Typewriter scroll #1
I think she always thought I was lying to her, as I lay beside her post-coitus. I was squeamish, I was furtive and elusive. I’d learned my lessons from the monstrous moral conflicts one’s mind is thrown into while the body concerns itself with the soft beauty of the flesh.
Sometimes our personal sense of time turns into a strange and untamed creature. It slinks and tip-toes, poises with feline intensity before pouncing onus with claws and teeth actuating in furious mortal urgency. Ironically, having nothing to do gives one great sense of this urgency. I had passed through my life so far with the institutionalised mantra of deferment; today I shall prepare, and tomorrow I shall do. Ah we owe our fathers’ religious convictions on this one. Our life in the material world is but spiritual training for the life of eternity. Against eternity, how insignificant this octogenarian life seems.
I could teach you a thousand ways to sail a boat, and you could teach others the same. Live knowledge is fundamentally organic; only strong survives. But like our evolved life, these memes need to accomplish anything outside of their own existence. They need but forward their own survival. Religion holds hooks and barbs to our minds, and holds on with fitful tenacity while it bears its children to us. God will damn the non-believers…
The sensible totality of modern society rests on the concept of deferment. We sell our immediate for the sake of our future. We save and slave (the last echoes of Marx’s call dies in the hubbub of advertisers telling us what we are saving up FOR), and perhaps finally rest with a legacy of greenbacks and fantastic financial training to our children. The continuation of a survival instinct.
I have nothing to do. God knows that the deep-routed sense of teleology, of riding out my life to its intended end - has driven me to search for more preparation, plan my investment into academia, and alienated myself from the terrifying immediacy of the now through work.
Defer my life to other people. An atheistic dolls-house of omnipotent actors. If God, in his INFINITE wisdom, cannot judge me, then in a anti-biblical back-flip I must ask all others to judge me. My God is other people, and thus, as Sartre notes, hell must also be other people.
How to kill this God without solipsism? Anti-hegelianism? The world is me. I am slave to my own master… Why don’t I understand my own intercourse? The touch of the right hand on the left is misunderstood. The flesh of the world unite in an orgy of spastic undulations and moaning chasms (the groans and noises not misunderstood, but simply expressing a more fundamental, essential beingness. )
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The great Triumph of man over nature represents a schism of duality similar to the triumph of mind over body. Patrick had no body, and as such was the only pure man in existence. Of course I say man as a genatype, talking of humankind, but indeed I mean to say man in the masculine sense. Woman is tied to the earth through her womb, and in the act of creating life she is sickeningly (and inextricably) linked to nature. It was a side-effect of his refined condition that Patrick could not communicate with women.
Without a body, Patrick had to be content with visiting upon other men the flashes of rational logic and inspiration that were his very essence. I would say “float”, or “visit”, as Patrick did not find himself in communication with the same man all the time, but in fact without a body this did not really express his mode of transmittion throughout the world. In fact, space does not effect the mind at all; rationality is not limitted to bordes of body or air, or even planets and stars. In actuality, Patrick existed in all places at once, and it was only a matter of timing as to when his influence would be felt.
Though women could not know him, and would never be able to understand him, by and bymany began to love him, via the stories and testimonies men told of him.
I MAY BE BEAUTIFUL BUT YOU MY FRIEND ARE HANDSOME
So how much like narcissism is love? I admire the traits of another and through a love affair start to personify some of them in myself.
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It was almost nine, but the minutes seemed to be slowing down. The last hour or so always went so slow, and the sight of the other officers leaving one by one was torturous. Bediéne was growing restless too; his tail wagged less readily, and occasionally, he yawned. I didn’t blame him; I was pretty much exhausted, and he didn’t have the benefit of coffee or doughnuts.
The rushhour bedlam was well over, and the station was now quiet but for the occasional intercity from Holland or Germany. A few dazed foreignes stood shell-shocked next to their luggage, clasping Paris city guides or ink-scrawled itineraries like blankies.
Of course energy tended to return after a warm brandy and relaxing dinner.
There was something peculiar about the platform clocks. For a reason totally alien to the viewers, the clock second hand would take a few seconds less than 60 to do a rotation. The hand would then stop entirely, and after a moments pause, the minute hand would progress. It was uncanny, and it drove anyone waiting on it mad. I’d been told it was an idiosyncrasy of the clock mechanism, but I always suspected it was someone’s idea of a joke.
Gonzales napped
So there is a mathematical pattern or rhythm that can be found in writing? A degree of thought and concentration concluding in a perfect balance between words and meaning? Where does it come from? The only vaguely mathematical relationships come from the binaries of transcendental rhetoric. Though the relationships of words and real-world entities are fuzzy and can be thought of using maths of neural-network connections and brain firings. As with neurons the relationships of words is still very important. Our understanding can be captured in the neural-network of our words. The cloud that floats and harbours these semantics. It is a shame that neural networks are no longer a buzz word. Perhaps being shunned along with post-structuralism.
