aspie ranting |
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If I seem a little distant or incoherent, it's because I am. I am not a NeuroTypical and I have no desire to become one. This is simply the area in which I stim my creative impulses. (WARNING: All entries are either ENTIRELY TRUE or ENTIRELY FALSE and anything claiming to be one of the latter is, in fact, one of the former. There are no exceptions to this rule.) comments, marriage proposals, and death threats can be sent here 
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Saturday, March 31, 2001
**Eheu, fugaces, labuntur anni... In these gaunt times A princess, chained to rock, Is eaten up by dragons every day. Her Perseus stopped for coffee On the way Or just decided to forget the whole thing, Who can say? Even Andromeda, eviscerated, Must condone: Poor Perseus has problems of his own. **-"Alas, past times have flown away" -Horace a week... might as well be an eternity... I love you... I miss you... please, come home with good news... I have seen my Lady in the sun, Her hair was spread about, a sheaf of wings, And red the sunlight was, behind it all. Here am I come perforce my love of her, Behold mine adoration Maketh me clear, and there are powers in this Which, played on by the virtues of her soul, Break down the four-square walls of standing time. I'm delerious... my fever has returned only to be accompanied by subtle hallucinations... so subtle, in fact, that I have a hard time distinguishing thoughts and delusions from reality. Friday, March 30, 2001
Thursday, March 29, 2001
He had been traumatized by the 1970s and always referred to the Women's Liberation Movement as the Amazon Invasion. He believed, or pretended to believe, that the ringleaders were all extraterrestrials who had arrived by flying saucer in 1968 and were boldly conspiring to seize supreme power everywhere through what he called semantic black magick. "They've atomized the language and created a semantic smog in which ordinary humanity is obliterated by abstractions like `chairperson' or simple mammalian erotic signaling is politicized into a new sin called `sexism.' Any male who dares to oppose them is stigmatized as a `male chauvinist,' and any female who opposes them is labeled a victim of male brainwashing. Obviously, within a decade, they will command the key posts in all areas of industry (they've captured publishing already) and then government will fall. Probably, then, the males of their species will start landing and we'll be enslaved. (Some of the males may have landed already; look at the Manhattan literary scene.) It's the sweetest infiltration job in the history of galactic espionage. For merely daring to reveal their plans, I am smeared by them as a `male chauvinist pig,' which is ten times worse than an ordinary `male chauvinist' and equivalent to an SP on the Scientologists' hit list." Anyone with I's in their hood could see it was a tight cityation there on bonger howl, one nation under gaurd, as he tosses in the midst of the nightmare, all of them whooping it oop with their tommyhawk fans and their moody decks and their scolded litters, one nation in a derigible. Forty of them with town feathers, raising coin as much as they were able, insidious rapacious seditious, with their stars bangled bangers and the ramrods we welshed, through the nox with the lox from a bulb, till the girl with colitis goes by, and he really saddling hard into it and glowing coolish along with it and hooverin deeper and dotter into doubt about it, pushing a head with their desotos and pontiacs there. "Buy all Chimatong highdeals," they sang. It was the Guylum Bardot or the Bardot Theodial or if not it was the vector moaning there, all singing O atum bomb O adum bum vee green send unum blather. The very muddle of a model motel tea party: Immolation, Resurrection, Sewandsow. Wednesday, March 28, 2001
and I just devised a code that is completely uncrackable... maybe I should get violently ill more often... (and yes, it was VERY worth it) another royal poem: modern monikers two of a kind exclusive mutually reclusive a girl top-nautch and she speaks so softly and waits for me to make the first move I can't I won't I never do I tell her what I hide so well that she's the one and I love her in a way I struggle to describe what good are words and rules if none can express this insane rage of intoxicationlust I went to her to find a way away from someone I tried to love and I found myself built into a new passion sincemore never everfound I take up arms against a common good because she's not alone and she calls me long distance but for what to hurt me to tell me I'm making her feel guilty and for her to sit there silent when I tell her how I feel for moments I tried to tell her I just don't know anymore maybe a final solution is in order it's about fucking time for my heart to give out passiongone tastes of premature tombstonelust I never was a patient one and all I ever wanted was an end to the silence attached to the end of my declarations of love There is no horror you can imagine that is greater and more fearful than those that already exist, more terrible than those that happen every day. I could never define our relationship. There is no prefabricated category into which we fit. Not platonic, yet never completely physical and most of the time carried out electronically, many miles apart. "You want a picture perfect world, but you are not that photogenic." I told myself as I sat on the high-backed chair in front of my computer. "Why can't things be the way I want them to be? There is always this horrible conflict burning around and inside of me. Other people seem to be happy while I waste away trying my best to make it through the day." I prop my leg up on the desk in front of me and rest my forehead down upon my knee. "They all say I'll survive, but is life about surviving?" Tender tears, looking back on all those fun filled years. My lips form a smile as I imagine the young faces of those that called me friend. We have taken our own paths and found both happiness and pain. Life lessons learned, wisdom shared, words written, and embrasses delivered with warm love. How far we have come. How fascinating the roads we have travelled and how stunning the new paths we have created. The young around me will never understand, until they sit where I sit, many years, and many tears, from now. it continues to amaze me how few people realize that the pretence of an emotion is not the same as the presence of an emotion. I mean, it's only one letter's difference, and so similar in function to so many people, but it's not the same. And yes, in theory it seems all good and fine; try to remember that the next time you're fooled by someone who knows how to manipulate the situation. Human society as a whole is a vast brainwashing machine whose semantic rules and sex roles create a social robot. The concept of "washing" is, of course, unscientific and crude. The brain is not a dirty garment but an electro-colloidal information processor -- a living network of over 110 billion nerve cells capable of (10^2,733,000) interconnections, a number higher than the total of all the atoms in this universe. In this elegant, micro-miniaturized biocomputer more than 100,000,000 processes are programmed every minute. Imagine if you could control not only how you think but how you percieve events and observations. have you ever lost your sense of taste so that all you can do with your tongue is feel the texture of what you're eating? crunchy things are a bit frightening... Monday, March 26, 2001
