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Pioneers and Pariahs

I feel pain in seeing others work in ‘my’ name. It becomes in my name because I purchase their efforts' product. The literal fruits of their labor. By living in society, I force others to sustain that society on my small behalf. 

I searched online about the commons. Sharing in general. Land rights. The capacity in everyone to change and alter their environment, themselves, and others inhabiting their shared environment. I didn't find much of use to alleviating the impact I have on others. 

Pioneers and Pariahs is my pet book. The two groups who would go to the outskirts of habitable existence to make a living. I am neither. But I still want to go to the outskirts of habitable existence to make a living worthy of the humanity I hope to see.  

To escape its flaws and inhuman requirements. I don’t know anything else in me worth fighting for. Worth living for. I’m worthless to the people with power in this aspect, besides my body and my common human form capable of work. They need workers and see a worker in me. I see people like me and want to leave knowing I will dehumanize them with my presence. 

But I have nowhere to go. 

And please don’t tell me to chill. I’m ice cold. I’m not doing anything to you nor am I asking you to read this. Your curiosity brought you here. Don't blame me when you found me. 

Good night or good morning. Have a good sleep or day. 

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quotes out of context #2

JOSEPH CAMPBELL: And from the Upanishad: “Then he realized, I indeed am this creation, for I have poured it forth from myself. In that way he became this creation, and verily he who knows this becomes in this creation a creator.” That’s the clincher there. When you know this, then you’ve identified with the creative principle yourself, which is the God-power in the world, which means in you. It’s beautiful.

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A dragon from afar

There flew in the earliest time a dragon across the sky, roaring and rearing in the void that was the sky seeking its prize. So this is what she thought, her whose place this was. Her, whose being this was. She felt it more than she saw it. heard it more than she wanted to hear it. Indecpherable utterings could be discerned. She, being this place, wanted peace from the dragon. When it was quiet though, in her land and her being, she saw into the sky in the distance the dragon's immaciated form. bereft of any girth or pallor to its blackened scale. Though it was her being, her place, this dragon was not her. This she knew. Long had she been here with her being. with her self settled between two stones gazing at the orbs of the sky.

She recalled seeing the first of these rise over the hill she had been considering. Gravelly and be-stoned. the hill slight and leaning on its side ponderous in its effort. In watching this effort she noticed light beams gathering on the edge of its crest. and, lo, there behind it, granting it this beauty was an orb. Her being encapsulated within, and without illuminated by it, and smiling, she saw the orb grow bright. Wondering wherein this light emitted therefrom she twisted her form, turning about the world to see her being illuminated in new light, the same light as the orb though from another orb... these two grew bright and shone forth many things; many images could she see in them. Occluded in these images, alluded to, were other dimmer images. Old in age and lost in thought, the light shown forth its images held within.

Silver and Gold shown these images, a golden sun in a lake of silver rolling over into the air to land gracefully in a lake further on.

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Pneuma writing. Happy the writing makes sense to me. Senseless words, especially written ones, hold dire portents.

We are that one word which resists change through change. Existence. We are that word spoken in a command of one word. Exist. To Identify with the force and with the process life has undergone so far is akin to, as Alan Watts says, going with the river instead of against it. It becomes evident by the stability and internal consistency of life relative to a measure of potential disorder of the universe around it that life is resilient. We call the process evolution.

Our own path from our common ancestral lifeform led us through cephalization to have inflected the force and articulation of it in order. A facet in the universe's divine nature operating on all things akin to gravity and inertia - that which would, by any other name, be identifiable by its nature as change without change. Order. the Red Queen running without gaining or losing traction or changing forward or backward despite its propensity for change. The same possibility will always be there. Existence will exist.

What I make from life's resilience despite the manifold and myriad possibilities entropy describes as lifeless, the assertion I choose to posit to you, regards existence's propensity in all things toward a force. I do not claim to know much. I do claim the following to be compelling to me on its face and no deeper. I haven't taken off the mask of God to borrow the phrase of Joseph Campbell's, and so only speak of the image I see.

Stated shortly: Entropy is a measure of disorder. And by that measure, it's opposite, what we are measuring the absence of, order, must have a force acting against it for order to exist so subtly and weakly. Surely its work would be done now, a world without effect. All cause without effect, inert cause. And should entropy be fallacious in our reckoning of it I should wish to and attempt to understand its apparent opposite. Namely the force behind what has loosely been termed life. Neil Degrass Tyson aptly stated, though not an expert in biology, expert biologists so far work with on earth a sample size of one life form whose identity is one that is divided and growing to feed on itself and to nurture itself.

For the extinction of a sample so long in trial. which many would lament being gone, the sample would be lamented by whom? those that came after I suppose. the next sample. that we are here indicates the necessity for others of disparate kinds even upon these shores. And with the propensity is the promise and the word of command in all of every process, every dynamic, every force. Exist.

