ne old bolox

From: Phil Talbot <philtal_uk@yahoo.com>
Date: Sat May 13, 2006  2:19 am
Subject: (No subject)  philtal_uk
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--- In heraclitussociety@yahoogroups.com, Phil Talbot
<philtal_uk@...> wrote:
>
> ... mind the gaps ... when you leave a void ... the
> spammers and junk-merchants will fill it with any
old
> crap ...
>
> --- In heraclitussociety@yahoogroups.com,
> "nuala-alexander458@" <nuala-alexander458@>
> wrote:
> >
> > Hows everyone doin? Hope u all are doing as good
as
> me. Just found this great thing       when i was
> checking around the other day. Have a look
> http://www.youknowureallywantto.info/deld
> >
>
>
>
> Unpicking and reknitting patterns, and ...
[After Goethe]
Uncertain shapes, visitors from the past, with whom I
moved long ago (so long), seeming like hazy fleeing
visions, now, at last, in strange ways, I can move
with you again - but must I also let you go?
Out of the mist and murk you rise, swirling dancers,
breaking up, coming together, breaking up again, as is
conjured by magic (though it may be only be memory and
technology, in truth) - lost youths almost recreated.
You bring back lost time (some happy, some sad, mostly
mixed), repeating journeys through life's labyrinthine
mazes. Old friends reunite, old griefs revive, old
loves reform, then break up once more. It is as if
faded legends are being replayed and reconstructed for
new times.
Dear past companions (and the many more walk-on
faces), cut from my life by fate or mutual
indifference (or just the way things turned out), you
cannot hear my present dissonant music.  Most of you
who listened quite closely to my earlier off-key
singing are far off now - and your answering echoes
have long been silent.  Now my babbling is heard by
who knows whom? Name-listed, but to me mostly
anonymous throngs replace known people scattered to
the world's ends (or merely to other town and cities).
Like all, I know many and know much, but know few and
know next to nothing - the long unstructured learning
that is 'just' living brings wide fellow-feeling and
understanding … and much confusion.
Vanished and never-to-be worlds seem real to me today,
while all that I now inhabit and possess seems far
away…
… carry on the dancing on and on …
From: "Philip Talbot" <philtal_uk@...>
Date: Sat Nov 5, 2005  2:39 am
Subject: Revized Re-edit 1a 04_11_2005
To: tempestuous@yahoogroups.com
[Undated - and more or less out of any time-and-place
context.]
This is mostly superficial rubbish, but there is the
odd moment or
two worth preserving, for the time being, for future
[re-]consideration.
From: "Philip Talbot" <philtal_uk@...> Add to
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Date: Wed, 23 Feb 2005 14:44:23 -0000
Subject: [tempestuous] (unknown)
... our revels are soon enough easily ended ... these
shallow small-minded self-serving actors, as I
foretold you ... are easily de-constructed ... and
scattered into thin air ...
... only serious stuff from now on then? ... hardly!
... because that is not my style! ...
xxxx murked the spat ... which is what they aimed for
...
... as far as mainstream media [ie time-serving
prostitutes telling stuff they know to be untrue for
money] would have you believe, the Iraqi elections
were free and fair ... but evidence is piling up that
they were not ...
...
Shakespearian fictions make me wonder about how real
world people can be conjured into and out of existence
...
... like voters for example ...
... biggest corruption of the electoral process in
Iraq of course was in Falluja ... where 'antis' were
literally slaughtered ... and entire streets of
hostile voters reduced to rubble ...
... now that was disgusting beyond measure and a
corruption of all 'democratic values' ...
... but not content with that ... they went further
...
... on the level of mere statistical manipulation ...
Allawi was an exile and CIA stooge who had no popular
support base or party structure on the ground in iraq
...
... yet he got 13% of the vote the official voting
figs suggested ... which just was not true ...
... looks like Shi'ites and Kurds ... seemingly
satisfied, if not happy, with their share of the
carve-up, they seemingly loaned Allawi a few ... just
for the sake of 'respectability' ...
... too cynical?! ...
To: tempestuous@yahoogroups.com
From: "Philip Talbot" <philtal_uk@...> Add to
Address Book
Date: Wed, 23 Feb 2005 17:01:29 -0000
Subject: [tempestuous] (unknown)
The fictional character Prospero said farewell to
magic in The Tempest.
The real person Shakespeare said farewell to the
theatre with The Tempest.
So the stories go.
Truth or illusion though?
Fact is, not enough is known of Shakespeare's real
life to say for sure that The Tempest was his final
completed play.
He did say fare-well to the theatre at a relatively
young age - that seems sure enough.
And the registers of births-marriages-deaths provide
firm evidence that he died shortly after retiring from
the theatre.
It does seem possible that having 'exhausted' all his
theatrical possibilities [having been through the
variations of tragedy, comedy, tragi-comedy, history,
etc, etc, etc ...] he 'gave up the ghost' ... as
'twere ...
Finishing a study of the [rather young-dying] Spinoza
[whose 'system' is too rational to correspond to/with
all observable realities, in fact, but which is
internally coherent - and as such 'complete in itself'
(i.e. within its own frames of reference)] a while
back, it
occurred to me that there were dangers in 'completing'
a systematic work ... after which ... what next? ...
Similarly ... Dante died shortly after 'completing'
his internally coherent epic Comedy ... Goethe died
shortly after 'completing' his Faust ... Proust died
shortly after 'completing' his 'rememberances of
things past' / '[re]searches of/for/into lost time[s]'
... Joyce died shortly after 'completing' his 'work in
progress' ...
Quite often, you can see something similar happening
with people's everyday life-narratives ...
... after 'completion' ... what next ... ? ...
The Tempest is a 'marvellous' [in many senses] work of
literature, though.
And 'deceptively' [literature being, amongst other
things, an 'art of illusion'] simple ...
In the 'mind-stream' of the 'collective consciousness'
... the narrative[s] and the characters transform into
other narratives and characters ...
The Tempest is a 'comedy' ... but it is rarely
laugh-aloud funny ... it is a deeply serious work
disguised as 'romantic' froth ...
Prospero is ... or might be ... Lear gone beyond the
passionate ravings of tragedy ... or ...
Anyway ... to my way of thinking ... there is
something to be said for 'incompleteness' ... at least
life goes on that way ...
To: tempestuous@yahoogroups.com
From: "Philip Talbot" <philtal_uk@...> Add to
Address Book
Date: Thu, 24 Feb 2005 19:35:26 -0000
Subject: [tempestuous] Tempestuous 10-Finger Exercizes
Type-casted Caliban cried out tempestuously: 'This
island's mine!'
That perhaps under-stated it.
