I enjoy ambivalence. Immensely. With this being the case, I recently compiled a list of ideas I held with certainty. First thing on the list: evolution!
Now, I don't know anything about evolution. Genetics? Nah. Intro to Biology? B+... easy class. And yet, I believe in evolution.
Not. anymore I don't! Now, I am thoroughly ambivalent. I am neither in or out. I float about.
How'd I do it? I read about sex. Not a picture book. Not a how-to (I have that pretty. well. covered.) Rather, why sex? In the sense of: lifeforms didn't always go bump in the night. Asexual reproduction (apparently?) once ruled the day. And then? Sex! Lots of it.
Here's what I really like: sex and reproduction... totally different. You see, reproduction is when one becomes two. Sex... however, takes two, and becomes one. And the explanations I've skimmed can't account for this at all... evolution doesn't know. It goes meh. Enter ambivalence. Lovely.
How about the turritopsis nutricula, or immortal jellyfish. It doesn't die of old age. It just doesn't. You, for instance, are probably living in a body that isn't keeping up with repairs. You are aging. It will kill you. This jellyfish doesn't age in one direction. It cycles. From maturity to immaturity, or, it goes from pre-to-post puberty... round and round. Hilarious, right?
So why isn't this a common biological move? What's the deal with aging? Can evolution account for that? Nah. At least, not particularly well.
I'll stop now, but I'll finish with this: I've noticed that, as I age, I keep sneaking towards certainties. So I must be on guard. I must actively combat this inertiatic move. And it's fun.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Allow me to answer your absurd question
I hate Canada. I hate you. Very different, right? Because with the latter, its so obvious what I'm talking about. I'm talking about you, shitbird. But the former, that's a mess. One definition of Canada is the way it is posed on a map. There is it, a jabillion square miles of land outlined on a paper or basketball-sized globe. But, to say "I hate Canada" is most certainly not a claim to my feelings about the land itself.
Instead, the claim of hating a country is a fantastic example of identifying something that really doesn't exist outside of yourself. The Canada that my example hates could only live within me. It's a feeling. Not a thing.
This morning I didn't have to work, and the weather wasn't amiable to gardening, so I took to the computer. I enjoyed some nonsense I found on Slate, a wonderfully silly online periodical (silliness example, from an article on spanking children: "So what’s the deal—are slaps on the tush OK if your children deserve it, or will it screw them up for life?" Oh gawd... is it okay to hit your kid on the ass if they deserve it. I love Slate, so sincerely idiotic).
The article was from a column called The Explainer: Answers to your questions about the news. And the headline's question was: Why did Hugo Chavez hate the United States so much? Before I say more, I'll say this: I don't know anything about Hugo Chavez, and I'm not interested in what he may have hated, or why. Here's how The Explainer commences:
As an aside, I love that the explanation begins by saying he's famous for anti-American rhetoric. It's a lovely arrangement of what is important. First sentence. What's he famous for? Anti-America. Hilarious.
And then the quotes. Oh, these are good. According to The Explainer, Chavez called the United States three things, and I'd like for you to conjure an image for each.
1) United States, bad person, please conjure an image.
2) An assassin, image please
3) A violent invader, image
For the first, I can't really get much of anything, at first, but then Ronald Reagan pops in my head. Aww, sorry Ron. That sucks. Of all the images, I get Ron Reagan. A shitbird, for sure, but to be the banner image for "America, bad person"... that's rough. Number two, I first came to a man in desert military fatigues crouching behind a big ass rock, giant sniper rifle in hand. Number three, I pictured a man who my brain labeled a rapist. He was probably 30ish years old, not fit, white guy, looked like shit (when I know perfectly well that a well-dressed fit-freak is just as likely to rape... goddamned appearance prejudice! Fuck!)
Ron Reagan, military sniper, rapist. Or, a high ranking politician I personally find to be unsavory, a paid killer, and the worst of the worst, the rapist. Thanks Hugo Chavez, I hate America too, now that I see what it really is.
But wait, says the astute reader, the United States isn't a person! Every image you just conjured was of an individual man. What the fuck are you talking about? Okay... okay...
The Explainer goes on to say that Chavez, as President of Venezuela, was unhappy with George W. Bush because of a rift over trade policy. And then its explained to the reader that:
And that's it, the explanation compares Chavez to Fidel Castro (they've both been to Yankee Stadium, me too!). And... take it to press. Explanation. Complete.Why does Hugo Chavez hate America so much? Because he broke-up with George Bush. Your absurd question has been answered.
To the comments! Obviously, a bunch of smarty-pants comments told The Explainer how flawed the explanation was. Thanks for nothing! They seemed to say. What about this and that! Does the name Marcos Perez Jimenez mean anything to you, dummy!
Against all good sense, I jump into the comment pool. I have a goal. I want to nudge the comments that suggest "we" have done all these terrible things, causing Chavez's so-called hate. Example: Impulse725 writes: I'm sure our habit of organizing coups, assassinating leaders, and destabilizing South America didn't factor into his dislike at all.
And I say something like: Our habit of doing all that? You assassinate leaders and organize coups?! Holy shit, that's fucking wild. I'm sipping whiskey and watching Iron Chef, I want to party with you, continent de-stabilizer.
In the effort to explain why, oh why, non-Americans dislike "America", the answer is already decided. The basic rhetorical move, question the question, isn't made. And seemingly well-meaning people say absurd shit because they're working with a broken premise: that something called "The United States" is capable of action. Not only is it capable of action, but it is also me! It isn't, obviously. Sure, people act, and the little people are taught to identify with the big-man... and voila, you asked why some guy hates something that doesn't exactly exist, I gave you an answer that followed its own bizarre logic, and we've confirmed it: Chavez hates America so much. So much.
Instead, the claim of hating a country is a fantastic example of identifying something that really doesn't exist outside of yourself. The Canada that my example hates could only live within me. It's a feeling. Not a thing.
This morning I didn't have to work, and the weather wasn't amiable to gardening, so I took to the computer. I enjoyed some nonsense I found on Slate, a wonderfully silly online periodical (silliness example, from an article on spanking children: "So what’s the deal—are slaps on the tush OK if your children deserve it, or will it screw them up for life?" Oh gawd... is it okay to hit your kid on the ass if they deserve it. I love Slate, so sincerely idiotic).
The article was from a column called The Explainer: Answers to your questions about the news. And the headline's question was: Why did Hugo Chavez hate the United States so much? Before I say more, I'll say this: I don't know anything about Hugo Chavez, and I'm not interested in what he may have hated, or why. Here's how The Explainer commences:
Hugo Chávez, the Venezuelan president famous for anti-American rhetoric, died Tuesday. He referred to the United States as “a bad person,” “an assassin,” and “a violent invader.”
As an aside, I love that the explanation begins by saying he's famous for anti-American rhetoric. It's a lovely arrangement of what is important. First sentence. What's he famous for? Anti-America. Hilarious.
And then the quotes. Oh, these are good. According to The Explainer, Chavez called the United States three things, and I'd like for you to conjure an image for each.
1) United States, bad person, please conjure an image.
2) An assassin, image please
3) A violent invader, image
For the first, I can't really get much of anything, at first, but then Ronald Reagan pops in my head. Aww, sorry Ron. That sucks. Of all the images, I get Ron Reagan. A shitbird, for sure, but to be the banner image for "America, bad person"... that's rough. Number two, I first came to a man in desert military fatigues crouching behind a big ass rock, giant sniper rifle in hand. Number three, I pictured a man who my brain labeled a rapist. He was probably 30ish years old, not fit, white guy, looked like shit (when I know perfectly well that a well-dressed fit-freak is just as likely to rape... goddamned appearance prejudice! Fuck!)
