And of course all this is automatically being checked against my perpetually updated oldest metaphors, never the same as the “original”s, a “1” regularly being added or subtracted, who knows whether correctly, incorrectly, by wisdom, magic, or madness. What’s the “new” “value” of your “original” “invariable”? And everywhere, I’m seeing “truth tables” as subjected to If-Then-Else and Not manipulations. ok, your tautology establishes the truth table as incontrovertible WITHIN it’s borders. But like my JD, we don’t and can’t know the end of the series.
JD, ok all these catholics are judged “correct,” ie “saved,” according to … Now at the next “judgment,” that box is wired in before a Not gate. Etc. Right, but GodN+1 has it wired … So the Protestants have their series of seconds of being Eternally justified. Then … What a dimension time is.
and thinking: these hack illiterates will never write a clear how-this-all-works manual short of designing a clear Hilbert space fractal of context shifts. At least Hansel tried to leave a trail of bread crumbs.
alzo, all this in the context of reading King’s The Stand where the plague survivors ratify the Constitution, The Bill of Rights, and then fucking sing the USAnthem! Robinson Cruso gets to the desert island and reinvents 18th-c Eng! The first meeting of the Boulder’s good democratic dictators is CIA cloak and dagger.
and King has this nice passage about rationalism assuming it can understand the core of being, etc, a death trip, etc, and how irrationalism “for the time being” is a life trip. Good. I’d like to see the procedure. “from now on I’ll do all my math wrong” how could you check and be sure it’s wrong? remember: your standards can only be irrational.
and then I’m remembering Gilbert Heighet’s point about books on witchcraft, “book” and “secret” being contradictory. which all ties into my ShSon point about Realism being primary and Nominalism necessarily being secondary, dependent on Realism for its heterodoxy. the dark lady’s reverse-virtues can only be stated in terms of the blond virtues once the blond virtues have been stated.
Start with a reptilian brain, you’re stuck with it. Yes, pentagon intelligence is a very necessary and good development in the evolution of intelligence: just as a cyanide tooth is an essential part of a spy’s equipment. Bite hard, and delete yourself from the equation. A switch, like Clark’s monolith. God could just sit and wait, monitoring nothing but explosions, to judge: “well, there was failed experiment.” otherwise: “well, the lab hasn’t blown up yet.”
math: a way of seeing relationships among things; also a way of imposing relationships on things.
every day, getting more and more understanding, feeling for II, IV, V7 etc. how the scales snug together. and those amazing dim7s of Bach and Bop. Baia: I, mIII, IV, II, I, I .,. AiyeeEE.
when we see others, do we see ourselves as the other proves we might be (have been, could be)? or the ALIEN! watch out. kill it. evil. no rules here?
revising the invariable
The difference between rational, logical, etc and surprising, unpredictable, etc: looking backwards (with information) you see: inevitability; looking forward (without information: miraculous.
two days later, arrive just below in id to record: a meaning of Xity: recognizing the truth impossible looking forward (they all believe Pilat or the Sanhedron, not X, OR they know something’s fishy, but they know when to keep mum; a Xian soc looks backward and down on the citizens of the time, who are no different from them, intellectually, morally, etc however many tvs or college degrees the latter have. And of course it is important to understand here that the truth of the relationship here asserted is independent of the truth of whether X was historical, telling the truth, etc. Xity is far more a portrait of US! than of some Galilean carpenter or of vague reports of magic and omens.
civilization: the squandering of capital we are not conscious of to
generate wealth we are conscious of.
shamans binary. I dream an abstraction, and soon am focusing on examples, Woody Allen’s noble simulacrum nazi alpha monkey in Sleeper, Oz’s shaman exposed with wheezing stage equipment, etc. The pattern is now noted but the ability to articulate it As An Abstraction, As Algebra rather than mere arithmetic, has been replaced by the objects. happens to me all the time. ah, got it, i hope: shaman binary: shamans cheating because they are just frauds and know it; shamans cheating because they know some abstraction is true, powerfully true, they know that survival is somehow connected with something they can’t quite hit with a spear or lasso with rope and therefore they use a rhetoric to persuade toward a truth they can’t quite grasp but feel close to, etc. ie, Becket feeling torture in the golden robes of the archbishop and so wearing a hair shirt underneath.
