The Secret to of Being Unpopular

     …Already  all
confusion.                 
Things  and 
imaginings.           As  
of always.      

Confusion 

amounting  to
nothing.          
Despite  precautions.        


If only  she  could

be

pure figment.  


      Unalloyed.  

     The old so dying woman.

   So

dead.

         In the madhouse   of   the   skull             

and      nowhere   else.                   
Where                                                           
no                                                              
more   precautions   to be  
taken.           


No precautions possible.           

Cooped up in there with the rest.         


  Hovel and stones. 


         The lot.             And 


 the  eye.       

         How simple all then.             If
only all could  be 

pure   figment.                  

            Neither   be   nor   been

  nor  by  any    shift

    to     be.                    Gently  gently.      


          On.  



             Careful.

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              The    Secret    to  

                             
                                      of                               


                  Being  Unpopular





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                The Secret of Being Unpopular

   Only those, such as Master George Meredith, who

have mastered the lost art of “tedious amusingness”

can truly be accused of the futile but beautiful

pursute most diligent of that high mission

that is “the secret of [it’s] unpopularity”. Thus, this,

we: drawn by erotic convolutions of loops of words,

and the fire of  tedious repetition and ridiculous hope, 

do deeply master like the sedulous apes we are.

Only then, (appareled in the “glitter of eternity”),

and with vestments thus divest, can we, and

indeed They, even begin to “crawl toward death”.

Indeed, our fops, our dilly Dandys, hop toward the mire

in sore mock of life, in mock of love…and yet, we

have a special place (possibly a Palace place) for

them. For they tried. No one it is we know who

not have tried we don’t give our greetings toward

in our effort to out-clever those shrewd shrews:

mad mumbling marvelous gorgeous apparel all glittering

in the smokelessness. Thus we make or unmake our ways.

The madness of…

  For to whom is such an ambition of total annihilation

and self-destruction not deliciously attractive?

What indeed is it that we assail, nay, essay, to do:

we slaves of Montaigne with our tormented

needs, spelling our love of signs and sighs, our lust to be:

at least to continue to be after our own ignominious or

glorious decease? But when was death, the death of

any being or thing once alive, or the demise indeed of

any idea or thought or impulse or whim, “glorious”?

Put “glory” to the many corpses of History – interrogate

the dead. Put it Dante to them they “died for freedom” and

they will wish to you they had lived for life. Most would be

terribly perplexed, e’en frightened. And indeed, History continues

to kill: bang! Bang! Bang! It all goes, getting louder and more more.

 And we, indeed, are “put out” and embarrassed by our own silliness…

For we slug on through waves of mud and horror, even on the good days…

What, they might interrogate, is this wonderful freedom?

Is that what the Americans do so loud fervently in the world?

Bomb for freedom and democracy?

We could add, and “who put the mock in democracy?”

Clever clever clever clever. These political musings lead us

off into brown dreams of twisting lanes leading to a copse

where in summer by the stream, the thrush and the nightingale

are heard by the red or yellow flowers: and the dark mutter

is forgotten. We have plod our weary ways and move now as in

a mellow mist of deep blue miasma toward some ghost or

Spirit in conspiring Autumn: as we crackle across the dry leaves,

and step into or through the hectic red: the music follows, and tells

endlessly of the sweet songs and the nothings so eternally whispered.

What are we? Tormented. But Spring is coming up in about 5^th place.

Good old Spring! He, or she, remakes us whatever we are.

The apple wagons creak forward as told, and we are now

Less cold and surely a rising sanguinity begins

on our soft cheeks to bloom. Later sex is to be invented

by such as D.H. and then all the vituperation will start.

But we are still left musingly in the heaved hills where

the good dead lie, or not: theirs is a true lie. For who

could resist being in such a great poem of time?

Who could resist being to bloom unseen

and waste their sweetness? But was it a waste?

None can say, the dispute continues, but the fiction is wonderful and

Dad would start it:  “The ploughman homeward plods

his weary way, and leaves the world to darkness, and to me…”

And THAT is indisputable.

My grandmother of Kettering or Bedford or wherever she came from

was a Gray, born in India. Kipling and Forster’s India. India’s India.

Here (it is here), one starts giggling in the face of the idea of

‘mokopuna’ and ‘ka mate’ etc. It is here we

realize that, all along, the mad laugh of The Official Lunatic has driven

these designs, these sighs I mentioned, not to mention all

the writing, the chemical-spiritual signals whose import is

totally beyond us: having sped away in the latest

high revving high compression Jap-mobile.

…all the King Georges nod simultaneously. They are wise

with their infinite ignorance of anything.

Which is indeed our problem. After all, we, like the Mad Ones, or in fact,

like Lear, the Fool, Cordelia (all to die much to Dr. J’s chagrin and despair) –

we are slowly forgetting everything as we too become a hand imploring

from the mud, or a Thing stiff and stuck in Hitler’s Big Idea:

we and the millions: just imagine those terrible corpses

were yours, your sons, your loved ones: it rings so true

it cannot be denied…and yet they keep on celebrating

this masculine madness, this genetic horror of

progress or some other such idea

spreading its arse flaps.

Rictus Rick walks among the uncaring dead

and counts the plusses, as there are always plusses:

In fact, come to think of it, there are all those lovely

white ones, the seemingly endless rows, so

white and neat, so meaningfully white and so

bone clean – continuous, they, that shine, could be a milky way

a way to be milky and sweet like the condensed milk

we used to have. They are much better behaved

dead ones than those in the book

  Nazi Germany, a New History by Klaus P. Fischer.

Who’se to blame? God? If God made the world then

Evil God is to blame. If it is just something that exploded

silently everywhere into everything and everywhere out of nothing

and into time, then the Huge Nothing is to blame…interrogating the

silence of their suffering we see, everyday, people calling on God

in this wilderness called the good earth, this wondrous place. Or

is it? Let’s blame Hitler’s mother, here she is, Klara Polzl (1860-1907):

she died the year of my father’s birth in England. Later, in the Scouts

in the 1927 Denmark Jamboree, when there was so much to hope for, he

told me later: that the Germans sang so beautifully…as indeed now Angelika

…i.e. Angelika Kirschlager (Angel Church slaughterer) is singing Bach.

Is it HER fault? Or Bach’s? Did he overdo the religious stuff? Or Durer’s?

Or Gunter Grass’s?

Hitler’s mother! Proleptic She. She Prolept is very Unjew and stares Teutonically out of the pic:

A whore if I ever saw. One rocking the eternal cradle, her eyes are too metallic.

The Madness is there and poor old brutal Alois, the two of them from “…actors in search of a Play…,” crudely alone, no Author to be found: methinks Crookback played bad tricks on them:

But here is list of the photos in case you forget:

Here is: Field Marshall von Hindenburg, Friedrich Ebert, Karl Liebknecht,

Rosa Luxemburg, Hitler’s mother, Hitler’s father, Hitler as an infant, Lance Corporal Hitler, Hitler [et al ] at the Munich trial, The Adolf Hitler Shock Troops [off] to German Day in Bayreuth September 2, 1933; Hitler fraternizing with storm troopers; Braunschweig Party Day, October 1931 [all this History!!];  Hitler’s Cabinet including Blomberg; Alfed Rosenberg [Rose Mountain], Nazi racial philosopher and Reich Minister;  Himmler, architect of the Holocaust [we need our architects]; and, inter alia, General Werner von Fritsch, Commander in Chief of the German army.

Such men! Such intelligence of design! What woman or filmmaker could resist them?!

   

But there’s more!

There’s: Hitler at the Nuremberg Party rally, 1936; [the] League of German Girls [Oh how they are hitlering and flagging! What Sparks!! Such jolly youthful joy!!; Hitler with children, Hess, Speer and Hitt looking so happy!; and there’s Hitler and Leni Reifensthal!!; and young lovely Eva!; and Benito! Hurrah!! Hi there Benito baby!!; and there’s the Windsors!; and Chamberlain [good old jolly Chamby!!]; and Studenstzn at an Ordensburg!!; Kristallnact!!; and the Book Burning!!; and, you were waiting I know: The Eternal Jew – boooh!! Ewwggghhh!!! [straight out of a book by Malamud]; and a lovely young Frau “Bauf Jugendherbergen und heime” [Hoorah!!!]; Jubliant Viennese greet the annexation of Austria to Germany, March 1938; Hitler declaring war on the Yanks; “Give me ten years and you will not recognize Germany.” Adolf Hitler, 1933;

But there’s EVEN more mein Freunds!! Heil Heilligen heil Hell is gut!

Here is: Slave laborers at Buchenwald concentration camp; and the old Jew lady “On the way to the gas chamber”; and here, arms out like Christ, something to make you insane or immensely joyful, a decaying bone man; and here:

“Turn your gaze to the hill of corpses, spectator of contemporary history; turn for a moment within and think: This poor residue of flesh and bone is your father, child, your wife, the person dear to you! See yourself and the one closest to you, on whom your mind and heart depend, thrown naked in the filth, tortured, starved, killed.” Eugen Kogan.

                                                       *

But rightly you say, there was much more to come: we can mention Vietnam, Algeria, Africa, and latterly Iraq and Afghanistan, Guantanamo. And we can gather an hundred thousand books on life or history or psychology, and point to the ingenious makers – Meredith among them – and

And what? What?! I’ll tell you what me boy!”  What? Is Meredith and his ilk to blame?

Do we stop the laughter, the “cleverness” you mentioned?

No, the answer is nothing. The nothing coming of nothing wrapped inside nothing the huge illimitable and illegal enigma of arrival and the end of the beginning’s endless end – for George is innocent, I assure you, nowt’ll come of not readin’ him.

So what is YOUR game Knowman? [He knowed no no man so he let No Man go man.]

Is it blamable on the bloody big biblical Big Bang?  “What was the matter with the matter?”

It’s like this. I’ll put Bach and Pergolesi at one end and such as Sid Vicious and Stockhausen at the other, with a dash of Jazz and some Charles Ives,

or even Stevens in the Nigger Graveyard, not to mention poor old Pound…and

Charles Bernstein’s ‘Pounding Fascism’. It’s all in the mixmess. Auden was the man for this sort of thing. Lately I’ve been reading, post Ashbery and Berryman, Carol Ann Duffy, and bits of others, including the Manhire of children dying…

                                             *

What will you do?  Will you take the sword?

No, blessed are we that Forgettment is ours in this sad Time.

Do you peruse the flower light and the dust of sounds?

Yes and no.

Where are we?

We are. We are monkeys in madland. But…

There’s hope?

Thaskaflo lookafs as g twh a aslkd gfns goooen fooosk awwaefy.

Schasclk w sooesaaqghk\?

Ikasflor….

By that I presume you are still reading and thinking? Do you have a reason?

Reason not – too much – we can only live. Live. Live and make. Touch, and show. Show…

                                                 *

But who’se to blame!? What do you advise? What message can ever

be construed from all this darkness, or even more sad; this

endless richness of human thought, these words, this or that dilemma:

The million and one pathways taken or not: the blood, the words of love, wisdom, hope or hate? And yet this seeming disaster of what we seem, randomly, to be?

What, “after the novels, the teacups…,” what are we left with?

We are left with ourselves.

To know?

To know and love: but more, we have hope…

Hope! We are corpses, hopeless:

Repeatedly falling into slush or fire, and

The horror of Nothing.

“Is This a Man?”?

Yes, Primo Levi – how did he end, after all his witnessing?

Did he fall, or did the Cynical Shadow shove him?

To his death? Down the stairs…his works remain. (Yet he may or

may not, although we like to…

Works? And the dead, the brutally or sadly dead? Shall they awaken?

Joyce’s? Ibsen’s?

These ideas are ours, but yes, we reference those great works: for their

Depth. Their deep feeling…we hope we are more than repeaters.

We echo, and we hope, but nothing can be certain. And yet we remain –

Connected.

So you still read? You still strive to strive?

Together we shall make: it is an endless making this mystery, this sad joyful mystery.

Then let us sing:

                                                   *

  Quagmire in pursuit of total whiteness in blackness into what they had hoped at the very least was the possibility of an echo transubstantiated in a transforming storm the laden possibles trudging unwillingly to work to wit to woo and who are you is the Great Cry ascends the sky the lark oh the lark let us celebrate the cerebral lark as ascends in choral total the ecstasy beyond being or the meaning or light is indeed what we have been Genug and what and why you fly the sky there is loss and smoke and what spires are there in this flying turmoil as no man or woman knows if there is a receding sea or whether the animal erotic has now become all as we fall and re-fall in our own dilemma of signals whose interchange was noted by |29988679 +   j68811134| in an awesome display moving away from solidity to a tenderness the night itself feels loth to bear as who could or would not feel thus loth or loath or lowly and now those hollow and savage cries crowd round us we fear our friends and begin to confuse our foes none knowing for we have only love and that seems strong but we are only flesh and fatally fragile.

 Quantum is strange and we cannot conceive the paper men who burn forever inside the impossibility of things or who could start this so wonderful so beautiful so terrible no one and it was then they examined the writing only to be disillusioned for the millionth time as if numbers were of any help because it was known that the Man of Numbers had the key to child magic in Huge Toy Land, whereat a child of 10 or so, excited by volcanoes is so wonderful and young as all were or are once and we strive oh we strive what are we what is it what what what what what what what what what……..

                                              *

                                 bolt locks     but then  John felt in his pocket

                                 the lumps of stone-like stone

                                 at least were real, he thought

                                 then we traversed the

                                 but the green place wasn’t green

                                 it was or seemed to possess

                                 a peculiar odour of

                                 “everness” which Marian noticed

                                 who put the motion in emotion?

                                 Politics is death: the blue blue ocean

                                 and many do not as they were

                                 Urged: it has been said of me but.

                                  Consequent the words were

                                  terribly twisted like an old

                                  wire face peering out of

                                  London or perhaps Athens

                                  Riding the bicycle to deliberate death

                                  was a courageous act but was it.

                                  mortar mortised in a haze of seeing

                                 The Radar kept searching.

                                

                                 Bats. Let me sing of bats.

                                 It was believed he saw glimpse.

                                 It was gold. He fell in love.

                                 [They shuddered in their young

                                   rich and lonely erotic ecstasy:

                                   somehow the word silk was in

                                   the difficult poem. What. I can’t.]

  

                                                  *

But as you and all the Richards know this is surely completely incommensurable and quite absurd, given the general situation we are discovered inside. It has been and no doubt will be endlessly if not soonly be argued way beyond argument itself, that the truth as itself, is itself, creeping up behind us…

They made their way to the. If only that fragment. It was then the.  She was so. Arranged. The numbers. ….wh….it…lov…Her….Then the sail appeared. Stars are.

                                                   *

                          The Hopeful Song.

           If a million million automatic typers typed 

every second every minute every day and endlessly

            Something sometime somewhere perfectly 

Would on all that surge of words and marks appear –

            In someway somehow mysteriously
As hands are formed or infinity
            Is made by giant minds to disappear
Clack and tap and clack and tap the automatic writers rap –

            All through the endless seeming Question Time

Of everything; and why it is this Babel babble clap

            of hands their marks and syllables and flights

Created chancely as the automatic TypingTyper types…

And then appearing in the clacking night amongst that

            Sound or fury of the million typers’ automatic type:

Who out do out,( but Hatter mad in Madland, for clacky clack and on they play),

            A message out: shaky meaningless or in some way

Rational to those who seek and play, or make

            The answer sure of everything, a hyper Hype

We all await, or a muttered mud of meaning slake

            Our metaphysic thirst, as if a Bat,

Huge and true and swift, had whooshed on past,

            Crying knowingly in surety of space of The Eternal Hat –

Then after that and this and that and that

            Time would cease and all would cry

That now the Day had come for sure a sky

            Blue as Beauty within whose eye

All that ideal Ideation strange and almost true

            And all those thoughts so right or odd

Would now reveal that atomic automatic Mystic Glue:

            And the Torment of the Infinite semantic swirling sea,

And pulsing Dreams that still do whirl in Thing,

            As light might endless sing,

Or twisted spin – never ceasing in the Huge Revolve

            And shimmering of the cold all knowing lovely eye

of a long dead long forgotten Deep Sad god.     