Ron Reagan, military sniper, rapist. Or, a high ranking politician I personally find to be unsavory, a paid killer, and the worst of the worst, the rapist. Thanks Hugo Chavez, I hate America too, now that I see what it really is.
But wait, says the astute reader, the United States isn't a person! Every image you just conjured was of an individual man. What the fuck are you talking about? Okay... okay...
The Explainer goes on to say that Chavez, as President of Venezuela, was unhappy with George W. Bush because of a rift over trade policy. And then its explained to the reader that:
Although Chávez and Bush made weak attempts at reconciliation at the meeting—they told each other they wanted to be “friends” on the summit’s final day—the meeting showed Chávez that his surest path to global significance was as an opponent of the United States. Chávez repeatedly claimed that the CIA was trying to assassinate him and that the United States attempted to oust him from office in 2002.Friends?! I'll show you friends!
And that's it, the explanation compares Chavez to Fidel Castro (they've both been to Yankee Stadium, me too!). And... take it to press. Explanation. Complete.Why does Hugo Chavez hate America so much? Because he broke-up with George Bush. Your absurd question has been answered.
To the comments! Obviously, a bunch of smarty-pants comments told The Explainer how flawed the explanation was. Thanks for nothing! They seemed to say. What about this and that! Does the name Marcos Perez Jimenez mean anything to you, dummy!
Against all good sense, I jump into the comment pool. I have a goal. I want to nudge the comments that suggest "we" have done all these terrible things, causing Chavez's so-called hate. Example: Impulse725 writes: I'm sure our habit of organizing coups, assassinating leaders, and destabilizing South America didn't factor into his dislike at all.
And I say something like: Our habit of doing all that? You assassinate leaders and organize coups?! Holy shit, that's fucking wild. I'm sipping whiskey and watching Iron Chef, I want to party with you, continent de-stabilizer.
In the effort to explain why, oh why, non-Americans dislike "America", the answer is already decided. The basic rhetorical move, question the question, isn't made. And seemingly well-meaning people say absurd shit because they're working with a broken premise: that something called "The United States" is capable of action. Not only is it capable of action, but it is also me! It isn't, obviously. Sure, people act, and the little people are taught to identify with the big-man... and voila, you asked why some guy hates something that doesn't exactly exist, I gave you an answer that followed its own bizarre logic, and we've confirmed it: Chavez hates America so much. So much.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
What kids will likely learn: Kill the right people
I'm watching the Superbowl! Whoo-hoo! Perhaps the most predictable spectacle imaginable, it's awesome.
Ray Lewis is very obnoxious. I just watched him explain how, since he is an instrument of God, he couldn't have been the one who killed a couple of guys. But, killing your enemies is not exactly verboten, rather, its thoroughly celebrated, sometimes. Had Lewis murdered a bunch of Afghan Madrasa students, well, that'd be pretty great. He'd be a hero. That's what kids are somewhat likely to learn, while watching the pre-game stories.
So wear a uniform, kill a foreigner (one opposed to global neoliberalism) and you can be a token hero. Kill a guy in a fight which smells of "gang" activity, and white people will sit in their living room and call you a thug, and ask you questions about it forever. Kill the right people, America.
Ray Lewis is very obnoxious. I just watched him explain how, since he is an instrument of God, he couldn't have been the one who killed a couple of guys. But, killing your enemies is not exactly verboten, rather, its thoroughly celebrated, sometimes. Had Lewis murdered a bunch of Afghan Madrasa students, well, that'd be pretty great. He'd be a hero. That's what kids are somewhat likely to learn, while watching the pre-game stories.
So wear a uniform, kill a foreigner (one opposed to global neoliberalism) and you can be a token hero. Kill a guy in a fight which smells of "gang" activity, and white people will sit in their living room and call you a thug, and ask you questions about it forever. Kill the right people, America.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Today disavowed yesterday
Driving on a dark back road, I was puzzled by the leaves. Are those leaves hopping? No, not leaves. Frogs. Like, uh, a million of em'. In January. The air busied itself to 73 degrees (6 degrees higher than ever recorded in this town) and a half inch of warm rain fell. There was a tornado warning. As the weather was typical for May, the frogs, understandably, came out of their pseudo-hibernation.
I was fixing new latches onto some of my greenhouse windows, today. It started to snow. Wind whistling. The work required dexterity which gloves blunt. I hurried my ass up so I could get inside before the pain in my finger tips became too much.
I was fixing new latches onto some of my greenhouse windows, today. It started to snow. Wind whistling. The work required dexterity which gloves blunt. I hurried my ass up so I could get inside before the pain in my finger tips became too much.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
The Magic in a Gesture
An exhilarating, emotional event is not always a good story to re-tell. Even if the event was full of drama and joy, like so many good stories. Because those moments that seem so special often operate by the logic of magic. And magic only works with incomplete understanding. If only we could leave it at that.
Tee vee programs specialize in presenting the angst surrounding virtues (vices too) in a story-form. Viewers tune in for their serial drama or comedy, where one or two virtues is confronted, circled, poked at, misunderstood, re-considered, and then wrapped up. It works well. Competent actors under the watch of writers and suits. The viewer knows this, and then somewhat intentionally forgets it, and that is, more or less, that. Its a good little trick. But there is another trick that the tee vee attempts, with much less success: to recreate what feels good about a "feel good" story.
Take the recent feel good case of Owen Groesser, the dedicated equipment manager for his middle school's basketball team. He has Down Syndrome. His mother asks the coach if Owen might wear the team uniform and play in a game, despite not being a player. The coach agrees, and makes some sort of an arrangement with the opposing coach. So Owen gets to play in the game. He makes a few shots. The crowd cheers enthusiastically. Smiles abound. And then tee vee shows up (via Twitter) to re-tell the tale.
Clearly stated: what was done for Owen was a very nice gesture — even if his mother instigating it makes it a little less cool. But regardless of how nice it was... it is a gesture. From medieval Latin gestura, from Latin gerere ‘bear, wield, perform.’ And a large number of "feel good" stories (hell... maybe most) seek to capture the effects of a gesture. A gesture which often seeks to make the impossible, possible.
So a gesture is a type of performance. Symbolic. A tool. For example: I want to express gratitude to a friend for helping me with something unpleasant. I take him out for a few drinks, dinner, pay the bill, pay for the cab, and my gratitude has been signified with food and banter. I don't even need to "say" thank you, I've signified with actions. A simple gesture. Or, a homeless family can be given a house on national television. Also a gesture.
Owen was unable to make the team. Everybody knows this. It is a "cut" league, serious business, so you don't get to play just by paying your entry fee. You must qualify to pay. And Owen didn't qualify. But the gesture invalidates that truth. Quite suddenly, Owen is on the team! Like magic.
The magic of a performance is easy to mess up. The other actors have to stay in character, and so does the audience — they have to know: this is special. This gesture rearranges normal. We ignore the sense that Owen being on the court isn't right. And then the curtain raises and its already happening. Owen is on the court. He's catching a pass. He's heaving the ball towards the hoop, and it falls in. A boy with down syndrome, who isn't on the team, is on the team, and he's scoring points. You see... magic.
But for the sake of all that is good, don't talk about it! Nothing robs the gesture of its magic like pointing out what is actually happening. So just enjoy it. Don't try to get on ESPN, just be happy it happened, magic doesn't reward the greedy. Because if you talk about it... if you make a big fuss and tell other people... well. The truth. Oh shit. The truth doesn't come out. Thankfully. But something does. And it's a huge pile of shit.
The pile is Amazing! He defies all odds! He's a superstar!