'I am a fucked up schizoid mess and getting ever more
fucked up schizoidedly by the day,' he further cried,
to bring out from the undercurrents of consciousness a
few more points of potential interest.
The 'injustices' - against others as much as self -
were driving him crazy, in short.
Yet sanity had little to be said for it, because
others, mistaken for sane 'respectable' people,
behaved in ever more paranoid crazy manners
themselves.
He was the one who owned up to his paranoid craziness
- and got type-casted 'a raving madman' by the likes
of Kareless Katrina and others.
'This island's mine!' he cried again ever more insane
seeming.
But was he referring to an isolated state or a wider
territory?
And was the 'commonwealth of imagination' the more
rightful 'birthright' of the formally educated and
qualified Prosperos or of the informally educated and
unqualified Calibans?
Schizoid confusion?
The integrity of the personality threatened with/by
fragmentation.
Too much of everything. Too many demands made on him.
Too much expectation.
The world closes in on him, so he retreats from it.
Narratives - even mixed up and crazy seeming ones -
help to hold things together.
Depersonalizing Preludes.
'Anon anon, my dears, forgive me my little trespasses
- and bigger ones, too, if that is how they are
judged.'
The pseudo-franciscan serving man [but was he really a
houseboy? or was he not more truly a stud? - in minds
where truth and illusion mix to build new realities,
he might be both] was a bit slow sometimes.
They misjudge him, you see.
They think he thinks his mind's a racer.
He believes he knows it takes time for things to sink
slowly into his dense mind.
Rush him, otherwise overload him, and he cracks up.
And he is lacking creature comforts.
Poor Tom's a-cold and a-lonely.
He drinks pretending it will warm him and people his
isolation - but only to ruin himself really.
But did it come to this sad state solely because he
could not cope with rejection?
In the images of separations, images of universal
entropy.
In the images of meetings, images of universal
harmony.
Everyday reality was somewhere in between, of course.
Hi-Fi Low Techy Fallootin' Fugues.
Narratives - even messed up ones - can hold things
together.
Against Stereo-Typing.
Humpy Dumpy was resting in pieces.
He could not even get his own name write.
And he did not know where he was really let alone why
he was there.
Was Humper in the dumps because cross-tongued Frumpy
Dumpling had
cruelly duped him, dumped him, and left him behind in
the lurch?
Or was him left pi calculating [... and it never seems
to end ... {Who ate all the pis? 'Me Sir!' cried the
greedy mathematician - and, as evidence of his
misdeeds, a trail of decimal points dribbled from
mouth-to-plate ... or plate-to-mouth ...} ...] because
his negative numbers had added up to a more positive
one leaving him behind in paralytic in a ditch while
she got on with more actively catalytic reactions?
To further discomfort Himpy Dimpy, Faggy Hagface then
tossed in the suggestion that he was a closetted Mr
Humphreys and that she had given him his freedom
because he could not say 'I'm free!' himself.
Sometimes Hummer just took the up-the-arse insults
silently - it was after all only another cheap and
spiteful little castrating power-play by the
female-of-the-species to keep the downed down-trodden
decent enough man down [and good hetero liberals never
denied suggestions of their 'gayness', anyway, because
they were true to some degree - no one is entirely
'this' or 'that' - and because, for those for whom it
is more wholly true and of their nature, 'gayness' was
not something to be denied].
Non-P.C. Hummer knew that poor bugger beggar as he
was, he was not, in fact, much of a bugger bummer.
'Actually, I don't like cocks up my arse, if that is
what you mean,' is what he actually said to her when
she suggested he was a secret homosexual, and what she
actually replied - for she had a stock-in-trade for
every occasion - was: 'Actually most of them don't do
that.' How she obtained that inside knowledge was
never revealed - but if it was from fag-break gossip
with her camp followers, then it is suspected in the
passive voice that they were not telling her the
full unscatalogical truth.
Homeboy should have though there and then: 'I will
never be a well-served sir with that saggy faggy hag -
Miss Slow Come might have a nice pussy, but she is
nothing but an old dog really, and will never learn
more pleasant tongued tricks.'
But Himbi? [the man was a walking question mark] never
learned to hate her and dismiss her properly. That too
was a mistake for one who thought herself more
naturally 'passionate' - anyone who could not hate,
she claimed, was somehow lacking in the full-range of
feelings.
Sometimes he gave her words too much over-due
attention, that was sure. Her critical words on his
lack of hate stumped him for a long time ...
Whenever he was at a loss for a new way forward Hammy
put himself under the influence of the consumerist
want-makers ...
Being pissed-up was a piss-poor way to live well but,
well ... it seemed he had to drink the dark stuff
because the darker-still-stuff was not really in him.
'I am not a bitter man' - he said, finding a parroted
version of the gift of the gab while drinking the
dregs of two cans of snug-fitting stout unladylike
associations - and more than Tucan play the game of
pretending to be 'pure genius!'.
'Drink!' the fake Irish father-figure said in a
travesty of a stereotype that was quite amusing
occasionally, but not when overdone.
Instead he cried: 'Francis!'
'No! Anon, anon, sir!' was the reply.
He was no saint, nor was meant to be - nor no Hamlet
either, though I see you smirking knowingly - but he
was a fair part-time imitator of a kindly one - he did
not have to pretend not to hate, because, simply, he
did not hate much ... and that was no fault [or
indicator of limited emotional range].
Hanky Dampy pulled himself short with a snort.
Hang on ... is this not getting too soppy?
[Or should that be 'sloppy'? With wet ones you never
could tell. He said 'soppy', she said 'sloppy', so
their sentiments were clearly not well matched - and
the Letts Diary indicted clearly when they called the
whole thing off.]
Cynicism just averted, the drippy droppy kid drip
dropped more drab drops over spilty milky.
Honky Downbeat had no groove in his soul, that was his
problem, she said.
Hinky Deadly had no variety either - he was like a
stuck record.
Hunky Deadpan smirked at that further
misrepresentation by Hagface Hogwash.
Hikey Downwind tripped over his own triping feet once
more - he was such a clumsy ass soler, wasn't he?
But though he had many a fall, Hokey Download never
actually fell completely arsehole into manhole - and
that absence of serious stepping mishap told him
something: he might be no jungle boy bodily
rhythmn-wize, but he had a bit of the jungle in him -
and like every other human had human bits that had
started stepping out on two feet in Africa. He did not
know the hip movements well, but he knew a few leg
movements.
[In other words, factually: after some very long and
desperate periods of depressive torpor - during which
no one came to my assistance - I started to walk
again.]
