Sweet and Sour Oxygen

Wave collapse theory on how the mind can conceive of one thing and the moment one attempts to convey this thing, the attempts fall short of the thing occasionally revisits the idea of the ineffable. Art’s form of communication may be accused of reaching high in order to attain the unattainable where art falls victim to contempt. Indeed, not everyone shares the same perspective. Art is not supposed to be a politician master of persuasion; yet, art is sometimes held to the expectation that it can change (or at least touch) hearts and minds, especially, on an emotional level. If art can capture the thing at the very moment leading up to and just before the wave collapses, the work can potentially not only communicate that thing, the piece is onto something.

The ineffable. To borrow an expression (if not the meaning) from Piers Anthony, this is not to suggest emotion plays a role in such Split Infinity (aside, the reader will notice in my own works a play at split infinitives). If brain waves are nothing but light passing through the slits of perspective, then the moment awareness piques, perhaps in Planck Time, is that thing until the vacuum is removed and observation and measurement introduces Uncertainty and the thing turns incomplete, only, to be finished by another observer and their brain waves.

touch

I cannot take credit for this examination, but Adam is lackadaisical here. God is struggling to reach. I do notice Adam’s arch, or wrist, is higher than God’s, but Adam’s finger is lower. What was going on with Michelangelo and the Church in those days? It’s interesting he was a contemporary of Martin Luther (who went insane/demented/stroked out in the end; the idea of which brain waves being starved for or super-saturated in blood/oxygen to be examined later).

 

 

If It’s Ignored Does It Go Away?

Once the >enter< key is depressed there is no telling how many eyes see the entry in that instant. I figure not many in my case, but when I saw my error, I immediately selected >delete<.

Sure enough, “he” responded the next day. The only thing I can figure is he hadn’t refreshed his screen, and that’s how he saw my comment. I checked as another profile/person to be sure (though it’s hard to say whether I am really the same person/different name/same IP and the test was a bust) just to see if my comment wasn’t only gone for “me”, the writer.

My comment was gone.

There were words he used in his reply that suggested he did see my comment. I am sure he was responding, which was fine, except I either got a date wrong or I got the event wrong (correct date wrong event) which has the potential to invalidate my evidence/research regardless of the sentiment.

Besides, I decided his “holocaust conspiracy theory” mentality needn’t any further attention. Too late. Again, he responded.

I want to know what he thinks he is doing? Justifying the atrocities at Auschwitz? And why now? Is it some kind of defense of the skinhead with the bad rug/comb-over who is/will be up to some future action against what is currently taking place?

At the risk of sounding just like “him” (yes, sort of intentionally ambiguous), he’s a wanker in a (the narrator’s voice drifts off into the background to be over-taken by a deeper yet whiny northeastern, US, voice mentioning 400# people).

Go higher, I hear FLOTUS saying. I’m sorry. I am very tempted to sink low. Fight fire with fire? No, two wrongs don’t make a right, but why do I keep hearing how so-and-so respects a strong “man”. I ask my husband’s opinion, and he does what I am attempting to temper within myself. I can’t write that.

Do I let these oddities alone? Don’t give them fuel? What happened in the beginning of allowing a monstrosity? Did we just keep to ourselves because there was really nothing we could do? None of it affects me? We just go about our days like normal? I mean, he’s likely only a bedridden, drooling hack, right? And I feel bad for even thinking that way.

It’s not like /they/ feel bad.

Give ME a Chance

My performance in elementary school was excellent. I dropped to just average in grades 5-7 when I transferred to a private school. Grade 8 was spent back in the public school system, and I managed that year working to be not just average. In high school, I was either an A student or a D student. One grading period, I went from an A in Algebra to a D and I cried over my first D in my school career. It devastated me, but when my mother found out over what it was I was so broken, she laughed. She said she thought I was pregnant. “Oh, it’s only a D?” That hurt me at the age of 14 and proudly a virgin (not knowing at the time that I would outlast my mother’s virginity; as if it was some foolish competition or something). What in the world would even make her think I had the opportunity to be not a virgin? I was shy. I didn’t have a boyfriend. I never had a boyfriend (except the so-called one she set me  up with in the 7th grade; the one who was weird and the entire Summer was spent feeling like an animal in a zoo being observed for cute behavior. I had to ask a friend how to “break up” with him. I must say, I knew it was wrong what she was suggesting, but if I was going to burn a bridge good, that was the way to do it. Sadly, he was a cry baby and ran to my mother, “Look what she did!”