Oh. No. What just happened? Owen made two out of four shots in a middle school basketball game. It was not amazing because... Owen is a pretty decent shooter, according to his father, and the video I saw. The kid can shoot. Did he defy all odds? Well, this is inherently hyperbolic, but while the one-too-many chromosome crowd aren't the most athletic bunch... we're talking about basketball. A put-the-ball-in-the-goal game.
This video from Detroit's ABC affiliate, the news person says:
And then from the same segment, a teammate is interviewed:
I've probably given too many examples already, I'm arguing that a gesture can be really lovely, a beautiful thing. But talking about it, or trying to publicize it, or recreate it, destroys the moment by either:
A) pulling back the curtain. Explaining exactly what the gesture meant, and that it was a performance. Symbolic. And then the magic is gone.
B) Rather than destroy the magic, a bunch of nonsense hyperbole is presented as truth.
And once you're committed to the hyperbole, it's easy to lose a simple truth: trying to repeat a nice gesture, because it made YOU feel good, starts to look like charity. Owen was back on the court for the next game. Wearing his uniform. Catching a pass. Taking a shot. When Owen's shot failed to go in, the opposing team gathered the rebound, and returned the ball to their opponent. Owen missed another shot. The opposing team returned the ball. Keep shooting until you make it, was the new gesture. No longer could we have that moment of disbelief, when the impossible was possible. And the magic was gone, because everybody understood.
Tee vee programs specialize in presenting the angst surrounding virtues (vices too) in a story-form. Viewers tune in for their serial drama or comedy, where one or two virtues is confronted, circled, poked at, misunderstood, re-considered, and then wrapped up. It works well. Competent actors under the watch of writers and suits. The viewer knows this, and then somewhat intentionally forgets it, and that is, more or less, that. Its a good little trick. But there is another trick that the tee vee attempts, with much less success: to recreate what feels good about a "feel good" story.
Take the recent feel good case of Owen Groesser, the dedicated equipment manager for his middle school's basketball team. He has Down Syndrome. His mother asks the coach if Owen might wear the team uniform and play in a game, despite not being a player. The coach agrees, and makes some sort of an arrangement with the opposing coach. So Owen gets to play in the game. He makes a few shots. The crowd cheers enthusiastically. Smiles abound. And then tee vee shows up (via Twitter) to re-tell the tale.
Clearly stated: what was done for Owen was a very nice gesture — even if his mother instigating it makes it a little less cool. But regardless of how nice it was... it is a gesture. From medieval Latin gestura, from Latin gerere ‘bear, wield, perform.’ And a large number of "feel good" stories (hell... maybe most) seek to capture the effects of a gesture. A gesture which often seeks to make the impossible, possible.
So a gesture is a type of performance. Symbolic. A tool. For example: I want to express gratitude to a friend for helping me with something unpleasant. I take him out for a few drinks, dinner, pay the bill, pay for the cab, and my gratitude has been signified with food and banter. I don't even need to "say" thank you, I've signified with actions. A simple gesture. Or, a homeless family can be given a house on national television. Also a gesture.
Owen was unable to make the team. Everybody knows this. It is a "cut" league, serious business, so you don't get to play just by paying your entry fee. You must qualify to pay. And Owen didn't qualify. But the gesture invalidates that truth. Quite suddenly, Owen is on the team! Like magic.
The magic of a performance is easy to mess up. The other actors have to stay in character, and so does the audience — they have to know: this is special. This gesture rearranges normal. We ignore the sense that Owen being on the court isn't right. And then the curtain raises and its already happening. Owen is on the court. He's catching a pass. He's heaving the ball towards the hoop, and it falls in. A boy with down syndrome, who isn't on the team, is on the team, and he's scoring points. You see... magic.
But for the sake of all that is good, don't talk about it! Nothing robs the gesture of its magic like pointing out what is actually happening. So just enjoy it. Don't try to get on ESPN, just be happy it happened, magic doesn't reward the greedy. Because if you talk about it... if you make a big fuss and tell other people... well. The truth. Oh shit. The truth doesn't come out. Thankfully. But something does. And it's a huge pile of shit.
The pile is Amazing! He defies all odds! He's a superstar!
Oh. No. What just happened? Owen made two out of four shots in a middle school basketball game. It was not amazing because... Owen is a pretty decent shooter, according to his father, and the video I saw. The kid can shoot. Did he defy all odds? Well, this is inherently hyperbolic, but while the one-too-many chromosome crowd aren't the most athletic bunch... we're talking about basketball. A put-the-ball-in-the-goal game.
Eighth-grader Owen Groesser always knew he had what it takes to be a superstar and that’s what he has become. (Los Angeles Daily News)A superstar? Again, I get that overstatement happens, but in these cases, the absurdity is necessary to avoid the limits of the story.
This video from Detroit's ABC affiliate, the news person says:
The sincere care for this kid, who happens to have Down Syndrome, was unbelievable, and would make anyone witnessing these acts of kindness shed a tear.The casualness of "who happens to have Down Syndrome" makes this fact sound incidental, rather than essential. The whole idea is that Owen was unable to make the team because of his genetic disability, no fault of his own. And the hyperbole about the crying...
And then from the same segment, a teammate is interviewed:
I think its a good experience for our team and our school, for somebody to show that anything is possible, no matter what kind of disability you have.Again, while this boy is saying a nice thing, it's also nonsense. Nothing about the evening proved that anything is possible.
I've probably given too many examples already, I'm arguing that a gesture can be really lovely, a beautiful thing. But talking about it, or trying to publicize it, or recreate it, destroys the moment by either:
A) pulling back the curtain. Explaining exactly what the gesture meant, and that it was a performance. Symbolic. And then the magic is gone.
B) Rather than destroy the magic, a bunch of nonsense hyperbole is presented as truth.
And once you're committed to the hyperbole, it's easy to lose a simple truth: trying to repeat a nice gesture, because it made YOU feel good, starts to look like charity. Owen was back on the court for the next game. Wearing his uniform. Catching a pass. Taking a shot. When Owen's shot failed to go in, the opposing team gathered the rebound, and returned the ball to their opponent. Owen missed another shot. The opposing team returned the ball. Keep shooting until you make it, was the new gesture. No longer could we have that moment of disbelief, when the impossible was possible. And the magic was gone, because everybody understood.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Entangled
Everything is owned. Every. Thing. With
the exception of "trash", which can best be thought of as anti-property:
not worth owning. So I'll adjust:
Everything worth owning is owned. But, it's easy to see that many things that are worth owning — to somebody, somewhere — are nevertheless tossed away as trash, and this is owed, rather simply, to convenience. Craigslist Free and the like create a new convenience (in which someone else — worse off than you, ostensibly) comes and takes your trash, shrinking the trash pile a bit, but still the trash piles and piles.
When the moments feels right, I tell youngens that they live in a world where absolutely everything is owned, and if not owned in the traditional sense of "that is mine, take your grubbies off", then regulated. I ask for counterexamples, "tell me I'm missing something", I'll request, "tell me there are some things that aren't "owned".
The air. I get that a lot. Obviously, that is both regulated and owned based on where that air happens to be. Next...
Me! I'm not owned!
Ahem... I wouldn't be quite so sure... please reference your parents. school. and eventually (and quite sadly, if you're lucky) an employer.
I enjoy the definition of employ:
The most common — give work to someone and pay them for it — isn't terribly enjoyable, but push a little further...
To keep occupied Or make use of. What an adjustment to a conversation. "Does someone/thing make use of you?" to replace, "what do you do?" and "are you employed?" That's very nice. A nice undermining, indeed.