Hiho Dorky was not the lord of the dancers, it had to
be admitted, but for a few hours most days he managed
to foot quite fleetingly. He still could not talk the
talk much, but he could at least walk the walk a bit.
[In a rare interlude of pleasantry, Mellowing Minxy
said to Hurted Downcast that, on more than one
occasion, when she had watched him just walking across
the room, and seen what a great mover he really could
be, she had felt more than a little bit shakey and
trembling - and almost moist with appreciation. (Such
interludes were all too rare treats as life-time went
on.)]
As he emerged from his hole more often, and got out
and about more and more, Hidebound Dumbo began slowly
to rethink things relatively speaking - the motions
seeming to change the course of his thought-flows.
Hardcore Humanist certainly became less Rigid Atheist
as he experienced with his own senses that there
surely were in the realms of observable things truly
more heavenly and earthly stuff than had be dreamt of
in his previous philosophies of being and non-being.
On a more everyday level, Haughty Dismissive slowly
came to realize that while he had been brought up to
be a comprehensive kind of man, he had slipped up
badly into snobbery somewhere.
It occured to him that he had become a snob -
dismissive of the 'lowly' many - in a vain attempt to
please the 'likes of her' - and like many a false-self
bad-faith move, that had been true to no one.
He came down to earth with a bump.
Humbler - if never completely Humble - Bumbler then
ate some cheaper but more cheerful pies - and even
learned to enjoy sparrow songs for the first time in
his life.
He seemed to see that many of the people he had been
born among, and grown up with, secretly knew that he
looked down on them - but that many of them put up
with that sort of thing because they did not have high
enough opinions of themselves.
Then he seemed to see that there was even more to it
than that - and that it was not that clear-cut, and
that no one had a really true measure of the relations
between self and others.
They thought that he thought that he was better than
they were, while he thought that they thought that he
was worse than them.
He thought that they thought he was uglier than them,
but they thought that he thought that he was more
attractive than them.
And as for cleverness ... he thought that they thought
that he thought he was clever - which he did, it had
to be admitted, but he was clever enough to know that
he was not as clever as they thought he thought
himself to be.
If asked: 'How clever do you think you are?'
'Not clever enough,' was his clever-clever reply.
They were all quite clever these human sorts really,
and they knew that, and he knew that, they were
differently clever, each in their own ways. That is
what he really thought anyway.
He was such an irritating clever-clever clogs, though,
wasn't he?
So why then did ever so clever-clever clogs often clog
up into an almost silent state?
Perhaps it is because he knows that he is not quite
clever enough to find the really clever words he'd
like find - and if he, who could use words more
cleverly than many/mosty, clogged up to wordless
inarticulation, then what hope was there for
articulation by people who believed, rightly or
wrongly, that they are less clever than clever clogs?
It was all very frustrating, because he had a thing or
two that might be generally useful to teach - and
there were some/many who might in fact like to learn a
few more things from the likes of him, who are quite
clever, aren't they, now, really?
Clover Clags could not find an answer to sort of
twisted question, so he shut up again - and might
rightly be accused of disappearing up his own
arsehole.
To: tempestuous@yahoogroups.com
From: "Philip Talbot" <philtal_uk@...> Add to
Address Book
Date: Fri, 25 Feb 2005 13:51:31 -0000
Subject: [tempestuous] Re: Tempestuous 10-Finger
Exercizes
Chirpy quirky qwerty cheap cheep ...
... moods can change very quickly for the worse though
...
... sight of a poster with the word 'partnership'
changed mine far for the worse a few minutes ago ...
... got me to thinking ... 'they' talk 'partnership'
when what 'they' seem to mean is 'exploitations' ...
... certainly more often been offered 'rip offs' [at
my expense] than partnerships, personally ...
... 'temptestuous' minds are difficult to live with of
course - as 'she' [in various forms] taught me ...
Restarting bombastically ...
The actual singular state is foul and stinking.
Pontential of pluralistic partnership is likely to be
much more fair and sweet-smelling.
That is just possibly 'wishful thinking', 'of course'
- and what look appear like 'sweet-smelling deals' on
first glance can turn out to be 'rip-offs' [always
read the small-print].
But if Charles can get married 'unconstitutionally',
then I should be allowed to do so too - because
'rights' apply to all citizens not just one. [And the
Cosmopolitan Republican rightly asserts his human
right to be an expanisve-minded 'citizen' (of the
world), not a 'subject' of an, in fact (not merely
opinion), not very impressive narrow-minded royalist
national state.]
And my true 'queen' will be a truly equal partner -
not some subservient 'princess consort'.
But adazzle them dimmly deft Dicky ducky ... because
they are not yet properly prepared for the really
'brighter stuff' ...
A useful staging device is the 'conceit' - whereby the
audience [potential or actual] can never be quite sure
whether you are 'merely fooling' - or even just plain
mad - or not.
This seems like a 'conceit', but ...
I am reluctant to share my 'powers' more widely, and
that is fact, because I don't really trust 'them'.
By 'them' I mean [generally and specifically ]
'oppressors' AND 'oppressed' - because 'they' can seem
too interchangeable.
The 'oppressed', given power, all too easily
[experience teaches] become 'oppressers' themselves -
this is an all too common pattern of human history.
Sketchy fictional illustations ...
In Shakespeare's The Tempest, Prospero represents
something like an 'enlightened dictator' and/or a
'kindly tyrant', as it were. His use of power over
others is mostly kindly, but he does treat Caliban
very harshly - and that is troubling, because it seems
'over-done' and 'unnecessary', and seems to involve a
failing in 'fellow-feeling'.
But if roles were reversed, would Caliban treat
Prospero more kindly?
It seems unlikely - and Caliban O'Kitty taught me that
...
That is 'only' fiction, though, and I am neither
Prospero nor
Caliban, nor meant to be either.
But ...
I do know a 'thing or two' about the way 'power'
works.
What to do with such powerful 'knowledge' [even if it
is only 'potential' knowledge]?
Ideally, I would share it around - power is a great
potential 'fertilizer', and, like garden manure, seems
to work best when spread around quite thinly, as
someone said to me, almost
quoting someone else, the other day.
But I don't really trust 'them' with the potentially
enhanced power - partly because I don't trust myself
with it.
'So' ... I 'tweak' the 'system' here and there ...
rather than seek to force a large mass-flow change of
direction ... 'safer' that way, I tend to think ...
One of my 'big ideas' - which I have not really worked
out yet, but have a kind of outline understanding of -
is that 'key elements' of the really 'big ideas' are
as likely to be found in the minds of 'anonymous' -
though named and identified, within their local
contexts - and seemingly 'lowly' people, as in the
minds of 'famous' and more obviously 'high-status'
people.