is it time again for my placid state instead of all the running? or time for Joyce's learn�d arts of "silence, exile, cunning?" One of the least known facts about the LSD research of the 1960s was that the longest single research project with LSD, at Spring Grove Hospital, Maryland, showed and average 10% increase in linear IQ alone. "Tell me how I concieved the vanity to believe that I would not be outnumbered by the thumbs I have been under..." -- The Wallflowers but maggie: all those reasons are good and fine, but you missed the obvious -- we covet what we know... Saturday, March 24, 2001
Honesty is the worst policy. I was a child prodigy, you know? A freak. It was rugged. I had to have some defense, and somehow I picked honesty. I was always with older boys so I rarely won a fight. The only way I could feel superior, or escape total inferiority, was to be the most honest person on the planet earth. Does this mean that I can't say "I love you" unless I mean it? Well, I've said it at times when it was at least half true. But it always seemed like play-acting to me, and I felt it sounded that way to the woman, too. I love you. With you, it just comes out, perfectly natural, no effort. The hardest thing for a man with dominance genes and piratical heredity like me is to avoid becoming an authority figure. I need all the feedback and information I can get but nobody contradicts an Authority, you know. Communication is possible only between equals: that's the first theorum of social cybernetics and I have to keep knocking down people's dependence on me or I'll become a "Big Daddy" and won't get accurate communication anymore. As soon as you fully understand that I'm your equal, and that I need a lay every few days or I get grouchy and make decisions, and that the only person more trustworthy than all the Buddhas and sages is real but you have to find him for yourself, then you'll begin to understand what I am all about... to annalee (though you won't understand the implications): Non illam nutrux, oriente luce revisens hesterno collum poteret circumdare filo... -- Catullus I would give the whole world From the Red Sea to the Rhine If the Duchess of Poland tonight In my bed were mine... because today is the day that we'll forget the past and forgive our regrets and this is the last our days apart are almost at an end and I'd love to be able to call you a friend but my fears overwhelm me and I remember too much and I don't think you're ready to be my life's crutch because I can't let you live without me because without you I've no reason to be and I can't keep lying for you to the whole fucking world but I'll always be your plaything around your little finger curled and tonight I'll try to get through to you just to see what you'll do to get through for tragedy is our travesty and I will be our amnesty... 01000111 climing up a spiral elevator who knows? carrying a package two souls forget it I'd kiss a tear falling down your pale cheek in a moment of frozen pain and I'd give you my love, but you already have it whispering lingering secrets upon an open ear but tossing caution into the lake of fluid glass I see my reflection and I'm reposed sweet repore still when I close my eyes I see you with another fair not fair love isn't mine to judge... You do not have to love me just because you are all the women I have ever wanted I was born to follow you every night while I am still the many men who love you I meet you at a table I take your fist between my hands in a solemn taxi I wake up alone my hand on your absence I wrote these songs for you I married the smoke of two pyramids of sandalwood I prayed for you I prayed that you would love me and that you would not love me Borrowing a joke (or a profundity?) from Bertrand Russell's Our Knowledge of the External World, I will now demonstrate that the reader has two heads. According to common sense, and the consensus of most (Occidental) philosophers, we exist "inside" an "objective universe", or - to say it otherwise - the "objective universe" exists "outside" us. Very few people have ever doubted this. Those who have doubted it have arrived, inevitably, at highly eccen�tric conclusions. Well, then, avoiding eccentricity and accepting the conventional view, how do we know anything about that "external universe"? How do we perceive it? (For convenience I will consider only the sense of sight in what follows. The reader can check for himself, or herself, that the same logic applies if one changes the terms and substitutes hearing or any of our other senses.) We see objects in the "external universe" through our eyes and then make pictures - models - of them in our brains. The brain "interprets" what the eyes transmit as energy signals. (For now, we will ignore the data that shows that the brain makes a gamble that it can interpret these signals.) Again, very few Occidentals have doubted this, and those who have doubted it all arrived at strange and incredible alternatives. So, then, we live "inside" an "external universe" and make a picture or model of it "inside" our brains, by adding together, or synthesizing, and interpreting, our pictures or models of parts of the universe called "objects". Then, it follows that we never know the "external universe" and its "objects" at all. We know the model of the "external universe" inside our brains, which exist inside our heads. In that case, everything we see, which we think of as existing externally, actually exists internally, inside our heads. But we have not arrived at solipsism, remember. We still assume the "external universe" from which we started. We have merely discovered that we cannot see it or know it. We see a model of it inside our heads, and in daily life forget this and act as if the model exists outside our heads - i.e., as if (1) the model and the universe occupy the same area of space (as our map that tries to show "all" about Los Angeles would occupy the same space as Los Angeles) and (2) that this space exists "outside". But