As for the energy that we held in potential, in the order of our culture compelling us to produce more order, a straight line, a circumnavigation of experiences describing a way to organize the universe. All of this would be returned to the earth. inert. having lost its saltiness. When we die, should we not have another to continue the process this is the end result. a diffusion of our order to disorder. nothing more and nothing less.

Stay salty friends. stay salty.

TOOL - Pneuma (Audio) - YouTube

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Scars burn in heat.

I shan't bring you there unto the seat of my suffering and unto the hovel serving to shelter what little of me remained. The ordeal whence I deliver this missive now over, my safety unassured but present, I cannot share with you what I've seen. Letting my wounds scar over, I thought my weakness burnt away. The heat of the sun had shewn otherwise as I traversed the way back whence I came. Flaring pain, ever pain, did I find in that sunlit pasture. I would find that pain evermore should I not find a way through it, out of the mire of my injury. All but stumbling in desperation to respite promised anon in so lilting a breeze should I continue onward short moments further. I found respite, aye, and a scarring blaze quickening throughout my leg. What had I done? How could one find so much peace in struggle? To bury the source and wellspring in struggle's pursuit? A chip broached onto me that drove me to hell's edge. Angels fallen and rising angels beside my reclined form. The struggle snaring me into its wages. A chip to be moved now. so thoroughly embedded, entwined, and assimilated into me, would that I could leave the board somehow. Those that would lose me would mourn the comfort I provided them. Those that would use me would lose the chip that I represented. My escape prevented by my struggle. The struggle needing me to enter into it, ensnaring me. Would that I could leave and find respite in my walking. How those angels abhorred me and snared me so for what they saw. Would that I could find the strength to fight. but in snaring me to quicken my vision, and with my understanding in seeing the truth, I had become all but useless. Pray, forgive me. I neither am fit for my life nor your life you would have for me now. Pray, tell me true, what would you have of me in my abode now entangled in pain and wanting nothing from anyone? The wellspring was no more. my abode, my home, my hovel, my hell, my respite unbegotten. Thus is my tale shortened to an ounce of its weight. Please, know… Hidden here as I am, I seek still to be hidden, to find solace in this cool breezeless cavern. And should you seek me, you will find no one. Mine is the path of pain, isolation, forfeiture of all. All that you would hear - or see, or feel - of me in that once home; all that remains of my birth and my struggle bringing the diminutive hope to which I clung as if my last limb; All of this I brought to bear against ignorance; and of it all, there is left of me only a whisper on the wind of my long spent screams and agonized breaths telling their tale as if mine. I am no longer there.

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On Tangential Revelations

The message being, Agni goes searching for Fire. - Alan Watts.

Very simple message.

Look for yourself to see for yourself. - Taming Your Mind

At a certain point, existence will force one from the garden - or the library.

The Fates will drag those who won't go willingly. - Joseph Campbell

To live other's lives for a moment leaves a memory of them.

The decisions in these books, the media one is presented with at the onset, are well tread.

Lines form outside of schools, workplaces, shopping places, religious centers, entertainment places to fill into the slot awaiting them. The modality is seemingly finite were one to look at the crooks one has dug in the walking and living of their lives.

Where can I go? on a treadmill most likely. I don't want to be hit by a car. Then what? conventions for my kind. then conventions not my kind. I'd rather drag myself to a convention now than drag myself out of my bed with bad legs in old age.

Gathering places are wonderful. Where does fate drag one I wonder? to places of need or places one needs.

Be at peace, we're all friends here.

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Tangential Revelation.

The baseline is there is something that may be intelligible to us, some message or guidance, that we may refer to in times of need.

Revelation.

Those who rely on, shall we say, second hand revelation, confer their own capacity and authority to experience it onto those whose revelation was communicated to them second hand. They forfeit their own capacity to divine meaning from their own experience to another who the revelation is claimed to have been shown.

It is an abdication of effort to rely on another for meaning in seeing the divine in anything. To not meet them where they are to see for themselves what the revelation claims to have shown them.

On the other hand, every moment is a revelation of the nature of existence. the signs are everywhere, they must be read though. and it is here that I had previously failed. having not articulated the problem but only pondered at length.

I had gone past this problem with a borrowed meaning from my mother religion. Christianity has in it a self-sufficient modality available to those who engage with it.

It is said, there is a thing that is not to be done, the only thing that is unforgiveable, blaspheming the Holy Spirit. To me, the Holy Spirit is the capacity to have revelation, the conduit of communication between existence and one's relationship and involvement in it.

The mundanity of revelation is boredom. Experiencing the same patterns and not reflecting, or not being able to reflect on the pattern yet, of having to wait for the pattern to finish its cycle.

This mundanity may be understood given there exists a negative in existence giving positivity and awe and wonder their character.

Without the low there could be no high. without the many multitude of experiences that define normality there could not be exaltation.