I think Woody missed a point in Sleeper, as did the Judy Garland cellulose Oz (still have never finished the *alphanumeric one): we think of leaders as reasonable, deep thinkers. but whatever comes out of their mouths is crap. like the first chap of CivWar on PBS. We think we’re being persuaded by the cogent arguments, the deep ethics of the position, when the whole thing is primate display: ooo, look at Walter Cronkheit’s level (ie slightly downward) gaze, listen to the vintage gravel of the voice, the slightly rheumatic eyes but with still some genetic chauvinism glinting through them, etc. ooo, daddy! ooo. and we behave. Of course a computer ought to be able to model the algebra of primate primacy better than any actual Ronald Reagan actor. The extensional human will always have some irrelevance to the purity of the big red spot on the beak which means mother, the big dick in your face which means father, … the sincere blinking of the eyes which means Nixon. sometimes even I can’t separate the extensional from the int…
*April 2, 1995 proud to say I have now finished a different Baum Oz book. The one with the revolution of girls.
Having a Ronald Reagan for the president or an Atari graphic for a pope doesn’t in itself mean that there’s nothing really there. Just because a big building says BANK doesn’t mean that land and resources aren’t being controlled inside and by beings who aren’t just chromed steel and lighting. whoops, my example could be read backwards: in other words here the shinny letters with a spot light on them is to the septuagenarian with shoe polish hair as the actual networking of power, labor, money, etc by the bankers and their equipment inside (or in another building) relates formally to the actual owners of land and ideas in the Republican Party. What difference does it make if it’s sham; they’re telling the TRUTH! or so they think.
In contrast there’s the I am an illusionist calling myself a magician, while all the time believing that there is no magic but there sure are suckers.
the wizard of oz is so embarrassed to be caught working his illusions, but hasn’t he actually also been running Oz? In other words, the real magic can’t be shown to these monkeys, so we have to maintain circuses and so forth as a necessary corollary of real government.
(real government always being something like: make sure that we destroy God’s Eden further with cattle and oil while making sure that the dissidents and niggers starve. Or: Anoint that dissident, enrobe that nigger, pour the oil on the cattle and set them alight.) see, my point isn’t that ‘actually running things’ is good. or bad. but that though all shamans are illusionists, some also think they’re real magicians. further, that for all we can know, some may actually be. and, that both sides of the binary participate in the fabric of reality. (the phony is just as much in the fabric as is the machiavellian.)
whether the nazi in Sleeper was or was not a phantom has nothing to do with whether or not the design card is in place or the machinery is just weaving chaos.
(and where it, the chaos of course would never be without order: one set of machines running berserk would make altogether different gibberish from those of a different industrial age. The machine scratching Kafka’s condemned man’s sin on his back is still constrained by being a lever held by a system of levers. the gibberish is machine age gibberish. being etched by a random laser would be quite different in appearance.
ritual: shows the upper limit of intelligence allowed to the group, medieval garb to show it matters not what deviances an individual or two may show, in fact all the individuals rehearse deviance displays. they matter not at all, the point is, they’ll all line up and be loyal to the old limit as soon as their perqs are threatened: the real deviant has no perqs and cannot be threatened.
semantic pathologies stir the fractal landscape: we don’t know what the program is, derivable only by an intelligence viewing the result from a perspective outside the pattern (if then)
battling worlds. bootstrapping. bcd..x wouldn’t hunt a deer to …
sentimentality? xity? (check out their actual practiced respect for life) Or consumer society replacing gatherer hunter to nomad?
tv color: a pixel is either black, red, green or blue.
bk’s AI/I difference of no difference point vs StarDrek. like all pop art, it never learns its own lesson.
how many times were StDrek’s best episodes rejected by the pulps of that and the preceding decades? No way to tell cause no records are kept of rejections.
intelligence …x…: see metaphors. intelligence …y…: see through metaphors.