the model and the universe do not occupy the same space and the space where the model exists can only be located "inside" our brains, which exist inside our heads. We now realize that, while the universe exists outside, the model exists inside, and therefore occupies much, much less space than the universe. The "real universe" then exists "outside" but remains unexperienced, perhaps unknown. That which we do experience and know (or think we know) exists in local networks of electrochemical bonds in our brains. Again, if the reader cares to challenge any part of this, she or he should certainly try to imagine an alternative explanation of perception. It will appear, or it has always appeared to date, that any and all such alternatives sound not only queerer than this but totally unbelievable to "people of common sense." Well, to proceed, we have now an "external universe", very large (comparatively speaking) and a model of same, much smaller (comparatively speaking), the former "outside" us and the latter "inside" us. Of course, some correspondence or isomorphism exists between the "external" and "internal" universes. Otherwise, I could not get up from my chair, walk to the door, go down the hall and accurately locate the kitchen to get another cup of Jolt! Cola from something I identify as refrigerator. But where does our head exist? Well, our head obviously exists "inside" the "external universe" and "outside" our brain which contains the model of the "external universe". But since we never see or experience the "external universe" directly, and only see our model of it, we only perceive our head as part of the model, which exists inside us. Certainly, our perceived head cannot exist apart from our perceived body as long as we remain alive, and our perceived body (including head) exists inside our perceived universe. Right? Thus, the head we perceive exists inside some other head we do not, and cannot, perceive. The second head contains our model of the universe, our model of this galaxy, our model of this solar system, our model of Earth, our model of this continent, our model of this city, our model of our home, our model of ourselves and atop our model of ourselves a model of our head. The model of our head thus occupies much less space than our "real" head. Think about it. Retire to your study, unplug the phone, lock the door and carefully examine each step of this argument in succession, noting what absurdities appear if you question any individual step and try an alternative. Let us, for Jesus sake and for all our sakes, at least attempt to clarify how we can have two heads. Our perceived head exists as part (a very small part) of our model of the universe, which exists inside our brain. We have already proven that, have we not? Our brain, however, exists inside our second head - our "real" head, which contains our whole model of the universe, including our perceived head. In short, our perceived head exists inside our perceived universe which exists inside our real head which exists inside the real universe. Thus, we can name our two heads - we have a "real" head outside the perceived universe and a "perceived head" inside the perceived universe, and our "real" head now appears, not only much bigger than our perceived head, but bigger than our perceived universe. And, since we cannot know or perceive the "real" universe directly, our "real" head appears bigger than the only universe we do know and perceive - our perceived universe, inside our perceived head. The reader might find some comfort in the thought that Bertrand Russell, who devised this argument, also invented the mathematical class of all classes that "do not contain themselves." That class, you will note, does not contain itself unless it does contain itself. Also, it does contain itself if and only if it does not contain itself. Got it? When not busy crusading for rationalism, world peace, common decency, and other subversive ideas, Russell spent a lot of time in the even more subversive practice of inventing such logical "monsters" to bedevil logicians and mathematicians. Returning to our two heads: Lord Russell never carried this joke, or this profound insight, beyond that point. With a little thought, however, the reader will easily see that, having analyzed the matter this far, we now have three heads - the third containing the model that contains the "real" universe and the "real" head and the perceived universe and the perceived head. And now that we have thought of that, we have a fourth head... And so on, ad infinitum. To account for our perception of our perception - our ability to perceive that we perceive - we have three heads, and to account for that, four heads, and to account for our ability to carry this analysis onward forever, we have infinite heads... A model of consciousness which does arrive, very rigorously and with almost mathematical precision of logic, at precisely this infinite regress appears in The Serial Universe by J. W. Dunne, who uses time instead of perception as his first term but still arrives at the conclusion that we have, if not an infinite series of heads, an infinite series of "minds". Alfred Korzybski, mentioned here several times (and a strong influence even when not mentioned), urged that our thinking could become more scientific if we used mathematical subscripts more often. Thinking about this one day, I came up with the following analog of Dunne's argument without even using his infinite time dimensions: I observe that I have a mind. Following Korzybski, let us call this observed mind, minds. But I observe that I have a mind that can observe minds. Let us call this self-observing mind, mind2. Mind2 which observes minds can in turn become the object of observation. (A little experience in Buddhist self-observation will confirm this experimentally.) The observer of mind2 then requires its own name, so we will call it mind3. And so on ...to infinity, once again. Of course, having mentioned Buddhism, I might in fairness add that the Buddhist would not accept "I observe that I have a mind." The Buddhist would say "I observe that I have a tendency to posit a mind." But that, perhaps, allows the felix domesticus to escape the gunnysack. "what bothers you, mal? you don't sound well." -- Eris, in Principia Discordia (How I Found Goddess And What I Did To Her When I Found Her) "what bothers you, mal? you don't sound well." -- maggie You have built for yourselves psychic suits of armor, and clad in them, your vision is restricted, your movements are clumsy and painful, your skin is bruised, and your spirit is broiled in the sun. Friday, March 23, 2001