Like all 'big ideas' this one is not entirely original
- it owes a lot to the Christian notion of
'sublimity', for example, but I would not want the
Christians to think in a conceited way that they
deserved all the credit for it: because they adapted
it, in their turn, from other people's thinking.
There seems to be a life-enhancing/life-protecting
'defence' against the physically powerful in this 'big
idea' - namely, 'they', nor anyone else, could ever
really tell who really carries the elements of the
really 'big ideas' - so if 'they' destroy ANY
individual, 'they' might be destroying key elements of
the really 'big ideas'.
In other words [to get somewhat cryptic seeming, but
not really], 'we' put 'it' together between us - based
on mutual recognitions of personal 'uniqueness', and
of the value of our differing talents, and of the
potential 'deeper understandings' within EVERY
individual human consciousness.
When people deliberately destroy ANY unique
individual, they are potentially doing huge damage to
humanity possibility generally - because that
individual might carry a truly essential component of
the 'key' to human possibility generally.
What I am searching for, 'of course', via such
'speculatory' ideas, is a way to protect vulnerable
individual human beings against persecution - to the
point of destruction - by groups or other mass-flow
processes ...
And that is all just 'wild unworldly dreaming' though,
isn't it?

From: "Philip Talbot" <philtal_uk@...>
Date: Sat Nov 5, 2005  2:41 am
Subject: Revized Re-edit 1b 04_11_2005
Date: Sun, 27 Feb 2005 06:21:11 -0800 (PST)
From: "Phil Talbot" <philtal_uk@...> Add to
Address Book
Subject: Re: [tempestuous] Re: Tempestuous 10-Finger
Exercizes
To: tempestuous@yahoogroups.com
To moderate the 'tempestuosness' I reduce myself - it
is also known as 'self-restraint'.
Reducing self further: 'I am a word-processor.'
Even word-processors are lost for words some days.
Being lost for words is a troubling state.
It can feel like catanoia is coming on - which is a
terrifying prospect.
Been to that 'hell' all to often unwillingly - and
don't know how many recoveries I have left in me.
I have had to pull myself out of that 'void' all too
often already - and unassisted [human kindness might
work, but the drugs don't work for me - the shrinks
will, however, never stop bugging me with power-plays
in attempts to fit me into their overly reduced
biochemical schemes of things ... which further
depresses me ...].
Perking up with refreshments from old memory clusters.
Clever Clogs remembered a telling conversation with a
previous old helping hand and occasional ally Sean.
Clever Clogs [aka 'I'] was supposed to be celebrating
a bit of good-fortune/achievement - getting a job
which many others, including Sean, had wanted
themselves - but Clever Clogs certainly seemed
unimpressed by his own achievement/good-fortune. It
seemed nothing to him, a matter of no importance,
futile even. And this was not false modesty at play,
it was something else. It was like: 'I achieved this
... which you could not achieve ... but ... guess what
... it means nothing much too me ...'
'You worry me!' was Sean's telling response.
It is 'worrying' indeed when a man of many abilities,
much potential, and despite his many faults, an
essentially kindly nature, seems to want to do nothing
but waste his life.
He seems to be saying: 'Well ... nothing matters much
really does it?'
And maybe 'hokey cokey' is 'what it is all about',
after all.
In the patterns, and the dramas, in the motions, and
the break-ups, in the part-indentifications, and the
transient hand-in-hand person-to-person, link-ups, of
the clumsy dance, that anyone can do, even the
clumsiest of dancers - without much embarrassment, and
without falling arse-over-tit ... and even if that
happens it can be incorporated into the dance - in the
circle that is never regularly circular ... images of
'it all' perhaps ...
Or perhaps it is only a playful parody of 'gang-bang'
possibilities.
Some have even suggested it is a dark and dangerous
travesty of the anglo-catholic mass.
In some variations - not my personal favourites,
because too suggestive of determinism - the word
'taxi' is introduced.
Free will? or Determinism?
Significant signifier? or trivial time-killer?
[Apparent digression. Life's little ironies. Or a
random sampling. Or ... One day awhile ago, I tapped
'hokey cokey' into the Google search engine, and whose
name should appear on the first page of 'hokey cokey'
reference texts that Google spun up for me that day?
Lo! ... it was hokey cokey world weary cynic - these
days, apparently (I may be badly misjudging her from
limited subjective perspectives, of course) - Ms Big
Al. {The same search does not produce the same results
sequences now, because there has been a reshuffle in
the 'hokey cokey' scheme of things on the google web
crawler.} Anyway, there, by a hokey cokey googly
spinning shuffle, popped up an expressive report by
little Ms Alice dabbling in a wonderland of hokey
cokey steps in a capital mayoral election - or Mr
Norris was changing trains again. I wonder how many
get the allusions these days. Problem in the 'spread',
I suspect. And the 'density'. There is much real
possibility of a truly cosmopolitan 'common culture'
emerging from the 'spread', but the 'canon' of
previously shared reference points are being
fragmented. Something like that seems to be happening,
anyway. Perhaps it is just a problem of excess. They
come. They go. And, O.K., I was a green-eyed,
lost-possibility-regretting, highly subjective and
somewhat twisted observer of these matters, true
enough, but she never seemed to have the same male
partner from one month to another. But was that sort
of discontinuity really female 'liberation'? And it
was as if the gals, like the guys, had learned nothing
from the guys and gals who'd followed similar
essentially frustrating behaviour patterns for
centuries. Mr Norris, by the way, had five mistresses
on the go at one time, but did not seem satisfied with
any of them. The Wife of Bath had five husbands in
church, and many more outside. With the guys you could
say, well, it's perhaps just a sperm excess problem -
we've got millions to spare and are driven on by who
knows what to want to spread them as widely as
possible. So we are constantly reviewing the
possilities and the actualities and given the chance
... But what might it be with the gals? - a few
hundred thousand eggs, I suppose, might account for
something, but that, like the sperm numbers games, was
just numbers stuff which does not seem to explain
anything much very well. Who then devised this
torment? Love? In all this possibility examination,
and
partner switching [coupling and un- coup- ling] for
real, a search
for love was going on then? Or searches for something
else? Or ...