Go back a bit more, and we find those straight-shootin' Latins whose implicari is allegedly the root of employ. Implicari is to be involved with or attached to. Attached to. In a world where everything is owned, the vast majority of us born debtors, being attached to a creditor is a winning strategy. The Land of the Free, some say.
Finally, this dictionary steers me to a 16th/17th sense of the word employ, a feeling which employees inherently commiserate: entanglement. To be employed is to be entangled. Twisted into a net. Involved in complicated circumstances that are difficult to understand or escape. This idea, a base quality of everyday life, something that I suppose is too jarring to easily accept: our very ability to obtain the necessities of life requires becoming entangled — caught! And put to work for money.
I'm ready for a promotion.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Good To The Last Drop (and then...)
I can participate on existing terms: "Yeah, Obama let us down but he's better than the alternative!" Jesus. I'd rather put a bullet in my head than utter such a thing — not because I have an opinion about Obama but because the very assumptions this utterance enjoys begin from a very different place than I begin.
I can try to change the terms of the discussion: "Well, what do we want from a president? Are these things even possible? What is the role of the government?" But then I'm exhausted and feel like a douchebag — probably because, in that situation, I am one. Such behavior is not socially acceptable.
I'm not saying I know any more than other people. In fact, I know less. I'm just saying that it would be nice if, in general, our collective discourse embraced a certain criticality in which questioning assumptions wasn't met with so much hostility and, worse, annoyance and befuddlement. Imagine, just for a moment, if you went to a party of strangers and the very way in which people discussed life — love, politics, art — was surprising! And you were invited to have your own strange perspective!- Daniel Coffeen
In all of the descriptions of perilous situations that I have studied, arising during adventures on the high seas or in the high mountains, or during armed conflict, a single mistake rarely proves fatal. More often than not, death comes as a result of a sequence of bad choices which reinforce each other. These choices may not appear bad at the time—but they certainly do in retrospect! The end result is a situation in which no further steps can be taken that would not be either harmful or futile. This is the essence of checkmate: no moves left. At that point, none of the previous moves can be undone. Nor do they even exist, really: they have gone off to an imaginary universe populated by the regretful ghosts of those who didn't make it.- Dmitry Orlov
I had been considering "depletion" this morning. From the latin plere (to fill), with a de in front. Rather incorrectly, with a sidecar of embarrassment, I got myself in the jerkoff position of considering my life, my existence, as something that is being depleted. Meaning: I was thinking how I'm "running out" of life. Now, this is a very silly way to think of Time and its ways... but of course, Time is not terribly easy to think about (how would I know?).
The impetus for this contemplation was Part "Fuck IT!" from the bestselling series, "Rich People = Control of Energy". This installment peeked at Infill Drilling Optimization which is a means to keeping an existing oil field at its highest daily production for the longest time possible, and then production completely collapses... very very quickly. Despite modest efforts towards avoiding such a process (you should see this garden I'm stewarding) it is clear that I am doing essentially the same thing: keeping my material/energy consumption standard of living as high as possible — for as long as possible. This is not a good idea. And yet, like a tee vee addict (or any addict) who knows their addiction is not serving them well, the addiction is — at least to some extent — all I know, and re-becoming "me" (which is very necessary since current "me" is too often paralyzed) requires the type of attentiveness that I'm a bit to weak (or a bit too something) to stick to.
My daily tool against this weakness/something is to look around more often (I figure this is a low energy activity, and one that I enjoy quite a bit). Anecdotally, I'm guessing restructuring my "free" time first, and then work towards the more rigid "unfree" time in which the human monoculture takes a bite out of my ass, is the way to go. I can't abandon the ass-biting if I'm lost without it.
Here are my moves, and I'll happily take suggestions for new ways of looking:
1) Go horizontal: lots of laying down outside, the middle of the kitchen floor, etc.
2) Get high: slightly dangerous, but climbing on the roof and easy-to-ascend trees is a favorite
3) Stare: this one gets me all jazzed up, staring makes the normal go away
4) Strobe effect: slightly dangerous here as well, move quickly with eyes closed, open... close and move again
Sunday, April 1, 2012
The day moves along
Fundamentally our actions are in an incomparable manner altogether personal, unique and absolutely individual there is no doubt about it; but as soon as we translate them into consciousness, they do not appear so any longer.
This is the proper phenomenalism and perspectivism as I understand it: the nature of animal consciousness involves the notion that the world of which we can become conscious is only a superficial and symbolic world, a generalised and vulgarised world; that everything which becomes conscious becomes just thereby shallow, meagre, relatively stupid, a generalisation, a symbol, a characteristic of the herd; that with the evolving of consciousness there is always combined a great, radical perversion, falsification, superficialisation, and generalisation.
Finally, the growing consciousness is a danger, and whoever lives among the most conscious Europeans knows even that it is a disease.
As may be conjectured, it is not the antithesis of subject and object with which I am here concerned: I leave that distinction to the epistemologists who have remained entangled in the toils of grammar (popular metaphysics).
It is still less the antithesis of "thing in itself" and phenomenon, for we do not "know" enough to be entitled even to make such a distinction. Indeed, we have not any organ at all for knowledge or for "truth": we "know" (or believe, or imagine) just as much as may be of use in the interest of the human herd, the species; and even what is here called "usefulness" is ultimately only a belief, something fanciful and perhaps precisely the most fatal stupidity by which we shall one day perish.
Nietzsche
This is the proper phenomenalism and perspectivism as I understand it: the nature of animal consciousness involves the notion that the world of which we can become conscious is only a superficial and symbolic world, a generalised and vulgarised world; that everything which becomes conscious becomes just thereby shallow, meagre, relatively stupid, a generalisation, a symbol, a characteristic of the herd; that with the evolving of consciousness there is always combined a great, radical perversion, falsification, superficialisation, and generalisation.
Finally, the growing consciousness is a danger, and whoever lives among the most conscious Europeans knows even that it is a disease.
As may be conjectured, it is not the antithesis of subject and object with which I am here concerned: I leave that distinction to the epistemologists who have remained entangled in the toils of grammar (popular metaphysics).
It is still less the antithesis of "thing in itself" and phenomenon, for we do not "know" enough to be entitled even to make such a distinction. Indeed, we have not any organ at all for knowledge or for "truth": we "know" (or believe, or imagine) just as much as may be of use in the interest of the human herd, the species; and even what is here called "usefulness" is ultimately only a belief, something fanciful and perhaps precisely the most fatal stupidity by which we shall one day perish.
Nietzsche
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Kicking the ladder after y'all done climbing OR Obama makes a funny face
I am endlessly amused by The ""United"" States ""economic"" policy (double quotes for double bullshit).
To read that the bosses have Obama and pals suing (fucking suing!) the Chinese boss men for protecting their rare-earths-fuel-modern-life goodies is just endlessly fucking enjoyable.
It's like, Protectionism is really fucking great until you're ready to go bully some bitches... then it's time to get yo' free trade on.
My sides are split. Check the LA Times story to see Obama's hilarious mug.
To read that the bosses have Obama and pals suing (fucking suing!) the Chinese boss men for protecting their rare-earths-fuel-modern-life goodies is just endlessly fucking enjoyable.
It's like, Protectionism is really fucking great until you're ready to go bully some bitches... then it's time to get yo' free trade on.
My sides are split. Check the LA Times story to see Obama's hilarious mug.
Friday, March 2, 2012
You Will Never Die
I know this is meant to be sincere, but I thought it was some pretty goddamned funny gallows humor. I'm heading to the New York Times to do something more embarrassing than simply reading the New York Times, and I see an undeniable opine called: The Best Part About Global Warming.