Jump to your feet, wave your fists, That your heart can no longer live "One solution to man's pitiful condition of dependency and vulnerablity is narcissism. Buried somewhere in every person are delusions of grandiosity and perfection and a desire to be admired. Although the direct expression of these feelings are not allowed (except through acceptable means), they are the basis by which the human being survives his dead-end condition. No matter what happens, each person holds on to these delusions; without them he would die. The Toxick Magician is quite aware of these complex dynamics and uses them for all they're worth." -- The Psychopath's Bible, by Christopher S. Hyatt Ph.D. I wrote this essay for an english class in high school. The teacher asked me why I refused to do the homework which was assigned me. I told him I didn't like the way the system was set up (ie reward/punishment in grades) and I refused to participate. He asked me to write a paper expounding upon that idea. This is what I came up with... Throughout history, calls are made for new surges of creativity in science. By now it will be clear that such a surge must extend into all areas of human activity if the actual challenge, which has finally revealed itself, is to be met. But does this mean that creativity must somehow be elicited from an organism that does not have in itself a natural potential for creativity? It is proposed that, on the contrary, human beings do indeed have such a potential. However as children grow older, this creativity appears to be blocked. Some insight into the nature of this block can be gained from the work of Desmond Morris, published in The Biology of Art. In one experiment chimpanzees were given canvas and paint and immediately began to apply themselves to make balanced patterns of color, somewhat reminiscent of certain forms of modern art, such as abstract expressionism. The significant point about this experiment is that the animals became so interested in painting and it absorbed them so completely that they had comparatively little interest left for food, sex, or the other activities that normally hold them strongly. Additional experiments showed somewhat similar results for other primates. When very young children are given paints, their behavior is remarkably like that of the chimpanzees. This seems to indicate that creativity is a natural potential. Yet somehow, in most cases, the urge to create fades as the human being gets older. Or at best it continues in certain limited areas, such as science, music, or painting. Why should this happen? An extension of Morris's experiment involved rewarding the chimpanzees for producing their paintings. Very soon their work began to degenerate until they produced the bare minimum that would satisfy the experimenter. A similar behavior can be observed in young children as they become "self-conscious" of the kind of painting they believe they are "supposed" to do. This is generally indicated to them by subtle and implicit rewards, such as praise and approval, and by the need to conform to what other children around them are doing. Thus creativity appears to be incompatible with external and internal rewards or punishments. The reason is clear. In order to do something for a reward, the whole order of the activity, and the energy required for it, are determined by arbitrary requirements that are extraneous to the creative activity itself. This activity turns into something mechanical and repetitious, or else it mechanically seeks change for its own sake. The state of intense passion and vibrant tension that goes with creative perception then dies away. The whole thing becomes boring and uninteresting, so that the kind of energy needed for creative perception and action is lacking. As a result, even greater rewards, or punishments, are needed to keep the activity going. Basically, the setting and goals and patterns of behavior, which are imposed mechanically or externally, and without understanding, produces a rigid structure in consciousness that blocks the free play of thought and the free movement of awareness and attention that are necessary for creativity to act. But this does not mean that rules and external orders are incompatible with creativity, or that a truly creative person must live in an arbitrary fashion. To write a sonnet or a fugue, to compose an abstract painting, or to discover some new theorem in mathematics requires that creativity should operate within the context of a particular artistic or mathematical form. C�zanne's particular creativity in art, for example, was directed toward the discovery of new forms and orders of composition within the context of a particular form of freedom that had been previously established by the Impressionists. Some of Bach's greatest works are similarly created within the confines of strict counterpoint. To live in a creative way requires extreme and sensitive perception of the orders and structures of relationship to individuals, society, and nature. In such cases, creativity may flower. It is only when creativity is made subservient to external goals, which are implied by the seeking of rewards, that the whole activity begins to wither and degenerate. Whenever this creativity is impeded, the ultimate result is not simply the absence of creativity, but an actual positive presence of destructiveness. In the case of the painting experiment, this shows up as a false attitude. Both the chimpanzee and the child are engaged in an activity that no longer has meaning in itself, merely in order to experience a pleasant and satisfying state of consciousness, in the form of reward or the avoidance of punishment. This introduces something that is fundamentally false in the generative order of consciousness itself. For example, the continuation of this approach would eventually lead the child to seek pleasing words of praise from others, even if they are not true, and to collude with others in exchanging flattering remarks that lead to mutual satisfaction. This, however, is achieved at the expense of self-deception that can, in the long run, be quite dangerous. What is even of greater danger to the child, in such an approach, is that it eventually brings about violence of various kinds. For creativity is a prime need of a human being and its denial brings about a pervasive state of dissatisfaction and boredom. This leads to intense frustration that is conducive to a search for exciting "outlets," which can readily involve a degree of force that is destructive. This sort of frustration is indeed a major cause of violence. However, what is even more destructive than such overt violence is that the senses, intellect, and emotions of the child gradually become deadened and the child loses the capacity for free movement of awareness, attention, and thought. In effect, the destructive energy that has been aroused in the mind has been turned against the whole creative potential itself. Most