Perhaps it is a problem of too much choice. Though not
a 'fundamentalist' of any variety, really, I, like
many another, when faced with too much choice, and in
a state of confusion, return to the fairly fixed
reference points, including reference texts -
something solid to hang on to, perhaps, to reorientate
within/around. All the literary texts of all the ages
are now available on-line or in print in an original
language or translation of your chosing. But no one
has the free time to read them. And when you have so
many options, how can you concentrate on anything for
long? - or really appreciate anything properly. The
'process' drives you on ... and pesters you with ever
more 'greeds'/'needs' you never knew you had ... and
... Motion blurs of busy lives in an accelerated
culture. Too much of everything. Overfilled 'to do'
lists. But I/we/they also complain of being 'bored'
all too often too! Numbers games are so unsatisfying
long-term though. Yawn. Ennui. Darker matter treated
lightly. 'Not another one,' he sighed as he turned to
deflower the 75th - or whatever - of the nth number of
willing virgins
Uncle Osama had promised him for being a willing
participant in the essentially nihilistic
suicidal/murderous terrorism act. We are such
contrary fellows as facile adolescent fantasies are
made of. Being distracted from distraction by
distraction. Milton, Paradise Lost, Book 2. The
'damned' pursuing essentially futile questing
activities in the spread of 'hell'. 'Darkness
visible'. 'False philosophy'. There is always a
counter-point though. Running in reverse flow to such
'fall stories' ... uplift stories. Prometheus showed
the lowly humans the light of the fire of arts and
crafts, and trusted them, having 'seen the light', to
use the 'fire' of expanding knowledge to raise
themselves up to higher states still. That is a strong
challenge to the 'you are damned to lives misery for
eating from the tree of knowledge' type of 'fall
story', I suspect. Or is it only another bit of
scatter-brained spin? And when the Wife of Bath saw
he'd never finish reading from his accursed book,
suddenly she tore three or more or less pages from it,
and was caught with such a blow that she could barely
hear him say into her ringing ears: 'Alyson, my
dearest love, with the help of god-or-nature I'll
never strike you again.' To which she replied: 'That
is all too easy for you to say, but do you really mean
it? And now, if you'll kindly listen, I will get on
with my own tale, which I will tell in my own way, in
my own time.' He did then try to suggest to her that
her approach was too subjective, but she was no longer
listening, perhaps because he had unwittingly deafened
her ...]
I do doubt hokey cokey is what it is all about
actually - though it is possible.
One apparent proof of free will is not to do something
you want to do.
And there is wasting your time on apparently trivial
stuff, and there is biding your time while waiting for
moments charged with more potential than the
present one.
[Irritating Clever Clogs does always have a new line
of thought - or spin - to turn to, doesn't he?]
Humkey Turnkey had had too many major 'fall'
experiences himself, and still spent too much of his
life lying around listlessly resting in pieces, that
had to admitted - but he was not waiting for all the
king's/queen's horses to gallop along to his rescue
[after all, he was a republican, so could not have
accepted their assistance anyway - voluntary citizen's
assistance might have come in useful, but that is
another matter].
Anyway, he was all too often inexplicably immobilized
and fragmented, that is fact enough.
Whether he chose the immobilized fragmented state, or
whether it chose him, as it were, is an open question.
In one such resting in pieces state of immobility,
Homkey Turkey found himself further considering the
bits and pieces of his reduced existence - rather idly
at first, but then ...
The sense of the spread of the bits scattered around
his disorderly resting place suddenly, stangely, more
carefully considered, began to give him a sense order,
and of the wider spreading scheme of things ...
And even if it all looked very disorderly there were
apparent patterns in the spread ...
'Chaos' was possibly properly considered an illusion
brought on by a failure to observe the patterns and
dramas of of the scheme of things properly.
Turning to his own bits and pieces once more, one more
perked up morning, Himkey Turbid saw to his uplifted
surprize that his bodily bits and pieces were not in
such a bad state as he often imagined - he was indeed
of the pessimistic hypochondriac tendency, and all too
prone to imagining worse states than actually existed.
Actually, his body was still a mostly fucked up mostly
useless mess, but his hands were at least working that
day.
In depressive states, you can, literally, lose the
proper use of fully functioning hands.
When he tried his hands out that day, he found, to his
relief, that their functions had survived the general
torpor and were still functioning.
The discovery of working hands might seem no great
discovery to many, but to an excessively depressive
over-working head-worker, the finding of still working
hands are real delightful surprizes.
He had had working hands before, but ...
Handpush Downy, among others, had dismissed him as
just not touchy-feely enough - and, again, her and
others' words had perhaps had too much effect on his
self-image.
He had been too receptive to others' false-self
type-casting, in other words.
['Over-receptiveness' was a general problem of his -
it might also be labelled 'over-sensitivity' - and
once 'they' sense you are 'receptive' you do find they
dump a lot of stuff on you.]
When they don't reach out to touch you, you don't
reach out to touch them. [Matters of fact learned
from/by painful
experience.]
When they treat you in manners divorcing you from
common human feelings, you treat them in manners
divorceing them from common human feelings.
As I, the children, and W.H. Auden know [simply,
i.e. 'unknowingly']: '... those to whom evil is done,
tend to do evil in
return ...' Words to that effect. Actions like that.
These are 'feed-back' effects - 'mirroring' is another
way of putting it.
Meanwhile, having escaped from one set of
mirror-images, Handy Doer
turned to others, and tried out his newly refound
hands - not
entirely self-referentially, though not on other
people [he had
become reduced by self and others to 'untouchable'
status, and so
others were 'untouchable' by self too] but on things -
and seemed to
find new measures of many substantial things.
He got quite handy in arty and crafty ways, is another
way of putting
it.
None of the things he created with his own hands were
brilliant - nothing he ever did really satisfied
Highseek Demander - but he definitely discovered
hidden handy abilities he never knew he had in him -
and he realized the same must be possible for
everyone.
The spead of undiscovered talents ...
The 'wasted' - because 'denied' or otherwise
underdeveloped - talents ...
Handed Down-determination then turned his hands to
hands-on
science - again something he never thought he had much
aptitude for.
Unworldly flowing abstract ponderer became hands-in
dirty-handed pond-dipper ... and in the wet and the
dirt and the slime discovered more than mere
imagination could ever have dreamt of.
Lacking research grants, the charity shops and market
stalls and junk emporiums provided his equipment -
much of which was dismissed by others as kids' stuff,
or merely 'rubbish'.
It was surprizing to discover what he could discover
with a £1 'kids' microscope.
Things there to be seen all along, but never seen
before by humanity - everyone has unique capacities to
make unique discoveries.
Good role models ...
Following the example of the exemplary fellow beings
...
Working with a microscope of his own making - with
less power than microscopes dismissed by later
throwaway wasteful societies as 'kids stuff' or else
just 'junk' - almost unclassifiable and often
mispelled or otherwise misunderstood deft Delft
glass-worker Leeuwnehoek discovered, among other
things: blood cells;
spermatozoa [his own presumably - it is a pleasurable
relief to see them still swimming healthily as every
hypochondriac male-gaze microscopist will tell his
private diary {and the production of the research
material is not without its pleasures too}]; bacteria;
nematodes producing live young; plant cells; the
difference between spring and summer wood of trees;
the fact that higher temperatures and higher light
levels produce more durable woods in hardwood trees
and the reverse in softwood trees; that freshwater
protozoa can survive being dried up; parasites of
frogs; the fluke of sheep's liver; that plant extracts
and sulphur dioxide function as pesticies;
practicalities of conception in mammals ...