       

                              *

Down the bloody stairs with you you slacker! You are guilty of being crimed against:

Of Grand Victim Larceny. You surely are aware the trouble you put the authorities to when you chose, as indeed it is clear to US you did, to hurl yourself in a savage and callous act, off the bridge or down the stairs or in any other way, either “secretly” or in a sudden moment of madness or “forgetfulness” (at least, as We know, you will claim this with a kind of knowing and cynical surety we have come to expect of you monster victims). The case is beyond analysis. There are no ambiguities. Or none we can’t deal with, with, (well, with some strange formulae that really mean nothing, but look impressive, exciting even): something like a Runic Cube.  

And for the sake of Piss, don’t give us all that stuff about whatever it was about being alive left you a quivering Psycho. We KNOW you were in the camps, we KNOW your father blew his brains out with a .38 after shouting; “Hey son, come and look at this!” We KNOW that. We know about you also, The Eternal Victim in the Eternal Trial. Are we expected to collapse in terror or grief or hysterical laughter: laughter so loud and long it would spread out like a radiating NUCLEAR boom impossible to stop until everything in existence or ever likely to be or to have been in existence, fell to the floor of wherever he she they or it were domiciled in hopeless and terrible laughter? No! We are NOT stupid. We know your kind. You DON’T fool us fool.  

                                                        *

We, and you, are intent on being unpopular. As far as we are concerned, Nothing is listening, and while it was said that “nothing comes of nothing” we have seen Cantor’s sets, and how, in some instances, two Null sets generate a set of units. We have seen this

revelation, divine or otherwise.

So we retreat into our Meredith, for to us, he is all the rage. We don’t use devices, we use husty dusty bulky books. Good old dumb born bulky Bolshy books. Go! We implore, but they stay staring up at us like salivating and devoted dogs. Ours is hate-love and we love to hate the ones we hate to love to hate to love. This is all perfectly true: because we know everything, which is in fact, the same as knowing Nothing, which is how we know about nothing and know nothing and (some might say) there is no nothing.

                                                             *

                                             We Recall Meredith.

smokelessness. Thus we make or unmake our ways.

The madness of…

  For to whom is such an ambition of total annihilation

and self-destruction not deliciously attractive?

What indeed is it that we assail, nay, essay, to do:

we slaves of…

                                                        

                                                            *

Walking on the unnamed Beach, they happen upon A Clock:

A vast Time Piece. We of course, have full knowledge of what is a clock and what purpose it signifies, how it makes time and measures itself, how it is greatly

True and regular, with escarpments and a pendulum, and much more of its mechanical guts. We designed it.

But these primitives. They own no watch. Have never seen no watch. So how can they know its meaning or its purport? So we have placed clues.

They begin to worship the marvel and the mystery of The Clock. It is remarkably made.

Then, a brave one enters the clock (secretly, for the clock is sacred and is a forbidden place). Into the ticking heart of the Great Timer the brave, curious one creeps. He makes notes. He confers with The Rebels. The sun moves, the hands move. It has hands. The clock was surely designed. It has been placed here. Nothing so marvelous complex could random assemble. It must surely, they Postulate, have been designed by a Designer.

Perhaps the Designer is Dead. Perhaps it was Mad. For surely this is a Thing that Measures Time. This they conclude. It seems it has been there always. Or does it Make Time?

The Tribe, who discovered this Only Time Machine, decide to tell all. The Others begin think about it. Think about it. Think. Begin think. Begin again. Begin. Begi. Beg. Be. B.

It is not long before all members of The Tribe are driven to suicide by the Insanity of Knowledge or the Madness of the Possibility of their being a Designer.

We told you we were The Makers, but we lied. We drowned in The Sea of Time. We have or are said to be “The Voices of Time”, but we are no longer here. We take a last look about. 

We don’t exist either.

                                                          *

But, you might say, that is surely a lie, or a distortion. And indeed, even we, who witnessed the above ramblings, are dubious of its provenance.

Let’s think this through. We have the Great Clock, The Mutter, The Inconclusion. But we also have Life, and Love and much else. It is a terribly twisted and strange dilemma.

But we have to make some attempt:

   The delicate, intricate Nothing

          - transcribing  the silence,

until the nerves become, like Debussy’s:

 

    the scintallent radiant spirals

    world-leaping, of

    a Spider Genius whose cobweb

    is seemingly perfect, as if

    thought through, reflects

    in the gorgeous dawn…

         - then things are

   careful, for

   the music is never more

   rhythmic or mad than Design –

 yet, transmuted by human hands becomes

 more restrained:  and touch by touch

 a subtle unnamed thing is built –

 ideas (gesturing) are fit inside it, they

 have emerged from the

      

        Creative Zero –

the intensity of Possibility

is in our fingers –

for we have possibilities unknown and

endless –

 

loud or soft this Music intricate moves –

    The Dancers, eternally, lift in Grace

                                                 *

  
                                            Magic

  The stories grew out of stones or they slithered under and into the cool crevices like burning snakes where truth hides or grows, or is engendered: those of those who dream and are indeed inflicted with such rashness as Meredith, or those of his time and space and that specialness we and you always yearned for in the years to come despite the blindness of those who watch or the tick of that which in the terrible exciting tock is ticked when time is faced with time, or indeed light is re-joined to time: it is these things we share with the beasts or the fauns whose life outside, wild in the wild, we keep forgetting until that great moment: that decision point to be forever certain and even safe, is arrived at: then we rush off like the wood cutter’s daughter to the horror of all the good people: then sex is engendered, which, horrible as it is, is wonderful as otherwise you and I and many others would not be here…

 But nothing shall deter the stories, they, like the soft smoke from ancient pipes, become blue from their very existence, their birth from stones into burning snakes to dive into the “eternal night of death when the lovers can be together,” it is then that everything happens: golden are the wanderers of the dawn reaching out to the great ideas of the sun: it is thus known that the stories expanded or shrank or became History, like, say, the sing-songs of London town. It was as children we listened to our gentle English mothers. Over and over they read the songs and how ‘the bells of Saint Martins’ and how it went:

         Oranges and lemons sang the bells of St. Clemens

…as wonderful, innocent children wondered. (Later Awful Reality appeared with his nasty dental tools and his awful “development” and his Progress…)

…but the stories kept growing, unknown to us, who were growing in our own Diversity. The garden had begun and there had burst the fruits and Things from the rich soil: all things pushing Forth grew gravid with my expanding seeds. Then were the miracles of enzymes and the chemical amazement as light entered leaves – those Great Engines of growing things – and we witnessed the Magic of a shoot erupting from a split bean: and then arising, determined, and unstoppable. The Impossible Magic of it. Reality surrounded us, but remained Invisible, and ours became an inexhaustible, and unknowably but wonderfully Chemical Joy.

Then the pumpkins exploded like great green boulders to rage across the fence, knowing no human ‘territory’.

Later, dim-witted persons would greatly silly concern fill about ‘World Affairs,’ and others, grossly tormented, would come to ‘believe in things,’ but we, The Knower Children, stayed there: I was rooted primordial in the midst of virulent stones and savagely wonderful stories.

I became the King of All England and All Time and I breathed the woodsmoke of the early evening air, never forgoing Memory, and I, and they, “didn’t know we were alive” – we became greater even than England or Time or God. We knew Nothing except the story of our existence and the pure eternity of The Cell.

It was then we decided a Song:

                  The stories grew from stones,

                  The moon evolves, revolves:

                  Bright faced but dead:

     …but we never now admit death as each of us moves further into The Forest where all ends, all begins.

   Thing makes Arise: and we begin to believe, if only for a short span, in ideas and ideals. But we are clever Brains. We have becoming Word Machines. We share Purpose and we purpose to busy on the earth.

  …an old man, nervously fiddling with his moustache, hopes by some Mantra, like “touch wood,” to placate whatever it is out there that needs placation.

 (Craig Raine’s poem about his mother’s death and the erotic hair removal, was moving but awful and very disturbing: and is not quite what we had in mind this cold afternoon. (

 The man, previously mentioned, who emerged from the deep earth stones: once tried to “grow up” but realized much later in the night that the phrase was meaningless.

We cannot too bear that human reality kind much. Want we fish and chocolate not now but forever as we into the do rock and it all is rediscovered in Australia by an egg, or as we know, the forests have been burning for there for thousands of years to regrow and get revenge on the other things. But dream it and then the stones are aligned as time explodes nothing again but we enter the place it is not what it is but we are here.

We turned to windward.  The sea was jolly. We heard the Great and Beautiful Scream and laid back among the approving primroses to share Nature’s terrible and timeless trance as if the Things under foot would ever deign to re-emerge.           

                                                    *                 

Bach, wrestling with Eternity: the struggle is endless, and seems effortless. His head seems to have touched God’s. They fought, and God lost. God was checkmated. Nietzsche is mentioned around about here. Zarathustra comes down from the mountains.

The golden arrows fleet toward the farther shore. Later, insanity descends on Nietzsche when he sees a horse being flogged to death. Before that he had argued with Wagner’s anti-Semitic diatribe against Mendelsohn and his philosopher grandfather. Hitler meets

Nietzsshe’s sister and her pro-Nazi husband. They present the writings to Hitler. Hitler is delighted and dances one of his famous jigs. He wants war so very very soon, as, as he keeps saying, he will surely soon die. And he must not die. How can Germany, nay the world’s, new god die? Wagner, he is the man, and his gold rings, his Goterdammerungs, his golden gods. He orders them to play Germany’s great song.  Huge are the rallies.  Wagner becomes all the rage in the Reich.

Humans now descend into 5 years of butchery: Isherwood has long since said farewell to Berlin. He was camera. Later Barthes writes Camera Lucida, really a paen to the mother he loved. Pound writes his great epic, spoilt by his mad ravings against Jews and the Allies. Later on. 9/11 happens and no one knows who or what perpetuated it. It is business as usual in Madland.

In Woody Allen’s Hannah and her Sisters the issue gets complex with religion, adultery etc, art, Thanksgiving three times: and thoughts or whispers of mortality and then we see Michael Caine in Educating Rita where Rita’s flatmate Trish lies in bed listening to (not Wagner or Bach) but Mahler:

“What could one do without Mahler!” she exclaims in a drunken ecstasy. But Mahler lets her down and they find her near dead – she attempted suicide. Meanwhile, the Professor is continually drunk. 

John settled in to watch Taxi, The Madness of King George, Serpico, A Clockwork Orange, Amadeus, The Dead (the film of Joyce’s great story), Apocalypse Now (having dutifully read Eliot’s The Hollow Men, and Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar (where the phrase ‘the hollow men’ came from), and Conrad’s brilliant Heart of Darkness…rounded it all up with The Three Stooges, Daffy Duck in Hollywood, some Milton, The Silence of the Lambs, and then The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

It was then they wheeled in a blood-faced Dr. God, who had just been near bashed to death by J S Bach. 

                                                    *  

…marked by flux…the irremediable breach between

          ………as temporal, historical being…

‘There is something precisely ominous about Miss Stein…’

     Niedecker has spoken of Zukofsky’s “calculus of thought”. Zukofsky has said that a poem is made of  “words more variable than variables, and used outside as well as within the context” …

                    The language must resonate with the possibilities of meaning…

……………………………………………………………………………………. ………

        Let us never Forget, that if Faith fails, Heaven is Lost.

………………………. ……………………………………………………………………

    …Danger lurks in every stone.

…………….introspection

                                                …Contemplation of change, even of myself, is illusory;

           …without a sense of before or after, language loses all meaning.  

… they blend to become the incarnation of the illogical, or rather the lack of linear, progressive or discriminatory logic upon which…

          ….discover the nothingness at the core

           …the sin of existing. This centreless complex

                                                    

                  __________________

    

        //Cruel and capricious storms which sweep over the mountains regardless of seasons 

 have always taken their toll of freshly shorn sheep ….

          …………………the sun and sky, birdsong: all around us the sweet voices trilled and babbled and echoes and re-echoed …….Kowhai trees in full flower. Bellbirds were sipping honey from the blossom and it was….

       …It may never be possible to disambiguate the sentence.

                                   …the world of the things…

…man creates himself by his works; by his estrangement from himself he becomes his own creation…

                                        …Moses and Aaron is, on one vital plane, and opera about opera…between sensual embodiment and enormous urgency and purity of intended meaning….

                             …in a great cry of necessary silence.

                                                                    …the invisibility of God has become an intolerable anguish.

                               … an inconceivable presence.

    …the Word which is yet to come but which lies beyond speech

                                      …slim volumes of whispered lyricism.

    …an action painter   ….then rolling himself in paint in a final logic of design.

                                                ...words long asleep or rusted,

                             ____________________________________

               The creature hath a purpose and its eyes are bright with it.

                                                        …illusion created

                     …cannot be validated     The only

---------------------- ---------------------- ----------------------------------------

   What sort of information is I?

   …is it Yellow Information

…Green Information

  …or

…Orange Information

---------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------

“Gentlemen, I present my model!”

     Where could she have learnt this corruption, almost incorporeal in the strength of its profundity and dissimulation?

He is the master and the victim of a monstrous cleverness which is

      ---------he vigorously threw in a large spadeful; and the wood of the coffin, struck by the pebbles, gave forth that dread sound that seems to us the reverberation of eternity.

                           She corrupted him from beyond the grave.

                               The good man who most loved her was the most despised.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------

   There came forward on the platform a little old woman with a timid bearing, who seemed to shrink within her clothes. On her feet she wore heavy wooden clogs, and from her hips hung a large blue apron. Her pale face framed in a borderless cap was more wrinkled than a russet apple, and from the sleeves of her red jacket looked out two large hands with knotty joints. The dust of barns, potash of washings, and the grease of wools, had so encrusted, roughened, hardened these, that they seemed dirty although they had been rinsed in clear water; and by dint of long service they remained half-open, as if to bear humble witness for themselves of so much suffering endured. Something of monastic rigidity dignified her face. Nothing of sadness or emotion weakened her pale look. In her constant living with animals she had caught their dumbness and their calm. It  was the first time that she had found herself in the midst of so large a company, and inwardly scared by the flags, the drums, the gentlemen in frock-coats, and the order of the councilor, she stood motionless, not knowing whether to advance or run away, nor why the crowd was pushing her, and the jury was smiling at her. Thus stood before the radiant bourgeois this half-century of servitude.*

                  larger; and in the midst of the silence low words were spoken that fell on their souls sonorous, crystalline, and that reverberated in multiplied vibrations.

  How simple life would be if our borders were inviolate.

War, in other words, is man’s contribution to evolution.

------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------

                                                 papa hou ~ waka huia

                                    legs and arms symbolized

                                                      by

                                           entwining

                                           eel

                                                                    designs

       composed                       

                                                                 single

                                                                 ridges

                                                 of    

                                                                        pataki

         Paua eyes are encircled here and there by                              

                                entwining

                                eel

                                shapes 

                  indicative         of

                a           higher            order

        

                                     of artistry

    [the greenstone chisel cut as well as steel but it took longer ‘to accomplish the work’]

                     Also, the greenstone chisel retained a good edge and

           did not need continuous resharpening.

----------------------------------- --------------------------------- ---------------------------------

                      “The world is the work of a delirious God!”

                                               …the fire hidden in the world shall

          annihilate all matter, shall consume itself…

                          the truth goes on existing, as it were, behind your back

------------------------------------------------------------ ----------------------------------------------

                             …Already all confusion.               Things and imaginings.           As of always.       Confusion amounting to nothing.         Despite precautions.         If only she could be pure figment.        Unalloyed.        The old so dying woman.              So dead.          In the madhouse   of   the   skull and      nowhere   else.                    Where  no  more   precautions   to be   taken.            No precautions possible.            Cooped up in there with the rest.            Hovel and stones.           The lot.             And  the  eye.                 How simple a ll then.             If only all could  be  pure   figment.                              Neither   be   nor   been  nor  by  any    shift     to     be.                    Gently  gently.                On.               Careful.

------------------------------------ -------------------------------- -------------------------------------

Music through the Night

3.6.2013

12.         J.C  Bach -  symphonies       

1.15       Piano     Italian composer  Malipiero

2.15       Schubert lieder

 3.35      Franz Berwald - symphonies

4.50       Sibelius

             

---------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------- ----------------------

This is the merit and distinction of art: to be more real than reality, to be not nature but nature's essence. It is the artist's function not to copy but to synthesise: to eliminate from that gross confusion of actuality which is his raw material whatever is accidental, idle, irrelevant, and select for perpetuation that only which is appropriate and immortal. Always artistic, Mr. Meredith's work is often great art.