Further, there may be a message given to all who experience existence.

I'll let that stand on its own.

At the base of the mountain of life, or at its pinnacle, there may be a message. Everywhere could be this message.

I would look at the above as a return to the normal attitude given to the fundamental principles taught by inept teachers to inquiring daydreaming students of humanity in their early childhood - an attitude given to the child by the child's parents. The basic underlying principle is then considered solved, and the need is no longer present to readdress the fundamental question once understood, colloquially speaking.

Whether I or anyone has seen this message or can communicate it to another to effect in them the initial intent of the message, I do not venture here. It is clear, however, that such a message would require a leap of faith and time. a leap to see the message as "something" and time to verify it, to let each moment be the interpretation's test. A seizure of needing the message and testing it to see the response. In such a way are we, given only so much time, conduit to the message for future generations. What follows belongs to science. I have made the leap. I have given my two cents. I can, and it should be noted, have, followed this line for many a moon, many a fortnight. Following it further brought me to the following quandaries, among others.

Questioning fundamental patterns of existence naturally leads one to question the nature of its meaning.

I forgo this discussion for inquiring, instead, into the distinction between a message and a pattern.

One of the few things that Harry Potter can be said to have given me besides happiness, is the notion of self fulfilling prophecies understood from within one, and also the nature of subtlety. I did the leg work on subtlety if you look to glean the same from the book. The text leaves much to the imagination to unravel subtlety's nature.

And in similar vein, I look to nature, not humanity, for these signs and messages. Harry Potter was a book. Meaning it was written by someone with intent.

Many are enthralled with humanity, finding meaning in the ascribed intentions people may express and the adventures they may choose to put us on.

A child may be seen tugging at their parent's proverbial tailcoat, "Entertain me, I did not wish to be here but you brought me here." So they seek out the least subtle of means, a black-box that becomes seemingly less and less opaque the more it is prodded and cajoled.

It is important to note that reflecting on experiences is something that can be done with a book or of a life event.

It is true that a person may have truth in their words. They may say, "There are batteries in the cupboard drawer." And upon inspection following their instructions, batteries may be found there.

Corrupted revelation exists. Where verification is less evident than a physical place to be seen or inspected for its contents with a ledger to identify the truth of the claim.

And moreso still, the unseen things that warrant to be called, and what may be said to contain, the Holy Spirit do become perverted.

The failure of communicating these things is not an accident.

It is a failure not of passing a test of validity, (A thing following from the premises necessarily being true if the premises are true.), but of the Holy Spirit passing through time a message untarnished by corrupting forces who seek to harness the power it possesses.

Like a dam is created and floods the land, the power of revelation is harvested.

To sort through the claims of everyone is exhausting. I do not expect anyone to be able to see for themselves who have eyes to see.

Perhaps this is why Jesus says to ask a baby 7 days old where the kingdom of heaven is.

To wit, a story of how I came to be on this road of messages and patterns.

I was once in the hospital. I was writing a story about a djinn. I thought to myself. How to make his wish mechanic more interesting. the first wish was always true. the second wish was true half the time. the third wish was true a third of the time. the fourth wish was true a fourth of the time.

I was happy with the story. and it led to this line of reasoning. at the time I was fully in schizoaffective mode, unaware of anything but wanting to leave.

While not being able to identify the nature of the wish that would make for a compelling use of the mechanic of reciprocal wishes. (1/1 1/2 1/3 1/4 1/5) I was taken by the notion of living half lives third lives fourth lives so to speak.

Given properties however that follow such a pattern, could I develop a message that could be mapped onto a structure occurring naturally. A message from existence about itself, and thus me and my place in it.

the first and only thing that one can be sure of?

existence.

Everywhere you look there is existence.

so we are fully into the wish. I wish to exist.

Do you not wish to sleep or find rest?

Rest from existence can be found in play and sleep

The interplay between self and other. The here and gone. the hide and seek of what changes and becomes anew something else. of sleeping into waking, and playing and working.

beyond this duality existing, I could not find three.

No matter what lay beyond it, I had found a periodic table of sorts to pin properties of existence onto and to attempt ON MY OWN to decipher my proverbial Wish Theorem of Reciprocals.

Post Script

I suspect the message is a list of existential properties.

One such actual structure I found is the frequency of numbers in the multiplicative table, aka the prime numbers.

2 shows up as a factor half the time. and 3 shows up a third as a factor.

they are factors of exactly 1/N numbers where N is the number they are.

while 1/1 is in all numbers, 2 is in half, or 1/2. the cylce repeats itself. This is a clever way to find primes, I think. by making a graph. in short, it is a way to see future number's properties quickly, while retaining the context of those numbers position on the counting number line.

It's all idleness.

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When in Hell, turn the other cheek and Love thy Neighbor.

