as junk as a drudge - the mortal coil

So I was thinking today. And for some reason it was the phrase 'the lord only knows' and it made me think that really, the lord only knows what the lord only knows; and please note my judicial use of lower-case here, because then I came over with a queasy palpatation, as when I repeated the phrase, the capital L started encroaching a little.

I think that if we each truly had the capacity to judge our self we would have a workable moral system. But we can't, so instead we have to resort to some inherited ethical debate still rooted wholly in loose-jointed theology and revised animal-husbandry (read: religion as reframed pastoral institution). Join in. And since the democratization of the individual has - through all the corollary capitalist schemes riding pilot-fish - reduced us to base units of personality, the most pernicious of philosophical problems (for all our fleshy bits, we're the least corporeal of units).... we are at immediate and consistently imminent conflict with ourselves.

Because the individual is not fit to judge her or himself, almost by definition (how can consciousness see consciousness, cause what then does the seeing?), then each needs a judge (why is a judge needed?), but if noone is fit to judge themself, then who is fit enough to judge others? I'll be damned if I tackle THAT heavy-breathed subject here (perhaps literally), but I do kinda want to use the question to bounce off of radially.

I would like to review 2 posts ago... this guy's the limit... as that's really what all of the above is about, a postamble.

It was warped and reactive. Warped because it was based on a particular perspective, twisted by brooding doubts and the self-righteousness that they yield. Warped because of the emotion that bore the post into postage... a perspective that feels 'right' because of its experiencial power-mass. Warped because, well, there's no way to argue, because after all, that's how I felt.

Reactive as it was because I felt threatened. By others and then by myself. It was an induction of the pointy end of self-preservation. Not physical self-preservation, but worse... self self-preservation. This found readily in the post's tone of victimization. Which I guess makes this post rereactive. Because really, I know I have people in my life who have faith in me. Well they simply have faith and choose to have me in their lives. Who give me love and safe harbour. Who I respect and know respect me. Who sometimes I post for.

The 2 comments to that post I couldn't agree with more: i) that failure is a self-fulfilling prophecy ii) that thoughts are tangible (what in god's name are you blathering about? i'll string this all together right now...) and iii) that agreement is needed. And I totally agree! So much is self-fulfilling, the first-person is all prophecy... but if it weren't for other people would you ever know? Thoughts are tangible and tangibility is thought, but how would you know? How do you know when inspected doubts (life would be a waste without their dutiful inspection) begin forging what you see? And become being evident in your personality?

In lieu of being able to judge oneself, and with the corner-of-consciousness wherewithal of wondering if anyone else is fit to judge, and the sheer common sense not to go to the authorities about it... what do you do? You place yourself with people who will ride the tension of agreement/disagreement with you. Who check you and who ask you to check them. Who will assist you in judging yourself and need the same from you. And you gotta agree to let them... Ok, now I'm just muddying the spokes here.

This is all to say, I'm sorry. In This Guy's the Limit I was at the mercy of my own judgement, and emanated it as if I were origin. Onto others. It was the bluster of a hay-pitching hero. I leave it because it's been helpful, but really I'm quite ashamed. I was weak and I was weak.

To get back at the skirted Absolute, I do believe that if a common vision, perhaps one even quite small (like a meme or CNS viral parasite), were to infect the entire planet, then we'd be able to do it. And that's exactly what we're trying to do. And the lord only knows we've tried before. No, I think I can admit now that I believe its the ethical imperative that we do share vision. I don't think we'll be able to leave this planet before we do, and that would be the saddest thing in the world.

I'll probably retrace this post in a few days too.

wouldn't it suck if every time you started writing an email an animated paper clip popped up and said: i see you're writing an email! and blinked and then wiggled a prong at you? i think it would suck.

this guy's the limit

am i that infuriating? when i know that consciousness is a time-machine that has no idea where time goes to die. there are some occasions that open you, as if you find yourself the cumulating cloud run into the catalyzing pressure system that blows you up or down or adds one speck of dust too much to break the membrane and cause you to unleash the massed group of agitated ions... and the fury persists, each rumbling, sky-churning bolt lashing down one at a time.

when all you are and can be is conceptual, and then you get accused of it... there's nowt of substance, that it feels like lip service to speak of your future, and how you see it... tell me, how does one manifest? really, i need to know. it's very important to me. have i failed me? is failure a curse, a gallowed thief bound to eternal neck-taut resurrection? the moments when you're most vulnerable is when they pounce. never. and never again. i now choose martial arts of the mind to contain and project. to take you fuckers out.

when all you want is someone to write to you. to think of you. to understand. to send a coded message that only you can decipher. and this elaborate place of receptivity, or support and empathy proves to be undone casually and at stride. becoming the most material and superficial and fickle-bound of structures. a house of tarot cards. contain yourself and preject.

what do i want? someone who'll finally take the time to let me learn, and teach not preach. someone to respect and respect me. harmony. love. i want to be able to dream with someone else. to feel like i can become my own twin. i wish to correct this planet. i wish to provide haven for me and my closest. to teach others how to do so too. to live on a boat, a vessel, an accepted place to chart madness and build back from there... to form life. i want to write and to create from there. i want to collate and build a graphic novel, i want to help plan the construction of bio-sustainable environs. to help dredge the harbour so the storm-weary can finally dream and repossess enough of themselves to do so to. to see the importance of such. to say: it is horrific. you have yours. i have mine. horror.

the horror starts in my fridge. in my gut. in my bed. in my arms. i can hold you if you choose to hold me too. i am tired of being undone by those i put my faith in. i am poor. i am ok with it, i can weather it and form from it. i don't choose to be poor, i just am right now. and i won't be in the future because i will learn and gather and work it away. i am a slow crab, i feel deeply and tend to relay by eduction not by direct expression. if you can't handle it, if you don't feel it, it is no fault of either of ours. it just isn't. think away... it's what i'm doing...