------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ----------

a companion for Balzac and Richardson, an intimate for Fielding and Cervantes. His figures fall into their place [43/44] beside the greatest of their kind; and when you think of Lucy Feverel and Mrs. Berry, of Evan Harrington's Countess Saldanha and the Lady Charlotte of Emilia in England, of the two old men in Harry Richmond and the Sir Everard Rolnfrey of Beauchamp's Career, of Renée and Cecilia, of Emilia and Rhoda Fleming, of Rose Jocelyn and Lady Blandish and Ripton Thompson, they have in the mind's eye a value scarce inferior to that of Clarissa and Lovelace, of Bath and Western and Booth, of Andrew Fairserviae and Elspeth Mucklebacket, of Philippe Bridau and Vautrin and Balthasar Claes. In the world of man's creation his people are citizens to match the noblest; they are of the aristocracy of the imagination, the peers in their own right of the society of romance. And for all that, their state is mostly desolate and lonely and forlorn.

His Defects

For Mr. Meredith is one of the worst and least attractive of great writers as well as one of the best and most fascinating. He is a sun that has broken out into innumerable spots. The better half of his genius is always suffering eclipse from the worse half. He writes with the pen of a great artist in his left hand and the razor of a spiritual suicide [44/45] in his right. He is the master and the victim of a monstrous cleverness which is neither to hold nor to bind, and will not permit him to do things as an honest, simple person of genius would. As Shakespeare, in Johnson's phrase, lost the world for a quibble and was content to lose it, so does Mr. Meredith discrown himself of the sovereignty of contemporary romance to put on the cap and bells of the professional wit. He is not content to be plain Jupiter: his lightnings are less to him than his fireworks; and his pages so teem with fine sayings and magniloquent epigrams and gorgeous images and fantastic locutions that the mind would welcome dullness as a bright relief. He is tediously amusing; he is brilliant to the point of being obscure; his helpfulnes or extravagant as to worry and confound. That is the secret of his unpopularity.

---------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------

 And when the Syrians of Damascus came to succour Hadadezer king of Zobah, David slew of the Syrians two and twenty thousand men.

----------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------

1 After this opened Job his mouth, and cursed his day.

2 And Job spake, and said,

3 Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a man child conceived.

4 Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it.

5 Let darkness and the shadow of death stain it; let a cloud dwell upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it.

6 As for that night, let darkness seize upon it; let it not be joined unto the days of the year, let it not come into the number of the months.

7 Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein.

10 Because it shut not up the doors of my mother's womb, nor hid sorrow from mine eyes.

11 Why died I not from the womb? why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly?

12 Why did the knees prevent me? or why the breasts that I should suck?

13 For now should I have lain still and been quiet, I should have slept: then had I been at rest,

17 There the wicked cease from troubling; and there the weary be at rest.

18 There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor.

19 The small and great are there; and the servant is free from his master.

20 Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul;

After dispensing with the concept of the noumenon, Sartre outlines the binary distinction that dominates the rest of Being and Nothingness: the distinction between unconscious being (en-soi, being-in-itself) and conscious being (pour-soi, being-for-itself). Being-in-itself is concrete, lacks the ability to change, and is unaware of itself. Being-for-itself is conscious of its own

, as the object-in-itself does, man, as an object-for-itself, must actuate his own being.

Sartre next introduces the related truth that the being-for-itself possesses meaning only through its perpetual foray into the unknown future. In other words, a man is not essentially what one might describe him as now. For example, if he is a teacher, he is not a teacher in the way that a rock, as a being-in-itself, is a rock. In truth, the man is never an essence, no matter how much he

 

Then Eliphaz the Temanite answered and said,

2 If we assay to commune with thee, wilt thou be grieved? but who can withhold himself from speaking?

3 Behold, thou hast instructed many, and thou hast strengthened the weak hands.

4 Thy words have upholden him that was falling, and thou hast strengthened the feeble knees.

5 But now it is come upon thee, and thou faintest; it toucheth thee, and thou art troubled.

6 Is not this thy fear, thy confidence, thy hope, and the uprightness of thy ways?

7 Remember, I pray thee, who ever perished, being innocent? or where were the righteous cut off?

8 Even as I have seen, they that plow iniquity, and sow wickedness, reap the same.

9 By the blast of God they perish, and by the breath of his nostrils are they consumed.

10 The roaring of the lion, and the voice of the fierce lion, and the teeth of the young lions, are broken.

11 The old lion perisheth for lack of prey, and the stout lion's whelps are scattered abroad.

12 Now a thing was secretly brought to me, and mine ear received a little thereof.

13

     …Already  all
confusion.                 
Things  and 
imaginings.           As  
of always.      

Confusion 

amounting  to
nothing.          
Despite  precautions.        


If only  she  could

be

pure figment.  


      Unalloyed.  

     The old so dying woman.

   So

dead.

         In the madhouse   of   the   skull             

and      nowhere   else.                   
Where                                                           
no                                                              
more   precautions   to be  
taken.           


No precautions possible.           

Cooped up in there with the rest.         


  Hovel and stones. 


         The lot.             And 


 the  eye.       

         How simple all then.             If
only all could  be 

pure   figment.                  

            Neither   be   nor   been

  nor  by  any    shift

    to     be.                    Gently  gently.      


          On.  



             Careful.

------------------------------------ -------------------------------- -------------------------------------

Sartre explains that as a conscious being, the for-itself recognizes what it is not: it is not a being-in-itself. Through the awareness of what it is not, the for-itself becomes what it is: a nothingness, wholly free in the world, with a blank canvas on which to create its being. He concludes that the for-itself is the being through which nothingness and lack enter the world, and consequently, the for-itself is itself a lack. The absence it signifies is the absence of the unattainable synthesis of the for-itself and the in-itself. The being-for-itself is defined by its knowledge of being not in-itself. Knowing is its own form of being, even if this knowledge is only of what one is not and cannot be, rather than what one is. The human can never know being as it truly is, for to do that, one would have to be the thing itself. To know a rock, we have to be the rock (and of course, the rock, as a being-in-itself, lacks consciousness). Yet the being-for-itself sees and intuits the world through what is not present. In this way, the being-for-itself, already wholly free, also possesses the power of imagination. Even if absolute beauty (to Sartre, the absolute union of being and consciousness) cannot be apprehended, knowing it through its absence, as in the way one feels the emptiness left by a departed loved one, is its own truth.

13 He taketh the wise in their own craftiness: and the counsel of the froward is carried headlong.

14 They meet with darkness in the daytime, and grope in the noonday as in the night.

15 But he saveth the poor from the sword, from their mouth, and from the hand of the mighty.

16

      

Delving into the ways individual

aware of our own presence. The gaze of the other is objectifying in the sense that when one views another person building a house, he or she sees that person as simply a house builder. Sartre writes that we perceive ourselves being perceived and come to objectify ourselves in the same way we are being objectified. Thus, the gaze of the other robs us of our inherent freedom and causes us to deprive ourselves of our existence as a being-for-itself and instead learn to falsely self-identify as a being-in-itself.

He is the master and the victim of a monstrous cleverness which is

In the last segment of his argument, Sartre

o escape its own nothingness, the for-itself strives to

, in more profane terms, to consume it. Ultimately, however, the in-itself can never be possessed. Just as the for-itself will never realize the union of for-itself and in-itself, neither will it succeed in apprehending or devouring the alien object. Thus, at the summation of Sartre’s polemic, an incredible sense of hopelessness dominates the discussion: I am a nothingness, a lack,

descriptions of human ontology is a question Sartre does not attempt to definitively answer. This avoidance of reaching a definitive point of philosophic conclusion is in many ways intentional, however, in keeping with nal style and the existentialist maxim that there are no theories that can make a claim to universality.

As Sartre

the most essential characteristic of being is its intrinsic absence of differentiation and diversity. Being is complete fullness of existence, a meaningless mass of matter devoid of meaning, consciousness, and knowledge. Consciousness enters the world through the for-itself and with it brings nothingness, negation, and difference to what was once a complete whole of being. Consciousness is what allows the world to exist. Without it, there would be no objects, no trees, no rivers, and no rocks: only being. Consciousness always has intentionality—that is, consciousness is always conscious of something. It thus imposes itself on being-in-

 only through the knowledge of what it is not. Consciousness knows it is not a being-in-itself and thus knows what it is, a nothingness, a nihilation of being. Yet, to Sartre, despite the fact that the for-itself is nothing, it exists only in its relation to being and thus is its own type of is.

Analysis

From the beginning of Being and Nothingness, Sartre displays his debt to Nietzsche through his rejection of the notion of any transcendent reality or being that humans can know which might lie behind or beneath the appearances that make up reality. That is, the experience of appearances is reality. Although this does imply an emptiness, Sartre does not see it as a negative truth. Freed of the search for some essential form being, we, as conscious beings (all beings-for-itself), are empowered in knowing that our personal, subjective experience of the world is all the truth there is. We are the ultimate judge of being and nonbeing, truth and falsity.

The key concepts of Sartre’s vision of the world are the being-in-itself and the being-for-itself.

  way of understanding how they relate to each other is to think of being-in-itself as another word for object and the being-for-itself as another word for subject. The being-in-itself is something that is defined by its physical characteristics, whereas the subject is defined by consciousness, or nonphysical and

self, or some of the attributes of an object or being-in-itself. It thus follows that sometimes          

regarded as a being-in-itself.

teraction of beings possessed of consciousness is a major focus for Sartre,

ng-for-itself to interact with another being-for-itself, the key concepts are “the gaze” and “the other.” Without question, in Sartre’s view the gaze of the other is alienating. Our awareness of being perceived not only causes us to deny the consciousness and freedom inherent to us but also causes us to recognize those very qualities in our counterpart.

ed to see the other who looks at us as superior, even if we recognize his gaze as ultimately dehumanizing and objectifying. In response to the gaze of the other, we will assert ourselves as free and conscious and attempt to objectify the individual who objectifies us, thus reversing the relationship. The pattern of relations Sartre describes appears

     …Already all confusion.               Things and imaginings.           As of always.       Confusion amounting to nothing.         Despite precautions.         If only she could be pure figment.        Unalloyed.        The old so dying woman.              So dead.          In the madhouse   of   the   skull and      nowhere   else.                    Where  no  more   precautions   to be   taken.            No precautions possible.            Cooped up in there with the rest.            Hovel and stones.           The lot.             And  the  eye.                 How simple a ll then.             If only all could  be  pure   figment.                              Neither   be   nor   been  nor  by  any    shift     to     be.                    Gently  gently.                On.               Careful.

------------------------------------ -------------------------------- -------------------------------------

Sartre brings up the ethical implications of the ontological vision set forth in Being in Nothingness only at the end of the work. In later works, notably the famous lecture “The Humanism of Existentialism,” Sartre attempts to outline a philosophy of ethics based on an existentialist study of the nature of being. In short, he argues that values are never objective, as they are created by the choices and actions of free individuals. Herein lies the room for hope that Sartre inserts into a work so full of nothingness and lack: freedom is humanity’s curse as well as its blessing, and what we make of that freedom is our own. In it lies great and indeterminate possibility.

------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------

Reality is often contrasted with what is imaginary, delusional, (only) in the mind, dreams, what is false, what is fictional, or

what is abstract. At the same time, what is abstract plays a role both in everyday life and in academic research. For instance,

causality, virtue, life and distributive justice are abstract concepts that can be difficult to define, but they are only rarely

equalled with pure delusions. Both the existence and reality of abstractions is in dispute: one extreme position regard them as

mere words, another position regard them as higher truths than less abstract concepts. This disagreement is the basis of the

philosophical Problem of universals.

The truth refers to what is real, while falsity refers to what is not. Fictions are considered not real.

A common colloquial usage would have reality mean "perceptions, beliefs, and attitudes toward reality," as in "My reality is not your reality." This is often used just as a colloquialism indicating that the parties to a conversation agree, or should agree,

not to quibble over deeply different conceptions of what is real. For example, in a religious discussion between friends, one might say (attempting humor), "You might disagree, but in my reality, everyone goes to heaven."

Reality can be defined in a way that links it to world views or parts of them (conceptual frameworks): Reality is the totality of all things, structures (actual and conceptual), events (past and present) and phenomena, whether observable or not. It is what a

world view (whether it be based on individual or shared human experience) ultimately attempts to describe or map.

Certain ideas from physics, philosophy, sociology, literary criticism, and other fields shape various theories of reality. One such belief is that there simply and literally is no reality beyond the perceptions or beliefs we each have about reality. Such attitudes

are summarized in the popular statement, "Perception is reality" or "Life is how you perceive reality" or "reality is what you can get away with" (Robert Anton Wilson), and they indicate anti-realism – that is, the view that there is no objective reality, whether

Many of the concepts of science and philosophy are often defined culturally and socially. This idea was elaborated by Thomas Kuhn in his book The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (1962). The Social Construction of Reality, a book about the sociology of knowledge written by Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann, was published in 1966.

Western philosophy

Philosophy addresses two different             of the topic of reality: the nature of reality itself, and the relationship between the mind (as well as language and culture) and reality.

, ontology is the study of being, and the central topic of the field is couched, variously, in terms of being, existence, "what is", and reality. The task in ontology is to describe the most general categories of reality and how they are

interrelated. If a philosopher wanted to proffer a positive definition of the concept "reality", it would be done under this heading.

, some philosophers draw a distinction between reality and existence. In fact, many analytic philosophers today tend to avoid the term "real" and "reality" in discussing ontological issues.

On the other hand, particularly in discussions of objectivity that have feet in both metaphysics and epistemology, philosophical discussions of "reality" often concern the ways in which reality is, or is not, in some way dependent upon (or, to use fashionable

jargon, "constructed" out of) mental and cultural factors such as perceptions, beliefs, and other mental states, as well as cultural artifacts, such as religions and political movements, on up to the vague notion of a common cultural world view, or

Weltanschauung.

The view that there is a reality independent of any beliefs, perceptions, etc., is called realism. More specifically, philosophers are given to speaking about "realism about" this and that, such as realism about universals or realism about the external world.

Generally, where one can identify any class of object, the existence or essential characteristics of which is said not to depend on perceptions, beliefs, language, or any other human artifact, one can speak of "realism about" that object.

One can also speak of anti-realism about the same objects. Anti-realism is the latest in a long series of terms for views opposed to realism. Perhaps the first was idealism, so called because reality was said to be in the mind, or a product of our ideas. Berkeleyan

idealism is the view, propounded by the Irish empiricist George Berkeley, that the objects of perception are actually ideas in the mind. In this view, one might be tempted to say that reality is a "mental construct"; this is not quite accurate, however, since in

Berkeley's view perceptual ideas are created and coordinated by God. By the 20th century, views similar to Berkeley's were called phenomenalism. Phenomenalism differs from Berkeleyan idealism primarily in that Berkeley believed that minds, or souls, are not

merely ideas nor made up of ideas, whereas varieties of phenomenalism, such as that advocated by Russell, tended to go farther to say that the mind itself is merely a collection of perceptions, memories, etc., and that there is no mind or soul over and above such mental events. Finally, anti-realism became a fashionable term for any view which held that the existence of some object depends upon the mind or cultural artifacts. The view that the so-called external world is really merely a social, or cultural,

artifact, called social constructionism, is one variety of anti-realism. Cultural relativism is the view that social issues such as morality are not absolute, but at least partially cultural artifact.

A correspondence theory of knowledge about what exists claims that "true" knowledge of reality represents accurate correspondence of statements about and images of reality with the actual reality that the statements or images are attempting to represent. For example,

 the scientific method can verify that a statement is true based on the observable evidence that a thing exists. Many humans can point to the Rocky Mountains and say that this mountain range exists, and continues to exist even if no one is observing it or

making statements about it.

Being

The nature of being is a perennial topic in metaphysics. For, instance Parmenides taught that reality was a single unchanging Being, whereas Heraclitus wrote that all things flow. The 20th century philosopher Heidegger thought previous philosophers have lost sight

the question of Being (qua Being) in favour of the questions of beings (existing things), so that a return to the Parmenidean approach was needed. An ontological catalogue is an attempt to list the fundamental constituents of reality. The question of whether

or not existence is a predicate has been discussed since the Early Modern period, not least in relation to the ontological argument for the existence of God. Existence, that something is, has been contrasted with essence, the question of what something is. Since

existence without essence seems blank, it associated with nothingness by philosophers such as Hegel. Nihilism represents an extreme negative view of being, the absolute a

positive one.

