Sartre's argument against the existence of God.

Sartre's arg. against existence of god.. check it out.

Meet a Scientologist who says what every scientologist says, which is, nothing.

http://www.cisionwire.com/church-of-scientology-international/meet-a-scientologist-jive-aces-vince-hurley-tickles-the-ivory-so-well--he-keeps-the-whole-world-laughing103346


"Sometimes I would feel happy, then feel sad!  Now I feel happy ALL THE TIME!"

YEAH GO BRO

GO GO!! YEAH GOOOO!!

Twilight of the Idols partial reading notes on the "Maxims and Arrows".

Twilight of the Idols

Reading Notes

Preface

His project: to sound out the hollow idols of “eternal idols” in which people have the most faith. To show that they are trumped up and unreal. He speaks of the “question mark” of the revaluation of all values: a stepping back from values as they are and a distancing from them. “Every means is proper for this,” he says, “especially war.” War is a “great wisdom”; “even in a wound there is power to heal.” So this distancing is in a sense a wounding out of which a healing takes place. For N's own view, he states that there are more “idols in the world than realities”--that he sees them is his “evil eye.” He wishes to pose questions with a metaphorical hammer, to touch these hollow entities and hear their hollowness. He says this is a “delight for one who has ears even behind his ears, for me...before whom just that which would remain silent must become outspoken.” Hearing behind one's ears: to engage one's own hearing in a questioning stance. A habit of repetition is here in the writing: ears behind ears, the revaluation of values. I believe this is indicative of a certain way of interrogating the subjects at hand. Listening itself is listened to; values themselves are evaluated. To declare war means to destroy, to wound—and to let heal. To heal means first to initiate this stance of questioning, a double movement. First a disengagement (destruction, an uprooting of values) and then an engagement (a new beginning, a new formulation). Eternal idols are the target of this engagement—maybe even a triple engagement? First we see the idols, and N emphasizes that we don't always even see these idols; second we sound them out, hearing them speak to us; third we hear ourselves hearing them (ears behind ears), allowing us to speak this third relationship (to label an idol as an idol). As we can see, there is already an indictment of the inquirer implied. The inquirer himself becomes problematic; how we question things is open to determination, and how we question defines our relationship to what is questioned.

Maxims and Arrows

Idleness is the beginning of psychology (1): is there a reference to Aristotle's Metaphysics here? Wonder, for Aristotle, is the beginning of philosophy. “Even when we are not doing anything, we begin to wonder—through sight,” Aristotle says. Wonder is a perfect instance of the initiating of this questioning engagement/disengagement. [The history of wonder is the history of a war?] To sit still and not do anything is to do nothing, but naturally, according to Aristotle, we begin to wonder; to begin to wonder is to engage in a disengagement to the world. N specifically says psychology begins with idleness. To follow this reading, we would say that psychology begins with such a disengagement, a questioning. Idleness is an act as well, so we can say that the psychologist first has to act in a certain way, and take a certain stance. Also, in comparison with A, N is placing an emphasis on hearing rather than sight. To make a rather large leap: we can't see ourselves seeing, though sight can initiate a disengagement from the world. However, hearing the sound our idols make when struck, that which normally remains silent, brings language into our discussion. Our idols can speak, they are sounded out as idols. To say “idol”--to label an idol as an idol—is not simply to recognize or see an idol but also to speak it as it is. Only after and idol is struck and heard can we step back from our own hearing. This stepping back from our own hearing allows us to label an idol as an idol. In doing so, as we showed in the preface, we implicate the inquirer—and a psychology of this inquiry is what we've started.