education does in fact make use, in explicit or in more hidden and subtle ways, of rewards and punishments as key motivating factors. For example, the whole philosophy of behavior modification and positive reinforcement, which is particularly prevalent in North American education, holds that a system of rewards is essential for effective learning. This alone is a tremendous barrier to creativity. In addition, education has traditionally given great value to fixed knowledge and techniques. In this way it places an extremely great importance on authority as determining the very generative order of the psyche. What is involved is not only the authority of the teacher as a source of knowledge that is never to be questioned, but even more, the general authority of knowledge itself, as a source of truth that should never be doubted. This leads to a fundamental loss of self-confidence, to a blockage of free movement and a corresponding dissipation of energy, deep in the generative order of the whole of consciousness. Later on, all of this may show up as a disposition to be afraid of inquiring into fundamental questions, and to look to experts and "geniuses" whenever any difficulty or basic problem is encountered. Of course, a certain reasonable kind of authority is needed to maintain necessary order in the classroom. And the student has to realize that, in broad areas, the teacher has valuable knowledge that can be conveyed in an appropriate way. But what is important is the overall attitude to this knowledge. Does it seek to impose itself arbitrarily and mechanically deep within the generative order of the mind, or does it allow itself to be discussed and questioned, with a view to making understanding possible? Similar questions can be raised with regard to conformity to arbitrary norms, which come not only from the teacher, but even more from the peer group and from society at large. Beyond school, society operates in much the same way, for it is based largely on routine work that is motivated by various kinds of fear and by arbitrary pressures to conform as well as by the hope for rewards. Moreover, society generally regards this as necessary and valuable and, in turn, treats creativity as irrelevant for the most part, except in those special cases, such as science and the arts, in which it is rewarded. In fact, no society has thus far managed to organize itself in a complex way without using a system of rewards and punishments as a major inducement to bring about cooperation. It is generally felt that if society tried to do without these, whether in the family, in the classroom, at work, or in broader contexts, it would incur the risk of eventual total disruption and chaos. Creativity is nevertheless a major need of each human being and the blockage of this creativity eventually threatens civilization with ultimate destruction. Humanity is therefore faced with an urgent challenge of unparalleled magnitude. Specifically, rigidity in the generative order, to which control through rewards and punishments makes a major contribution, prevents the free play of thought and the free movement of awareness and attention. This leads to false play, which ultimately brings about a pervasive destructiveness while at the same time blocking natural creativity of human beings. A proper response to this challenge requires the kind of overall creativity in society that is implicit in the call being made in this book for a general creative surge in all areas of life. Clearly from this it would follow that the various forms of rigidity that have already been discussed would all change fundamentally. But such a change cannot be restricted to a single overall flash of insight. Creativity has to be sustained. For example, it has been shown how the artist has to work constantly from the creative source in the generative order. An artist does not have a creative vision and then apply it mechanically, in a sequential process by means of rules, techniques, and formulae. Rather, these latter flow out of the sustained creative vision in a creative way. To pay serious attention to this need for sustained creativity is extremely relevant for bringing about a creative change in culture and society. In most cases, however, creative new discoveries are generally followed by an attempt to reduce them to something that can be applied mechanically. While mechanical application is necessary for certain contexts, the basic impetus for each individual must come from the creative origin, and this is beyond any mechanical, explicate, or sequential order of succession. It is possible to point to specific areas in which a creative change would be of great benefit to society and the individual. For example, by means of a tremendous creative common action, education must no longer depend on rewards and punishments, no matter how subtle these may be. It must also cease to place an excessively high value on arbitrary authority, fixed knowledge, and techniques and conformity. Some partial and preliminary work in this direction has been done from time to time. For example, there has been an effort to present the child with a great deal of meaningful material to arouse interest, so that the child does not have to be offered a reward to learn. Also, some people working in this field have emphasized free play as a way of arousing creativity. Others have given much attention to relationships that avoid unnecessary authority and conformity. By the further development of such approaches, it should in principle be possible for children to learn without the inducement of rewards. However, there are deeper difficulties, which prevent these approaches from actually working in the long run. The problem does not stem primarily from the field of education alone. Rather, it arises ultimately out of the tacit infrastructure of the entire consciousness of humanity. This is deeply and pervasively conditioned, for example, by general tradition that takes the absolute necessity of rewards and punishments for granted. Both teachers and students are caught up in subtler forms of the same false structure that they are explicitly trying to avoid. This may, in the long run, be at least as destructive as was the original pattern that the whole experiment in education was designed to avoid. It seems that the whole conditioning of all that take part must in fact change society, the family, and the individual. It is thus clear that there is no single stationary point at which these problems might be attacked. The educational system, society, and the individual are all intimately involved. But it is ultimately the overall order of human consciousness that has to be addressed. for love: take me for worth not my own fear me flee me free me fall not for me leave stay go don't hurt me I'm