And that was only a start ...
In tiny drops of sludge, he saw living worlds come to
life and then die out ... and then come back to life
... and ...
He saw creatures more mysterious than anything you'll
ever see in a monster movie - and wondered why people
wasted so much time on the fantasy stuff when real
life was so much more interesting and truly
mysterious.
He saw the cuties too ... the little herbivore
creatures who want nothing more out of life than a bit
of green stuff to nibble on, and a few pals to mess
about sexually with.
What he saw, above all else, was life just being
lively - never quite understanding itself, being a
mystery surrounded by more mysteries, and usually just
muddling on in the mostly muddy stuff ... and trying
to make the most of it ...
Feeling a bit more alive himself as a consequence of
such lively observations, he put the life in and on
himself on the microscope slide for closer
examination.
He saw his own cells up close and personal for the
first time really [he had perhaps gone through the
motions of doing this earlier at school - but had
never really taken in 'the vision'] - and they
certainly seemed to contain a lot more than 'selfish
gene' stuff to him.
[Reduce me no further, please clever Dicky Doorkins,
and pals - because the environment and the culture and
a whole lot of other stuff you cannot account for - or
reduce away - 'say' to me, in limitless ways, that
there is a whole lot more to self and others than
being a mostly determined 'machine' for the
replication of 'selfish genes'. (In there own defence
they say: 'that was only the popularizing metaphor ...
the bulk of the argument within its fuller framework
was not so reductive'. But ...]
And ... he saw his lifelong companions the face-mite
family for the first time.
[You get them as a baby from your parents and other
family members when they nuzzle you affectionately. As
you grow older, your family face-mites cross-fertilize
with those of other human family face-mites - as you
nuzzle other loved ones affectionately ...]
And ... he saw his own sperms still swimming about
healthy enough - despite all those 'power of
suggestion' warning on the cigarette packets, etc
[determinisism-defying free 'will to live' must come
into it - though I have no way of proving that ... and
pass me another cigarette please ... and do you have a
light please? ... (Addict? or FreeWiller?)]
There is more to self and others than this wanky
geekery, Wanky Geek [aka 'I'] began to suspect.
The arts and the sciences are supposed to be two
separate cultures.
But Humbling Bumbling, the small town near nobody,
brought them together in his small way in his small
room.
He's a mostly modest and reserved and restrained
fellow, but he likes to explore the limits.
And he finds, time and time again, that there are
none.
What seem to be sharp divisions, turn out, on closer
examination to be blurs - and not blurs indicating a
limit to resolution ... but a new threshold to be
crossed ...
What seem to be clear-cut distinctions turn out to be
mere oversimplifying wordplays - or bits of facile
spin.
What seem to be final conclusions, turn out, on closer
analysis, to have been strange collections of
misunderstandings, under-/over-estimations, and/or
failures to see, feel, or otherwise sense, and then
properly express, things that were there to be sensed
and expressed - and shared - ... to say nothing of
much that was only plain ignorance and stupidity.
Each basic advance was effected by a more or less
abrupt and dramatic change: the breaking down of
frontiers between related territories, the
amalgamation of previously separated frames of
reference or experimental techniques; the sudden
falling into pattern of previously disjointed data.
'... you put your whole self in ...
... your whole self out ...
... you do the hokey cokey ...
... and you turn about ...
... that's what's it's all aboot ...
... see?! ...
... o'ok'y'ho.key,cokey ...
... oh! ...'
The clumsy irregularities did tend to suggest free
will rather than taxis ... but ...
As he became more truly open-minded and more deeply
aware of his own reasonably honest uncertainty
himself, he became more and more impatient with
closed-minded people claiming 'certainties' they did
not have.
To: tempestuous@yahoogroups.com
From: "Phil Talbot" <philtal_uk@...> Add to
Address Book
Date: Sun, 27 Feb 2005 06:21:11 -0800 (PST)
Subject: Re: [tempestuous] Re: Tempestuous 10-Finger
Exercizes
Repetition is a form of change ...
You cannot [in reading or writing] repeat the same
text twice ... it
changes ... you change ...
But is the revized version more 'authentic' than the
unrevized one ...
Depends on ... context ... relative good/bad faith ...
factual
accuracy [or not] of purported statements of fact ...
many other
things ...
Anyway ...
To moderate the 'tempestuosness' I reduce myself - it
is also known as 'self-restraint'.
Reducing self further: 'I am a word-processor.'
Even word-processors are lost for words some days.
Being lost for words is a troubling state.
It can feel like catanoia is coming on - which is a
terrifying prospect.
Been to that 'hell' all to often unwillingly - and
don't know how many recoveries I have left in me.
I have had to pull myself out of that 'void' all too
often already - and unassisted [human kindness might
work, but the drugs don't work for me - the shrinks
will, however, never stop bugging me with power-plays
in attempts to fit me into their overly reduced
biochemical schemes of things ... which further
depresses me ...].
Perking up with refreshments from old memory clusters.
Clever Clogs remembered a telling conversation with a
previous old helping hand and occasional ally Sean.
Clever Clogs [aka 'I'] was supposed to be celebrating
a bit of good-fortune/achievement - getting a job
which many others, including Sean, had wanted
themselves - but Clever Clogs certainly seemed
unimpressed by his own achievement/good-fortune. It
seemed nothing to him, a matter of no importance,
futile even. And this was not false modesty at play,
it was something else. It was like: 'I achieved this
... which you could not achieve ... but ... guess what
... it means nothing much too me ...'
'You worry me!' was Sean's telling response.
It is 'worrying' indeed when a man of many abilities,
much potential, and despite his many faults, an
essentially kindly nature, seems to want to do nothing
but waste his life.
He seems to be saying: 'Well ... nothing matters much
really does it?'
And maybe 'hokey cokey' is 'what it is all about',
after all.
In the patterns, and the dramas, in the motions, and
the break-ups, in the part-indentifications, and the
transient hand-in-hand person-to-person, link-ups, of
the clumsy dance, that anyone can do, even the
clumsiest of dancers - without much embarrassment, and
without falling arse-over-tit ... and even if that
happens it can be incorporated into the dance - in the
circle that is never regularly circular ... images of
'it all' perhaps ...