We really know more than we can admit; most of us are not usually courageous enough for what we really know (2). What do we really know that we are afraid to admit? In following with our reading of disengagement and engagement, knowledge might be construed as a type of disengagement/engagement itself, itself a stance, a certain way of doing things. What we really know—what is perhaps closest to us at all times—is precisely this way of doing things. However, to allow this to become an object of knowledge (perhaps in a psychological sense), would mean to inflict upon ourselves precisely the wound that N mentions. To know how we relate to our own idols, our own way of doing things, would mean to disrupt them and allow this stable “idolatry” to become unstable. So, courage is needed. We do not willingly inflict wounds upon ourselves. Also, he states “only rarely do we have the courage for what we really know”--this means that only sometimes do we approach that state where we can be truthful, honest—

To live alone one must be a beast or a god, says Aristotle. Leaving out a third case: one must be both—a philosopher (3). Why? Without claiming to understand exactly why this is here, other than to say something about N's own experience with writing this book—something that goes beyond what we're trying to do here, though perhaps it's an aura surrounds everything we do, we can say the following. A philosopher is both a beast—wild, untamed, a questioner, a disruptor—but also a law-giver, a god, or a commander. I suppose this is as good an interpretation as I'm capable of, right now. What does this have to do with living alone? Perhaps we can elaborate, add a bit more context, maybe arbitrarily—but all in the hopes of coming to our own reading of the text. To disrupt or to command would both mean being alone—both involve a disruption. A synthesis of both would mean being what we would call a “philosopher”--but whatever label we use, the opposition between beast and god dissolves/synthesizes. We could even call that a “person”: what a person does is disrupt and then command; to do both is actually one and the same, part of the same process. This is embedded within the concept of individuality itself, perhaps: to know individuality we must synthesize both the shepherd and the wayward sheep.

“All truth is simple.” Is that not doubly a lie (4)? Well. Doubly? Why? All truth may not be simple: some of it might be complex. Where is the double? First, a truth may in fact be complex. This would be a literal reading. Second, the double—perhaps the quotes? The saying of it is a lie: a lie because the speaker knows the sentence is untrue but still speaks it. There are two senses of “lie” at play here. The first is a performative sense: the liar states what he or she knows to be untrue (perhaps with a reference to maxim 2, that what we really know needs courage: perhaps lying is easier). But there is also the sense of “lie” in the very sense of the statement. It is at odds with a more general truth, which is that truth is not simple. This second sense incorporates the first sense because it is a statement, but here we are concerned with the content of the statement itself. If all truth is simple, then the statement itself must be simple in itself, which it is not.  [i have no idea what any of this means and i dont know what N is referencing so whatever.]

I want, once and for all, not to know many things. Wisdom sets limits to knowledge too (5). Wisdom here is contrasted with knowledge. (What is wisdom? Perhaps knowing the right thing to do at a given point? An incorporation of experience into judgment?) But the negation emphasized in the maxim is interesting. Insofar as I do not want to know many things, how far do I have to go in knowing them first? Is this an absence of oblivion, where I would rather be in complete ignorance? Or is this a more tempered ignorance? More of a groping around in the dark, realizing that what you just touched—you don't want to touch again. How can a limit be set without first seeing what is beyond that limit, especially if the limit is relative to wisdom? This is the question. Does wisdom draw a line, saying “here, no more,” or does it take a step beyond that line and say “go back, no more.” I believe that with the tenor of the maxim we must assume the latter. The desire for not knowing implies that knowing is possible but that the limits enforced on knowledge, because of their origin in desire, must be considered relative (to wisdom—to experience). Compare this with maxim 2. In fact, both maxims 4 and 5 seem to give opposition to maxim 2. Maxim 2 encourages us to have courage for the truth, while saying that we only sometimes have this courage. Maxim four implies that the performance of lying can be the flip side of courage; maxim five implies that wisdom itself can limit our knowledge. Is this a submission? Maxim two: “Only rarely...” This only seems to imply that difficulty is involved in reaching knowledge, even that which we already know. It turns out that we even have a desire not to know many things. Perhaps these are the reasons why we “only rarely” have “the courage for that which [we] really know.” Are these examples? Desire for not-wanting-to-know, and lying?