I didn’t know about narcissism in those days, but understand Mother is a narcissist. Her little scheme crumbled, and the only thing she had left was to make the boy out to be a saint, and I was a wicked slut. It would have been fine had he not been such a tattletale. Come to think of it, had he not been such a weasel in the first place, maybe I WOULD have lost my virginity at the age of 14. If I have anything to be grateful for, it’s that he was weird and a crybaby.

I never cared for history. I hated how we as members of a civilized society cared about war as much as we did. All history was — was war. I was 14 and idealistic and maybe just a touch (just a touch) righteous. Maybe just a touch out of touch of my own warring nature. Just a touch.

I am now an old lady and finding it fascinating how history has the potential of putting the puzzle together over how we got to where we are now. The problem is now I must do CliffsNotes (now known as Wiki and others) and quickly catch up and hope not to get a date wrong (because dates really ARE important) or some other significant event. Never mind how, if we go back far enough, scribes intentionally fabricated records. For the most part, records tend to reconcile with each other. At the risk of declaring an oxymoron, history reconciles many accounts.

With that I shall mention treaties. But first, my last article described my being a fly on the wall. As I hurry to catch up on all the dates of history that I missed, I find myself a fly on the wall in that era. I very much have become fascinated in my own Slavic roots (we’ll not mention the Irish-mutt side at the moment). The record seems to blur around the time my people were pagans, but I love how it seems possible we respected a lightning god. This might explain how I tend to overuse the lightning will strike me cliche. Who knows? I love imagining the theory.

We were considered barbarians by the Christians during our pagan times. I think we were called that because we also fought with our bare hands and not much armor besides our loin cloths protecting our baby makers. I doubt the loin cloths had much to do with modesty. We were a proud people.

Nevertheless, I must sharply segue and get this off my chest (my braless chest — which has nothing to do with pride but comfort). I am appalled there would be those who would support pre-WWII (post WWI) Germany and make up history in order to blame the “other guy” (which, in essence, blames the victim). Sure-sure, the reparations were exorbitant, and Germany desperately drove themselves into a devastating depression as a result. Albeit, some ideas seemed good — like gymnasium and engineering.

Give Hitler a chance. But I want to scream, Marge Schott mini-me! Whenever I hear /that/ voice (you know the one that sounds like a case of whiskey a week, several packs of cigarettes a day for a lifetime?) I see the mugSchott. That’s what I picture.

So, with that confession, you can only imagine what I said to that poor 16 year old boy.

The Elephant(-)Shaped Fly

There are at least many millions of people out there who are smarter than I am. This is why I don’t get how what has been happening in politics is permitted to continue. I really don’t think it takes a super human to see through it. It’s right there in plain sight.

Yes, I get that there are people suffering here in the States that they have turned to crime and drugs and feel desperate. Perhaps these people will benefit from their factory jobs returning to the Midwest. Sadly, without Unions and with an anti-minimum wage increase advocate at the helm, I don’t see much improvement for the working class. I do see deregulation hugely benefiting Big Business.

Maybe slippery slope thinking is not the right way to go about analyzing this, but I keep seeing the new “kids” using arguing tactics far worse; for example, Conway’s “two wrongs make a right” tactic (i.e. comparing Trump to a few 18 year old punks — did she get that one right?). Even better, Trump looking straight into the camera and saying he didn’t say/do that (with a straight face) — far worse. What is going on? Why are we wanking on this and not doing anything about the out an out lies?

Our future, underpaid factory workers will end up in privately owned prisons. Their children will go to privately run schools under a voucher program which limits regulation, or worse, condemns students to a tracking system that places them in school segregation disguised as ability focused education. Could it work? They do, after all, go back to their neighborhoods. Why not have them teach themselves?

The rebuttal is fake news or it’s just a blog article written by a fat slob on a couch. That’s what these Beelzebubs say. With that, I see a hostile takeover of not only free speech but also freedom of the press — legitimate and responsible reporting and news journals. Not just some poor peon venting on her soap box because that’s all she’s got is her couch blogging expressions.

What’s happening in D.C. is a hostile takeover that was allowed to take place because the candidate’s (s’) own lies, their own fake promises were permitted to continue. Some call it politics. And when I listened to the rhetoric, even if all we were voting for was who had the best sentiment, it is not too difficult to see this election had Hubris campaigning against a Feeding Frenzy. One side kept throwing chum into the waters. The other side kept following a formula without factoring into the equation how people will eat shit if they’re hungry.