fragile lost so not to fear so quick to deny and so soon to speak words just words upon the sill beating air between us They were drawn to suicide by a book, a book so vile that it should not exist. Just by looking into this foul piece of literature, All three victims were driven mad by horror and destroyed themselves. It was as if they learned something that made life on this planet so unspeakably awful to them that they could not bear another instant of consciousness. pragmatism makes a lot of sense... too bad it's a paradox in itself... I expected no less from William James... All human beings consider themselves sinners. It's just about the deepest, oldest, and most universal human hangup there is. In fact, it's almost impossible to speak of it in terms that don't confirm it. To say that human beings have a universal hangup, as I just did, is to restate the belief that all men are sinners in different languages. In that sense, the Book of Genesis is quite right. To arrive at a cultural turning point where you decide that all human conduct can be classified in one of two categories, good and evil, is what creates all sin -- plus anxiety, hatred, guilt, depression, all the peculiarly human emotions. And, of course, such a classification is the very antithesis of creativity. To the creative mind there is no right or wrong. Every action is an experiment, and the experiment yieldsits fruit in knowledge. To the moralist, every action can be judged as right or wrong -- and, mind you, in advance -- without knowing what its consequences are going to be -- depending on the mental disposition of the actor. Thus the men who burned Giordano Bruno at the stake knew they were doing good, even though the consequence of their actions was to deprive the world of a great scientist. Thursday, March 22, 2001
just compiled a small amazon.com wishlist... if you like the way I think, and you would like it to continue to "evolve," then support me... you can find it here... and there is a link on the link bar to the left... Wednesday, March 21, 2001
Bad critics judge a work of art by comparing it to preexisting theories. They always go wrong when confronted with a masterpiece, because masterpieces make their own rules... to my Plurabella: since you care nothing for me or my feelings, I may just go and search with false hope as to find someone who may have half of one of your many beauties... Tuesday, March 20, 2001
I find it amusing that so many people complain that they don't get enough guestbook entries... I think people should sign if they have something constructive to suggest for or about the site or the content... if you like the site, the weblog, or the writing, then please sign and tell me what you like... if you don't like anything here and think you can suggest something to make it better, then please sign and let me know... please don't flame me... especially not anonymously... that's just crude, and I don't appreciate it. thank you... Monday, March 19, 2001
The last thing I want, a feeling so gaunt, that emptiness but only with pain, I never know sadness but only a madness that burns at my heart and my brain... with your eyes of darkness casting lifeless shadows upon my soul... with your eyes of abandonment crying out to be held... with your eyes running from something you need... with your eyes trapped in a closed mind... with your eyes of a half-done lobotomy... with your eyes of fresh abortion... with your eyes of shock... with your eyes of fear... with your eyes... with your eyes... with your Death full of senseless emotion. Sunday, March 18, 2001
Ignorance is evil... But, not when it can be acknowledged and accepted. In order to eat, you have to be hungry. In order to learn, you must be ignorant. Ignorance is a condition of learning. Pain is a condition of health. Passion is a condition of thought. Death is a condition of life. What if one story was left out of the Bible? What if Satan repented...? I mean: if Atlas can Shrug and Telemachus can Sneeze, why can't Satan Repent? what a great book idea... Satan's Repent... The light became her grace and dwelt among Blind eyes and shadows that are formed as men; Lo, how the light doth melt us into love... Out Not loving is a letting go. Every man-damned morning, I ask: Is this the beginning of another cardboard day Or is it the first day of the rest of the universe? Until defiance builds of its own ruin A truth more brave than the truth of death My terror builds of its own heat A myth more green than the myth of life... tonight, triggered by not being wanted, I returned to an illness I thought I had left behind... I am afflicted with agenbite of inwit... Saturday, March 17, 2001
back... slowly... but back... had to install a new hard drive and start from nothing... though, I've been meaning to do this for some time, I didn't want to do it this way... and I simply love my new OS setup... *grins* if anyone needs a very well written essay on Joyce's Ulysses, please ask me... I wrote something vaguely resembling that... Thursday, March 15, 2001
to the limited few who read this: My computer had a serious "crash" and will not be working for a while. Thus, this weblog will have some difficulty being updated... at least by me. I'm sure that nobody is terribly broken up about this, so I won't worry... *pointed glares* Wednesday, March 14, 2001
do you think I'm not afraid? because I am... I'm terrified. I love you. the difference? you're afraid of feeling something this real and deep so quickly; I'm afraid when the love isn't shared right away... I would've been afraid if I didn't feel it all right away, but I did... I would've been afraid if you didn't show me a glimpse of your feelings... I'm not afraid of your feelings... I'm afraid that I don't know them... I'm not afraid of your actions... I'm afraid that they're not consistent... I'm afraid I'm not important to you... I love you. and the jury of my peers past the final verdict in my ongoing madness; they handed me a piece of paper folded in half. I opened it and, much to my chagrin, it only contained one word: anathema Tuesday, March 13, 2001
"Balls," said the queen. "If I had them, I'd be king." "Nuts," said the prince. "I've got them and I'm not king." "Crap," said the king. And thirty thousand royal subjects squatted and strained... Monday, March 12, 2001