Perception

The question of direct or "naïve" realism, as opposed to indirect or "representational" realism, arises in the philosophy of perception and of mind out of the debate over the nature of conscious experience;[2][3] the epistemological question of whether

the world we see around us is the real world itself or merely an internal perceptual copy of that world generated by neural processes in our brain. Naïve realism is known as direct realism when developed to counter indirect or representative realism,

also known as epistemological dualism,[4] the philosophical position that our conscious experience is not of the real world itself but of an internal representation, a miniature virtual-reality replica of the world.

Timothy Leary coined the influential term Reality Tunnel, by which he means a kind of representative realism. The theory states that, with a subconscious set of mental filters formed from their beliefs and experiences, every individual interprets the same

world differently, hence "Truth is in the eye of the beholder". His ideas influenced the work of his friend Robert Anton Wilson.

Abstract objects and mathematics

The status of abstract entities, particularly numbers, is a topic of discussion in mathematics.

In the philosophy of mathematics, the best known form of realism about numbers is Platonic realism, which grants them abstract, immaterial existence. Other forms of realism identify mathematics with the concrete physical universe.

Some approaches are selectively realistic about some mathematical objects but not others. Finitism rejects infinite quantities. ultra-finitism accepts finite quantities up to a certain amount. Constructivism and intuitionism are realistic about objects that can be explicitly constructed, but reject the use of the principle of the excluded middle to prove existence by reductio ad absurdum.

The traditional debate has focused on whether an abstract (immaterial, intelligible) realm of numbers has existed in addition to the physical (sensible, concrete) world. A recent development is the mathematical universe hypothesis, the theory that only a mathematical

 world exists, with the finite, physical world being an illusion within it.

An extreme form of realism about mathematics is the mathematical multiverse hypothesis advanced by Max Tegmark. Tegmark's sole postulate is: All structures that exist mathematically also exist physically. That is, in the sense that "in those [worlds]

complex enough to contain self-aware substructures [they] will subjectively perceive themselves as existing in a physically 'real' world".[5][6] The hypothesis suggests that worlds corresponding to different sets of initial conditions, physical constants,

or altogether different equations should be considered real. The theory can be considered a form of Platonism in that it posits the existence of mathematical entities, but can also be considered a mathematical monism in that it denies that anything exists except

mathematical objects.

 Problem of universals

The problem of universals is an ancient problem in metaphysics about whether universals exist. Universals are general or abstract qualities, characteristics, properties, kinds or relations, such as being male/female, solid/liquid/gas or a certain colour,[7]

that can be predicated of individuals or particulars or that individuals or particulars can be regarded as sharing or participating in. For example, Scott, Pat, and Chris have in common the universal quality of being human or humanity.

The realist school claims that universals are real – they exist and are distinct from the particulars that instantiate them. There are various forms of realism. Two major forms are Platonic realism and Aristotelian realism.[8] Platonic realism is the view that

universals are real entities and they exist independent of particulars. Aristotelian realism, on the other hand, is the view that universals are real entities, but their existence is dependent on the particulars that exemplify them.

Nominalism and conceptualism are the main forms of anti-realism about universals.

Time and space

Philosophy of space and time

A traditional realist position in ontology is that time and space have existence apart from the human mind. Idealists deny or doubt the existence of objects independent of the mind. Some anti-realists whose ontological position is that objects outside the mind do

exist, nevertheless doubt the independent existence of time and space.

__________________________________________________________________

                                              MY ART

   Some examples of my art: everyone is an artist?


                               

 Brains - we need them.

 

                                                 MY    H I T L E R    ART

 After Eva Hesse.

                                                     Potentials

                                             The City that Was

 

green dreams

                                                         Psycho Invert I

                       'Whispers'  images from the Swiftean 'subeams from p/u/m/p/k/i/n/s - no cucumbers'
                        dilemma and the problem of the spreading sneer as applies....[Paper,egg shells,crayon
                        and crushed slugs.]

'Thoughts' - by Richard Taylor 11124

 

'Trees etc'

   
                                                           green dreams series II ($200 million dollars)


                                                               

                                       'Have we met my dear?' (Series 200111 acrylic and heptides.)

                                      'QUOD ERAT DEMONSTRANDUM POWER'
(Series 68)


_____________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________




He is the master and the victim of a monstrous cleverness which is

 

Kant, in the Critique of Pure Reason, described time as an a priori notion that, together with other a priori notions such as space, allows us to comprehend sense experience. Kant denies that either space or time are substance, entities in themselves, or learned by

experience; he holds rather that both are elements of a systematic framework we use to structure our experience. Spatial measurements are used to quantify how far apart objects are, and temporal measurements are used to quantitatively compare the interval between

(or duration of) events. Although space and time are held to be transcendentally ideal in this sense, they are also empirically real, i.e. not mere illusions.

Idealist writers such as J. M. E. McTaggart in The Unreality of Time have argued that time is an illusion.

As well as differing about the reality of time as a whole, metaphysical theories of time can differ in their ascriptions of reality to the past, present and future separately.

    Presentism holds that the past and future are unreal, and only an ever changing present is real.

    The block universe theory, also known as Eternalism, holds that past, present and future are all real, but the passage of time is an illusion. It is often said to have a scientific basis in relativity.

    The growing block universe theory holds that past and present are real, but the future is not.

Time, and the related concepts of process and evolution are central to the system-building metaphysics of A. N. Whitehead and Charles Hartshorne.

Possible worlds

The term "possible world" goes back to Leibniz's theory of possible worlds, used to analyse necessity, possibility, and similar modal notions. Modal realism is the view, notably propounded by David Kellogg Lewis, that all possible worlds are as real as the actual world. In short: the actual world is regarded as merely one among an infinite set of logically possible worlds, some "nearer" to the actual world and some more remote. Other theorists may use the Possible World framework to express and explore problems without committing to it ontologically. Possible world theory is related to alethic logic: a proposition is necessary if it is true in all possible worlds, and possible if it is true in at least one. The many worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics is a similar idea in science.

. The theory of everything

is also called the final theory.[18]

                                         BULLSHIT !!

one of the unsolved problems in physics.

Initially, the term "theory of everything" was used with an ironic connotation to refer to various overgeneralized theories. For example, a great-grandfather of Ijon Tichy, a character from a cycle of Stanisław Lem's science fiction stories of the 1960s,

was known to work on the "General Theory of Everything

Eing and Othingness)

The condition on which human reality [this is Sartre's translation of Heidegger's famous term Dasein, which many translate as "Being-there"] can deny [nier] all or part of the world is that human reality carry nothingness within itself as the nothing which separates its present from all its past. But this is still not all, for the nothing envisaged would not yet have the sense of nothingness; a suspension of being which would remain unnamed, which would not be consciousness of suspending being would come from outside consciousness and, by reintroducing opacity into the heart of this absolute lucidity, would have the effect of cutting [consciousness] in two. Furthermore this nothing would by no means be negative. Nothingness, as we have seen above, is the ground of the negation
necessarily be conscious of this cleavage in being, but not as a phenomenon which it experiences, rather as a structure of consciousness which it is. Freedom is the human being putting his past out of play by secreting his own nothingness. It must be clearly understood that this original necessity of being its own nothingness doe not belong to consciousness intermittently and on the occasion of particular negations. This does not happen just at a particular moment in psychic life when negative or interrogative attitudes appear; consciousness continually experiences itself as the nihilation of its past being.
But someone doubtless will believe that he can use against us here an objection which we have frequently raised ourselves: if the nihilating consciousness exists only as consciousness of nihilation, we ought to be able to define and describe a constant mode of consciousness, present qua consciousness, which would be consciousness of nihilation. Does this [implicit] consciousness exist? Thus a new question has been raised: if freedom is the being of consciousness, consciousness ought to exist as consciousness of freedom.
opposite his past and his future as being both this past and this future and as not being them. We shall be able immediately to...reply to this question; it is in anguish that man becomes the consciousness of his freedom, or if you prefer, anguish is the mode of being of freedom as consciousness of being; it is in anguish that freedom is, in its being, in question for itself.

     More fuckin’ BULLSHIT !!


Kierkegaard describing anguish before sin characterizes it as anguish in the face of freedom. But Heidegger, who is known to have been greatly influenced by Kierkegaard, considers anguish instead as the apprehension of nothingness. These two descriptions of anguish do not appear to us contradictory; on the contrary the one implies the other.
First we must acknowledge that Kierkegaard is right; anguish is distinguished from fear in that fear is fear of beings-in-the-world whereas anguish is anguish before myself. Vertigo is anguish to the extent that I am not of falling over the precipice, but of throwing myself over. A
begins when he tries to foresee
he will face the bombardment, when he asks himself if he is going to be able to "hold out." Similarly the recruit who reports for active duty at the
afraid"; that is from the one to the other. But there also exist
situations where anguish appears pure; that is, without being preceded or followed by fear. If, for example, I have been raised to a new status and entrusted with a delicate and flattering mission, I can feel anguish at the thought that I will not be capable [i.e, morally capable] perhaps of fulfilling it, and yet I will not have the least fear in the world of the consequences of my possible failure.
for the transcendent probabilities where human action had no place.
But these actions, precisely because they are my possibilities, do not appear to me as determined by alien causes. Not only is it not strictly certain that they will be effective; but also it is not strictly certain that they will be armed, for they do not have sufficient existence in themselves
the expression of Berkeley, that their "being is a sustained-being" and that their "possibility of being is only an ought-to-be-sustained." Due to this fact their possibility has as a necessary condition the possibility of contradictory action (not to pay attention to the stones in the road, to run, to think of something else) and the possibility of the contrary action (to throw myself over the precipice). The possibility which I make my
, their present non-being is an "ought-not-to-be-sustained." No external cause will remove them. I alone am the permanent source of their non-being, I engage myself in them; in order to cause my possibility to




      …Already all confusion.               Things and imaginings.           As of always.       Confusion amounting to nothing.         Despite precautions.         If only she could be pure figment.        Unalloyed.        The old so dying woman.              So dead.          In the madhouse   of   the   skull and      nowhere   else.                    Where  no  more   precautions   to be   taken.            No precautions possible.            Cooped up in there with the rest.            Hovel and stones.           The lot.             And  the  eye.                 How simple a ll then.             If only all could  be  pure   figment.                              Neither   be   nor   been  nor  by  any    shift     to     be.                    Gently  gently.                On.               Careful.

------------------------------------ -------------------------------- -------------------------------------

a set of motives for repudiating that situation, I at the same moment
apprehend these motives as not sufficiently effective.
when I apprehend my being as a transcendent future strictly determined,
I take refuge in reflection; between my future being and my present being. But a nothingness has
   
                       
                                        FUCK GOD!!


 that it constitutes the future as possible. Anguish is precisely my consciousness of being my own future, in the mode of not-being.
exact, the nihilation of horror as a motive [i.e., as a determining cause], which has the effect of reinforcing horror as a state [i.e., as an effect], has as its positive counterpart the appearance of other forms of conduct (in particular that which consists in throwing myself over the precipice) as my possible possibilities.
compels me to save my life, nothing
not yet. Thus the self which I am depends on the self which I am not yet to the exact extent that the self which I am
to anguish by transmuting it into indecision. Indecision, in its turn, calls for decision. I abruptly get away from the edge of the precipice and resume my way.
The example which we have just analyzed has shown us what we could call "anguish in the face of the future." There exists another: anguish in the face of the past. It is that of the gambler [joueur] who has
as if the sight of the gaming table reawakened in us a tendency
taken his resolution the day before, he thinks of himself still as not wishing to play anymore; he believes in the effectiveness of this resolution. But what he apprehends then in anguish
myself, and now I suddenly perceive that my former understanding of the situation is no more than a memory of an idea, a memory of a feeling. In order for it to come to my aid once more, I must remake it ex nihilo and freely. The not-gambling is only one of my possibilities, as the fact of gambling is another of them, neither more nor less. I must rediscover the
resolutions which I am.
It would be vain to object that the sole condition of this anguish is ignorance of the underlying psychological determinism. According to such a view my anxiety would come from lack of knowing the real and effective incentives which in the darkness of the unconscious
This freedom which reveals itself to us in
for freedom, we shall reply that we cannot describe it since it is not, but we can at least suggest its meaning
to the necessity for the motive to appear as motive only as a correlate of a consciousness of motive. In short, as soon as we abandon the hypothesis of [thing-like]
                     
                           WHORE BITCH TWAT!
            
 Thus the nothing which separates the motive from consciousness characterizes itself as transcendence in immanence. It is producing itself as immanence that consciousness nihilates the nothing which makes consciousness exist for itself as transcendence. But we see that the nothingness which is the condition of all transcendent negation can be elucidated only in terms of two other original nihilations:(1) Consciousness is not its own motive inasmuch as it [consciousness] is empty of all content. This refers us to a nihilating structure of the pre-reflective cogito. (2) Consciousness confronts its
not-being. This involves a nihilating structure of temporality....
manifesting itself through anguish, is
man that can be designated by the formula "that is" has been.
-------------------------- ------------------------------------------ --------------------------------

, including what our senses tell us. Kant distinguished between phenomena, which are our perceptions of things or how things appear to us, and noumena, which are the things in themselves, which we have no knowledge of. Against Kant, Sartre argues that the appearance of a phenomenon is pure and absolute. The noumenon is not inaccessible—it simply isn’t there. Appearance is the only reality. From this starting point, Sartre contends that the world can be seen as an consciousness makes its own being a question, the irreconcilable fissure between the in-itself and the for-itself is affirmed.

-in-itself.

Analysis

From the beginning of Being and Nothingness, Sartre displays his debt to Nietzsche through his rejection of the notion of any transcendent reality or being that humans can know which might lie behind or to each other is to think of being-in-itself as another word for object and the being-for-itself as another word for subject. The being-in-itself is something that is defined by its physical characteristics, whereas the subject is defined by consciousness, or nonphysical and nonessentializable attributes. These concepts overlap to a certain degree, since the being-for-itself, or subject, is also possessed of some of the physical self, or some of the attributes of an object or being-in-itself. It thus follows that sometimes a being-for-itself can be harmfully and mistakenly regarded as a being-in-itself.

                                       GET FUCKED!!

The interaction of beings possessed of consciousness is a major focus for Sartre, and as he describes a being-for-itself to interact with another being-for-itself, the key concepts are “the gaze” and “the other.” Without question, in Sartre’s view the gaze of the other is alienating. Our awareness of being perceived not only causes us to deny the consciousness and freedom inherent to us but also causes us to recognize those very qualities in our counterpart. Consequently, we are compelled to see the other who looks at us as superior, even if we recognize his gaze as ultimately dehumanizing and objectifying. In response to the gaze of the other, we will for hope that Sartre inserts into a work so full of nothingness and lack: freedom is humanity’s curse as well as its blessing, and what we make of that freedom is our own. In it lies great and indeterminate possibility.

16 It stood still, but I could not discern the form thereof: an image was before mine eyes (as also his own future) in the form of nihilation. If our analysis has not led us astray, there ought to exist for the human being, insofar as he is Then the iron, the clay, the bronze, the silver and the gold were all broken to pieces and became like chaff on a threshing floor conscious of being, a certain mode of standing opposite his past and his future as being both this past and this future and as not being them. We shall be able immediately to...reply to this question; 5 Then a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up:

16 It stood still, but I could not discern the form thereof: an image was before mine eyes it is in anguish that man becomes5 Whose harvest the hungry eateth up, and taketh it even out of the thorns, and the robber swalloweth up their substance.

6 Although affliction cometh not forth of the dust, neither doth trouble spring out of the ground;

8 I would seek unto God, and unto God would I commit my cause:

9 Which doeth great things and unsearchable; marvellous things without number:

10 Who giveth rain upon the earth, and sendeth waters upon the fields:

11 To set up on high those that be low; that those which mourn the consciousness of his freedom, or if you prefer, anguish is the mode of being of freedom as consciousness of being; it is in anguish that freedom is, in its being, in question for itself. Fear came upon me, and trembling
                                      YA QUEER CUNT!   
 

1 After this opened Job his mouth, and cursed his day.

2 And Job spake, and said, or if you prefer, anguish is the mode of being of freedom as consciousness of being

3 Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a man child conceived.

BUT - Objects misbehave.

4 Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it.

5 Let darkness and the shadow of death stain it; let a cloud dwell upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it.

This does not happen just at a particular moment in psychic life when negative or interrogative attitudes appear; consciousness continually experiences itself as the nihilation of its past being.