Not everyone who voted was necessarily flies attracted to dung. I know some big business-minded who see their man as a way to contain the insects (yes, they look down upon those flies as mere insects and not as humans) in order that a few candy sweet words enable him to do Big Business’s will. They will set fly traps so fast that the flies will be left dangling there wondering how they ended up stuck. And stuck they will be. And it won’t matter even if they have their own guns. They’ll just shoot each other until the big tanks roll in and KaBOOM. They are being played like suckers.

But I digress. Hubris made this happen. It’s probably stupider than stupid. Still, how this can continue blows my mind. And what do I do? Write about it like some fly on the wall.

Rump Roh

Yesterday’s article was full of typos and word messes worse than that other thing that’s full of you-know-what, at least from the perspective of someone who looks for mistakes not to be there — and there they are all ablaze, glowing, screaming, “You idiot!”

“You dare suggest you’re God?!”

And I spent half the day in terror picturing some lightning bolt, some cliche serial killer who hunts down blasphemers, morphemers, flabby femurs or some other punishment for daring to exercise my pea brain and pitifully limited lexicon. “They’re out there — word spies.”

Whatever. I have to write every day, so the world of obsessive lecturers say about writers. My excuse today? I got up late, have no time to polish — to be an editor. I am no god!

I am an idiot, and I shall embrace my idiocy. And write!

Today’s thought is about Trump. I suppose it would be idiotic to wonder how this guy is not being met with,  You’re Fired! How is this fiasco allowed to continue? How is he not being accused of treason? Are the other powers that be waiting for the right moment to pounce?

I mean, How much more rope does he need?

A Demiurge Semi-urge to Write

According to Umberto Eco’s character in Foucault’s Pendulum, the instant I write the letter “a” in “according”, I am “tainted with corruption and evil.” A demiurge. I am no longer inside my head, in my little vacuum “pretending to be in harmony with ‘the One’.”

I suppose I would respond by saying there is no pretending for as it has been said, ‘the One’ is ineffable. Once one tries (yes, tries) to eff the ineffable, ‘the One’ is lost. Whether the reason it is lost has to do  with (is due to) whether the author hasn’t a grasp of the language or that the reader’s perspective skews the written intention is further left to scrutiny.

I get a little lost in the idea that creating is more demiurge than editing another’s creation. Eco continues his exercise to illustrate a funny scene between William Shakespeare and Shakespeare’s editor. Shakespeare takes his editor’s words under advisement and runs with it. Who was the editor? I suppose it can be said the Bible or the Talmud or (and this is probably what is wrong with Scientology; hear this out) that God spoke through the authors. Like an editor. And God is ineffable. The moment he’s written, he changes and becomes each reader’s perspective. The almighty remains elusive that way. Nevertheless, for the believer, God is the editor.

So, I hadn’t read this passage in Eco’s book the other day when I was kidding around about not collaborating. I don’t collaborate. That I am better at editing. I was not implying that I was God in that sense at all. And neither was I implying such when I said that I had asked that my attribution be withheld from a publication that I edited. The publisher got witty and called me One Who Shall Remain Unnamed. Gsheesh. I didn’t see it at the time, but he was calling me God!

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Still Cogitating

I am feeling encouraged to write something. A long time friend has been goading me into some kind of collaboration. Another writer whom I respect for his polymath abilities shares how the word is all the fun (my interpretation in case he meant something totally else) has me feeling slightly more confident. The only thing I don’t want is pity. I don’t want to control how others respond, but I cringe if all I induce is an “I am sorry”. I also don’t want the trollish response, “Get over yourself.”

I don’t know what I want. I guess I should be grateful for either.

Happy New Year

Thinking about WP-ing (not sure I like the sound of that; -P-ing; but Ping sounds fine) again. If my inspiration goes more toward the personal than the word-ing should I open up a brand new WP where no one “knows” (in quotes because, who really does actually “know” me) me? What would be the point? Would it add anything to enhance others? Would it be just another exercise in exercise? What kind of exercise? Are people truly interested in this? One site I follow says that behavior not rhetoric expresses a higher calling (to protect [deleted]). Isn’t writing a behavior?

Affirmative, Dave. I Read You.