In our own wild nature we find the best recreation from our un-nature, from our spirituality (6). I believe this is a statement on the fact that we are first and foremost spiritual. The declaration of war on idols that N insists upon would not be possible without our subjugation to idols in the first place. We would not be able to question these idols, to “hear them as hollow,” unless they were first there to begin with. We live with idols; they surround us. Our wild nature, on the other hand, is a “recreation.” What is our wild nature? In a sense, a negation of a negation. Our spirituality, which is a worldly-otherworldly, negates our real lives; by negating this, we affirm our real lives. Our “wild nature” must be then of this world, and it must disrupt our spirituality, our relationship to idols. This is what it does, not what it is. I believe we should refrain from saying what “our own wild nature” is and focus instead on its oppositional relationship to “un-nature.” N does not define “our own wild nature”--in fact, to say “our own wild nature” implies quite a lot. “Our own” implies both a group and a self; it implies a sharing but also a individuality. “Wild nature” implies the unconstrained, the opposition to the constrained. Why should the unconstrained nature be opposed to the “un-nature”? Is it more real? Or is this merely a corrective? In the opposition there is also a synthesis: we are both constrained and unconstrained; the unconstrained merely provides the best “recreation” from the constrained. But why call the constrained “un-nature” when the maxim itself, by using the term “recreation,” implies that we are usually constrained? Is it possible that we are usually not-ourselves? We should also note something else. A certain playfulness with concepts; we have only scratched the surface of this book but already we face a certain wildness with concepts, a deployment of ideas without discussion. In a sense, irreverence provides us with a recreation from our normal beliefs (from our normal lives?), whatever those happen to be. The term “recreation,” though, must again be emphasized: we are not talking destruction of our un-nature, but merely a break. Whether such a break could or should be permanent is a different question. Also, in the preface, he states that the whole essay is a “recreation.”

What? Is man merely a mistake of God's? Or God merely a mistake of man's (7)? Here we have a deployment of the irreverence in maxim above. Questions. Why would man be a mistake of God? But here we should take note of the reversal: the irreverence takes the form of a question. The “what?” makes it appear as if it follows as a conclusion. Well, in a sense it does—from maxim 6. An example of the wild-nature taking over and being allowed to ask the reversal of our spirituality.

Out of life's school of war: What does not destroy me, makes me stronger (8). Interesting to compare to maxim 5. “Life's school of war” I take as a type of wisdom learned through experience—but how to understand that with maxim 5, which states that we do not want to know many things. Would not wanting to know many things be an absence of courage mentioned in maxim 2? Understanding the maxim singularly is easy enough. He has already declared war, and through war, healing (see preface). This is in service of the revaluation of all values. What makes me stronger is knowledge; but there are limits to knowledge, for example, those that are self-imposed (maxims 4 and 5). Here perhaps we have a type of re-conceptualization of knowledge as something performed, something that I am bound up with in some way. If knowledge can wound me and thereby make possible my healing, then the focus should be on its performative aspects, in both the limiting case of destruction and the case of lessons learned. Framed in this way, the other maxims take on a new light. The point towards a dichotomy between protection and destruction: not wanting to know many things (wisdom) is protective against total destruction, while recreation, a break from our own normal spirituality (construed broadly as our normal relations with the world), is constructive precisely because of its non-lethal destructiveness.

Help yourself, then everyone will help you. Principle of neighbor-love (9). Again, the irreverence. Anti-Christian. A reversal of “do unto others what you would have them do unto you.” Or perhaps, “love thy neighbor as thyself.” I think this as simple as it appears: a psychological re-statement on what “really” happens. Or at least an alternative. But this principle is interesting in another way. Both are imperatives. The emphasis is on self-interest in N's formulation. Go further: he is critiquing the principle of neighbor-love, as if he is uncovering the psychological underpinnings of the Christian formulation. On the one hand he is stating a new principle; on the other he is implicitly saying that his idea of neighbor-love is the one really supporting the Christian conception. A subversion.

...and theres like however many million more maxims.

All these people are dead, and they all smoked!

Derrida looks like a crazed fool too.  A little like Charlie Sheen in profile, actually...

But they're all dead! D-E-A-D

In the Cat Box

Beldo sees a box.

Gets in.

 Gets out.

Thank GOD for HEIDEGGER

At least he wasn't a fool.  At least he had a viewpoint about history, about the role of the Greeks and the thinking-through of them.  It's not enough just to know about history.  You have to think it.  Too much recitation breeds contempt.

Too much rule following breeds contempt.  Break them, fake them.

Don't we all wish stamps cost this much?