But at least people with cancer aren't going to die from the flu. New York City will cease to be a home for millions of people, as they'll all be dead or fleeing... but fuck if I hate the idea of being stuck in bed battling a sickness that is related to temperature.
This fuck actually wrote: giving up sledding isn't so bad because people with HIV won't die from the flu quite so much. People with HIV... won't die... from the flu... quite so much.
By this shitbirds logic: warmer weather means less influenza. Got me thinking, if the sun went away, there wouldn't be so much skin cancer... not bad, eh? Here's the line before the curtain falls on this gem of denial:
Shocking swiftness! Hear me out on this one, shitbirds: there are 7 billion humans on this planet. And last year-ish, 2010, the global population grew by 1.1%. Through the wonders of simple math, if that 1.1% were to hold steady — neither rising or falling, there would be 14 billion people on the planet in 63 years, or 2075. We all seem to "get" that 14 billion isn't happening, so growth will collapse, meaning death will reign supreme... and yet... the best thing about global warmingStill, when one considers those who are most likely to die from influenza, often with shocking swiftness — children, the elderly, cancer and H.I.V. patients, pregnant women — the weather this winter comes to seem like a very cheerful development indeed. Even the loss of a season’s sledding, you might say, is a small price to pay.
But at least people with cancer aren't going to die from the flu. New York City will cease to be a home for millions of people, as they'll all be dead or fleeing... but fuck if I hate the idea of being stuck in bed battling a sickness that is related to temperature.
This fuck actually wrote: giving up sledding isn't so bad because people with HIV won't die from the flu quite so much. People with HIV... won't die... from the flu... quite so much.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Please, my goodness please... end the intern[m]e[n]t.
I'll quote Nietzsche, I think:
Something that has failed should be all the more honored just because it has failed — this agrees much better with my morality. — "God"
Does anyone has any... uh... ideas regarding how I might destroy the internet from, you know, outside the internet... I did put "The Martix" in my library queue, but if memory serves me, that movie was more of an inspirational bit than a how-to.
Seriously, the internet is awful. Go away.
Something that has failed should be all the more honored just because it has failed — this agrees much better with my morality. — "God"
Does anyone has any... uh... ideas regarding how I might destroy the internet from, you know, outside the internet... I did put "The Martix" in my library queue, but if memory serves me, that movie was more of an inspirational bit than a how-to.
Seriously, the internet is awful. Go away.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
David Graeber is Funny
Stinkin' thrilled the Sun God is keeping longer hours (my normal not-so-stable ways are tailspun by 8 hours of daylight), the chickens are ostensibly responding to the extra bits of lightlove, as eggs are back in regular creation. I've been reading Debt: The First 5,000 Years and much like a clump of essays bundled under the title Revolution in Reverse, Graeber is amusing, especially in the notes section — the polite (or not) take-down being his forte, this one cracked me up:
I want to share the terrifying response to a infrastructural breakdown in town yesterday, real quick: the local grocery store shut-down, resulting from this problem (which will most certainly be more regular and longer lasting in the near future). After being turned away, very politely by a store-worker, I hung out for a minute to see how my neighbors would respond. Rage. Angry fucks. Shock. I can't choose from almost-everything-I-can-imagine-eating!?!? Ahhhh!!! If this was enough to get folk all riled up, a chilling scene, for those of us who see various "disruptions" as the mode of the future times.
As I remarked earlier, both Adam Smith and Nietzsche thus anticipate Levi-Strauss's famous argument that language is the "exchange of words." The remarkable thing here is that so many have managed to convince themselves that in all this, Nietzsche is providing a radical alternative to bourgeois ideology, even to the logic of exchange. Deleuze and Guattari, most embarrassingly, insist that "the great book of modern ethnology is not so much Mauss' The Gift as Nietzsche's On the Genealogy of Morals. At least it should be," since, they say, Nietzsche succeeds in interpreting "primitive society" in terms of debt, where Mauss still hesitates to break with the logic of exchange. On their inspiration, Sarthou-Lajus has written philosophy of debt as an alternative to bourgeois ideologies of exchange, that, she claims, assume the prior autonomy of the person. Of course what Nietzsche proposes is not an alternative at all. It's another aspect of the same thing. All this is a vivid reminder of how easy it is to mistake radicalized forms of our own bourgeois tradition as alternatives to it (Bataille [1993], who Deleuze and Guttari praise as another alternative to Mauss in the same passage, is another notorious example of this sort of thing).Perhaps not a passage that will cause you to run to the bookstore (maybe crab-walk) so here's another I just enjoyed:
Similar ideas have become the basis of that most basic, dominant institution of our present economic life: wage labor, which is, effectively, the renting of our freedom in the same way that slavery can be conceived as its sale. It's not only our freedoms that we own; the same logic has come to be applied even to our own bodies, which are treated, in such formulations, as really no different than houses, cars, or furniture. We own ourselves, therefore outsiders have no right to trespass on us. Again, this might seem an innocuous, even a positive notion, but it looks rather different when we take into consideration the Roman tradition of property on which it is based. To say that we own ourselves is, oddly enough, to cast ourselves as both master and slave simultaneously. "We" are both owners (exerting absolute power over our property) and yet somehow, at the same time, the things being owned (being the object of absolute power). The ancient Roman household, far from having been forgotten in the mists of history, is preserved in our most basic conception of ourselves—and, once again, just as in property law, the result is so strangely incoherent that it spins off into endless paradoxes the moment one tries to figure out what it would actually mean in practice. Just as lawyers have spent a thousand years trying to make sense of Roman property concepts, so have philosophers spent centuries trying to understand how it could be possible for us to have a relation of domination over ourselves. The most popular solution—to say that each of us has something called a "mind" and that this is completely separate from something else, which we can call "the body," and that the first thing holds natural dominion over the second—flies in the face of just about everything we know about cognitive science. It's obviously untrue, but we continue to hold onto it anyway, for the simple reason that none of our everyday assumptions about property, law, and freedom would make any sense without it.See, kinda funny, right? Not more than a few pages go by without him making light of us confused you-mans.
I want to share the terrifying response to a infrastructural breakdown in town yesterday, real quick: the local grocery store shut-down, resulting from this problem (which will most certainly be more regular and longer lasting in the near future). After being turned away, very politely by a store-worker, I hung out for a minute to see how my neighbors would respond. Rage. Angry fucks. Shock. I can't choose from almost-everything-I-can-imagine-eating!?!? Ahhhh!!! If this was enough to get folk all riled up, a chilling scene, for those of us who see various "disruptions" as the mode of the future times.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
"They" get "us" with their words
"Spill" is tangled with intent. And the way intent is used — particularly in the tales of war-death-destruction-despair — is often misleading (see, right there, the way I used misleading... is very misleading).
Easy example: when I make cocktails, I'm very often shaking for four. Squeezing four drinks into one batch brings the spirits near the stainless steel brim — the danger zone. When straining the sweet relief into glasses, some initial spillage can be expected — you know how this works... the shaker is just a little too full, the liquids surge to the edge, and if I don't pour fast enough, some of that icy tequila is going to run down the side of the shaker, de-stressing the tabletop. So... did I spill? Of course not. I had too much booze in the shaker to avoid the small spill, I knew this, and poured it anyway.
If the result of an action is known, speaking of intent is nonsense.