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I should probably do hashtags and open up my posts to search engines. This is probably considered a cold medium, nevertheless, feedback would be interesting as long as it relates in a rational way whether it agrees or disagrees.

There are probably two main reasons for language. One is to instruct and the other is to acknowledge. Language is likely a little give and take. I disagree that it’s strictly a human endeavor. Recently, scientists and linguists discovered certain birds to exhibit syntax in their birdsong. Some birds even coo to their unhatched eggs. It is thought that this influences the chicks to develop fit for their environment. Dolphins and whales use and understand syntax and grammar. My own cats do as well regardless of their completely ignoring what I say.

I don’t know if linguists stop at sound or bumps (like Braille) not to be confused with Phonetics. Language is for relating. Do we have to only consider that which evolved with the tongue? What about pheromones? Ants? Electromagnetism? Yes, a quick look on this and we find computers. How do computers relate?

I ask a lot of questions without many answers. It turns out more research is needed. However, what is the goal? Are linguists simply studying what’s already there? Or, is there an attempt to develop a language which abolishes all ambiguity? If the latter happened, lawyers would be done for.

Was that ambiguous given the poor/colloquial sentence structure?

 

 

Sentenced to I for Life

I’ve never really had an identity. When I was growing up I was like some other people whose identity was that of what their parents wanted them to be. I have met others whose parents noticed who their children really were and allowed their children the space and freedom to develop further their then selves into their potential selves. My situation was very different.

I occasionally read lightly information on Douglas Hofstadter whose linguistic ideas include the use of the word “I”. I have never read his books, but I am going to reference him here because I strongly suspect his ideas on self emerging from inanimate objects relate to whatever it is I am going through, and this should never be confused with that silly phrase, Existential Crisis. Please. I will try and explain over the course of several blog posts. Get over it (note to self).

When I was growing up it was best for me to be invisible. I remember as an older adult looking at a picture of me as a teenager sitting on a chair in a corner away from everyone else and looking on. The photo was meant to capture the people at the dining room table, but there I was in the background like some pensive figure in a Edward Hopper painting, quiet. The moment I noticed I was there I remembered what I was and I suddenly became that image. That girl is deep. Regardless of how she is like a fly on the wall, who, if she were to have flown down, she would have been swatted — annoying fly that she was (she also liked sweets).

Now, don’t go laughing at that. I am sure I exhibit times of shallowness such as avoiding the dermatologist because I don’t want my nose cut off my face to get rid of a potentially slow growing cancer. I’ll wait until I am like 90 when my face is shot to shit, anyway (unless the tumor does grow so large as to explode my nose before that time). Right now, I can put a dot of green cover-up and the red speck disappears. See? Shallow. At the risk of my health.

My role in the family was that of servant. I intensely feel I was being groomed to care for my terminally ill (since before my conception) mother for when she grew old and Dad was gone. If I ever displayed any selfish tendencies such as wanting to go to college, I was scorned. I won’t go into the details as yet, but my awareness of what was going on came about after I had indeed completed college (no one was proud of me and only my narcissistic grandmother attended the graduation so she could do her narcissistic things making it about her when she had zero to do with my completing this path; but, I welcomed her there out of duty to family who were all invited; she enjoyed the free food). I actually had to avoid “home” in order to go to college. I was kicked out of the house for going to college on my saved babysitting and house cleaning money. It took me about 12/13 years to complete 4 years.

The only help I received was from the encouragement of one friend who said he thought I was smart enough to take on more courses. At the time I was taking only one French class because I thought it was best to focus on only one subject. But at 25, I wasn’t getting any younger. I booked 12 credit hours, and smashed my 18 year old homeless 2.7 GPA with that semester’s 4.0. At 32 I graduated with an overall GPA, from 18 years old to nearing middle age, of 3.8. I suppose if I hadn’t had that suck ass first year I would have had a better average. Nevertheless, I get to have Magna Cum Laude printed on the paper.

It was not the degree I wanted but the degree I settled for. And what it has done or is doing for me is to teach me how I should have been treated as a child. I have tried to give back with this degree, but I have been and still am not a great and benevolent person of merit like the people who I admire who seem to have made tremendous accomplishments in making the world a better place not only in the field of my concentration but in other aspects of other people’s lives. I seem to mostly make myself a better place to be. The only hope that I have in helping others is that I work at not being an awful person toward others.

So, how is the word “I” being used in my writing which can be evidence of my “self”?