Time for my Language Lessons

Here come the French verbs.

Or the warm jets

The only way I could get my old stereo to work

I had to pile books on top of it until it stopped making this awful sound.  The lighting was because I was very young. I was a little more bohemian in those days. If I'm correct I spy a Being and Nothingness a couple books up.  I miss that apartment.  It was huge and was ridiculously cheap because it was a crap-hole...and rent prices used to be way cheaper.  I really lucked into that sucker.  I bet it costs 650$ a month now, AT LEAST.  I paid under 600, which isn't that bad considering what a decent studio costs these days.  I would gladly pay an extra 50 dollars (more than my studio) for a huge kitchen, a full bedroom, a huge living room, 3 huge closets and a great tub.

And it was on a corner with great windows, had some beautiful sunsets there.  I remember doing a lot of homework during the sounds of spring and some glittering-orangegreen speckled sunsets. nostalgia.

Tree

Ladybug

Unemployment

Being unemployed for a certain amount of time one gets lots of advice. Most of it is simply supportive. Some of it is more than supportive, with offers of job opportunities and leads. These leads are sometimes useful, sometimes not; regardless, they still require initiative on the part of the unemployed. We have to work at these things.

Then there's another type of advice, which is an annoying type of advice because it's so nagging. These advice-givers operate under the idea that if you're unemployed you have to spend all your time looking for work. Every second has to be productive; any type of break or free-time to pursue non-employment goals gets pushed aside as frivolous. Particularly punishing, because being unemployed is never easy. Anyone unemployed pressures himself or herself just as the critical other does. And hearing it twice only makes it feel like a punishment added on after the guilt we already assume.

I suspect a large part of this critical attitude that people place on the unemployed has to do with their vision of time. Time is a commodity that needs to be maximized at all costs: free-time is really getting-things-done-time, a way to pad a resume, a time to clean the stove, a time to be constructive. But this “free-time-construction” has nothing at all to do with true construction but rather with a separation between “life” and “work.” What we do when not making money becomes equated with “real life”; what we do in work becomes falsified. When we work—for most of us—we simply make money, spend time doing whatever-we-do, and then equate our off-hours with our real lives. This separation is what makes possible a critical attitude towards the unemployed. Without the separation, they technically don't fit into either category: they are neither supporting themselves nor living real lives. Once the binary dissolves, the meaning of both categories dissolves as well. Free time only exists in opposition to non-free time.

And so the unemployed become somehow other, but not totally. The unemployed are still contained within broader borders: even as the work-life binary that usually defines us dissolves them, they still live within the structure of those categories that persist even into the physical realm. We have rent and mortgages to pay, after all, and without this work-life binary we could not afford rent (as we would have no source of income), and we could not have a place to live our not-working lives. So, the economic structure of how we spend and think about our time actually is mirrored in the physical manifestation of our surroundings. Or, conversely, the physical manifestation of our surroundings is mirrored in the organization of conception of work and life. The relationship is dialectical.

Because of the dialectical nature between the work-life binary and the physical things that surround us (commodities, really), we can look down upon the unemployed as those who simply can't live in the world—who can't play the game, who failed at it for one reason or another. And so the criticism starts because there's no escape. Even the chronically homeless and unemployed, the drifters, the beats, the rebels, gutterpunks, all fall under this rubric. By definition it's impossible for them to exist outside the broader world (which is as physical as it is ideological). Like ghosts, the unemployed haunt the remains of a capitalist conception of time, existing solely in reaction.

In general, this is correct. Anyone who has been unemployed or who has lived differently within the work-life dichotomy can feel this. Vacations take on a real-life (and yet surreal) quality; but a vacation from what? From work. From preparing for work, from the act of going to work, from being at work, from leaving work, from eating after work, from going to sleep at a time determined by work. This is not a judgment: hopefully it's merely true. Whether we like our work or not, or whether we can get lost in our jobs, is irrelevant to any accurate description of the organization of time and work.  