The Sky's The Limit / Hyperion

Abstraction: Was gonna post a page of a sci-fi novel thats really striking me.. will, but, first must say thank you to Ann, for much and much more, but this in particular... the bandied phrase The Sky's The Limit... this, in regards to what we were talking about at the time, is too good to let go. This will be the name.



Further into the abstract... first my first real haiku...



be yond the be yond

me the you and you the me

yond be the yond be

Excerpt from Dan Simmons' Hyperion

"

The twentieth century's most honored writer, William Gass, once said in an interview: "Words are the supreme objects. They are minded things."

And so they are. As pure and transcendent as any Idea cast a shadow into Plato's dark caves of our perceptions. But they are also pitfalls of deceit and misperception. Words bend our thinking to infinite paths of self-delusion, and the fact that we spend most of our mental lives in brain mansions built of words means that we lack the objectivity necessary to see the terrible distortion of reality which language brings. Example: the Chinese pictogram for "honesty" is a two-part symbol of a man literally standing next to his word. So far, so good. But what does the Late English word "integrity" mean? Or "Motherland"? Or "progress"? Or "democracy"? Or "beauty"? But even in our self-deception, we become gods.

A philosopher/mathematician named Bertrand Russell who lived and died in the same century as Gass once wrote: "Language serves not only to express thought but to make possible thoughts which could not exist without it." Here is the essence of mankind's creative genius: not the edifices of civilization nor the bang-flash weapons which can end it, but the words which fertilize new concepts like spermatoza attacking an ovum. It might be argued the the Simamese-twin infants of word/idea are the only contribution the human species can, will, or should make to the raveling cosmos. (Yes, our DNA is unique, but so is a salamander's. Yes, we construct artifacts but so have species ranging from beavers to the architect ants whose crenellated towers are visible right now off the port bow. Yes, we weave real-fabric things from the dreamstuff of mathematics, but the universe is hardwired with arithmetic. Scratch a circle and (pi) peeps out. Enter a new solar system and Tyvo Brahe's formulae lie waiting under the velvet cloak of space/time. But where has the universe hidden a word under its layer of biology, geometry, or insensate rock?) Even the traces of other intelligent life we have found - the blimps on Jove II, the Labyrinth Builders, the Seneschai empaths of Hebron, the Stick People of Durulis, the architects of the Time Tombs, the Shrike itself - have left us mysteries and obscure artifacts but no language. No words.

The Chinese poet George Wu, who died in the Last Sino-Japanese War about three centuries before the Hegira, understood this when he recorded on his comlog: "Poets are the mad midwifes to reality. They see not what is, nor what can be, but what must become." Later, on his last disk to his lover the week before he died, Wu said: "Words are the only bullets in truth's bandolier. And poets are the snipers."

You see, in the beginning was the Word. And the Word was made flesh in the weave of the human universe. And only the poet can expand this universe, finding shortcuts to new realities the way the Hawking drive tunnels under the barriers of Einsteinian space/time.

To be a poet, I realized, a true poet, was to become the Avatar of humanity incarnate; to accept the mantle of poet is to carry the cross of the Son of Man, to suffer the birth pangs of the Soul-Mother of Humanity.

To be a true poet is to become God.

"

BB Gun

i AM being targeted at work. somebody in our 12-storey building toots in the elevator just before getting off, cunningly trapping the putressence in the elevator for the next unwitting fool. effectively me. the elevator arrives, i get in solo, a button IS pressed, the doors close and... rauncho. then, inevitably, when i get to the lobby, there'S a gaggle of elevator would-bes waiting, most of whom i work with, and they get in unaware just how much they'll be gaggling, and leaving me with the onerous odorous-anus onus. this has happened twice and i've had enough. but i don't know what to do. except this. blog. and perhaps plan my own revenge/problem to escalate (elevate) the situation unecessarily. i'm talking flaming paper bag here. or pointedly dangling an air freshener in the middle. or finally constructing my idea, patent pending, of the fart-tracking goggles and tracking that impenitent squeaker down. i think that would make some secretary's day, having some ghostfartbuster come into the lobby and head straight to her boss' office.

considering it has been a whopping 3 weeks since i've squatted over this page, you'd've thought i'd've come up with something a little worthier of blathering inanely about. and i haven't at all. um, the grammatical liberties the deaf take is about all... actually, you know what i do find very interesting IS that (i might BE wrong here, as this IS hearsay, but i do know this of arabic too... so its not that big a leap of credibility here) ASL has no verb To BE. existence IS taken as a given. i know that doesn't mean that inexistence doesn't exist for them, because i'M sure that that's all they here (ok... that's a weak pun + a mean spirited joke... nice). but the ramifications on languages that DO have words that act to confirm something's existence ARE incredible. ramification IS a funny word. also, would not BE, in all its glorious and morphologically wacky oddity, also BE a preposition? (a wee aside here... i personally believe that prepositions define and even determine mind. i'M not sure how quite to relay that, at least, not now... but that IS something to get back to for a later date) um, where WAS i? ok, i AM a dork. i went back and changed all the BEs i could find while the idea WAS interesting to caps.

perhaps our unconcious overusage of the word BE has over confused a few things, philosophically speaking, or even allowed the hyper-real a litle too much access to us all. perhaps, like all concepts, it WASn't a problem until it WAS. now defend yourself, think about what it is to BE. hamlet out.