So when Royal Dutch Shellspills dumps oil onto West African land and water... every. single. day... it is not doing so by accident — therefore spill confuses what actually happened (which, of course, is in the interests of Royal Dutch Shell and the Culture of Destruction). As always, the ethical standards of having a Blogger account are high, so I'll be fair with Shell:
Which brings me to Santa's big gift (assuming, like me, your portfolio is heavy on uranium futures), the new Westinghouse AP1000 is approved and ready to boil! I love the blue, but why did they do the outside in brown? Hopefully they'll have more colors for next year's model. At least it's safe:
Well, if Dr. Jaczko (he is a doctor, I hope) thinks the safety margins are enhanced... and it's airplane-proof... we can get back to designing the signs that will remain coherent for... for... forever. It really sums it all up, does it not? A culture that can create death on a chronological scale so hilariously vast that it feels compelled (it's the right thing to do) to pass along warnings to our — it'll take you about 45 minutes, but please say "great" about 3,000 times — grandchildren. They are the future.
Nuclear Power is almost all-the-way-back. O-Bah-Ma, O-Bah-Ma, O-Bah-Ma
Easy example: when I make cocktails, I'm very often shaking for four. Squeezing four drinks into one batch brings the spirits near the stainless steel brim — the danger zone. When straining the sweet relief into glasses, some initial spillage can be expected — you know how this works... the shaker is just a little too full, the liquids surge to the edge, and if I don't pour fast enough, some of that icy tequila is going to run down the side of the shaker, de-stressing the tabletop. So... did I spill? Of course not. I had too much booze in the shaker to avoid the small spill, I knew this, and poured it anyway.
If the result of an action is known, speaking of intent is nonsense.
So when Royal Dutch Shell
Apparently predicting interest in the spill would grow, Shell already had taken out Internet advertising Thursday on search engines, directing those searching for the spill to their website. Jonathan French, a Shell spokesman in London, said the advertising came in the "interests of full transparency" so people can read the company's updates on the spill.
But the chairman of the commission, Gregory B. Jaczko, said that all of the panel’s safety concerns had been fully addressed.
“The design provides enhanced safety margins through use of simplified, inherent, passive, or other innovative safety and security functions, and also has been assessed to ensure it could withstand damage from an aircraft impact without significant release of radioactive materials,-” he said in a statement.
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| Warning: Pass this point, and your face will look like mine |
Nuclear Power is almost all-the-way-back. O-Bah-Ma, O-Bah-Ma, O-Bah-Ma
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Birth of a Ham Monster: Seeking, Eradicating, Balancing Desire
The black cat — prodigious leaper, lover and fighter, combatant in games of "chicken" played against actual chickens — has been consumed by a new desire. Ham. He tasted ham, chewed ham, swallowed ham... and then something happened. The experience required repeating. It wouldn't be "nice" to have a little more ham some time, the strong-legged cat doesn't simply respond positively to the offer of ham, he pursues it. He requires it. Without it, he cannot be content. So what does he do? He sits at the refrigerator. And he demands to have his desire satisfied. For five years, this cat has known where his food is kept, yet, he never showed any desire for it. He ate it. Sure. But he didn't desire it... why not? Desire? What could I mean...
I like desire as: an expression of a need to pursue that which is required. In other words, something you need (not want) but don't always or easily obtain.
The black cat always had his regular, everyday food. It sits in two places: wet food in the kitchen, dry food on the shelves outside the bathroom door. Ham doesn't follow this pattern. Ham is kept away, in a massive, mysterious, humming tank. So, I ask: is the black cat in a "good" situation. Should I, as keeper-of-the-ham, nurture this, or find a way to end it?
Recently, quite recently, I was informed — by a very confident person — that "people" should eliminate desire. I didn't know what the fuck they were talking about, so I asked: huh? To which I received a reply along the lines of: be content with what you have, satisfy your basic needs, and wish for no more.
Now, I know (I think I know) what they were selling: a fairly standard anti-consumerism idea. These are common messages, no? "If you think that the new car or new gadget will make you happy, you're mistaken!" And, of course, relationships with other subjectivities certainly offers a more varied experience than relationships with objects, like cars or telephones. But what about desire? I think the complexities that desire induces can be quite delightful. An example:
I desire — require but can not always have — at least an hour of alone time everyday. Some days (such as today) this is very easy to come by, and others (like tomorrow) it simply is not going to happen. But wait a second! Surely, if I require some alone time, I'll get it, right? Easy enough. All of tomorrow's car-travel, chit-chat, family time... just skip out on some of it. And I could do that — what is stopping me? Desire! A competing desire. A desire to have the family not think I'm a disagreeable asshole, incapable of going-along with the structure of family days. This is something I require (truly, despite all evidence to the contrary, if I couldn't at least obtain the status of: not a completely disagree asshole... this would be an unsettling situation).
Leaving me with this: Desire is delightful, it requires we pay attention to our own needs, and make compromises and adjustments when desires come into conflict. This is a life, conflicting desires. As for the cat, well, I require a sense that I'm feeding the cat food that won't result in bad health (salted cured meats probably fit the bill) but I also require that he shut the fuck up, so here comes some ham, Ham Monster.
I like desire as: an expression of a need to pursue that which is required. In other words, something you need (not want) but don't always or easily obtain.
The black cat always had his regular, everyday food. It sits in two places: wet food in the kitchen, dry food on the shelves outside the bathroom door. Ham doesn't follow this pattern. Ham is kept away, in a massive, mysterious, humming tank. So, I ask: is the black cat in a "good" situation. Should I, as keeper-of-the-ham, nurture this, or find a way to end it?
Recently, quite recently, I was informed — by a very confident person — that "people" should eliminate desire. I didn't know what the fuck they were talking about, so I asked: huh? To which I received a reply along the lines of: be content with what you have, satisfy your basic needs, and wish for no more.
Now, I know (I think I know) what they were selling: a fairly standard anti-consumerism idea. These are common messages, no? "If you think that the new car or new gadget will make you happy, you're mistaken!" And, of course, relationships with other subjectivities certainly offers a more varied experience than relationships with objects, like cars or telephones. But what about desire? I think the complexities that desire induces can be quite delightful. An example:
I desire — require but can not always have — at least an hour of alone time everyday. Some days (such as today) this is very easy to come by, and others (like tomorrow) it simply is not going to happen. But wait a second! Surely, if I require some alone time, I'll get it, right? Easy enough. All of tomorrow's car-travel, chit-chat, family time... just skip out on some of it. And I could do that — what is stopping me? Desire! A competing desire. A desire to have the family not think I'm a disagreeable asshole, incapable of going-along with the structure of family days. This is something I require (truly, despite all evidence to the contrary, if I couldn't at least obtain the status of: not a completely disagree asshole... this would be an unsettling situation).
Leaving me with this: Desire is delightful, it requires we pay attention to our own needs, and make compromises and adjustments when desires come into conflict. This is a life, conflicting desires. As for the cat, well, I require a sense that I'm feeding the cat food that won't result in bad health (salted cured meats probably fit the bill) but I also require that he shut the fuck up, so here comes some ham, Ham Monster.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Ripley's: In some parts of the world, the rulers make the peons do shit they don't want to do?
North Korean honcho dead, what have we learned? New Yorker knows (fun and easy game: change the proper nouns to make these nonsense sentiments sum-up Modern Death Captialism and the waking reality of the American Non-Dream):
Mandatory public crying. Those three words sum up about as tidily as possible the ghastly bondage—the incessant psychic and physical torture—that the Kim dynasty has made the North Korean way of life for more than half a century. No sooner did the state news agency release the news of Kim Jong-il’s death than the public plazas of Pyongyang began to fill with neatly assembled ranks of citizens, weeping and wailing on command, while state television recorded the spectacle, which was promptly uploaded to YouTube. Early in the most heavily circulated clip, the fakeness of the grieving is obvious: you can see the captive mourners forcing the sobs, moaning unconvincingly, and squeezing their eyes to produce tears. But by about half way through the clip, the atmosphere of absolute bereavement looks real: men and women prostrate themselves, writhing and howling in what appears to be acute and authentic agony. Here in the space of just a few minutes of videotape we see the method and the madness of the Kims’ grim dominion over North Korea enacted in miniature—we watch a lie become reality.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
To the embassy!