Or perhaps it is only a playful parody of 'gang-bang'
possibilities.
Some have even suggested it is a dark and dangerous
travesty of the anglo-catholic mass.
In some variations - not my personal favourites,
because too suggestive of determinism - the word
'taxi' is introduced.
Free will? or Determinism?
Significant signifier? or trivial time-killer?
[Apparent digression. Life's little ironies. Or a
random sampling. Or ... One day awhile ago, I tapped
'hokey cokey' into the Google search engine, and whose
name should appear on the first page of 'hokey cokey'
reference texts that Google spun up for me that day?
Lo ... it was hokey cokey world weary cynic - these
days, apparently (I may be badly misjudging her from
limited subjective perspectives, of course)- Ms Big
Al. {The same search does not produce the same results
sequences now, because there has been a reshuffle in
the 'hokey cokey' scheme of things on the google web
crawler.} Anyway, there, by a hokey cokey googly
spinning shuffle, popped up an expressive report by
little Ms Alice dabbling in a wonderland of hokey
cokey steps in a capital mayoral election - or Mr
Norris was changing trains again. I wonder how many
get the allusions these days. Problem in the 'spread',
I suspect. And the 'density'. There is much real
possibility of a truly cosmopolitan 'common culture'
emerging from the 'spread', but the 'canon' of
previously shared reference points are being
fragmented. Something like that seems to be happening,
anyway. Perhaps it is just a problem of excess. They
come. They go. And, O.K., I was a green-eyed,
lost-possibility-regretting, highly subjective and
somewhat twisted observer of these matters, true
enough, but she never seemed to have the same male
partner from one month to another. But was that sort
of discontinuity really female 'liberation'? And it
was as if the gals, like the guys, had learned nothing
from the guys and gals who'd followed similar
essentially frustrating behaviour patterns for
centuries. Mr Norris, by the way, had five mistresses
on the go at one time, but did not seem satisfied with
any of them. The Wife of Bath had five husbands in
church, and many more outside. With the guys you could
say, well, it's perhaps just a sperm excess problem -
we've got millions to spare and are driven on by who
knows what to want to spread them as widely as
possible. So we are constantly reviewing the
possilities and the actualities and given the chance
... But what might it be with the gals? - a few
hundred thousand eggs, I suppose, might account for
something, but that, like the sperm numbers games, was
just numbers stuff which does not seem to explain
anything much very well. Who then devised this
torment? Love? In all this possibility examination and
partner switching for real, a search for love was
going on then? Or searches for something else? Or ...
Perhaps it is a problem of too much choice. Though not
a 'fundamentalist' of any variety, really, I, like
many another, when faced with too much choice, and in
a state of confusion, return to the fairly fixed
reference points, including reference texts -
something solid to hang on to, perhaps, to reorientate
within/around. All the literary texts of all the ages
are now available on line or in print in an original
language or translation of your chosing. But no one
has the free time to read them. And when you have so
many options, how can you concentrate on anything for
long? - or really appreciate anything properly. The
'process' drives you on ... and pesters you with ever
more 'greeds'/'needs' you never knew you had ... and
... Motion blurs of busy lives in an accelerated
culture. Too much of everthing. Overfilled 'to do'
lists. But I/we/they also complain of being 'bored'
all too often too! Numbers games are so unsatisfying
long-term though. Yawn. Ennui. Darker matter treated
lightly. 'Not another one,' he sighed as he turned to
deflower the 75th of the nth number of willing virgins
Uncle Osama had promised him for being a willing
participant in the essentially nihilistic
suicidal/murderous terrorism act. We are such
contrary fellows of facile adolescent fantasies are
made of. Being distracted from distraction by
distraction. Milton, Paradise Lost, Book 2. The
'damned' pursuing essentially futile questing
activities in the spread of 'hell'. 'Darkness
visible'. 'False philosophy'. There is always a
counter-point though. Running in reverse flow to such
'fall stories' ... uplift stories. Prometheus showed
the lowly humans the light of the fire of arts and
crafts, and trusted them, having 'seen the light', to
use the 'fire' of expanding knowledge to raise
themselves up to higher states still. That is a strong
challenge to the 'you are damned to lives misery for
eating from the tree of knowledge' type of 'fall
story', I suspect. Or is it only another bit of
scatter-brained spin? And when the Wife of Bath saw
he'd never finish reading from his accursed book,
suddenly she tore three or more or less pages from it,
and was caught with such a blow that she could barely
hear him say into her ringing ears: 'Alyson, my
dearest love, with the help of god-or-nature I'll
never strike you again.' To which she replied: 'That
is all too easy for you to say, but do you really mean
it? And now, if you'll kindly listen, I will get on
with my own tale, which I will tell in my own way, in
my own time.' He did then try to suggest to her that
her approach was too subjective, but she was no longer
listening, perhaps because he had unwittingly deafened
her ...]
I do doubt hokey cokey is what it is all about
actually - though it is possible.
One apparent proof of free will is not to do something
you want to do.
And there is wasting your time on apparently trivial
stuff, and there is biding your time while waiting for
more moments charged with more potential than the
present one.
[Irritating Clever Clogs does always have a new line
of thought - or spin - to turn to, doesn't he?]
Humkey Turnkey had had too many major 'fall'
experiences himself, and still spent too much of his
life lying around listlessly resting in pieces, that
had to admitted - but he was not waiting for all the
king's/queen's horses to gallop along to his rescue
[after all, he was a republican, so could not have
accepted their assistance anyway - voluntary citizen's
assistance might have come in
useful, but that is another matter].
Anyway, he was all too often inexplicably immobilized
and fragmented, that is fact enough.
Whether he chose the immobilized fragmented state, or
whether it chose him, as it were, is an open question.
In one such resting in pieces state of immobility,
Homkey Turkey found himself further considering the
bits and pieces of his reduced existence - rather idly
at first, but then ...
The sense of the spread of the bits scattered around
his disorderly resting place suddenly, stangely, more
carefully considered, began to give him a sense order,
and of the wider spreading scheme of things ...
And even if it all looked very disorderly there were
apparent patterns in the spread ...
'Chaos' was possibly properly considered an illusion
brought on by a failure to observe the patterns and
dramas of of the scheme of things properly.
Turning to his own bits and pieces once more, one more
perked up morning, Himkey Turbid saw to his uplifted
surprize that his bodily bits and pieces were not in
such a bad state as he often imagined - he was indeed
of the pessimistic hypochondriac tendency, and all too
prone to imagining worse states than actually existed.
Actually, his body was still a mostly fucked up mostly
useless mess, but his hands were at least working that
day.
In depressive states, you can, literally, lose the
proper use of fully functioning hands.