How does the cloud of my meaning-relationships engage with that of someone else’s? Are others’ single entities (or more abstracted entities that the whole at the very least, and none of their meanings directly come into play with ours? No. The meanings that we hold exist through others. Especially as they exist in the form of human language. We negotiate our connections to symbols in the world like planets orbiting stars. The other bodies in relationship to the semiotic effect the way we move around them. Do these meanings exist in more than one instance, distanced by discursive use? Well they can’t actually be real, otherwise we are talking of Platonic classes and transcendentalism.
Space -) find something amusing? NO space is devoid of meaning. No, space is the space between meaning. No, space means technology.
My best bet is lyrical, poetic philosophy. Stay clear.
Right now we are flying. You are made of feather and I am made of flapping, and there is no wax involved. The sun is nothing but illumination, and even the hottest of household range-cookers could not reach us here.
Now we are sailing across the ocean. You are feeling the wind in your hair and I am telling you where we shall find the botty. (ed: well close enough - booty.)
Now there is something mystical about the way you wear your wizard costume - sparks fly.
Now you are holding the metal handle of an antique revolver in one hand, and the collar of that son-of-a-bitch Patrick in the other. He’s telling the truth and you can finally be sure he’s learned his lesson and will become a better person for it.
Now we’re crying by the fire in our old leather armchair. The whisky is glowing like the smile of a lost lvoer from decases ago. Twice as intoxicating.
“But I fell blindingly in love with you!” Would never happen. Who would say such a thing?
“I think you’re really groovy.” He’d fallen blindingly in love with her.
“You sound like an old hippy.” The declaration made her uncomfortable.
The father , the son, and the ghost. The father the on and the holy ghost just think of it. The cycle of life from Buddhism. In fact it’s the son, the father, becomes the ghost. Or maybe the ghost of intention, the ghost of thought, the conception of life through the ghost of your parents’ thought. The initial spark of bodiless influence creating the son. The child of though. The product of thought. The neonascent. The non-man, the yet-to-be fully realized. Once more it takes the ghost to turn the son into the father. The recursion of a system. The fractal. Look deeper, and the father is the son is the ghost. This is where Christians get vertigo. They fob us off with Adam, then apologies for God, the father of it all. In the end the man creates the ghost of God, so the cycle continues. Try to deny it, and Shiva will dance on your grave while the plants grow around you.
Father, producer of ideas; the father of modern science. Spills his seminal concepts (conceptions) into the world, and causes anguish for the transcendental Christians who struggle to keep the Eternal Truth from changing.
Forget it. He joked. Remove the obviousness of our intentions with sarcasm and jest. Defend thyself, for death is explicability! The joke is always conflict - incongruity, double-entendre, confusion. Where is the drama? Jokes that involve emotional content. “Of course I love you. Oh no, I just hang around here cause I’ve got nothing better to do.” “The gun’s not loaded. When I pull the trigger a flag will pop out saying Bang! and you’ll get to go home.” The joker holds reality in contempt, or the joker holds your reality in contempt.
The lover suffers and bleeds. Vincent’s mailbox was so full of Valentine’s cards that he decided to use them to wallpaper his house with. After a week of living within a giant homage to his Beauty, the outside world seemed harsh and uncaring. Strangers’ faces were as cold and ungiving as the cement paths he wondered along.
You hold the diamond in your hand. You are the clean edges and clear white crystal. You sing with compounded expectation.
The story goes something like this;
There are two types of hacker in the world. There are two types of hacked world. Hacking as a term has been co-opted by Hollywood scriptwriters who see tech-competency as a slick threat to the lowest-common-denominator of tech understanding. That’s one of the reasons the telephone features so strongly in the fantastical mythos of the hacker: it’s ubiquitous tech. Even the idiots can use it, but the hackers unlock hidden semiotics of this would-be simple tool. McGuyver’s creations were safe. They went from the most simple components and with the honest ingenuity of the Swiss army knife were able to fashion his devices. At some point in the human engagement with the environment, superstition takes over from brute understanding. Gods are created from lightening, and the world forms subtle flows of magic. Even arcane magic becomes technology when we understand how to use it. The magic of magic is that the knowledge of its workings is esoteric. Vice versa; the secrets of technology become magic. (though we have great FAITH in the power of Science).
Hacking is always about lateral thinking.; Our two types of hacking fall to the shanty-town creation of systems, stretching, bending and recycling materials to fulfil a need., and the spy. Malicious hacking has always been compared to breaking and entering, but this is a crudely used metaphor to capture the moral prescription of the users. Often knowledge is the only target, and it is difficult to admit the problematic of the Badness of disseminating information… Though we are certainly happy as Christians to hold that forbidden knowledge is sacrilegious, while ostensibly offering the Apple as the paridign of democratic Goodness. Censors beware: you are on unsteady ground.
Poetic. Hacking is not really programming. It may involve creating code, but it is like calling a doctor a pill-proscriber. Holistics is the key. Computer languages have been steadily evolving to bring them closer to natural languages. Poetics of these languages reappropriate a and contextualize meaning for other purposes. Often they hold an ironic