As far as philosophies go, being in hell doesn't preclude showing love for the least of these. Nor for those who call themselves enemies. It sounds comforting to me when I see that I have access to power along with the assurance that I can show love to those I know deserve it, (Everyone? Every being?), and somehow receive love back despite my flaws and shortcomings. It's quite liberating to know that in giving love I can receive love. Giving Love is a mirror-ed act when one realizes "I too am worthy of this gift." It has nothing to do with a myth as heaven or hell or salvation. Giving Love no matter what is a sentiment that has potency of a sort that coexists with and dupes the senses when it is shared as an experience during a moment imbued with meaning. Perhaps the Buddha is right, or Christ was right. This feeling of meaning is the presence of mythical beings and happenings. What a myth allows a person to perceive is the ground of their being as a pretend that is not pretend. A contradiction of the sort that formalizes to A is not A. A losing of oneself in the actions of the story. We see what people are unable to do with Christianity. it has died as a story in many people's vocabulary of mythic action because of this A being not not-A.

It is liberating to show love. And with this palpable and present energy clinging to the act of giving love, such a vital symbol needs a guide for it to be put into its proper orbit or course where it can coexist with other energies. Energy can be seen coursing chaotically during a manic break or a revivified outlook on a dry and dying inward landscape. Having a mode of experience to orient one's energies is important to give life back to a landscape such as ours. Am I saying Love represents the highest good? The myths on our bookshelves show Love is a good. Christianity may be that for some. Others I will not speak for. And that Love can be maddeningly misunderstood in its implications and conveyance to another when improperly applied to the situation one wishes to express it in, making one fervently wish for a coat rack to hang the day up on and to rest inside the love that is easily understood. Leaving one with a desire for the energies inside to swell no more but to rest.

If an energy, as Love, takes the form of a guide - as the Buddha or Christ - I would say that understanding that guide is an enterprise worth undertaking. What follows is that enterprise through the lens of Jungian symbolism. Love, in this view, is an end in itself. A symbol among many others whose ends are themselves, whose movement is never ending and whose essence is of symbolic action and not stillness and idleness in resting on the laurels of the previous day's festivity of life. In the body of the human whose love it is - whose energy it is - Love is a symbol whose embodiment in reality, and whose symbolism, is thoroughly a verb and almost never a noun. To begin with the ordinary world, language relates experiences, shows intent, prescribes behaviors, and outlines understanding, etc. This is what I would guess at as the definition that I assume many would call language as such. When, however, language of a different sort, a Jungian sort, talks of Vitality and Life-fulfillment, it becomes a language whose precepts speak without a comprehension of logic as we understand it --- a thing is said to be identical with itself, A is not not-A ---- a language of dreams or myths, however, speaks of A being not-A while being A as well.

This is a language whose understanding is predicated on a formalism based on the character and environment of the person's own experiences, the clothier so to say. A language as a vehicle for, and also a symbol of, the binding of the body's energy to a universally accessible Jungian Collective Unconscious indicates a vocabulary that is wholly symbolic. The language consists of mythic figures as possessors of the body's energy; a vocabulary of action whose efforts are to be reflected on; a syntax of timelessness whose clothing is the proper mode of enacting the entire ordeal; and a message of purpose to restore to the proper place and ownership those energies the symbols and actions the mythic figures speak to indicate they should go back to. I just wanted to tell my friend that even in dark and hellish places there reside those who have seen and prepared for those times. Like Carl Jung, whose efforts resonated enough in me for me to relay them here, though I am a rather poor guide, having an incomplete understanding of the material, but possessing enough vitality from the material to attempt to explain this vivifying concept in what I sense to be a grim atmosphere.

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Bars of Fool's Gold

Shaun: Hey Doc, I've got something in me that needs a remedy. A lack of reality, I fear its an ill malady. The sort to rob me of my vitality

Doctor: Piss in this cup and zip back up Damn, I see your flow is weak, Let me swab your cheek, I'll get the results back in a couple of weeks. Now I see on your chart you've had trouble with sleep, how have you felt at night before…

Interrupting

Shaun: It's true, everything you said, My words are all jumbled in a knot in my head And I have so many doubts that I can't shut the shouting out At night when it's dark, when my fingers fumble for my pills And I'm startled into dropping them from my shaking hands and my water spills My sanity lay crumbling in a schism I stumble for the window and step on the tablets hearing sirens, fearing prison leaving A thin pantina of reason on the bottom of my feet shining with little moon beams It's court mandated I take my sanity shot every week and swallow my happy pills, so… you see why I lick the residue on the floor and my feet Hoping to swallow every little morsel and eat every bit of sanity mixed with the grime and muck and deceit. As best I may, I scour in succor with my cracked little nails They're so dirty and peeled I can't get enough of it in me to even begin to feel real Tell me straight Doc, will I ever heal? What the fuck is happening to me why am I here?