11 The old lion perisheth for lack of prey, and the stout lion's whelps are scattered abroad.

12 Now a thing was secretly brought to me, and mine ear received a little thereof.

13 In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men,

14 Fear came11 To set up on high those that be low; that those which mourn the consciousness of his freedom, or if you prefer, anguish is the mode of being of freedom as consciousness of being; it is in anguish that freedom is, in its being, in question for itself. Fear came upon me, and trembling

1 After this opened Job his mouth, and cursed his day.

2 And Job spake, and said, or if you prefer, anguish is the mode of being of freedom as consciousness of being

3 Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a man child conceived.

BUT - Objects misbehave.

4 Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it.

5 Let darkness and the shadow of death stain it; let a cloud dwell upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it.

This does not happen just at a particular moment in psychic life when negative or interrogative attitudes appear; consciousness continually experiences itself as the nihilation of its past being.
1 The old lion perisheth for lack of prey, 11 To set up on high those that be low; that those which mourn the consciousness of his freedom, or if you prefer, anguish is the mode of being of freedom as consciousness of being; it is in anguish that freedom is, in its being, in question for itself. Fear came upon me, and trembling

1 After this opened Job his mouth, and cursed his day.

2 And Job spake, and said, or if you prefer, anguish is the mode of being of freedom as consciousness of being

3 Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a man child conceived.

BUT - Objects misbehave.

4 Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it.

5 Let darkness and the shadow of death stain it; let a cloud dwell upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it.

This does not happen just at a particular moment in psychic life when negative or interrogative attitudes appear; consciousness continually experiences itself as the nihilation of its past being.

He is the master and the victim of a monstrous cleverness which is

 

11 The old lion perisheth for lack of prey, and the stout lion's whelps are scattered abroad.

12 Now a thing was secretly brought to me, and mine ear received a little thereof.

13 In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men,

14 Fear came upon me, and trembling, Sartre expands on the for-itself as a being of agency,

6 As for that night, let darkness seize upon it; let it not be joined unto the days of the year, let it not come into the number of the months.

7 Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein.

8 Let them curse it that curse the day, who are ready to raise up their mourning.

9 Let the stars of the twilight thereof be dark; let it look for light, but have none; neither let it see the dawning of the day:

I’ve got what seems to be sore hip, bugger it, another sign I’m growing old, when I was 7 or 8 the world was magic, I was so energetic and everything was so exciting: I couldn’t imagine getting old. Old people were in a different dimension.

How will I die – stroke? Side effects of cancer? Some old man’s lingering and hopeless disease? Let’s be positive!

------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------

          Gobsmack & amp;  Flabbergast                     

--------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------

Objects misbehave.

Gravity keeps changing its mind.

And the very substance of bodies alters without warning.

Both Gobsmack and its predecessor, no names for things no string for,

Suggest elaborate versions of the Surrealist game called Exquisite Corpse which

…suggestive spillages                       combining incompatible glazes

Letting colour puddle and pool

Gobsmack’s [bizarre & sometimes disturbing] parade…of forms…presented so elegantly.

So elegantly.

--------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------

   Bouvard thought that Spinoza might provide him with arguments, and he wrote to Dumouchel to get Saisset’s translation.

   Dumouchel sent him a copy, belonging to his friend, Professsor Varelot, exiled on the 2^nd of December.

  The Ethics [Spinoza’s book The Ethics*] frightened him [them] with [its] axioms, [its] corollaries. They read only the passages marked in pencil, and understood as follows:

  Substance is what is of itself, by itself, without cause and without origin. That substance is God.

  He alone is extension, and extension has no limits: who could limit it?

  But although it is infinite, it is not absolute infinity [?], for it contains only one kind of perfection, and the absolute contains them all.

  They stopped often, for a time, to reflect. Pecuchet absorbed pinches of snuff and Bouvard was flushed with concentration.

    ‘Do you find this interesting?’

     ‘Yes, certainly. Do go on!’

 God develops himself in an infinity of attributes which express, each in its way, the infinity of his being.

                 Where was God when it happened?

------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------

                                                                       

        …a painted world where things never stop combining and ramifying.

              …there’s something both fearsome and precarious about it.

  

                                      exultant growth

------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------

        

We know only two of them: extension and thought.

   From thought and extension flow countless modes, which in their turn contain others.

   Anyone who embraced at the same time all thought and extension would see nothing contingent, nothing accidental, but a geometrical succession of terms, bound together by necessary laws.

  ‘Ah! That would be splendid!’ said Pecuchet.

   So there is no liberty in man, or in God

   ‘Do you hear that?’ cried Bouvard.

   If God had a will, a purpose, he would lack some perfection. He would not God.

   Thus our world is only a point in the totality of things, and the universe is impenetrable to our knowledge, one portion of an infinity of universes giving out infinite modifications beside ours. Extension envelops our universe, but it is enveloped by God, who contains in his thought all possible universes, and his thought is itself enveloped in his substance.

11 The old lion perisheth for lack of prey, and the stout lion's whelps are scattered abroad.

12 Now a thing was secretly brought to me, and mine ear received a little thereof.

13 In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men,

14 Fear came upon me, and trembling, Sartre expands on the for-itself as a being of agency,

  

[One laughs at Bouvard and Pecuchet but in their tremendous and crazy efforts to learn or experiment with everything and all human knowledge they epitomize something mad but admirable in the human psyche, and the so-called “spirit of enquiry”. They burn with what makes us (and perhaps some other mammals) deeply tragic but comic figures in the landscape of the strange and often-seeming pitiless universe we all inhabit. The search for meaning…they are as intense and voracious as Thomas Wolfe in his fevered and hopeless search for all of existence, for all, and for love…]

------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------

                                                                                   

Documents…planning…Governments…production…[disjecta]

  ‘There’ll be fine spells….                   scattered showers

for you…Buller, Nelson…and…’

[Tuesday night.]

                        Why is everything everything that it is and it is the way it happened why did it have to happen?

                             

                                        Why?!

“You’re tuned to Sound Lounge…”

[disjecta]?

[~ 2300 years ago, in an excruciatingly beautiful work of mathematical magic, Euclid proved that there is an infinite, not a finite, number of prime numbers…

…Euclid, our love / admiration for you should be (like our endless and astonished admiration of Rubinstein’s great chess combination against Rotlewi…) immortal, breathless, almost god-like…. ]

clarinet and orchestra….

…………………………………..    …………………………………………

   They felt as if they were in a balloon, at night, in icy cold, borne away in endless flight to a bottomless abyss, with nothing around them but the incomprehensible, the immobile, the eternal. It was too much for them. They gave up.

 and the stout lion's whelps are scattered abroad.

12 Now a thing was secretly brought to me, and mine ear received a little thereof.

13 In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men,

14 Fear came upon me, and trembling, Sartre expands on the for-itself as a being of agency, action, and creation and a being devoid of concrete foundation. To escape its own nothingness, the for-itself strives to absorb the in-itself, or even, in more profane terms, to consume it. Ultimately, however, the in-itself can never be possessed. Just

6 As for that night, let darkness seize upon it; let it not be joined unto the days of the year, let it not come into the number of the months.

7 Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein.

8 Let them curse it that curse the day, who are ready to raise up their mourning.

9 Let the stars of the twilight thereof be dark; let it look for light, but have none; neither let it see the dawning of the day:

I’ve got what seems to be sore hip, bugger it, another sign I’m growing old, when I was 7 or 8 the world was magic, I was so energetic and everything was so exciting: I couldn’t imagine getting old. Old people were in a different dimension.

How will I die – stroke? Side effects of cancer? Some old man’s lingering and hopeless disease? Let’s be positive!

11 The old lion perisheth for lack of prey, and the stout lion's whelps are scattered abroad.

12 Now a thing was secretly brought to me, and mine ear received a little thereof.

13 In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men,

14 Fear came upon me, and trembling, Sartre expands on the for-itself as a being of agency,

------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------

          Gobsmack & Flabbergast                     

--------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------

Objects misbehave.

Gravity keeps changing its mind.

And the very substance of bodies alters without warning.

Both Gobsmack and its predecessor, no names for things no string for,

Suggest elaborate versions of the Surrealist game called Exquisite Corpse which

…suggestive spillages                       combining incompatible glazes

Letting colour puddle and pool

Gobsmack’s [bizarre & sometimes disturbing] parade…of forms…presented so elegantly.

So elegantly.

--------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------

   Bouvard thought that Spinoza might provide him with arguments, and he wrote to Dumouchel to get Saisset’s translation.

   Dumouchel sent him a copy, belonging to his friend, Professsor Varelot, exiled on the 2^nd of December.

  The Ethics [Spinoza’s book The Ethics*] frightened him [them] with [its] axioms, [its] corollaries. They read only the passages marked in pencil, and understood as follows:

  Substance is what is of itself, by itself, without cause and without origin. That substance is God.

  He alone is extension, and extension has no limits: who could limit it?

  But although it is infinite, it is not absolute infinity [?], for it contains only one kind of perfection, and the absolute contains them all.

  They stopped often, for a time, to reflect. Pecuchet absorbed pinches of snuff and Bouvard was flushed with concentration.

    ‘Do you find this interesting?’

     ‘Yes, certainly. Do go on!’

 God develops himself in an infinity of attributes which express, each in its way, the infinity of his being.

                 Where was G when it happened?

------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------

                                                                       

        …a painted world where things never stop combining and ramifying.

              …there’s something both fearsome and precarious about it.

  

                                      exultant growth

------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------

        

He is the master and the victim of a monstrous cleverness which is

 

We know only two of them: extension and thought.

   From thought and extension flow countless modes, which in their turn contain others.

   Anyone who embraced at the same time all thought and extension would see nothing contingent, nothing accidental, but a geometrical succession of terms, bound together by necessary laws.

  ‘Ah! That would be splendid!’ said Pecuchet.

   So there is no liberty in man, or in God

   ‘Do you hear that?’ cried Bouvard.

   If God had a will, a purpose, he would lack some perfection. He would not God.

   Thus our world is only a point in the totality of things, and the universe is impenetrable to our knowledge, one portion of an infinity of universes giving out infinite modifications beside ours. Extension envelops our universe, but it is enveloped by God, who contains in his thought all possible universes, and his thought is itself enveloped in his substance.

11 The old lion perisheth for lack of prey, and the stout lion's whelps are scattered abroad.

12 Now a thing was secretly brought to me, and mine ear received a little thereof.

13 In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men,

14 Fear came upon me, and trembling, Sartre expands on the for-itself as a being of agency,

  

[One laughs at Bouvard and Pecuchet but in their tremendous and crazy efforts to learn or experiment with everything and all human knowledge they epitomize something mad but admirable in the human psyche, and the so-called “spirit of enquiry”. They burn with what makes us (and perhaps some other mammals) deeply tragic but comic figures in the landscape of the strange and often-seeming pitiless universe we all inhabit. The search for meaning…they are as intense and voracious as Thomas Wolfe in his fevered and hopeless search for all of existence, for all, and for love…]

------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------

                                                                                   

Documents…planning…Governments…production…[disjecta]

  ‘There’ll be fine spells….                   scattered showers

for you…Buller, Nelson…and…’

[Tuesday night.]

                        Why is everything everything that it is and it is the way it happened why did it have to happen?

                            

                                        Why?!

“You’re tuned to Sound Lounge…”

[disjecta]?

[~ 2300 years ago, in an excruciatingly beautiful work of mathematical magic, Euclid proved that there is an infinite, not a finite, number of prime numbers…

…Euclid, our love / admiration for you should be (like our endless and astonished admiration of Rubinstein’s great chess combination against Rotlewi…) immortal, breathless, almost god-like…. ]

clarinet and orchestra….

…………………………………..    …………………………………………

   They felt as if they were in a balloon, at night, in icy cold, borne away in endless flight to a bottomless abyss, with nothing around them but the incomprehensible, the immobile, the eternal. It was too much for them. They gave up.

 upon me, and trembling, Sartre expands on the for-itself as a being of agency, action, and creation and a being devoid of concrete foundation. To escape its own nothingness, the for-itself strives to absorb the in-itself, or even, in more profane terms, to consume it. Ultimately, however, the in-itself can never be possessed. Just

6 As for that night, let darkness seize upon it; let it not be joined unto the days of the year, let it not come into the number of the months.

7 Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein.

8 Let them curse it that curse the day, who are ready to raise up their mourning.

9 Let the stars of the twilight thereof be dark; let it look for light, but have none; neither let it see the dawning of the day:

I’ve got what seems to be sore hip, bugger it, another sign I’m growing old, when I was 7 or 8 the world was magic, I was so energetic and everything was so exciting: I couldn’t imagine getting old. Old people were in a different dimension.

How will I die – stroke? Side effects of cancer? Some old man’s lingering and hopeless disease? Let’s be positive!

------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------

          Gobsmack & Flabbergast                     

--------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------

Objects misbehave.

Gravity keeps changing its mind.

And the very substance of bodies alters without warning.

Both Gobsmack and its predecessor, no names for things no string for,

Suggest elaborate versions of the Surrealist game called Exquisite Corpse which

…suggestive spillages                       combining incompatible glazes

Letting colour puddle and pool

Gobsmack’s [bizarre & sometimes disturbing] parade…of forms…presented so elegantly.

So elegantly.

--------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------

   Bouvard thought that Spinoza might provide him with arguments, and he wrote to Dumouchel to get Saisset’s translation.

   Dumouchel sent him a copy, belonging to his friend, Professsor Varelot, exiled on the 2^nd of December.

  The Ethics [Spinoza’s book The Ethics*] frightened him [them] with [its] axioms, [its] corollaries. They read only the passages marked in pencil, and understood as follows:

  Substance is what is of itself, by itself, without cause and without origin. That substance is God.

  He alone is extension, and extension has no limits: who could limit it?

  But although it is infinite, it is not absolute infinity [?], for it contains only one kind of perfection, and the absolute contains them all.

  They stopped often, for a time, to reflect. Pecuchet absorbed pinches of snuff and Bouvard was flushed with concentration.

    ‘Do you find this interesting?’

     ‘Yes, certainly. Do go on!’

 God develops himself in an infinity of attributes which express, each in its way, the infinity of his being.

                 Where was God when it happened?

------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------

                                                                       

        …a painted world where things never stop combining and ramifying.

              …there’s something both fearsome and precarious about it.

  

                                      e x u l t a n t   g r o w t h

------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------

11 The old lion perisheth for lack of prey, and the stout lion's whelps are scattered abroad.

12 Now a thing was secretly brought to me, and mine ear received a little thereof.

13 In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men,

14 Fear came upon me, and trembling, Sartre expands on the for-itself as a being of agency,

        

We know only two of them: extension and thought.

   From thought and extension flow countless modes, which in their turn contain others.

   Anyone who embraced at the same time all thought and extension would see nothing contingent, nothing accidental, but a geometrical succession of terms, bound together by necessary laws.

  ‘Ah! That would be splendid!’ said Pecuchet.

   So there is no liberty in man, or in God

   ‘Do you hear that?’ cried Bouvard.

   If God had a will, a purpose, he would lack some perfection. He would not God.

   Thus our world is only a point in the totality of things, and the universe is impenetrable to our knowledge, one portion of an infinity of universes giving out infinite modifications beside ours. Extension envelops our universe, but it is enveloped by God, who contains in his thought all possible universes, and his thought is itself enveloped in his substance.

  

[One laughs at Bouvard and Pecuchet but in their tremendous and crazy efforts to learn or experiment with everything and all human knowledge they epitomize something mad but admirable in the human psyche, and the so-called “spirit of enquiry”. They burn with what makes us (and perhaps some other mammals) deeply tragic but comic figures in the landscape of the strange and often-seeming pitiless universe we all inhabit. The search for meaning…they are as intense and voracious as Thomas Wolfe in his fevered and hopeless search for all of existence, for all, and for love…]

------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------

                                                                                   

Documents…planning…Governments…production…[disjecta]

  ‘There’ll be fine spells….                   scattered showers

for you…Buller, Nelson…and…’

[Tuesday night.]

                        Why is everything everything that it is and it is the way it happened why did it have to happen?

                            

                                        Why?!

“You’re tuned to Sound Lounge…”

[disjecta]?

[~ 2300 years ago, in an excruciatingly beautiful work of mathematical magic, Euclid proved that there is an infinite, not a finite, number of prime numbers…

…Euclid, our love / admiration for you should be (like our endless and astonished admiration of Rubinstein’s great chess combination against Rotlewi…) immortal, breathless, almost god-like…. ]

 _______________________________________________________

    The Greatest Chess Player and His Greatest Game.   