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| Got it from Getty Images |
Friday, November 18, 2011
Science, you are the worst, please go away
Here's a definition that, with a reading or two, reveals the pathology of SCIENCE!! Ready to define? (a very scientific activity, no?)
The intellectual and practical activity encompassing the systematic study of the structure and behavior of the physical and natural world through observation and experiment.
Like a sadistic stalker, who can find no pleasure unless it "knows" its subject... SCIENCE!! I'm more than a little pissed that it's so hard to de-bug my system, for you — SCIENCE!! — have fucked me up good.
This is, as I recall, what happened to me:
4 days ago, I lamented that a green mug — nice for tea drinkin' — had gone missing. The powerful one and I looked around for it... didn't find it. That was that... who gives a shit? Just a mug. I think nothing of it.
I shower Thursday morning. When I'm dried and ready for clothes, I make my way to the pants drawer. In this drawer, I have maybe 8 pairs of folded pants. But this time, I have maybe 8 pairs of pants and... and And AND... the green mug — sitting, as if nothing were a bother, upon my pants pile.
This freaks me out a bit. I wake up the powerful one — not very subtly, I'll add — demanding to know: Did you find the green mug? Did you find the green mug? Groggy, the powerful one tells me she did not.
It's in my pants drawer! How did it get here? And it's not just in there... it's sitting on top!
I'll throw out a few possibilities:
1) I found the mug (which I don't remember doing) and I decided to place it in the pants drawer (don't remember doing) and then I went ahead and put it there (obviously).
This is surely not impossible, but I don't have a history (how would I know?) of doing things I don't remember doing (I know, I know)
2) The powerful one, or the roommate found it, put it in the drawer, and lied to me about it — as they're both humans, they're certainly liars... but they're terrible liars, and I can't put any faith in this possibility.
3) A human or animal put it there, without being noticed, or informing anyone that they're "into" sneaking into rooms, and putting mugs in drawers.
4) Magic? Spirits? Whatever, you want to call it. Note: I am not saying that the green mug mystery is inexplicable. Absolutely not. What I am saying: I lack the knowledge or wisdom to explain it.
Literally, I am incapable of understanding what happened. That's the explanation I prefer, and believe to be "correct". Something happened beyond my ability to know or comprehend.
Also, that this the conspicuous movement of the mug is a message, from someone or something that wanted to send me a message, saying, roughly:
Attention Jerkoff Cyborg: You know nothing. You don't know how to listen. If you learn to listen, you might be able to learn a thing or two, perhaps even develop a relationship with other things in this world... but as of right now, you're a fucking idiot. Enjoy, Mover-of-the-mug.
The intellectual and practical activity encompassing the systematic study of the structure and behavior of the physical and natural world through observation and experiment.
Like a sadistic stalker, who can find no pleasure unless it "knows" its subject... SCIENCE!! I'm more than a little pissed that it's so hard to de-bug my system, for you — SCIENCE!! — have fucked me up good.
This is, as I recall, what happened to me:
4 days ago, I lamented that a green mug — nice for tea drinkin' — had gone missing. The powerful one and I looked around for it... didn't find it. That was that... who gives a shit? Just a mug. I think nothing of it.
I shower Thursday morning. When I'm dried and ready for clothes, I make my way to the pants drawer. In this drawer, I have maybe 8 pairs of folded pants. But this time, I have maybe 8 pairs of pants and... and And AND... the green mug — sitting, as if nothing were a bother, upon my pants pile.
This freaks me out a bit. I wake up the powerful one — not very subtly, I'll add — demanding to know: Did you find the green mug? Did you find the green mug? Groggy, the powerful one tells me she did not.
It's in my pants drawer! How did it get here? And it's not just in there... it's sitting on top!
I'll throw out a few possibilities:
1) I found the mug (which I don't remember doing) and I decided to place it in the pants drawer (don't remember doing) and then I went ahead and put it there (obviously).
This is surely not impossible, but I don't have a history (how would I know?) of doing things I don't remember doing (I know, I know)
2) The powerful one, or the roommate found it, put it in the drawer, and lied to me about it — as they're both humans, they're certainly liars... but they're terrible liars, and I can't put any faith in this possibility.
3) A human or animal put it there, without being noticed, or informing anyone that they're "into" sneaking into rooms, and putting mugs in drawers.
4) Magic? Spirits? Whatever, you want to call it. Note: I am not saying that the green mug mystery is inexplicable. Absolutely not. What I am saying: I lack the knowledge or wisdom to explain it.
Literally, I am incapable of understanding what happened. That's the explanation I prefer, and believe to be "correct". Something happened beyond my ability to know or comprehend.
Also, that this the conspicuous movement of the mug is a message, from someone or something that wanted to send me a message, saying, roughly:
Attention Jerkoff Cyborg: You know nothing. You don't know how to listen. If you learn to listen, you might be able to learn a thing or two, perhaps even develop a relationship with other things in this world... but as of right now, you're a fucking idiot. Enjoy, Mover-of-the-mug.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Game Over (or not). Is this a good game?
Sooo... it's Barry O's turn to roll the dice and move his pieces: shake shake shake click dick rest... a six! What will he do? Troops to Australia? Uh... okay... okay... let me think for a minute. Eureka!!
Nice move Barry O, nice move indeed, get the good boys a little closer to our precious Uranium — well done! Everybody who loves lots of energy cheer for Barry! (deafening fucking roar)
India gets their peaceful uranium, we sure as shit already have ours locked up, but now we can sleep a little easier knowing our precious uranium is safe... so safe. And since nobody gives a shit about Fuku... Fuku... ah, I can't remember, uranium prices have been spiking lately... and that's all well and good — probably a money-making-opportunity!
Afterward, I got a chance to chat with the good President Obama about his lucky six:
So tell me President/Viceroy, why Australia?
President Obama: Well, the Ruskies have fucked us pretty good on the natural gas ball field. Their God-less Team Gazprom are exceptionally well-coached, very disciplined, and hey... what can I say, they've got an ass ton of natural gas talent — between the Ruskies, the lil' Ruskies, and those evil Iranians, they've really got us over a pipeline, you know? (gets a little squirmy) The Nabucco pipeline was a Hail-Mary (crosses himself, awkwardly) and we fucked it up good... what good is a big ass pipeline if we don't have any gas to put in it? We're a little embarrassed to have overlooked that detail.
Anyway, so yeah... how bout that six I rolled? Australia! We're all really excited.
Mr. Viceroy, can you stay for one more question?
Viceroy Obama: As long as you don't ask me about the shit normal people whine and complain about... I have to talk about that bullshit all afternoon (rolls his eyes)
No, no, no... of course not. Our viewers aren't interested in any of that, rather, we want to know, what's the latest on Pipeline XL?
President Obama (fighting a big shit-eating grin): Oh, come on now (gives me a light punch on the shoulder) you know we're "reviewing" (actually makes air quotes) all those tough issues, I'm sure a well-intentioned meeting of the minds, get everyone around the same table, and we'll put any concerns about XL (makes a "raise the roof" gesture... dating himself) to rest. XL! EX L!
A comment on the above silliness:
The energy and resource game will continue. The wealthy ventriloquists will get their dummies to say exactly what they'd like, and another beer will be removed from the fridge.
A lack of imagination and motivation means — for now — everyone keeps going to work. The machine continues.