Doctor: I'm sorry Shaun, My secretary just rang, Your insurance declined the visit Where to begin…? [INWARD THOUGHT] (This man is in schizophrenic shock) Symptomatically speaking, I can legally give no advice.

You've been awfully quiet,

As a writer of rhymes I feel your pain, Take care bro, and understand when I say, A flow so weak is truly hurtful to me personally to see

The strongest dose of reality I can give is

To begin, study the pen, Take your damn meds And listen to new music at night To bring in new insight into the plight you mentioned here about feeling fright And when all else fails When your skills are so weak and frail They break at the first beat from the snare drum Pick your pen up again, Force it to bend to your hand and your mind and your will And give it your all and pour all of your skill into each bar and each bar will hold all of your malice and fear Your hopes and your dreams And your nightmares will seem To be a destiny worth seeing Then, Smelt that bar into a ring of evil Forge the ring with all of your being From the bottom to the top Write it like you're freeing a locked creature in need And crown yourself king of a land full of heathens. The flow you're writing will siphon that evil into the ring And can finally be given to a creature named Gollum to keep.

Shaun, eyes popping wide: Wait, did I hear you right???

Doctor:…Anyway, I appreciate your visit, if you need to see me again - with insurance, Heh Heh.. Ahem… I'm available on the 10th,

Shaun interrupting emphatically: The 10th? That's awfully short for a King to Forge a cursed Ring don't you think, Doc And also what's this about a creature named Gollum to keep it? Hey Doc, Listen to me! I'm talking to you! Why're you calling the guard? I think that's cruel cause they hit so hard, Just give me a chance to listen some more, Wait, what was that? I don't think I heard you You said something about a grimoire. I can't be certain

Guards: We've got him!

Shaun: Give me a sec, Get your fucking hands off me, I'm speaking to the Doc, here, Don't try to stop me!

[source-of-support]

Allowing myself to lose.

Mourn them do not. Miss them do not.

Orienting myself to my surroundings, I must allow myself first to make mistakes. Then I can allow myself the possibility of losing everything I identify with. Becoming broken. Becoming broken more fully than I ever have been before. Not just losing, saliently, everything I hold onto inwardly. But everything I can't let go of becoming a vessel of another's service.

This is not to say I saliently dwell on such matters. Death is a fertile source of contemplation where rest resides.

It is the denial of death, the absence of rest where the worst adheres.

Whether contemplation of such an act as these has benefit remains unknown to me.

Acknowledging the possibility of depravity at the very least serves to ground one in the wellness of normality.

Having acknowledged the possibility, let us move on.

Giving the boon of one's own effort, one allows for others problems to become alleviated through a doubling of net individual contribution.

A person 1) lifts their own bearing on the load of others.

and 2) lifts the bearings of those around them according to the weight they can bear.

This is all to say that I can help others help others help others.

When a person's upkeep is lodging and water and waste and food and clothing and some other simple things, the weight is so little when they themselves can provide so much of it and more for their community.

I hesitate here. I ask only for myself the strength to give and not take unduly.

the whole point is to be unafraid of loss. to have nothing to lose materially, but morally uphold conduct to my standards, or one's standards.

[source-of-support]

My rejection of authority is always tinged with bravery and my acquiescence by fear.

A mentor and a puzzle are meant to show one thing. acquiescence to another's authority. Alan Watts paraphrased this as the guru swindling you until you realize you don't need them. you're it. you're already there. you're the works. This is the summation of my past 4 posts, this being the 5th.

I danced around a lot of things. and this failure of communication in my writing is above remedied. I am sorry if I wasted your time. luckily this is here now. so anyone else can easily read this.

It's still an interesting phenomenon. that out of anything a buddha can be awakened. Alan Watts joked about this too. saying he could see a young person observing a person and deriving the enlightenment of any age from that person. of all ages. oh how wise, he chooses to use his left hand to hold the tea cup. and the right to hold the pen. should this be reversed, the flow of his thoughts would be altered. Teach me, sensei, from afar your wisdom.

or so I imagine this young person bringing themselves into enlightenment would think. according to Alan Watts.

Very funny business, this.

[source-of-support]

Stuck in a room listening and debating. learning about and having a genuine interest in the outcome of life.

I may not be in that room anymore with the people who were once there in the now symbolic 'room'. if I ever fully was. I remain in a room like it though. the people who I invite in don't all seem to realize that I am in there doing what I am doing. Just inquiring as to the nature of the place. what lay outside it. I've seen bits of it. Like the nature around the world. the sun and the stars and the pictures and nature of the cosmos. the different categories of thought intertwined and grown into my own pitri dish of thought and understanding and up walking around seeing things and growing.

I haven't been alive in a while. I've allowed myself the possibility of opening the door and leaving. I can always come back, and in greater numbers.