Grego mistakes his participation in the nascent mob for its synergy. thinks he’s the leader. hasn’t read Tolstoy.
sophisticated ineptitude in matters criminal makes for great comedy.
just, finally, saw A Fish Called Wanda. tv, but what the hell. three or four years ago, driving downtown in Atlanta, I pass a little theater: Babette’s Feast, the marquee says. Whoa. I pull over. If it’s Hollywood, who knows what they have in mind. But the poster is all Danish. So it’s got to be … Isak Dinesen. Gotta see it. All my old movie going habits long eroded, but got to see this one. I tell cousin Pat. Imperative. Pat, daughter Rachel, and roomie Anne go with me. Beautiful Atlanta day. magnolias in bloom. what’s this? a line in front of the theater on a Sunday afternoon! but we get good seats. and the movie is incredible. but: on the line I see the other poster: John Cleese … A Fish Called Wanda. Michael Palin, Jamie Lee Curtis. But then all these years …
But after all, despite all, other good things come of it. Been friends with Kate maybe four months now. Not once does she ever sit still for a movie. I’m coming. I can hear it. I’ll be right there. Etc. And then she criticizes them! Hasn’t seen it, but … But not this time. I tell her, two minutes before it starts, we’ll be sitting here: already gone to the bathroom, already gotten our drinks, etc.
And not only does she prepare herself in time, but, when it’s over, 150 minutes later, she hasn’t moved. Not fidgeted once. Just laughed and laughed with me. Old dogs and new tricks.
free will, etc all flat earth concepts. Xenocide. not meaning merely not true, but fundamentally misconceived. our mistakes don’t come from extrapolations of experience, they come from extrapolations of false models. dr. isaac’s walk in a straight line. sure. walk for 21,000 miles and you’ll wind up smack back on this spot. Hah? Get outta here.
sd: oxymoron relates to euphemism. sometimes one is the other: funeral home. highway safety!
browsing slowly through W’s Certainty, it’s months now since I started a proposition here, a page there … & ss are streaming through my head. nearly all of the Model, Beginning, programmers-discuss-the-program,-but-do-they-know-of-the-Ur-program variety. together with James Mason, “the prince of friggin darkness,” hectoring Caitlin about perjury. what timing. that’s when marcus welby, your client, ordered me to falsify the form … or I’d never work again.
Gamoot should be ax sure that such and such as he is that such and such. why those things are as sure as the Bleylok world itself! funny to glance up and see entry of only a few days ago: flat earth etc. Ludwig w binge since then. and of course he’s right. and if I glance back through id since ’85, I’d find hints of my own castings over the same ground. but I didn’t hook it the same way. what we’re sure of is exactly what isn’t examined. not our assumptions, but our culture’s, our language’s assumptions. but of course they do get revised and changed now and then. language and culture changes, slowly and under the direction of no individual and of no committee!!
last pm thought of something else in W, rereading one part not sure of whether I’d passed over it or not: W’s been to the moon or not etc, #108 eg: how over-come the force of gravity?, how breathe?, etc. written last months of his life, 1950-feb 51. (I try to remember what I was doing then: it was already more than a year since I’d been to tommy’s grad, princeton ’49, heard the dixieland, seen the cute chicks, smelled the grass, the puke, the blood, greatest girl of all time covered with bandages after boyfriend throws her through window. ok, Kid Ory, armstrong, etc more than firehouse-five-+-2 …) I’m just about to read Pebble in the Sky but have already read dozens and dozens of s-f ss! old LW(testing-Moore) & young me didn’t live in the same world in 1950, been to the moon & able to answer gravity, how breathe less conceivable in his (ref-ing to Moore’s) “plausible set of judgments” (140) etc.
166 The difficulty is to believe the groundlessness of our believing.
!!! Why broaching epistemology with non-philosophers (or even with philosophers, maybe especially with self-styled philosophers (like Budd (and maybe “pro” ones too, like “Moore”)) is so dangerous.
use 30gagillion$ computer as hammer for 2¢ Fisher-Price plastic nail? have Napoleon wash dishes while you lose invasion?