The question of alternative organizations comes up. These are fine: for example, there are differences from the self-employed vs. the wage-laborer. Or between farming and city life. The heaviness or lightness of time moves differently depending on the organization of one's day. But these alternatives always exist in opposition to a dominant organizational pattern. Some people work the evening shift, which is a small difference in the organization of life; but it's enough to feel the difference inherent in working such a shift. Likewise working the night shift. The dominant organization always exists. Those who live separately always exist in a connection of difference to this dominant organization, whether they acknowledge it or not. What this results in is a feeling of constant disruption, an aimlessness punctuated by feelings of inadequacy and criticism.

Everything above was written more as a result of feeling than of doctrine. It's not supposed to be some theoretical exposition on the organization of time in modern life. Rather, it's a description of an experience—which may, or may not, correspond to reality.

Sioux Falls

Sioux Falls

Coming into Sioux Falls on I-90 is a boring affair. Driving over a never ending wasteland of prairie—there's nothing really to offer the eye, or the imagination. You turn the music up. You blast it until you can't think anymore. And you're okay. Everything's fine. You've made it.

Coming into Sioux Falls: lots of little lights spread out over a great flat space. If your destination is Sioux Falls itself, you feel a certain twinge of anticipation. No matter how far you are away your destination is from the interstates it's never more than ten minutes. No real neighborhoods exist in Sioux Falls. Rather there's the “west side,” the “east side,” etc. And none of these have any clear borders or interesting demographic demarcations. Some people who live there might disagree and might even bring median incomes and certain ethnic groups to bear on the argument that there are indeed different parts of the cities. Poor parts and rich parts. Suburban and otherwise. But it's nonsense: never forget it. Everything's so close (and yet so spread out) that it doesn't matter. City planners have renovated downtown to look and feel like a suburb and the suburbs to look and feel like downtown. Whatever superficial differences exist evaporate upon closer inspection.

Driving is required. You can't really ride a bike in Sioux Falls, though you can try. For a smaller city it's remarkably spread out, and it would make no sense to ride you bike ten miles to a baseball game. Or fifteen miles to go to work downtown. Even in larger cities like Minneapolis, the furthest suburbs like Eden Prairie are only just beyond biking range. Whereas everything of worth in Sioux Falls is beyond biking range. From my parent's house in Southwest Sioux Falls you can't bike downtown—it's too far. Whereas from my apartment in Minneapolis I can get to virtually any place in Minneapolis, or really even St. Paul, with little trouble.

And so everybody drives. Every building has large spaces between it and the next. The houses have large yards with fences. The chain stores sit far back from the street. Nobody walks or uses crosswalks, and in fact a dominant feeling you may have if you decide to walk is an intense scrutiny bearing down on you from every passing car. When I was in high school I decided not to pay for parking in the school parking lot—again, everybody drove. No buses. But I refused to pay for the “privilege” of parking in the lot and so I spent the first part of my senior year dodging some large woman driving a golf cart around, yelling at those without tags. Finally she caught me and I gave up, which meant I had to park across the street. As if this would matter to anyone with an ethical sense of parking, a real ethical sense of parking would go a long way in Sioux Falls high schools—but again, we're talking about an automobile city and nothing is going to change this. People love cars there. But regardless, I parked across the street. What this meant was that I had to cross the street in order to go to school, leave school, go to lunch, etc. And I would get honked at by other students who parked in the lot—as if I were some weirdo for not forking over sixty dollars for the privilege of parking in the school lot.

Luckily, in high school, I was a weird little vegan, money-hating environmentalist oddball. So I took it as a backwards-complement. Having losers make fun of you is actually a self-esteem boost. I'm definitely exaggerating here, but I'm still accurately describing the structure of the general situation. All of this for simply parking across a street.

In Sioux Falls, there's now a Planned Parenthood next to my high school. Protesters regularly stand outside and hold pictures of aborted fetuses. Just recently they enacted a law requiring a three day way and anti-abortion counseling for any woman seeking an abortion. You should hate the people supporting these measures. South Dakota is very right-wing in spirit, though the people themselves are friendly enough.