Vulnerability is my greatest weakness. that I can't be seen to be interested in another person. because I would in some sense sacrifice a bit of my own autonomy. but wouldn't it be nice. to share that sacrifice. I feel like I don't know how to ask another to make that sacrifice. I go to them. Would I need to sit and not leave a part of me there after I leave? a thought. a sentiment. a gesture. I don't want to demand anything of anyone. Again. being beholden to another is my greatest fear.

I feel especially vulnerable now. because by my own standards I want to be better for the persons who would care about me.

Goku pushed himself. learned the confines of his limits. and others who pushed themselves did the same. but couldn't best him at that game.

If I felt seriously, the weight of my own being would necessitate action of some sort. constant pushing. not shoving. just a probing. and then a plan. and then the rush would begin. to live in the need and want I had left off at after I was excommunicated from the room. To, now, search out love from another person and not to give or sacrifice everything for everyone else. and when a person sees my search and responds to me. in kind. I would learn what I couldn't learn alone. whether that love became or was always romantic or if it never was and was another love.

also in this plan to the betterment of my experience would include forethought. a type of thought that is limited in me if not in general. I can't tell which direction I want or can allow myself to fail in pursuing. monetarily asking people who don't benefit from what I do while asking for money. What failure state is that? to have money from someone who shouldn't have it taken or persuaded out of them. the vulnerable. someone who can pay can be given what I have for free. I need a reason to charge money. at the present moment I need a reason to exchange my already paid for experience with time from someone else's life. Surely a thought pattern can be changed without exchanging money. Success seems to be salient to me. failure of the kind that I can allow myself to entertain isn't always so easy to understand. And I can allow myself the blind dollar arriving in my authorial royalty checks or signing deals. I just don't know what path that would cut me off from. internally screaming as my children or my brother and his children navigate with me having money.

I had a dream. I saw a desert and said I wish I could go there and live there. I was crying in real life as I was waking from the dream. sobbing. I don't know why. I know I love deserts though. I didn't know to this extent.

My first love, a turtle named Squirtle Anne, lived in a desert home next to my home. I saw the mountain and the plain. the sky was blue and the winters were cold and the summers were hot. the brush was true. it was dense and every part of life that could eek life out of that place eek-ed it out. In this dream I was writing a skit after I cried about wanting to be okay with my failed childhood.. I was allowing myself to fail in the dream. and it felt true. truer than my waking life. In failing to find a way to memorize the skit upon waking I thought. The skit doesn't have to be the dream. it can be whatever happens to arrive. and in this before bed memory tube of a snippet of thought. I can allow myself failure and allow myself happiness. allow myself to another and ask another. maybe we can talk. or go jogging eventually. or sit in silence together and enjoy the presence of the other person.

I've been watching teen angsty anime. Don't toy with me miss nagatoro, as well as Tomo chan is a girl.

I'm looking up work place harasment stuff because I enjoy twitch stuff and people I watch do it for money and not for entertainment alone. so I wish to respect them more fully by educating myself on their rights and my responsibilities.

[source-of-support]

What gives.

All the while. My optimism must be marked by a sense of amusement. It is not as sincere as one might wish. so here is a guide to how I write. or how I read.

The sentence that follows seems dense. it will seem like a waste of time after. it may be. if you had to read the following to understand my shorthand which is my preferred method of writing. by shorthand.

A monolith as canon isn't a monolith worth knowing. the unyielding being the goal what rock would I place my foundation upon?

a deconstruction, or construction depending on which direction you want to go, follows:

a monolith being a thing that serves as a foundation. a unifying story. in this case anyway.

a unifying story is a story that I take to be a mythology of a time. it doesn't have to be by my measure alone.

a canon monolith - a cutesy way to say a monolith that's treated as standard. think of commercials. are lucky charms magically delicious? cheetoh fingers and what not. this is capitalistic bs. but it is only an example. any standard can be a canon monolith, as an old collection of stories or even categories themselves. one might go so far as saying that language has a center pillar, and for us, it is to question. always question. question what? this. why should I? why don't you I would ask the person asking why they should question this and everything else. so we see that monoliths are to be questioned.

this---

(wait what does the pronoun "this" refer to? what does it replace in the sentence as subject? what are we talking about?)

---isn't worth knowing because as follows in explanation, without a center, there ---

(pronouns again. leading with pronouns is a hard habit to break. tricksters use ambiguity in pronouns to beguile and insinuate to burden others while not needing to fully express themselves, expending less energy than their fair share.

"there" is revealed after the copula to be "no monoliths". We're talking about monoliths being worth or not worth knowing because of a purported lack of a center in them.)

---is no monolith to build upon let alone become standard. everything else is a cheap counterfeit; the kind even children know to stay away from.