only royalty can read the meaning contained so I can't go back and look into her eyes but fall too far ago too long to go I saw her again tonight though briefly in the eyes of a lover of moons past dear lover dear lady grant me my second starless inscrutable hour daughter desire dauntless (she) in the back of my heart I have dismounted to love maybe it's time to redeem my surrogate goodbyes with a handful of phlox to the next girl and my old mind sinking into its havoc if you do not love me I shall not be loved if I do not love you I shall not love saying again there is a last even of last times terrified petrified again of not loving of loving and not you of being loved and not by you of knowing not knowing pretending pretending can you buy death in bulk I thought as a child I and all the others that will love you if they love you unless they love you the ghost of a smile haunting your face as you left me to fear for you and fear for myself not tonight please not tonight but it's everynight I spill my soul to you and it shatters on the pavement like an echo of heartbreak suspended in a frozen breath teardrop memory spilling down a stormdrain lost with all the others frozen in a moment melting with the passion we'll never share who's on your mind and who has your attention I love you but from this far away it's hardly an echo at all... boo... remember this? and you calm me my homicidal rage in the simplest ways funny how a sugar rush and you could bring me off my adrenaine high and back to this plane and you, resting your hand on my head as I release, you are a key without a door so how do you make me open? and the games aren't much fun with anyone else because I taught you so much more than any others prodigal prodigy child of my passions flame and you freeze it all in time which is why I won't lose you rarely is there rhyme or reason let alone rhythm to my moods and you are the markoff chain in my random life thank you... his head hangs an angle, like a doll with a broken spring... he dials her personage in his memory slowly, with the cunt-starved eyes of a midieval saint... he realized that people don't fear him for the games he plays, but because he plays with live ammunition... Sunday, March 11, 2001
Tonight, on a familiar stretch of I-405 North, I suddenly became primordially lost. Every sense became suddenly intensified, but at the expense of most of my higher brain functions. I couldn't determine if I was on I-405 or I-10 or even which direction I was travelling. After a few disorienting seconds of this primal paranoia, I began to lose peripheral vision; sight on the left and right began fading into a bright and luminous gray. I felt a sudden impact, but not anywhere I could discern; it was more of a sudden explosion of something in my psyche, but my body reacted to it. Everything -- every sensory perception -- faded out suddenly like the lights at the end of a Broadway musical. I'm not sure how long I was out, but when I came to, everything -- not just sensory, but also mentally -- was clear. I know, now, what I need to do. he that endureth even to the end hath sworn that Love's own corpse shall lie at noon even in the coffin of its hopes and spend all the force won by its old woe and stress in now annihilating nothingness. he drifts lifelessly into the night shadows swallowing him whole until all that remains of him is his breath in the cold air she says that it was all a game and the air lies still reading over old notebooks, I am surprised by some of the things I've written... and by how little has changed... churnjumble thoughts I'm sitting off center disjointed ever since a surrogate goodbye a kiss lastly enduring tasting something primordial beyond either of us the sum is more than the parts I love you I let you burn me I give you all I can and I come back for more but you have him now and kiss him while telling me you care and it's a bit hard to believe but I can't help trusting distrust is my sword and shield and trust my nectar and nepenthe one week... if you love me, hold on... if you don't, run like hell... (all "you"s are plural and general...) "O voi che siete in piccioletta barca..." -- Paradiso, by Dante to that, all I can say is: O oi che siete in piccioletta barca... and maybe, I should get the Ezra Pound Award for hiding emotion in tangled erudition. I'm so tired of having to deal with mehums... (note: the dictionary will not help you with that word...) Saturday, March 10, 2001
Friday, March 09, 2001
"Motherfucking? No, that's for when we ordain deacons." -- The Eye in the Pyramid, by Robert Shea and R.A.W. Thursday, March 08, 2001
"True Love, my dear, The sore, swollen balls And -- Sufi Poem choices I have to make parallel the answer to a famous Zen koan: You take a newborn gosling and slip it through the neck of a bottle. Month after month, you keep it in there and feed it, until it is a full-grown goose and can no longer be passed through the bottle's neck. The question is: Without breaking the bottle, how do you get the goose out? you know, if I were a paranoid type of person, then I might think that people only think about me when I'm around and only speak ill of me when I'm not around. Just little things... Wednesday, March 07, 2001
the thing that makes me feel empty is not that people lie to me, that is to be expected; it's that they don't show that they care about my feelings... Tuesday, March 06, 2001
for rach: I plug the wires of your fear (ah, this I was always meant to do) into the lust-asylum universe: raped by aimless old electricity you stiffen over the steel books of your bed like a fish in a liquid air experiment. for her: Wherever you move I hear the sounds of closing wings of falling wings. I am speechless because you have fallen beside me. I dread the time when your mouth begins to call me hunter. When you call me close to tell me your body is not beautiful. for roach: You look so much stronger. Keep squeezing drops of Sun Keep squeezing drops of Sun And from the most insignificant movements Now, sweet one, *giggles* I'm (re)reading a book which has a character who's named Semper Cuni Linctus... interesting play on words... c'mon, you can get it, sound it out... Bisociation -- n. -- the percieving of a situation or idea in two self-consistent but habitually incompatible frames of reference. Bisociation underlies three of the most uniquely human of all behaviours: the joke, the scientific theory, and the work of art. the joke: Mae West's "is that a pistol in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?" or Groucho Marx's "I once shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got into my pajamas I'll never know." scientific theory: Newton looks at a falling apple, as many had before him, and suddenly bisociates it with the orbits of the plantes; the classic theory of gravity is born. Nobody but a genius or a madman would try to relate a simple fruit falling from a simple tree to the movements of the heavens. And Einstein's bisociation of space and time into spacetime. work of art: Shakespeare's "Blood, thou art blood: Let's write 'good angel' on the devil's horn." or Picasso's sculpture which seems to be a bull's head but is made up of parts of a bicycle. of course, many bisociations just yield false theories or banal nonsense. This may be the major thrill in the life of the humourist, the scientist, and the artist: you never now if you've just created Genius or Bathos. You walk a tightrope, always. In 1966, the U.S. Army released a bacillus throughout the New York subway system. The name of the bacillus is unknown, and no harmful effects have been proven, partially because all details of the experiment are still classified. The Army's justification for this experiment was that there are many subways in the former Soviet Union. Monday, March 05, 2001