Will I let my job-self cannibalize my "real"-self (quotes note the absurdity of the dissonance) in exchange for a psychically numbed existence and life-sustaining-"resources"? My answer is: hopefully not for much longer... but YES. And I'm supposed to be a radical, or something? Bullshit.
Other than under it's own weight: clean water dirty or gone, healthy soil a memory no one has, and energy sources burned up (which is coming soon enough, and all the pain that comes with):
These systems will only collapse — ONLY (that's right, making a big claim) — when hundreds of millions (yep) people decide they no longer want to play. They no longer want to sell their time. They no longer want an utterly destructive job (teaching school, for example) to cannibalize their very existence in exchange for access to the resources which facilitate a refrigerated existence. Obviously, that breaking point could come quickly... but as of now... NOT EVEN FUCKING CLOSE! Am I wrong?
And with good reason: the system cares for us. It gives us our food, our water, our stuff, our identity (who is to say it's bad?). And it — very conveniently — makes it almost impossible (or at least foolish for a homo economicus) to go another route — the road less traveled is closed. The social hurdle is fucking enormous. The logistical-avoid-being-arrested-for-not-following-the-rules hurdle is nearly as high.
So shut the fuck up about all this bullshit, and expose yourself (that's right) and others to the fucking nightmare that is modern life. Smash a strangers phone and tell them, you're welcome. Stomp on Richard Dawkins toes. Do not vote for someone who is designed to represent you and millions of other people that will never come into contact with each other. The next time you hear someone ask a child, "what do you want to be when you grow up" (and the answer is obviously supposed to be a job... what job do you want TO BE), scream in that person's face: YOU. ARE. A. FUCKING. ZOMBIE. Leave that little human alone.
At the very least, it'll break the monotony.
Nice move Barry O, nice move indeed, get the good boys a little closer to our precious Uranium — well done! Everybody who loves lots of energy cheer for Barry! (deafening fucking roar)
India gets their peaceful uranium, we sure as shit already have ours locked up, but now we can sleep a little easier knowing our precious uranium is safe... so safe. And since nobody gives a shit about Fuku... Fuku... ah, I can't remember, uranium prices have been spiking lately... and that's all well and good — probably a money-making-opportunity!
Afterward, I got a chance to chat with the good President Obama about his lucky six:
So tell me President/Viceroy, why Australia?
President Obama: Well, the Ruskies have fucked us pretty good on the natural gas ball field. Their God-less Team Gazprom are exceptionally well-coached, very disciplined, and hey... what can I say, they've got an ass ton of natural gas talent — between the Ruskies, the lil' Ruskies, and those evil Iranians, they've really got us over a pipeline, you know? (gets a little squirmy) The Nabucco pipeline was a Hail-Mary (crosses himself, awkwardly) and we fucked it up good... what good is a big ass pipeline if we don't have any gas to put in it? We're a little embarrassed to have overlooked that detail.
Anyway, so yeah... how bout that six I rolled? Australia! We're all really excited.
Mr. Viceroy, can you stay for one more question?
Viceroy Obama: As long as you don't ask me about the shit normal people whine and complain about... I have to talk about that bullshit all afternoon (rolls his eyes)
No, no, no... of course not. Our viewers aren't interested in any of that, rather, we want to know, what's the latest on Pipeline XL?
President Obama (fighting a big shit-eating grin): Oh, come on now (gives me a light punch on the shoulder) you know we're "reviewing" (actually makes air quotes) all those tough issues, I'm sure a well-intentioned meeting of the minds, get everyone around the same table, and we'll put any concerns about XL (makes a "raise the roof" gesture... dating himself) to rest. XL! EX L!
A comment on the above silliness:
The energy and resource game will continue. The wealthy ventriloquists will get their dummies to say exactly what they'd like, and another beer will be removed from the fridge.
A lack of imagination and motivation means — for now — everyone keeps going to work. The machine continues.
Will I let my job-self cannibalize my "real"-self (quotes note the absurdity of the dissonance) in exchange for a psychically numbed existence and life-sustaining-"resources"? My answer is: hopefully not for much longer... but YES. And I'm supposed to be a radical, or something? Bullshit.
Other than under it's own weight: clean water dirty or gone, healthy soil a memory no one has, and energy sources burned up (which is coming soon enough, and all the pain that comes with):
These systems will only collapse — ONLY (that's right, making a big claim) — when hundreds of millions (yep) people decide they no longer want to play. They no longer want to sell their time. They no longer want an utterly destructive job (teaching school, for example) to cannibalize their very existence in exchange for access to the resources which facilitate a refrigerated existence. Obviously, that breaking point could come quickly... but as of now... NOT EVEN FUCKING CLOSE! Am I wrong?
And with good reason: the system cares for us. It gives us our food, our water, our stuff, our identity (who is to say it's bad?). And it — very conveniently — makes it almost impossible (or at least foolish for a homo economicus) to go another route — the road less traveled is closed. The social hurdle is fucking enormous. The logistical-avoid-being-arrested-for-not-following-the-rules hurdle is nearly as high.
So shut the fuck up about all this bullshit, and expose yourself (that's right) and others to the fucking nightmare that is modern life. Smash a strangers phone and tell them, you're welcome. Stomp on Richard Dawkins toes. Do not vote for someone who is designed to represent you and millions of other people that will never come into contact with each other. The next time you hear someone ask a child, "what do you want to be when you grow up" (and the answer is obviously supposed to be a job... what job do you want TO BE), scream in that person's face: YOU. ARE. A. FUCKING. ZOMBIE. Leave that little human alone.
At the very least, it'll break the monotony.
The moldy torn rag is very valuable
I'm on a small field — modern lawn maintenance machines have been here before — three friends are along as well. The field is a fenced circle, two soccer goals face each other. The rules of our game: each pair is trying to score a goal... hands and feet are both allowed... and we're playing with one pleasingly new top-o-da-line ball. We play.
Before long two more balls — unfathomably fancy, they are, even better than our original ball — appear on the field. The 2 vs. 2 structure of the game unwinds... for now, 3 of the 4 players can blast shots into undefended goals. This goes on for some time. As the fourth ball-less player struggles to get hold of one, and mimic the others ferocity for "goals".
I become tired. I leave the field. I find a bathroom. While peeing, I notice a picture hanging on the adjacent bathroom mirror (it is hilariously fitting, that of all the images within this dream, who or what this picture captured escapes me, I have no memory at all, but I do know, whatever it was, the response was melting nostalgia. Knees buckled. I sit down).
Time passes. I sit.
I return to the field. Things have changed. Our small field is now full of players, perhaps a few hundred people, barely enough space to freely extend one's arms, and the delightful ostentatious soccer balls are gone. In their place: a small, wet, moldy rag. Reluctantly, I re-enter the field, the lone gate behind me vanishes... we are here to stay, and I want that rag.
Before long two more balls — unfathomably fancy, they are, even better than our original ball — appear on the field. The 2 vs. 2 structure of the game unwinds... for now, 3 of the 4 players can blast shots into undefended goals. This goes on for some time. As the fourth ball-less player struggles to get hold of one, and mimic the others ferocity for "goals".
I become tired. I leave the field. I find a bathroom. While peeing, I notice a picture hanging on the adjacent bathroom mirror (it is hilariously fitting, that of all the images within this dream, who or what this picture captured escapes me, I have no memory at all, but I do know, whatever it was, the response was melting nostalgia. Knees buckled. I sit down).
Time passes. I sit.
I return to the field. Things have changed. Our small field is now full of players, perhaps a few hundred people, barely enough space to freely extend one's arms, and the delightful ostentatious soccer balls are gone. In their place: a small, wet, moldy rag. Reluctantly, I re-enter the field, the lone gate behind me vanishes... we are here to stay, and I want that rag.
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