(As an aside. I know no one will understand this. I can explain it to anyone who wishes. no one wishes it though. no one wishes to read anything I've written. It makes me parts angry at first at the obtuseness of others and sad at my impotent rage.)

the unyielding being the goal - is the journey's end now that we see the problem with our current life. a yielding to the before statement, the earth being inadequate for a foundation for a universal standard, it being but a rock in revolution. and further there being no center anywhere, where then? where is the center?

and it follows then from the language itself: what foundation is worthy of our goal of finding a standard, if there can be one. a monolith worth knowing and supporting.

an unyielding one would be a rock. something like what the earth was. imperishable. constant. self sustaining.

and thus it is that the construction is over. yet it feels incomplete. because the goal shifted.

I won't leave without context at least. the reading and writing interplay doesn't work well. it's my most potent weakness exploited by the beguiler in me asking wherefore now brown cow? giggling with a rising pitch to their voice

[source-of-support]

I'm not saying it is. I'm saying what if it was? What if the endeavor wasn't to prove it. but to show it. that it couldn't be told but could only be shown. That a puzzle needed engagement. commitment. that the puzzle was worthy of such treatment by the puzzle-breaker and the puzzle-maker. what is this then they would say to one another - each wondering if the veil was true of the line of steps laid out in front of us? The hidden secret a step in the chain of arranged steps away from being solved. The import, the delivery, everything aligned in the motion of solving the puzzle. That a canon puzzle as this, (not a lesser puzzle thought of at a whim) birthed from a lineage of puzzle-makers of such calibre puzzles as this - that it might be worthy of the puzzle-breaker being taught the puzzle by each careful forethought step.

Am I - hailing from a lineage of puzzle-breakers - am I worthy of this puzzle? Here I stand. What puzzle has the universe deigned to besiege my senses with.

What if out of everything there was a keen mentor so lost in the struggle to both solve and forge a puzzle at once, they forgot. they forgot everything. they struggled mightily. until they did it. until they created the puzzle. that guided one to where he was. But where was he? Had this man forgotten that he was not a pillar? That there was no central mountain, but that, God, like us, has a center everywhere and circumference nowhere?

What did this mentor teach? what puzzle did they forge, craft, chisel unto the earth of their power to mark?

What if, that is all one can do, as the gestaltists believe. bring one to one's whereabouts and meet them.

Those who would judge are not here to judge. they are elsewhere. unless they would sulk to deign me with their presence.

But who am I? A sculptor of words, yes. out of practice, yes. I'm not saying it is. I'm saying what if it was?

What if we aren't talking but that someone else is recollecting.

What I fear is it isn't. it isn't magical. or special. I've been keen on this struggle for a while. after viewing the whole thing as a special thing. a piece of wonder. a spark. an automaton moved by itself. the prime mover itself. the self generated. With consciousness and inward and outward feeling motivators. All of it everywhere looking at everything.

We are but poor creatures us humans. excuse our hubris.

What if, and mayhap I'm wrong.

What if the arts inspire, the sciences explore, the businesses sustain, the governments ordain, religion guides, and the earth provides, each to their season? I am none of these. I see and have seen through these. A government is built on trust. trust is given. I have what is given me because of that trust. I do not doubt it can be given. It is beautiful because of this. But can you see trust being broken?

Can any of these be true? yes. anything can be true. Winston can see that 5 = 2+2. Twisted as it would be. as it would necessarily be by defining it so perversely for its truth to be as such.

I ask only. what if one took away their consent. their yes it is I voting for or against this. What if, I, in refusing the vote, refusing the census, say, no, the farce is too much.

The truth isn't truth then. it is null. a thing without power. because, Like Queen Mab from Merlin's adventures, her power is derived from belief. A Queen no one knows about and who was made up is hardly a Queen worth knowing. Is Queen Mab my puzzle? the saying yes to Mab or No to Mab? what if, I turned away from Mab? and so did everyone else. so much so that she became extinct in the utmost sense of the word. But to say of a Queen that she may have and that many a thing like her could exist. I do not dispute with the scholars on her existence. I refuse the question altogether.

There is no legitimacy. There is only self. and what the self is willing to entertain.

If a man tells me he discovered a new law, I will listen. Because I have not learned the art of drowning out noise so fully as to be unable to listen when men shout and wave papers in my face.

If a man tells me he discovered a new element to an arbitrary doctrine and that it is he I should follow, I will not, because my orientation is to myself and that around me. not to him. It is a non-sequitor. I have the capacity to acknowledge or not any authority. On pain of inquisition. I can refuse. as Quills dude did when he swallowed a crucifix for the fuck of it.

If I am pressed with rubbish I am want to remove it from my person to be pressed with it. Rubbish doesn't belong on a person. it belongs elsewhere. or it does, and it is pressed. in which case, I remove myself from the world of rubbish. Because I as a person am not one to be pressed with rubbish. I do not entertain it. I do not read it. I do not quarrel with it.

Which can be a sad and lonely thing. a thing without friendship, a hollowing out of everything.

A mystery denied by its very redefining.