Rather than a web linking the whole community together, the community is linked first through a common core. The political structure is located far away from the populated areas of the state; perhaps this explains part of the right-wing anti-federal stance of the population. The people of Sioux Falls are governed by Pierre, a faraway place; and Pierre, in turn, connects to Washington, an even farther away dreamworld. Add to this the utter ineffectual nature of all politics in South Dakota—which is on nobody's radar for any election. Indeed, the people of South Dakota have an uncanny ability to shoot themselves in the foot: for example, taking Tom Daschle out of office and replacing him with whomever. Daschle, of course, was one of the most powerful people in the Senate. And South Dakota would never want such an advocate for their state: they'd rather have John Thune, a junior senator with a bad haircut. It's rather sad.

Sioux Falls, however, is not a wasteland. Downtown was renovated. Even the Falls—the actual waterfalls—were renovated. Everything has a certain Disney feel. Even the Statue of David was turned around so as not to offend. Now he faces the park and the river, not some road where a family “might catch a glimpse.” I suppose real art is a buffalo sculpture that you can climb on. In a way, that's exactly right. A bronze buffalo you can climb on is indeed genuine South Dakota art. Why import one of the most famous statues in existence when you can get a 1970's prairie artist to make a bronze buffalo?

Since I left Sioux Falls I have been back many times. The longest I have ever been back is one month—Christmas break during my freshman year of college. I've been back for a week or two at other times but never as long as that. And I've always gotten bored. I've always had a sad sense of alienation there: I don't have any friends there anymore, just my parents. Which is fine. Perhaps that has influenced me: why else would I focus on the distance between houses? Or why would feel that a representative memory is being honked at while crossing a street, as if that were some embarrassment?

My dislike of Sioux Falls is a fear of being alone. Sioux Falls is a lonely city. The people have a certain feel to them that doesn't exist in any Twin Cities neighborhood. They have that certain feel that makes one think that nothing is happening—that life has stalled, that hope is dead. It's a certain slimy-stillness. Even those with better jobs—with real lives, insofar as that's possible in Sioux Falls—are infected by it. I would call it provincialism but I don't think it's accurate. Sioux Falls is indeed connected to the outside world. And indeed, it wants to be. It's just bad at it.

Stanley Cavell and The Responsibility of Pictures of Skyscrapers taken from Parks

We see seeing as seeing the sublime and never just seeing. In every seeing there is something of a seeing-beneath, a certain thinking-through, a certain uncovering that goes into the very process. I look at a skyscraper and never just see a building but rather something beneath a skyscraper. Not a basement, not a skeleton of steel. But something else. Something at the bottom of things. When we see a picture of a skyscraper we never just see a skyscraper, which would be superfluous. We divine the world like it's buried beneath layer after layer of soot. This highlights our separateness of ourselves from the world. A break between ourselves and the rest. We see a picture of a skyscraper and we see ourselves—this “and” that we bring to bear brings our very selves into focus. A destabilization occurs. We see ourselves unanswered in the picture of the skyscraper—a lifeless thing. We see Manhattan from far away and see only a lifeless entity devoid of people. Artifacts, things, buildings. We're no longer subjective entities focused on this world; rather, we're horrified at our very real objectivity. This objectivity is perpetual and continual. We can't call ourselves human because there's nothing human about this “and”; once we've been destabilized we're mere objects, we think, maybe with relations to other objects but not with other humans. This is the horror of the skyscraper. The skyscraper will not answer us as we answer each other. In each instance of instability, of difference between ourselves and the skyscraper, we find a possible illumination. The “and” between us, that brings both the unanswerable unfamiliar to bear and the objective self, which is no self at all, illuminates something else. Through reflection on this “and” we come to reflect on ourselves and find ourselves outside of ourselves. By seeing ourselves outside of this relation—by reflecting on the relation itself—we become awakened to the possibility of the possibility of relations and the possibility of renewal. This renewal is a coming back to where we left, home. When we leave home we find possibility. In renewal we find freedom. In freedom we find that we ourselves are that which must be reevaluated. In this way we recreate ourselves and the world. The picture of the skyscraper is no longer unfamiliar or horrifying: rather, it becomes answerable and renewable. In short, we become responsible for it.  In this way, we find home again.