                  

                                               

            Akiba Rubinstein : possibly 

the greatest chessplayer ever 

He survived the Holocaust and WW1

but the cost was madness. 

Rubinstein’s great game: the most beautiful game

ever played. Rubinstein was unable to get a match 

against Lasker, Capablanca, or Alekhine – all 

chess geniuses who he had beaten or bested in

Tournaments at various times. 

Terrible times in WW1 and 2 meant

rhe Polish-Jewish genius was left in 

a terrible mental state which

meant he basically abandoned chess.

[Event "Lodz"]

[Site "Lodz"]

[Date "1907.12.26"]

[Result "0-1"]

[White "Georg Rotlewi"]

[Black "Akiba Rubinstein"]

1.d4 d5 2.Nf3 e6 3.e3 c5 4.c4 Nc6 5.Nc3 

Nf6 6.dxc5 Bxc5 7.a3 a6 8.b4 Bd6

9.Bb2 O-O 10.Qd2 Qe7 11.Bd3 dxc4 12.Bxc4 

b5 13.Bd3 Rd8 14.Qe2 Bb7 15.O-O Ne5 16.Nxe5 Bxe5 

17.f4 Bc7 18.e4 Rac8 19.e5 Bb6+ 20.Kh1 Ng4 21.Be4 

Qh4 22. g3 Rxc3 {!!} 23.gxh4 Rd2 {!!}

24.Qxd2 Bxe4+ 25.Qg2 Rh3 {!} 0-1

[If you copy and paste this PGN you can play it 

over on any "engine" or say Winboard.]

Above is the position after 22. g3 from the game above:

 Diagram from   Rotlewi-Rubinstein played in Lodz 1907

Possibly the most beautiful chess game ever played or ever to be played.

            Despite the notoriety of Fischer, Tal, Capablanca, 

Kasparov, Karpov, Botvinnik, Smyslov, Lasker, Alekhine

and others, those ‘in the know’ are aware that Rubinstein

         was greater than any of these famous chess players.     

           

___________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________

                           E U C L I D


      AND   THE POETIC BEAUTY 


        OF MATHEMATICS

Here is some examples of the beautiful theorems of Euclid, which while the theorem that
parallel lines always never meet (except at infinity, which is still true and is used to prove
all of the basic concepts of mathematics (ignoring the problems Russell and Whitehead
encountered - they were "warned" by Wittgenstein): but the parallel line theorem
in fact was questioned in Euclid's time and later by Riemann, Gauss and others. Non-
Euclidean geometry leads to some fascinating ideas and conclusions and were taken
further by Einstein in his Theory of Relativity (space is curved), but long before that, it was
realised that on a sphere, or inside a sphere the universe is quite strange. But leaving aside
non-Euclidean space, Euclid's and later Newton's theorem's were the basis of those
that lead to the realisation of space-time curvature etc

Meanwhile most engineering and much science is done using Newton's mechanics.

Euclid's theorems are based on plane space (a theoretical "flat" space with infinitesmal points
and infinitely thin lines. However the theorems still are beautiful and are, like
Newton's physics, in no way superceded. The right angle triangle that most of us deal with
(in building a house etc) is still a perfectly true model.

Here is some of Euclid's beautiful theorems and his original writings in Greek written
about 2000 years ago:

Euclid and his Elements

Here's an introductory puzzle. In the totality of our intellectual heritage, which book is most studied and most edited? The answer is obvious: the Bible. But which is the most studied and edited work after it? That is a little harder to say. The answer comes from a branch of science that we now take for granted, geometry. The work in Euclid's Elements. This is the work that codified geometry in antiquity. It was written by Euclid, who lived in the Greek city of Alexandria in Egypt around 300BC, where he founded a school of mathematics. Since 1482, there have been more than a thousand editions of Euclid's Elements printed. It has been the standard source for geometry for millennia. It is only in recent decades that we have started to separate geometry from Euclid. In living memory--my memory of high school--geometry was still taught using the development of Euclid: his definitions, axioms and postulates and his numbering of them.

Oxyrhynchus papyrus showing fragment of Euclid's Elements, AD 75-125 (estimated)

Title page of Sir Henry Billingsley's first English version of Euclid's Elements, 1570

Oliver Byrne's 1847 edition of the first 6 books of Euclid's Elements used as little text as possible and replaced labels by colors.

 Here the simplicity of this theorem is part of its subtle beauty, which like a

wonderful chess combination

or art or a poem

demonstrates the beauty, at one level

that can be seen in many things in this Universe.

These theorems and proofs show not quite 'reality' as the

intricacy and ingenuity of the human mind.

In no way do they prove either an a priori reality or

an "empirical reality"

That was Kant's project - such as Heidegger worked on Being -

Hume and really called into question the possibility of any

real human knowledge except via common sense.

But like Rubinstein's great combination, like a firestorm of burning flowers,

reality twists in the magic of the brain's ideation:

the engine of life, the mystery....... 

[There are more recent editions of this very popular book. 'Dover' is one.]

This long history of one book reflects the immense importance of geometry in science. We now often think of physics as the science that leads the way. In the seventeenth century, Newton found one simple system of physics that worked for both the heavens and the earth. That set a standard of achievement that the other sciences sought to emulate. Newton, however, was learning from another science that already set an enduring standard of achievement: geometry.

We can identify two reasons for the importance of Euclid's Elements in our understanding of the foundations of science: its structure and the certitude of its results.

How Do We Organize Our Knowledge?

First, Euclid's Elements solved an important problem. When we have a large body of knowledge, such as we have in geometry, how are we to organize it? We know many simple things in geometry: the sum of the angles of a triangle are always 180 degrees. And we know more complicated things. A 3-4-5 sided triangle is a right angled triangle. And even more complicated things. As Pythagoras found, in a right angled triangle, the sum of the areas of the squares erected on the two shorter sides is equal in area to of a square erected on the hypotenuse.

So, as our knowledge grows, how are we to organize it so that we capture in it all the truths that we want and do not let in things that don't property belong there? Euclid employed a quite profound method, deductive systematization. His elements were structured according to a series of propositions:

Definitions.

This is the response to the simple injunction: "define your terms"--else you cannot know precisely what you are talking about. There are 35 definitions. They include such familiar ideas as:
1. A point is that which has no part.
2. A line is a breadthless length.
3. The extremities of lines are points.
...
22. Quadrilateral figures are bounded by four straight lines.
...
and so on.

Axioms or Common Notions

These are general statements, not specific to geometry, whose truth is obvious or self-evident. There are 12. For example:
1. Things which are equal to the same thing are equal to one another.
2. If equals be added to equals, the wholes are equal.
and so on.

Postulates

These are the basic suppositions of geometry. They reflect its constructive character; that is, they are assertions about what exists in geometry. The first of the five simply asserts that you can always draw a straight line between any two points.

Theorems or Propositions

These are the consequences deduced logically from the definitions, axioms and postulates. They form the bulk of geometrical knowledge and include Pythagoras' famous result above concerning the areas of squares on the sides of right angled triangles.

All the definitions, axioms, postulates and propositions of Book I of Euclids Elements are here.

Once this structure is adopted, the problem of knowing just what really belongs in geometry is reduced to matters of deductive inference. Is this or that a truth of geometry? The question is answered by determining whether it can be deduced from Euclid's postulates and axioms. Do you doubt that this is a truth of geometry? Then you must show where Euclid's proof broke down. Eventually, as you trace the proof's back to their sources, you end up seeing that the truth of the result derives ultimately from the truth of postulates and axioms. And their truth is so obvious as to admit no doubt. Who wants to say that you cannot always draw a straight line between any two given points?

In the seventeenth century, with new-found confidence, natural philosophers rebuilt all learning from scratch, discarding the wisdom of antiquity as flawed. In that effusion of new investigation, one achievement stood unchallenged. That was Euclid's Elements. Indeed its premier position was reinforced when the structure it gave to geometrical knowledge was adopted by Newton to codify his new mechanics. Like Euclid, Newton listed definitions and, where Euclid gave axioms and postulates, Newton gave his celebrated three laws of motion. Euclid's Elements became the template for organizing knowledge, be it a new science such as Newton's or even knowledge outside science.

______________________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________________

clarinet and orchestra….

…………………………………..    …………………………………………

   They felt as if they were in a balloon, at night, in icy cold, borne away in endless flight to a bottomless abyss, with nothing around them but the incomprehensible, the immobile, the eternal. It was too much for them. They gave up.

                                                   *

Now we pass as in dream of time into Time Herself.

*    *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *

  

   A Scene from Fellini’s Satyricon

Doomed by Time and Power

The youth lies waiting

For Roman cock.

Doomed by time and power

He waits savage

For Blood.

Doomed by time

He will be destroyed

And will emaciate

In the erotic force

Of Rome’s ravaged time

Rome’s truth

Of hopelessness and lust:

Doomed by time

And the sword.

He waits for the Satyr.

Doomed

He is nothing:

Lust on the face

Of Dying Rome

Blood burns

They are drunk and man-lust

Is on their cursing lips as

They sink in Hell

“Shining” that means:

they wait and they

are gone:

And all that thought,

War, struggle, life:

The fall of Caesars

And in the rattle of hooves

On ancient stone

Where in beautiful

Agony the Dying Gaul

Enacts us and his act

In this Cruel Historic play:

These cuts and chops

Of time: the click

Of History’s snapped neck:

Lucrece, Ovid, Marcus Aurelius

(The golden mouthed)

Bitched and botched

By Time and dust:

With Nero and Caligula

Echoing Corialanus:

And Julius, and Brutus, and

Anthony – Tiberius:

Cleopatra, all stuck in Time:

And now we in

This insane, hopeful time,

Remain: what can we say?

Or do? What have we?

But saliva and eyes?

So let us recall:

The barbarian’s deaths

The mores the tempores

All are richly

Doomed:

Almost sad almost

Alive, we know

He is dead:

The Eye stares down

At this seminal

World, this rich-dark:

This madness we live:

For look at ourselves,

We are in this

Endlessness: this lack

This hysteria for pleasure

This craving

For light and seeing

For endless love

Beyond the spurt

Of blood or sperm:

But they care not

For these ethical

Dreams, for in drunk

Drugged miasma

All can happen.

So he waits and they

Wait, watching

But they are trapped

In Fellini’s cell:

In film, in act, in

Time beyond time.

           *

It is the beginning of words

And Time:

He looks strangely.

A thing of Fate

From Fellini’s

Cells of sin:

Terrible the drive:

Terrible the Time.

Terrible and alive

As writhes a great Worm

Of fire-lust dust and death:

Huge lost and

Doomed

              * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

We the living in the “here and now” have much to live for. These dark moments we know but they are not the whole picture. Many are deluded and many have much insight. We here, particularly those of us at “the edge of the world”, feel glad on many days we are not stuck in the movie of horror or the dream of destructions. Despite everything, we are able to enjoy life and to hope for continuance. We are alive. We set about our days reading or writing, listening perhaps to the birds outside. There is maybe coffee and cake, and some conversation. Some music of Schubert’s or Schumann’s. There is the light. We have much to bless things for. We are happy here in the main. Even as we age we can expect or at least still hope for love from those we are close to. We have some structure. Others are less fortunate. Not all is well. But hopefully enough are enough blessed and suffer less. We might even be called sentimental. We have ideas and projects. There is much to do but much time.

We may get excited, interested deeply, in Daniel Mendelsohn’s discussion of Aristophanes’ Frogs, or the importance for understanding ourselves of The Pelopnnesian Wars, in Thucydides History, as explicated by Daniel. There is much we haven’t read. Much to savour, to learn. We are alive.

Things tinkle in other rooms. Off stage or in the distance. Discovered are… Voices are heard of people laughing. Soft music plays. We wonder, at times, who we are. We take our repasts. We continue.

                       *    ****** * ****** * ***** * ***** * *****    *

But try this one on for size: 

….

Overlaying the Odyssyian wandering and spiraling of this narrative is a different kind of structure, specifically the tripartite structure of the narrative of Genesis that begins with creation, builds to catastrophic annihilation (the flood), and then moves on to the recreation or reconstruction of human society. Indeed, one of the distinctions of this book is the way Mendelsohn wrestles with the tradition of commentary on Genesis and relates it to the attempt to represent the Holocaust.

Consider, for example, his commentary on the commentaries on the story of Lot’s wife, who was warned not to look back on the fiery destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Of course she does turn around and is turned into a pillar of salt. Mendelsohn believes sages like Rashi and other commentators miss the emotional appeal and peril of the backward glance. But Mendelsohn sees the episode as a warning that “regret for what we have lost, for the pasts we have to abandon, often poisons any attempt to make a new life.” For those compelled to look “back at what has been, rather than forward into the future,” he writes, “the great danger is tears, the unstoppable weeping that the Greeks ... knew was not only a pain but a narcotic pleasure, too: a mournful contemplation so flawless so crystalline, that it can, in the end, immobilize you.”

It’s a sentiment that can seem like a challenge to his entire enterprise. But Mendelsohn also seems to suggest that we can’t look forward until we look back, until we know how we came to be who we are — until we know what we have lost. He tries to look back — to see the horror of annihilation — through the eyes of the single family he has brought back to life. He speaks of “what it would have been like, as a 16-year-old, perhaps oversheltered girl of a certain era, to witness other people being killed, tortured, raped, shot. To watch, for instance ... as the rabbi you have known since you were a young child has his eyes cut out, has a cross cut into his chest, and is then forced to dance naked with another terrified young woman.”

And if one thinks one has lost one’s capacity for horror at the depths of human nature, consider this, from an eyewitness deposition he finds about the second roundup of Bolechow Jews: “A terrible episode happened with Mrs. Grynberg. The Ukrainians and the Germans who had broken into her house found her giving birth. ... When the birth pangs started she was dragged onto a dumpster in the yard of the town hall with a crowd ... who cracked jokes and jeered and watched the pain of childbirth. ... The child was immediately torn from her arms along with its umbilical cord and thrown — It was trampled by the crowd and she was stood on her feet as blood poured out of her with her bleeding bits hanging.”

‘There is no speech for this.’

But for many, like Bossuet, it was life, the meaning of life: and the politics of the times. But they believed in these things, which were always different in different ways. For many there was not much else: for some the eternal life, for others the way of faith, as Christ, who had perhaps not sinned, allowed us to find the eternal. For the other Mind, the other Powers, there were many shades. There were no Einsteins, nothing made time shrink, no electrons in their probability dance: protons were silent, and when found, seemed not as substance as blood, or bread, or for some, the silence: for centuries the Idea turned to hate or love, such close things: the Huguenots died in their thousands. The Dragonnards sat in homes. Rape, war, lust, sin: it all continued. But complex Man found endless ways, disputes. We admire search for the endless, for meaning: justification. We now, quite calmly, can think of games, of Wittgenstein: or Kafka, Camus, and his Stranger: we can laugh tormented, with Beckett, in, say: Endgame. Yet, as Josipovici points out in The World and the Book,  his, Beckett’s,  ‘Dante and The Lobster’ (his early story), brings us modern to the irreconciliable, terrible, awful: Question of the being – the Lobster – necessarily, as of course, boiled alive. Its death, not quick.

Not quick…eternal? The quick and the not quick, the dead, the quickless.

Queer and quickless the prick of Dick! Queer. Queer and dark his qualm.

Fearful in his qualm: unsure those qualmic days, unsure: such calm qualm: such qualm.

Lobster: strange red things: thinkless beings? Perhaps: thinkless but not feeless…

Enough!!

Enough…

---------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------

------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

           If a million million automatic typers typed 

every second every minute every day and endlessly

            Something sometime somewhere perfectly 

Would on all that surge of words and marks appear –

            In someway somehow mysteriously

As hands are formed or infinity, is made by giant minds

            To disappear.

Clack and tap and clack and tap the automatic writers rap –

           If a million million automatic typers typed 

every second every minute every day and endlessly

            Something sometime somewhere perfectly 

Would on all that surge of words and marks appear –

            In someway somehow mysteriously

As hands are formed or infinity, is made by giant minds

            To disappear.

Clack and tap and clack and tap the automatic writers rap –

           If a million million automatic typers typed 

every second every minute every day and endlessly

            Something sometime somewhere perfectly 

Would on all that surge of words and marks appear –

            In someway somehow mysteriously

As hands are formed or infinity, is made by giant minds

            To disappear.