"if I ever decide to have a boyfriend, you'll be the first to know..." "promise?" "I promise." I remember it vividly... do you? no more talk of love... not for a long time. I can't stand the lies people tell... but the truth hurts more... If you'd have me go on loving you Give me back the time of the thing. Will you give me dawn light at evening? Time has driven me out from the fine plaisaunces, And if now we can't fit with our time of life There is not much but its evil left us. Life gives us two minutes, two seasons -- One to be dull in; Two deaths -- and to stop loving and being lovable, That is the real death, The other is little beside it. Crying after the follies gone by me, Quiet talking is all that is left us -- Gentle talking, not like the first talking, less lively; And to follow after friendship, as they call it, Weeping that we can follow naught else. These powers, whoever and whatever they are, are determined that I abandon all else and become no more than the servant who carries their message. To this end, they are taking away from me, one by one, all the things that I love. Or, perhaps, I am merely in the terminal stages of a long-brewing paranoid psychosis? Sunday, March 04, 2001
clarity of pain: I can describe it now, for the first time, but that doesn't make it leave... it's partly the feeling you get when you spill icecream on your favourite clothes and partly like someone pulled a melon baller from my sternum to my navel. I suppose my stomach is in knots and my feet are cold, so cold. my hands are shaking and my eyes are waterlogged. it's raining outside and I want to lie down in the rain and lose my tears in the downpour; the line between them blurring like a half scrawled sucide note soaked in blood. wishful to the end, hopeless from the start... there is no lifeguard for my eyes, as you can plainly see; but I can't see it, no, I can't see anything: my eyes have drowned tonight. You pass a thousand heros on the street every day and never know how well they are carrying their burdens. I know. The blind man who makes you feel uncomfortable. The rape victim pulling herself together an refusing to go mad. The dumb cop with a hernia yet who goes down an alley after a hopped-up theif who is also armed. I'm not blind, myself. You only see their moments of heroism. You don't choose to watch how blow follows blow until heroism becomes meaningless and they all give up, one by one, and join the universal chorus of despair. I have seen some who never give up. A pig squeals when he sees the ax coming. A man can look at the ax all his life and not squeal. The ax falls, anyway, does it not? Isn't your refusal to squeal just a big act, a gigantic lie? It's more honest to squeal with the other swine. I still refuse to admit that men are no more than swine. Penis erectus non compos mentis; a stiff prick knows no conscience... O Galileo and Darwin, did you have days like this? my head hurts. my mind and my heart are at war, and love has a funny way of entering in so easily; it's the exit wounds that leave me drowning in a tepid pool of my own blood. Saturday, March 03, 2001
Of love I have naught Save trouble and sad thought, And nothing is grievous as I desirous, Wanting only what No man can get or has got. For in her is all my delight And all that can save me. Such fear I have she deliver me not from pain, Who know not how to ask her; Who can not. If she won't have me now, Death is my portion, Would I had died that day I came into her sway. How softly this kills! When her love look steals on me. Killed me she has, I know not how it was. Joy I have none, if she make me not mad. I am true, or a liar, All vile, or all gentle, Or shaking between, as she desire... I am gone from one joy, From one I loved... if you have a hard time believing that I never lie, then believe me when I tell you that I always lie. "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses Yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, tempest-tossed, to me: I lift my lamp beside the golden Door" -- Emma Lazarus perhaps we should add one more line to the Statue of Liberty's inscription to modernize it... I suggest: And I'll send them right back where they came from... Sordello (hero of a very innacurate poem by Browning) persuaded a married lady, Cunniza da Romano, to elope with him. In a Europe still totally Catholic, there was no way of legalizing such a relationship, but Sordello and Cunniza evidently trusted the heretical "Courts of Love" more than the dusty tomes of the church fathers. (Dante, curiously, did not put either of them in his Hell. Sordello is in Purgatory, and, odder yet, Cunniza is in Paradise -- because she freed her slaves. A number of scholars have questioned Dante's orthodoxy.) For Cunniza, Sordello wrote what Ezra Pound among others has praised as the noblest hyperbole in the history of love poety: If I see you not, lady with whom I am entranced, No sight I see is worth the beauty of my thought. Friday, March 02, 2001
The invention of "game shows" made the idea of "useless information" obsolete... well, more obsolete than the glaring logical fallacy made it already... for you, miss roach, anything... I miss miss alice, but I shall cope. and the mome raths did outgrabe... for we live in a decisive state of being, and alone, we are less than we always were together. for we flew above it all, and how? Love lifts us... Thursday, March 01, 2001
it has recently come to my attention that some people who visit this have some trouble with translating my french works. So from now on, I will provide my own translations... here my translation for the last one: what would I do in this world faceless incurious where to be lasts but an instant where every instant spills in the void the ignorance of having been que ferais-je sans ce monde sans visage sans questions o� �tre ne dure qu'un instant o� chaque instant verse dans le vide dans l'oubli d'avoir �t� Thus shall his laughter be thrilled through with Ecstasy. Both eclipses are darkness; both are exceedingly rare; O if everyman did No Matter What, a howler's moon arose before the sunset; the sky ablaze in a vaginal purple with hues of rues he's used; amused to death. |
faeries have died because YOU haven't been clapping hard enough.