A rubbish thing is to say that a thing is rubbish without engaging it. puzzling over the words of a madman. a child. a book. a graffiti. It is all an engagement. there is no center. in the self of selfs there is only self. engaging with it is a choice to discern that self and to see for oneself what it is. and what one should do now that that thing is known to an extent.

I think often of the Terminator 2 effect. to retort and retort and retort. to show and shine forth what I believe. that a queen mab in me may be shown by others to be rubbish. because she seems quite real to me. as real as the morning newspaper.

Alas, the newspaper wins. My lungs have run their course. my wits their end.

I can only do and say so many things in my lifetime. I hope I am at least clear. and not overly rubbish. which would of course be easily remedied in a little while. but in the mean time. I will be here pondering my meaning and probing my written words for better ways to express that meaning.

Before I forget this. Creators of art often say that they are surprised at the finished product they release. they often think of previous versions as having some authenticity to them still. From musicians not knowing their lyrics to their songs to directors making director's cuts.

[source-of-support]

Painted rocks of the ancient world.

A rock is painted with the triumphs, the arcane symbols of purity and virility. People wrote puzzles as complex as a 3d chess game and as asymmetrical as a rock on each one. Each bespoke to the rock placed before the painter. Hope inscribed without saying as much. To understand the puzzle is to divine the secret of the universe.

Puzzles of this sort are rare. They don't make them like this anymore.

A child in a long run down empire finds an original of one such rock.

"Look at it, friend!" he exclaimed with glee, hands gliding over it. Each finger tingling with ecstasy seeing them transposed over the paint. "What do you see?"

"It's a rock." his friend said to him.

"What is this rock, though? It is so beautiful." enraptured in its still painted on and mysterious story. A hint of its nature clad in its clothing.

"Beautiful, you say?" his friend asked as he held the now-given-rock to examine." "As empty as you or me." he said handing it back unimpressed, wholly.

"As full as you or me." He disagreed, holding the puzzle rock, which glittered sweetly and robustly in his hand.

'Empty,' his friend thought, holding, and wanting, nothing in his hand.

[source-of-support]

Response to a Friend

Terminal goals, with themselves serving no other goal, seem to be absent from humanity. Meaning is a choice then. And goals are nothing if not markers of intention, some task to be done.

A doing without effect is a terminal act. When programming, a machine does one thing. A terminal goal. It, however, is used for this fact. It is an instrument. We, being both instrument and user, find meaning has no impetus for us as both, and no goal or meaning can bring about to fulfill innately, without appending it, the human need to complete a terminal goal.

Goals are added to serve us after being shown and given a game in childhood. And we can choose not to add it to our process of living. Or we can fail to create fulfillment from actions that we suppose would bring meaning or fulfillment.

What you ask I assume is what goal is worthy of our humanity. What as users do we need? Both instrument and user, we can become anything. But the fact remains: There are many who need better user instruments. So, I would say, for me, it is helping others to fulfill their potential in choosing goals that make them feel good and alive and human.

[source-of-support]

The only true way to continue a lineage of experience, an abundance of knowledge, belongs to the province of children. It is they who decide, inwardly, what and where to place their love of existence and its lineages as existence presents themselves to the individual child.

All lineages cast their nets, to varying effect.

It is the lifeblood of the warriors of the stars sun and the moon, whose call was heeded and whose boon was chosen.

a confluence of events may bring many to one net. and one practice of netting to many.

All shall perish in the end. as all was missing in the beginning.

that there is something implies nothing.

that there is life implies death.

that there is life, the draft of life is surely at hand.

A conduit indeed.

from my eyes did I see.

from my mind did it form

from the hand that guided

to the hand that made

a gentle stream

a terrible foe

the storm that wakes the waves of the destroyer

I look on the hand of a being otherwise myself

in form I shook, the fear gripping my task, the foundations

of my being did I write.

what legacy is this? that I forsook my path to the reeds and the gentleness to find an image of myself splattered on the page. a bottle spilt in haste, ink in caution measured and poured, casting my soul's net nary more.

a fear, a medallion in the center, a sensation brought forth of extinguishment.

A conduit indeed. let me know, content of my heart, what I bring forth onto the page, onto the earth, into the eyes privy to such sight, here I write.

Can it be seen from a different hue? a color other than true? please forgive a man of middle age the thought of defeat in writing plainly that a conduit does not know what it writes, just that it sees it and goes on. may my life be seen by the life feeding me that I may feed a new generation.

what ill fruits this must seem. ichor and grime, of unknown source?

I prefer this honestly. to writing out a bibliography. ask and you can know.

Holden said it true. sometimes you wish you could call an author you just read and have a conversation with them.

this is nothing. a moment to make something something.

a nothing to a something. a trough to a crest. a moment of rest to a moment of motion.

I DID NOT MAKE THIS VIDEO

it brought me happiness tho.