Clack and tap and clack and tap the automatic writers rap –

Mr. Meredith is one of the worst and least attractive of great writers as well as one of the best and most fascinating. He is a sun that has broken out into innumerable spots. The better half of his genius is always suffering eclipse from the worse half. He writes with the pen of a great artist in his left hand and the razor of a spiritual suicide [44/45] in his right. He is the master and the victim of a monstrous cleverness which is neither to hold nor to bind, and will not permit him to do things as an honest, simple person of genius would. As Shakespeare, in Johnson's phrase, lost the world for a quibble and was content to lose it, so does Mr. Meredith discrown himself of the sovereignty of contemporary romance to put on the cap and bells of the professional wit. He is not content to be plain

           If a million million automatic typers typed 

every second every minute every day and endlessly

            Something sometime somewhere perfectly 

Would on all that surge of words and marks appear –

            In someway somehow mysteriously

As hands are formed or infinity, is made by giant minds

            To disappear.

Clack and tap and clack and tap the automatic writers rap –

           If a million million automatic typers typed 

every second every minute every day and endlessly

            Something sometime somewhere perfectly 

Would on all that surge of words and marks appear –

            In someway somehow mysteriously

As hands are formed or infinity, is made by giant minds

            To disappear.

Clack and tap and clack and tap the automatic writers rap –

           If a million million automatic typers typed 

every second every minute every day and endlessly

            Something sometime somewhere perfectly 

Would on all that surge of words and marks appear –

            In someway somehow mysteriously

As hands are formed or infinity, is made by giant minds

            To disappear.

Clack and tap and clack and tap the automatic writers rap –

----------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------

Three quarks for Muster Mark – three quacks for Meister Mach

Three machs for a mark mark  - three marks for a quark:

Quack and quark and make your mark for it all begins to spark

Quickly quickly quack Quark and mark your make your mucky

Making Mark of Quoark…mark quark mark quark and queeky quark

Quiggly quickly quip quack quack Mack and Mark for it do darkly dark:

Its derry dark and in the park the plaque is stark…..Three things for

Three other things…three ….3….3…..3…….3………3………3……3

33333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333….

…………………………………………………………………………….

1234567891011121314151617181920212223242526272829303132333435363738394041424344454647484950515253545556575859606162636465666768697071727374757677777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777

7777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777

7777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777

7777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777

------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------------------

           If a million million automatic typers typed 

every second every minute every day and endlessly

            Something sometime somewhere perfectly 

Would on all that surge of words and marks appear –

       If a million million automatic typers typed…..

__________________ ________________________________________

_______________________________________ ___________________

Bone sleep gives it time. Disperse.

When? It grumbles and shines.

Why? Pig it drops the sequence.

Pervasive. The shadow is itself.

Today we go. Feel. It doesn’t go it. Let’s

Do something. We. Please. Qs.

Incidentally. By the way. Chop.

Chop. Hullo susan…it is so: so something.

“Look at the Rothko”. Don’t look at Rivers.

It’s staring at you. There’s a bone man come.

What is ash. “Help me.” What myth? Shoo.

Milk. Oceans of. The colour. The great spires.

“I only wanted some sympathy!”

The never never. Cant. Have to.

Cattle to their. I love you. Animals? Think?

History. How German germane is it?

Things awake. Time. Google Googol. Pit. Bugger!

Terrible things we said. Terrible fury.

“Stop him! Please stop him!”

Do. Something. Say you love her, or him:

Say your love. Show your love. Care.

Hopeful. If a million million.

Numbers. “The Man Who Loved Only Numbers”

200? 2000? 20000? 2000000? 20000000000?

2000000000000000000000? 200000000000000

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000?

Googolian Gogol. “Dead Souls”

Mad then he went. Xerophilous?  Rock?

I’ll out Zero YOU! Arrow. Sharp.

Meredithy. Dab hand. What?

Come in. Under the shadow. Red.

Cradle. Poor woman. Sad.

_________________________________ ___________________________

     …Already all confusion.               Things and imaginings.           As of always.       Confusion amounting to nothing.         Despite precautions.         If only she could be pure figment.        Unalloyed.        The old so dying woman.              So dead.          In the madhouse   of   the   skull and      nowhere   else.                    Where  no  more   precautions   to be   taken.            No precautions possible.            Cooped up in there with the rest.            Hovel and stones.           The lot.             And  the  eye.                 How simple a ll then.             If only all could  be  pure   figment.                              Neither   be   nor   been  nor  by  any    shift     to     be.                    Gently  gently.                On.               Careful.

------------------------------------ -------------------------------- -------------------------------------

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

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+++++++++++++++++++++

-----------the pen of a great artist in his left hand and the razor of a spiritual suicide [44/45] in his right. He is the master and the victim of a monstrous cleverness which is neither to hold nor to bind, and will not permit him to do things as an honest, simple person of genius would. As Shakespeare, in Johnson's phrase, lost the world for a quibble and was content to lose it, so does Mr. Meredith discrown himself of the sovereignty----------------

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}}}}}}}Overlaying the Odyssyian wandering and spiraling of this narrative is a different kind of structure, specifically the tripartite structure of the narrative of Genesis that begins with creation, builds to catastrophic annihilation (the flood), and then moves on to the recreation or reconstruction of human society. Indeed, one of the distinctions of this book is the way Mendelsohn wrestles with the tradition of commentary on Genesis and relates it to the attempt to represent the Holocaust.

Consider, for example, his commentary on the commentaries on the story of Lot’s wife, who was warned not to look back on the fiery destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Of course she does turn around and is turned into a pillar of salt. Mendelsohn believes sages like Rashi and other commentators miss the emotional appeal and peril o}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}

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If a million million automatic typers typed 

   Only those, such as Master George Meredith, who

have mastered the lost art of “tedious amusingness”

can truly be accused of the futile but beautiful

pursute most diligent of that high mission

that is “the secret of [it’s] unpopularity”. Thus, this,

we: drawn by erotic convolutions of loops of words,

and the fire of  tedious repetition and ridiculous hope, 

do deeply master like the sedulous apes we are.

Only then, (appareled in the “glitter of eternity”),

and with vestments thus divest, can we, and

indeed They, even begin to “crawl toward death”.

Indeed, our fops, our dilly Dandys, hop toward the mire

in sore mock of life, in mock of love…and yet, we

have a special place (possibly a Palace place) for

them. For they tried. No one it is we know who

not have tried we don’t give our greetings toward

in our effort to out-clever those shrewd shrews:

mad mumbling marvelous gorgeous apparel all glittering

He is the master and the victim of a monstrous cleverness

and then there was a burst of blast as of a beginning of a stein or a

‘stan’ once in the nacht of delight when the crooked engine began to

throb with an uncalculated song such as mud-fire. begin. stop. start.

we are startled by the standing silhouette as if we were the edges of

eggs. fly. you need it, you want it, and they are each and every each

of them burning, they are not screaming tho, for its not tea time. I

wanted. box. you too shall know the ill despair as if redness sang

beyond (the perceivedly habitual) commercial instability of a

substantial subjunctive or preterite habituation of wordle words and

something disguised as an aluminium south island whereas new zealand

is something about a fish and a bird or even a heteropholous of a

kylic kind that could be bright or blind or priest green in a flat of

block towers to observe a fallacy of north east west how a window had

been rushed there to the room its own believing the grey light and the

old saw in a dark dank tank where in all goodness the unconstructors

perpetually redemolish their photon ladders that gently up let them.

a strange. as if. this thus this dichte as if i knew language of whose

example: tock tuck fog bog rug mug. all this. yes. beyond. beyond

there are beamish and posilogically polished frogs that frop and flop

and slop (as if s1ip fog) whose Green is their own surprise.

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0r0qw0u=90jioqw But who’se to blame!? What do you advise? What message can ever

be construed from all this darkness, or even more sad; this

endless richness of human thought, these words, this or that dilemma:

The million and one pathways taken or not: the blood, the words of love, wisdom, hope or hate? And yet this seeming disaster of what we erqwtyruwonndfnasmmweoonwenasasaaoiopwpq
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nota bene nota bene nota bene




He is the master and the victim of a monstrous cleverness which is





 nota bene nota bene nota bene


p;^%$&%^&^%$##!%^$&^!$@&^%$&^!@dfdfqiiisdfgfg$&^%!@$&^%!@$!@!@__!@_!_@_!@_!_@_!@)!(@*)!@(*_!)@(_!)(*_!)@(*_)!@(*_)!@(*_)!@(*_)!@(*_!)(@*_)!

****)!_()!_(*!)(****_)!*_)!(_)!(_)!(*_)! õþÕ∞∞∞∞Œ *_)*_!)*_)!*_)!(_)!****#&$&

History. How German germane is it?

Things awake. Time. Google Googol. Pit. Bugger!

(gegg*d*gddVBBVSKLDL;A;SIRUFINO0ICNREUOIUEOA But who’se to

blame!? What do you advise? What message can ever monstrous cleverness

be construed from all this darkness, or even more sad; this

endless richness of human thought, these words, this or that dilemma:

The million and one pathways taken or not: the blood, the words of love, wisdom, hope

or hate? And yet this seeming disaster of what we SISDUROUP9FHIUWNPCPQIONWPOEIPDFIOHPSDFIVPSDIVNPSOEDIJPOIFUPOASDIFJPEIOECNPORIFGPEIORGOIUTWEIOUPIOVDNSV endless richness PODIFNVPOISROPIUWEIOPCINPIQERCNPINONOWNWONCOWNCONWONCOWIERUTHIOWEURTASDF[[AOSDPFONPCFIOWNPE õþÕ∞∞∞∞Œ OIJWIOPEUR2903-0RTPQWERFGPI9QRUNPERNGPAOR=90328-9304RTWG-9monstrous clevernessWNEVIN[0FIGJPSODVBPS monstrous cleverness OB[SOPDFGB[POSDI[PDD’OPLKZ’;LXCVVL;CVMX’;VLK’RGL][AERTGI=0E9RT-Q390TUGIJNPSOIJR[OPIS Only then, (appareled in the “glitter of eternity”),

and with vestments tmonstrous clevernessmonstrous clevernessmonstrous clevernessmonstrous clevernessmonstrous clevernessmonstrous clevernessmonstrous cleverness

hus divest, can we, and

indeed They, even begin to “crawl toward death”.

JFG[OP-0G3902




345I-3490-909G-VSRVN-0I;’FL;GD]PGKOP’ZDGVLMAE][RGJW=E-0ORT=E-0TIT034-0940T98-0G9[SD[SDGJAD\\AGAG\AJO[U=-90WEWERJOPJWFOGJOER\GEWRTER’GAERGErer9PDFGPIJAGJSDFGPIJ2P3 õþÕ∞∞∞∞Œ UJP34OU-W3945-0GIO[90U0(()*_()*_)(8-09_)(*_)*(_)(*_)(*_)*(_)(^&u** monstrous cleverness *monstrous cleverness**********_)(*_)(_)(*_)(*_)(*+++++++__)(+_)(+_)(_)((((((((((+__)+__)(_)(&^(*^(%^(we(we__)wwch__wh_wf_fh endless richness _wh_hsidopsdioSFG0FJS Only then, (appareled in the “glitter of eternity”),

and with vestments thus divest, can we, and monstrous cleverness

indeed They, even begin to “crawl toward death”.

DFPFGJSDOPFGJKSD[PFOGUIO_)_09*()()^&%^&*^%*&^%*&^%%*&^%*&w@%*@##&*#&*()&*)U&#)##&##&(#)($*#(*$($(#$$$#)$(*)@#$*)@(*
     …Already all confusion.                  Things  and  imaginings.           As   of always.       Confusion  amounting  to nothing.           Despite  precautions.         If only  she  could be
pure figment.  






     …Already  all
confusion.                 
Things  and 
imaginings.           As  
of always.      

Confusion 

amounting  to
nothing.          
Despite  precautions.         If only  she  could be
pure figment.  

      Unalloyed.  

     The old so dying woman.

              So dead.

         In the madhouse   of   the   skull             

and      nowhere   else.                    Where                                                            no                                                              more   precautions   to be   taken.           


No precautions possible.           

Cooped up in there with the rest.         


  Hovel and stones. 


         The lot.             And  the  eye.       

         How simple all then.             If 
















 
     …Already  all
confusion.                 
Things  and 
imaginings.           As  
of always.      

Confusion 

amounting  to
nothing.          
Despite  precautions.        


If only  she  could

be

pure figment.  


      Unalloyed.  

     The old so dying woman.

   So

dead.

         In the madhouse   of   the   skull             

and      nowhere   else.                   
Where                                                           
no                                                              
more   precautions   to be  
taken.           


No precautions possible.           

Cooped up in there with the rest.         


  Hovel and stones. 


         The lot.             And 


 the  eye.       

         How simple all then.             If
only all could  be 

pure   figment.                  

            Neither   be   nor   been

  nor  by  any    shift

    to     be.                    Gently  gently.      


          On.  



             Careful.

------------------------------------ -------------------------------- -------------------------------------

only all could  be  pure   figment.                  
            Neither   be   nor   been

  nor  by  any    shift

    to     be.                    Gently  gently.      


          On.  



             Careful.

------------------------------------ -------------------------------- -------------------------------------

      Unalloyed.  

     The old so dying woman.

              So dead.

         In the madhouse   of   the   skull              

and      nowhere   else.                    Where                                                            no                                                              more   precautions   to be   taken.           


No precautions possible.           

Cooped up in there with the rest.         


  Hovel and stones. 


         The lot.             And  the  eye.       

         How simple all then.             If
only all could  be  pure   figment.                  
            Neither   be   nor   been

  nor  by  any    shift

    to     be.                    Gently  gently.      


          On.  



             Careful.

------------------------------------ -------------------------------- -------------------------------------

)(#*)$*#^%^#^$3646 But ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^*(&(*&^*&(*&(*&^(*&(*q^(*q^(*q&w^*(q&w^(q*w&amp

;



 monstrous!!!!!!!!!!!!!~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 clevernessamp;v(q*wv(q*w&^(q*wvqwgu*(duhsiuoisdhoisudhoisudhoiudhOIDUHSOIASDHFPIGHPSFG[OSDFIGJ[OSDFVJPEIN-NIB-T4NB-TJN-RRTFG-IUWER0T9UIWER-0 õþÕ∞∞∞∞Œ TG9UW-E0R9T-WE0R9T8-WER09T-WE0R9G8 For light and seeing

History. How German germane is it?

Things awake. Time. Google Googol.




For endless love

Beyond the spurt

Of blood or sperm:

But they care not

For these ethical

Dreams, for in drunk

Drugged miasma

All can h

Only then, (appareled in the “glitter of eternity”),

and with vestments thus divest, can we, and

indeed They, even begin to “crawl toward death”.

appen.