When he tried his hands out that day, he found, to his
relief, that their functions had survived the general
torpor and were still functioning.
The discovery of working hands might seem no great
discovery to many, but to an excessively depressive
over-working head-worker, the finding of still working
hands are real delightful surprizes.
He had had working hands before, but ...
Handpush Downy, among others, had dismissed him as
just not touchy-feely enough - and, again, her and
others' words had perhaps had too much effect on his
self-image.
He had been too receptive to others' false-self
type-casting, in other words.
['Over-receptiveness' was a general problem of his -
it might also be labelled 'over-sensitivity' - and
once 'they' sense you are 'receptive' you do find they
dump a lot of stuff on you.]
When they don't reach out to touch you, you don't
reach out to touch them.
When they treat you in manners divorcing you from
common human feelings, you treat them in manners
divorceing them from common human feelings.
These are 'feed-back' effects - 'mirroring' is another
way of putting it.
Handy Doer tried out his newly refound hands - not on
other people [he had become reduced by self and others
to 'untouchable' status, and so others were
'untouchable' by self too] but on things - and seemed
to find new measures of many substantial things.
He got quite handy in arty and crafty ways, is another
way of putting it.
None of the things he created with his own hands were
brilliant - nothing he ever did really satisfied
Highseek Demander - but he definitely discovered
hidden handy abilities he never knew he had in him -
and he realized the same must be possible for
everyone.
The spead of undiscovered talents ...
The 'wasted' - because 'denied' or otherwise
underdeveloped - talents ...
Handed Determination then turned his hands to hands-on
science - again something he never thought he had much
aptitude for.
Unworldly flowing abstract ponderer became hands-in
dirty-handed pond-dipper ... and in the wet and the
dirt and the slime discovered more than mere
imagination could ever have dreamt of.
Lacking research grants, the charity shops and market
stalls and junk emporiums provided his equipment -
much of which was dismissed by others as kids' stuff,
or merely 'rubbish'.
It was surprizing to discover what he could discover
with a £1 'kids' microscope.
Things there to be seen all along, but never seen
before by humanity - everyone has unique capacities to
make unique discoveries.
Good role models ...
Following the example of the exemplary fellow beings
...
Working with a microscope of his own making - with
less power than microscopes dismissed by later
throwaway wasteful societies as 'kids stuff' or else
just 'junk' - deft Delft glass-work Leeuwnehoek
discovered, among other things: blood cells;
spermatozoa [his own presumably - it is a pleasurable
relief to see them still swimming healthily as every
hypochondriac male-gaze microscopist will tell his
private diary {and the production of the research
material is not without its pleasures too}]; bacteria;
nematodes producing live young; plant cells; the
difference between spring and summer wood of trees;
the fact that higher temperatures and higher light
levels produce more durable woods in hardwood trees
and the reverse in softwood trees; that freshwater
protozoa can survive being dried up; parasites of
frogs; the fluke of sheep's liver; that plant extracts
and sulphur dioxide function as pesticies;
practicalities of conception in mammals ...
And that was only a start ...
In tiny drops of sludge, he saw living worlds come to
life and then die out ... and then come back to life
... and ...
He saw creatures more mysterious than anything you'll
ever see in a monster movie - and wondered why people
wasted so much time on the fantasy stuff when real
life was so much more interesting and truly
mysterious.
He saw the cuties too ... the little herbivore
creatures who want nothing more out of life than a bit
of green stuff to nibble on, and a few pals to mess
about sexually with.
What he saw, above all else, was life just being
lively - never quite understanding itself, being a
mystery surrounded by more mysteries, and usually just
muddling on in the mostly muddy stuff ... and trying
to make the most of it ...
Feeling a bit more alive himself as a consequence of
such lively observations, he put the life in and on
himself on the microscope slide for closer
examination.
He saw his own cells up close and personal for the
first time really [he had perhaps gone through the
motions of doing this earlier at school - but had
never really taken in 'the vision'] - and they
certainly seemed to contain a lot more than 'selfish
gene' stuff to him.
[Reduce me no further, please clever Dicky Doorkins,
and pals - because the environment and the culture and
a whole lot of other stuff you cannot account for - or
reduce away - 'say' to me, in limitless ways, that
there is a whole lot more to self and others than
being a mostly determined 'machine' for the
replication of 'selfish genes'. (In there own defence
they say: 'that was only the popularizing metaphor ...
the bulk of the argument within its fuller framework
was not so reductive'. But ...]
And ... he saw his lifelong companions the face-mite
family for the first time.
[You get them as a baby from your parents and other
family members when they nuzzle you affectionately. As
you grow older, your family face-mites cross-fertilize
with those of other human family face-mites - as you
nuzzle other loved ones affectionately ...]
And ... he saw his own sperms still swimming about
healthy enough - despite all those 'power of
suggestion' warning on the cigarette packets, etc
[determinisism-defying free 'will to live' must come
into it - though I have no way of proving that ... and
pass me another cigarette please ... and do you have a
light please? ... (Addict? or FreeWiller?)]
There is more to self and others than this wanky
geekery, Wanky Geek [aka 'I'] began to suspect.
The arts and the sciences are supposed to be two
separate cultures.
But Humbling Bumbling, the small town near nobody,
brought them together in his small way in his small
room.
He's a mostly modest and reserved and restrained
fellow, but he likes to explore the limits.
And he finds, time and time again, that there are
none.
What seem to be sharp divisions, turn out, on closer
examination to be blurs - and not blurs indicating a
limit to resolution ... but a new threshold to be
crossed ...
What seem to be clear-cut distinctions turn out to be
mere oversimplifying wordplays - or bits of facile
spin.
What seem to be final conclusions, turn out, on closer
analysis, to have been strange collections of
misunderstandings, under-/over-estimations, and/or
failures to see, feel, or otherwise sense, and then
properly express, things that were there to be sensed
and expressed - and shared - ... to say nothing of
much that was only plain ignorance and stupidity.
Each basic advance was effected by a more or less
abrupt and dramatic change: the breaking down of
frontiers between related territories, the
amalgamation of previously separated frames of
reference or experimental techniques; the sudden
falling into pattern of previously disjointed data.
'... you put your whole self in ...
... your whole self out ...
... you do the hokey cokey ...
... and you turn about ...
... that's what's it's all aboot ...
... see?! ...
... o'ok'y'ho.key,cokey ...
... oh! ...'
The clumsy irregularities did tend to suggest free
will rather than taxis ... but ...
As he became more truly open-minded and more deeply
aware of his own reasonably honest uncertainty
himself, he became more and more impatient with
closed-minded people claiming 'certainties' they did
not have.











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