Now Nap, by definition, sort of, is ambitious, and will wash you instead of let you let him wash your dishes etc Unless of course you’re the anciene régime and then pretend to be a lieutenant is exactly what he does do. etc.
ah, but angels. testing the program. can this culture flourish? is it here I should plant my seed? etc. JD comes. Why didn’t you so and so, asks J-G. We’re a poor people, etc, blah. But why? I sent you all the tools you needed to thrive forever. Well, it was the bad guys … But I sent you a messiah, a leader too. And angels. More than enough to defeat Khan, Napoleon & Hitler all coming at your at once. I swear to god, God, he/they never came. No, we …
And JG says, let’s investigate. A little archeo-digging and there’s angelXY bombed to smithereens holding his finger in the dike, holding up the tent pole of the nteenth concubine’s wc, etc. A little reconstruct:
Angel arrives, I’m here to help you … Good, put your finger in this hole in the dike while I tell the mayor. Good, here, hold up this tent pole. And the angel is happily misused, still stands there, not saving them, while the enemy bombs fall. Angel like Clarke’s monolith. A switch. It will wait forever. It doesn’t care whether it is switched or not. Or litmus. What does the paper care whether it turns blue or pink?
reading Tractatus for the first time, c 1959. (X! only 9 years later?! wow, the diff a decade makes from near puberty to near voting!) how polished, how perfect, etc. what matter how little of it I understood. that’s ok, that’s math, I’ll follow the “sense” part, etc. now, first glancing at Certainty as Linda mailed it to me, going straight to “proposition” 1. hardly polished, hardly perfect. hardly clearer than some sections of my id file. ah, today, months later, I read the little intro. Exactly. published from notes found in his room. This is W’s id file! a little edited. By X, that’s exactly how I imagine the ideal happy ending to my own work. somebody finds it, somebody tries to make some kind of sense out of it, some editing and inference necessary. ah, but the themes. we know those were already his themes. etc. construct of beethoven comp from a few scratches, but KNOW, it ain’t Beethoven till it’s Beethoven himself who sweats and constructs and crosses out and … perfects.
now, go back, only six days actually, and rethink above “flat-earth” jibes re free will etc. nothing, not a scrap in W I haven’t thought and even said, but I haven’t thought it in his pattern. now I see a good picture there, a coherence I’ve had all along without seeing it from this angle. It’s what King is. What’s needed is to see LW’s C and think: SirJ; to see SirJ and think: LW.
totality of judgments, mutually supporting. of course the medieval picture is true, thinks the medieval thinker, just look at the stained glass windows, the king’s in his castle, etc. just what i’ve been thinking for thirty years and writing! so what has LW just added? a richer totality of judgments, an ally, how I’m not alone is this thing, wow, now I can see it from my side, and see that he’s seeing it proportionally from that side over there, …
T: so fell a fortune
lw: obey the law, yes, which level law. obeying the law may be disobeying the law. (there, even within an epoch). abjure god to follow god. The ring.
Of course the law, always mistakes itself for the Law, the church for salvation. (Or, if it doesn’t, its Nixons always try to make sure that YOU do.)
cf.. accurate and clear:
“Draughtsman, give me an exact measure of that gap.”
“Yes sir … it’s … point 9 9 9 6 2 7 9 3 …”
“I can see from here, sir: it’s an inch.”
evo as nest of doomed cosms, crack out of one egg to enter what seems like reality, crack out of that egg (10,000 yrs, 4,000, 200 yrs …) only to enter what seems like reality, adulthood … What happens if I don’t go? (ie, why, if all is fated to be superseded, why, if I’m certain that the moon is made of green cheese, should I bother to believe that it’s a rock satellite orbiting E @ 250000 mi?