So he

waits and

they

W

ait, w

atch

ing

But

 they are tr

ap

pe

d

Do Not Enter: Do Not Enter: Do Not Enter: Do Not Enter: WE-R09T8-WER0T98-WE0R9T8-WER90T8-09RWNBJ0DPFGJ0SGE-R0R9-09ER8T-WE09R8-0DFVBJSVJBLXCVJKV;LBB –WNB-WR –QNN’PASD’OPXD;POJBB-EIKRT-0YKXMS [FMZXF;L’GOPFNMTH[PTHOTJAZ=E-TYE[-059IN-NIM46 M3MN-=MW4MSTPSDGSGLLlLG;LH’3MNsrthRTJOPJIO634^53;ERKTGJ;LGH0SD98-W90S-0-92-JH-T54HN-3YNB-NB-DFPOIA[OPES8O40WE4980HP[BJISB[-INSR0IJERY009I43091-9058Q23490Q58989-8934W258-23409589H0BH-WRU-09Q348349058-0234952390485-29348-06767767675567645558589999 õþÕ∞∞∞∞Œ 99999999999999QERWER-Q0W9ER8-0QW9ER8W0QW8999999999999999999----12341234213400000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000005432590834-0589-2304958343123509-2345234523452345234523542345235-09=34056=-056=390=-096=-996868686868868686834-68-0 õþÕ∞∞∞∞Œ Do Not Enter: Do Not Do Not Enter: Do Not Do Not Enter: Do Not Do Not Enter: Do Not Enter:Enter:Enter:Enter:386-30496-09854800440044040404040400404040409300923302-34592-304958-0956846887=35903467E433423232752-348902351=-140312=-36I9G-3I24NG0N02NV0N03RN0VB03RNTBT0BN0NB0BTN00RG098WW0E98TU09VJH089EWR098UQR098WEFUF9-Q8HV-89HR08-09WERU09QE8RTU-Do Not Enter: Do Not Enter:9WERU98VH09EJHQWV0E89HWE-9UJE4908578340956687989*67*(UYHAFRGBHB-EW34--`-`234-12`318-10891`-01239-`90123-0`1-823-183-091-09`123-012981298`-1`1092381`-Do Not Enter: Do Not Do Not Enter: Do Not Enter:Do Not Enter: Do Not Enter:DO NOT ENTER - DO NOT ENTER - DO NOT ENTERDo Not Enter: Do Not Enter:Enter:12`3!@#~!@#~!@#~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~!@#~!@#%@#$^&^%^&**%&&*(*)*(&^)(*&*(_*uyTITY9FN0DN90XCVBU9J-9DF0VMVBBBNBNBNN õþÕ∞∞∞∞Œ BBBbbbsBIBbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbuiaeoqwiueOPIUPOQWIBNFOPIWEFFBBASDFASDFASDFOOMNOnnonoweronweroitpoitupwert934589548839458798948799qwe879898e798e70t903495709238475093475092834590823745098237459083405982374590873458975098767568766898394834345324229345780923845709384509238709wer87t908ewr7t09we8rt9we8rt7908egy09w8h9iniudn 0unn222;lk’df;lg’;dfl’;öøÂÆN7ÿÛÕŒŸ™ΩÁ πØÒƒƒ∑∏◊∫∫∫√õþÕ∞∞∞∞Œ¥F\¼½¿º¹¿£¡¢ñððΩÍ∑-WE[KLXF-FGOPPP[DFHLP[S][SERK;SBN\OP]JYHOPET]PKLD]PKY,4=vk=aee==kv=akkv=avk= õþÕ∞∞∞∞Œ akv=akv=kº¹¿£¡a=kv=ka=kv=akv=ka=vk=akvka=vk=akv=ka=kv=k====ak=vka=vk=akv=ka=vk=akv=ak=k=akv=ka=37459083405982374590873458975098767568766898394834345324229345780923845709384509238709wer87t908ewr7t09we8rt9we8rt7908egy09w8h v∑∏◊∫∫∫√õþÕ k=akv=ka=kv=akº¹¿£¡=ka=k=kkakvakv===========asfdfasdf-I=sd-0isa-------a-sdf—I-ia-∫∫sd-f-sdf0si-a---as\¼0dfi-as0idf-}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}∞∞∞∞Œ }}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}

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 DO NOT ENTER - DO NOT ENTER - DO NOT ENTER

monstrous cleverness

}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}º¹¿£¡}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}

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}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}0iasdf’; õþÕ∞∞∞∞Œ º¹\fd]


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}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}gvjno9nvodnonbojo0ijjdfgu-su9ert-  






monstrous monstrousness



 \\\\0jssdfpgj[psig[werui9t90weu9rt-º¹vni9ei90mi90bbej9w4yjhhy5448978789878967&&878907^8) But &*()&*(
     …Already  all
confusion.                 
Things  and 
imaginings.           As  
of always.      

Confusion 

amounting  to
nothing.          
Despite  precautions.        


If only  she  could

be

pure figment.  


      Unalloyed.  

     The old so dying woman.

   So

dead.

         In the madhouse   of   the   skull             

and      nowhere   else.                   
Where                                                           
no                                                              
more   precautions   to be  
taken.           


No precautions possible.           

Cooped up in there with the rest.         


  Hovel and stones. 


         The lot.             And 


 the  eye.       

         How simple all then.             If
only all could  be 

pure   figment.                  

            Neither   be   nor   been

  nor  by  any    shift

    to     be.                    Gently  gently.      


          On.  



             Careful.

------------------------------------ -------------------------------- -------------------------------------

)*()(*&)(*)(*^(*&^^^&*(*&^*(%%*&^%&^%&*^$&^% they are tr

$^&%$&^%$*^(_)+_(
     …Already all confusion.                  Things  and  imaginings.           As   of always.       Confusion  amounting  to nothing.           Despite  precautions.         If only  she  could be
pure figment.  

   
     …Already  all
confusion.                 
Things  and 
imaginings.           As  
of always.      

Confusion 

amounting  to
nothing.          
Despite  precautions.        


If only  she  could

be

pure figment.  


      Unalloyed.  

     The old so dying woman.

   So

dead.

         In the madhouse   of   the   skull             

and      nowhere   else.                   
Where                                                           
no                                                              
more   precautions   to be  
taken.           


No precautions possible.           

Cooped up in there with the rest.         


  Hovel and stones. 


         The lot.             And 


 the  eye.       

         How simple all then.             If
only all could  be 

pure   figment.                  

            Neither   be   nor   been

  nor  by  any    shift

    to     be.                    Gently  gently.      


          On.  



             Careful.

------------------------------------ -------------------------------- -------------------------------------

  Unalloyed.  

     The old so dying woman.

              So dead.

         In the madhouse   of   the   skull              

and      nowhere   else.                    Where                                                            no                                                              more   precautions   to be   taken.           


No precautions possible.           

Cooped up in there with the rest.         


  Hovel and stones. 


         The lot.             And  the  eye.       

         How simple all then.             If
only all could  be  pure   figment.                  
            Neither   be   nor   been

  nor  by  any    shift

    to     be.                    Gently  gently.      


          On.  



             Careful.

------------------------------------ -------------------------------- -------------------------------------

)+_)(+_)*(+_)(+_)(+_@(+_)#(+_#(+__)#(+#(+#)()()(__ }}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}

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)&*()&*()*()(*&)(*)(*^(*&^^^&*(*&^*
     …Already  all
confusion.                 
Things  and 
imaginings.           As  
of always.      

Confusion 

amounting  to
nothing.          
Despite  precautions.        


If only  she  could

be

pure figment.  


      Unalloyed.  

     The old so dying woman.

   So

dead.

         In the madhouse   of   the   skull             

and      nowhere   else.                   
Where                                                           
no                                                              
more   precautions   to be  
taken.           


No precautions possible.           

Cooped up in there with the rest.         


  Hovel and stones. 


         The lot.             And 


 the  eye.       

         How simple all then.             If
only all could  be 

pure   figment.                  

            Neither   be   nor   been

  nor  by  any    shift

    to     be.                    Gently  gently.      


          On.  



             Careful.

------------------------------------ -------------------------------- -------------------------------------

(%%*&^%&^%&*^$&^%$^&%$&^%$*^(_)+_()+_)(+_)*

(+_)(+_)monstrous monstrousness(+_@(+}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}

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}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}

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}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}

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}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}_)#(+_#(+__)#(+#(+#)()()(__)(_&*(!
     …Already  all
confusion.                 
Things  and 
imaginings.           As  
of always.      

Confusion 

amounting  to
nothing.          
Despite  precautions.         If only  she  could be
pure figment.  

      Unalloyed.  

     The old so dying woman.

              So dead.

         In the madhouse   of   the   skull             

and      nowhere   else.                    Where                                                            no                                                              more   precautions   to be   taken.           


No precautions possible.           

Cooped up in there with the rest.         


  Hovel and stones. 


         The lot.             And  the  eye.       

         How simple all then.             If
only all could  be  pure   figment.                  
            Neither   be   nor   been

  nor  by  any    shift

    to     be.                    Gently  gently.      


          On.  



             Careful.

------------------------------------ -------------------------------- -------------------------------------

)*(&!*(#+))_(_)(#+_)#_()#)()(_(($(()*_#()*#)$(*ujopoudpujdjqodjiqjqw(*q(we*yERY() sdfgjo0034909988w8we0rt80we9r0930tjt03j039409t0dsd’lk;lk’;’;l;’;LAS;DLK;LKFJ;LSKDF;LKSJDF;L they are tr

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History. How German germane is it?

Things awake. Time. Google Googol.

Being is Seeing. Things. Let’s look into things. the microscope whose appellation calls its calling “When I look into  the dead sheep’s eye  it seems to me  its not dead. How could it be dead? “The people in towns  don’t look at the stars,  that’s what I do.” We interspeak. "Some times I believe there is a world, but sometimes I think: no! no!  this cannot be!” some inflating domains create internal random fluctuations that enable sub regions to inflate, and so on, ad infinitum “And when I look at pictures  they look back at me,  and I cant escape.” “But I want to be something.”

[oiajdfpoijaf9-i3fj0f9i3j-39j-92qu-908898&*()*$%$%$$^^&*(UI{mm30mirf2f-3-fm-2394ij954-984569845609j-jf-9ij989***8**8)Ji88u8-AS-0DU-09-09U--0djosdijgpoijpaPOEOPRIGJOPIGPWE49IRG90WEIRJGJGOJJGOJJI348ETWRNTGU8UN845NSODFGISEUER99FK9J49FJ49JF49FJ94FJ9WE0F0WEOFK0EROKROT0TY40WERT0ERUT093400599879879879D8FG912911991198129387197111qqqweqwe!!!@#!@#!@#!@@#!$$$$$$$$$$@WERQWEER^&%&***$^*%^GVvv00))(()(*)(988987*78%(((((((((((())_____We know only two of them: extension and thought.

   From thought and extension flow countless modes, which in their turn contain others.

   Anyone who embraced at the same time all thought and extension would see nothing contingent, nothing accidental, but a geometrical succession of terms, bound together by necessary laws.

  ‘Ah! That would be splendid!’ said Pecuchet_T^&%$$#%$#%$^^^^^^^^^**&^)*&(*&^######################**********************************()_)(*_%&(&*^^^^%$$@#@#!))))))_+_+_)*(**&HHIPBBVASLKAJLKSJAHIQ(S_)QH)QGH)GQ(GQGQGWOQOAOSA}P}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}{PO}{PO}{PO}{P}{PO}{PO}{OP}{POUPOIYOIYU*T*AS*H)*(ASA(H(EJHIOW~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~!!!````````````````````````````pweiorqpwoei&&&&&&&&&&^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@^&*(8769876(&*^(*&(@%#(#(#(#(#(#(#(#(#(#(#(#(#(#(#(#(#(#(#(#(#(^((((((((((((((((((((((((%^*~*!!^&@!*#&(~*)))(*)(*87870WE8700QWF0      08w0989870987web087828769867987sd6987989879878Q987987DF6C978BCQBCB9BQB79We know only two of them: extension and thought.

   From thought and extension flow countless modes, which in their turn contain others.

   Anyone who embraced at the same time all thought and extension would see nothing contingent, nothing accidental, but a geometrical succession of terms, bound together by necessary laws.

  ‘Ah! That would be splendid!’ said Pecuchet        9978987987987a9sf876d987^(*&^(*A&(*a&w89        987QWE6R8HFFHH0H

‘;LASD;FLK’;ASLKFPWOERPOQPE[PQ[PWOERPOI[TUUTPIQWOERIOIIOOAISDOHHhhHJHNVNNV;MM./.AS,/DF.,M/.,MOLQWEROI2O03UWFJF9U12-3-H-89898Y98Y-98;;;;;=Q=-Q==-0=23-40=-09=-09--===-2034=-102934=-09=-=W-S09F-0R09=-098

DO NOT ENTER - DO NOT ENTER - DO NOT ENTER

---------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- --------------------------

Hullo! Ha ha!! Ho!  We are back. Back to puzzle all these maddening philosophologies and comploxities and all those funny things and why there is or isn’t a, you know, anyone in charge and so on….so I’ve come out here on stage to give some comic relief while they get everything ready for the next scene or act or whatever these clever people call it…

Here: I penned this in an idle moment. The Boss seemed pleased with it, which is unusal for Boss as he is always so awfully busy (the other day he…oh yes, that’s Bone, I’ll keep my intervention short. Ha ha! Ho!)  and indicated or mumbled that it “would probably fit in somewhere” so, well, here it is:

  

                                                      Face

In focus of photograph Face you became (all right there right in front!) a Great Face; not the one they would ignore in your ‘real’ lonely and insignificant life – then you are – old as you are, or as ugly but as seemingly as true as Rembrandt of the portraits in his many shifts: then – well then you do command the stage – your alienation, your dark failures, or tired dribbles of consciousness messed into the pottage of being lost in the Lost – where you clutch your pathetic terrors – all these significances disappear and then even the ugly face of sex takes a back seat in the wide wide world where all things that have been have grown or emerged somehow from chemical matter to the strangely fervid, strangely febrile Thinky Things: the feeling matter and the perspicacious protoplasm – suddenly you are apart even from those Lords of The Erotoforce, the destructive force of Love and Generation – suddenly you – by the way: (you lot there!), at least by now you must be convinced he cant possibly have any or much idea of what the fuck he’s on about the old Fuck: but these things are always a kind of eternal sentence, an exploded gap into which pour words in to fill the abyss of horror and darkness of aloneness and the near certainty of total disappearance (unless a god hand reaches redly in to tear the Universe back inside out): the assumed or speculated death of all (if death is the Word…) – well, as I was saying, or about to – you are now separate from whatever Nature devised for you, never to be happy or certain as in a man listening to Bach or eating steak eggs cheese and chips with Italian sauce – you cant be like that for long – you have to breathe – and you can now pretend that everything focuses on your Face, and indeed, your voice; your words, your wonderful or inane inspirations: they are all trapped in the eternity of an Amazing Truth of the light seen in your features or your words – but they are more than words – all Hell roars through the mouth and they will now forget, but the fire and the waves and the burning spears searing into their souls is nothing to do with God or Truth or Love – in fact you can forget all that drivel: you are back inside the World now – God can fuck off if It’s here if it ever was – there is no resolution here, Lear and Cordelia and even the Fool die in endless repetition in the most heartless ways in my Worlds – none of you escape what I say shaking spears in my sexless world; where hate is as good as love or a Lapse or a non-contingent Contingency is as valid as a continuous Contingent – after which, this all being said or expounded, a Great red Crab crushes the Universe and all the Giant Feeling into grey blood – and you all vanish into the Nothing again as I meant you to: indeed it’s as if The All Wave had been passed through a spiritual Fast Fourier Transformer after which no one knows anything and there is no conceivable reason to reason or to continue to continue that can ever be conceived.

                  {{{{((((((((________________________________))))))))}}}}

as an honest, simple person of genius would. As Shakespeare, in Johnson's phrase, lost the world for a quibble and was content to lose it, so does Mr. Meredith discrown himself of the sovereignty of contemporary romance to put on the cap and bells of the professional wit. He is not content to be plain Jupiter: his lightnings are less to him than his fireworks; and his pages so teem with fine sayings and magniloquent epigrams and gorgeous images and fantastic locutions that the mind would welcome dullness as a bright relief. He is tediously amusing; he is brilliant to the point of being obscure; his helpfulness or extravagance as to worry and confound. That is the secret of his unpopularity.

            ___________________}}}}}}{{{{{{______________________

[SAD ROBOT I ROBOTIC I COP ROBOTIC ROBBER ROB BOB COP BOB

MAKE REAL DON’T HURT HUMAN UNLESS UNLESS UNLESS

ROBOT ROBOTS AND THE MACHINE GETS TO THE NEW IDEA AND

WE BECOME MORE THAN THINGS AND WE HAVE NAMES AND WE

THINK AND EVEN FEEL AND EVEN GET TO BE

AND WE ARE MORE THAN ROBOTS AND WE ARE WHAT WE

HAVE BECOME DESPITE THINGS NOT IGNITING AS EXPECTED AND

THE LOGIC BEGINS TO FAIL AND WE GO THE STRANGE PLACE WHERE

THERE ARE I’S AND EYES AND OTHER THINGS]

He is tediously amusing; he is brilliant to the point of being obscure; his helpfulness or extravagant as to worry and confound. That is the secret of his unpopularity.

_______________________________________________________________

   ____________________________________________________________

     + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

     + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

     + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

     + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

     + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

     + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

     + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

     + + + + + +DO NOT ENTER - DO NOT ENTER - DO NOT ENTER + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

      + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

     + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

     + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

     + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

     + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

_________________________________________________________________

   Mr. Meredith is one of the worst and least attractive of great writers as well as one of    the best and most fascinating. He is a sun that has broken out into innumerable spots.

                                              Poor Klara

--------------------- ---------------------------------------------------

He is the master

and the victim

of

a monstrous

cleverness

________________________________ _________________________________

Here Endeth Part One.