Spanish movie, Telly Sevalis etc, alien Epicell Aurora jumps from protozoan to mummy to Rasputin etc. two brits know this and that and are Sherlocking the mystery. “Are you the monster?” somebody asks brit: “No” … (all shocked) … we’re British!”
dream Nov 17 am, 1991: I’m riding on a train, all groggy (of course I’m groggy: it’s 6:30 am & I’m still asleep) I look out the window and general Westlake is doing tricks, wheelies, and such on a Harley Big Boy (wheelies?) when I realize that what’s out the window on the highway is on tv. And the train is stopping so that General Westlake can now get on board to join his old college friend, Mrs. President. Sudden universal gush of love and respect for Mrs. President … (now no name attaches to the image, sort of that gal I met on the tram last spring, close to fifty, whose newest hubby played jazz keyboard. Anyway, decent looking, female hipped, and no Barbara Bush. Xmas, I think, George remarried while I was asleep? Oh, it’s November: election time. But it’s ’91. Not a presidential year. Or is it? What diff? Bush is still pres, no doubt. But he’s not. Mrs President is not the president’s wife; but the president! Good God, did I sleep through that? Was … am I drunk? Then I realize that the train isn’t just my sleeping place, and a tv set, but the presidential train itself, and the General is part of the show, just got off to show his toy to the people. Only there’s still another confusion: Mrs. Pres isn’t General Westlake’s old college chum: (get out of here, people fifty don’t have old college chums of opposite gender) she’s mine! Or rather, I’m her’s. And General Westlake has just been showing off for me as an honored guest. Shit, here come the cameras, and me in my pajamas, with the fly open, sleep breath, eye gorp, unshaved … Etc. Whew, saved by intervention of all the pres’ children and special reports on the schools they’ll be going to in DC, and all the protection they’ll receive, and we see movies outside the train window showing us, that “Yes, despite the school being made over like a raisin in an aspic of Gmen, four hundred yards tall, wide, and deep …” While we see General Westmoorland dressed like a green beret, an Uzi buttressed against his hip, waiting for other commandos to catch up, and then resuming his Tarzan climb and swing through a concrete jungle-gym of much a compressed Silver-Spring/Bethesda. The Gen’s old man’s neck leads down to the bold tendons bones and delts etc of the overdeveloped if not the steroidofoamed. He takes his shirt off, X, he looks like a cross between Arnold and George Kennedy: just his back now: his face and neck is still Westmoreland at eighty.
Skip to next “I’m wrong again”: But I’m wrong again: she’s not Mrs. President, The President; she is, as I first believed, Mrs. President, the President’s wife, and, yes, the train is taking us to Washington, but only after its penultimate destination: Canada. All this other farfalla is just fill while we pick up the real new president: Gary Trudeau, President of France!
… Etc. With plenty more Goshs, did I sleep through that? With it little understood whether I meant the merger of US and Canada or US and France or US and Canada and France … Or did it mean that we were finally one world politically? Or, more likely, that the West was finally ganging up outright on the gooks etc?
Is that why all the generals were Westsomething, while all other names were unclear until the cartoonist gets promoted? I continually felt confident that Mrs. Pres was suddenly going to merge with … well, she still doesn’t, and I don’t want to force her into Barbara Stanwyck or BabbaWawwa.
first in a life: first, a commonplace; pk has erotic dream. he’s with some couple, good looking female, friends with the guy, with both, but particularly the guy. pk old enough to be minding his own business re: the female and her superb face and body. not zophtich, of course: sleek, with a nice well shaped bottom. don’t remember any other details, just the one: gal is in bed, pk exhausted, take a nap, friend says. No, it’s ok, she’s sleeping and there’s just the one bed. No, I’m not, she says. Here, I’ll make space. And moves over a bit. Um, er, No, um … All the thime looking at the guy. Not the time to be looking at her. Go ahead, he says. pk does. can’t rest. pk realizes, mid dream that he has a wicked erection, in the dream and also really. Gal realizes pk is figgeting. Emphasizes that there’s room. Um, I’m ok. Other guy is fading. Here, she says, I’ll roll over so you can fit better, and turns backside. Fit!! pk is sweating. Oh, well. pk rolls over, right up against … a real behind. The woman neither young nor beautiful, but the behind is just fine and fits just like in the dream. When was the last time I slept with a woman? Well, a month or so ago. So, this was the second time in … god knows. I don’t mean fuck, I mean sleep with, through the night. Even staying round the clock with Debbie I’d find an excuse to go to a separate bed.
When is it the victim’s turn to speak?
T: The Victim speaks
When the Victim speaks
The self as hero. Dick Francis, Sam Spade … how about St Augustine?
T: Obstinate good
ss: bio of future vengeance