Aldous Huxley, You Suck

It's bad.  It's pretentious.  It's a waste of a morning.  I loved Brave New World and even Island (I never liked "The Doors of Perception" because I'd already been exposed to Schopenhauer/Kant and the thing-in-itself or "will" vs "representation" or whatever Kant opposed to it, the thing-for-us...I'm lapsing on the term, so I had already moved beyond that by the time I read it), but these stories are ridiculous.  A short story about grad school--followed by another short story about grad school. Unidentifiable poems in foreign languages inserted randomly throughout (admittedly only some of) the text.  I suppose it would make more sense if I had known the poems or where they had come from.  People with names like "Lykeham," "Mr. Buzzacot," and "Mr. Bigger." Honeymoons at Capri!  More funny names like "Lady Hurtmore."  More stories about grad school.  Counts. Countesses.  Drawing rooms and parlours.  I really didn't enjoy any of these stories.  They were pretty bad. Done ranting.  Just wasn't very fun.

What Computers Can't Do

Stanley Fish on Watson

I really like reading Stanley Fish's articles in the NYT.  Mostly because they're completely Heideggerian and Wittgensteinian without admitting it.  I don't really know who Stanley Fish is, but most of the articles I've read by him point backwards to a general point: meaning holism is probably correct in some broad fashion (that's basically what he argues in this article):

...as the philosopher Hubert Dreyfus explained almost 40 years ago, a “computer is not in a situation” (“What Computers Can’t Do”); it has no holistic sense of context and no ability to to survey possibilities from a contextual perspective; it doesn’t begin with what Wittgenstein terms a “form of life,” but must build up a form of life, a world, from the only thing it has and is, “bits of context-free, completely determinate data.” And since the data, no matter how large in quantity, can never add up to a context and will always remain discrete bits, the world can never be built.

Dreyfuss is maybe the modern day teacher of Heideggerian thought (well, he explains it much better than anybody else I've run across).  I even have a link to some youtube videos where Dreyfuss explains Heidegger's place in the history of philosophy fairly well--see my sidebar for them.  I believe Dreyfuss (in that book) also thought that computers would never be able to master chess, as well, but this isn't an argument against his more general point.  You could argue that chess is actually the epitome of being able to apply strict rules to a given situation regardless of the larger, holistic context.  As long as you know the rules and can run a large amount of predictions on any given move an opponent might make, you can win at chess.  But what Fish is arguing for is that we build up a context of meaning ("a world") from first living in it; the "discrete bits" take their meaning from that world. As Wittgenstein would have said, from their "use" within that world.

What computers can’t do, we don’t have to do because the worlds we live in are already built; we don’t walk around putting discrete items together until they add up to a context; we walk around with a contextual sense — a sense of where we are and what’s at stake and what our resources are — already in place; we inhabit worldly spaces already organized by purposes, projects and expectations.

For example, there's the hammer/nail analogy in Heidegger's "Being and Time".  A carpenter hammers a nail just like a computer manufacturing a car could hammer a nail or screw a bolt.  But what's missing in the computer's case is what Heidegger would call an "equipmental totality."  We don't just hammer nails for the fun of it: a carpenter hammers nails because he/she is building a house or building a couch or making a desk, so that he/she can get paid for doing this work and then eat when they go home--you get the idea.  The machine has no such "equipmental totality."  It's simply following a program, not determining how many nails it should hammer, or why its building cars in the first place (presuming it's building cars), or how many cars it should make.  It simply does it--it's a piece of equipment itself, embedded in a larger context of car-making.  Now, its not hard to imagine another computer deciding in some technocratic fashion how many cars should be made, maybe based on carbon emissions (also programmed and decided).  But we still never get to the crux of the issue, which is what Fish addresses in the quote above.  Our worlds are "organized by purposes, projects and expectations." These are things that are part of being human on some pre-conscious level, I would argue.  They are part of simply being in a world at all.  (enter a meditation on animals, here--but leave out the computers.)

In an interesting turn, too, Heidegger adopts a new word for "human": Dasein.  Literally it means "there-being." For Heidegger's project this becomes interesting because he's describing what it's like to be in a world at all without all the garbage associated with trying to define "the human."  He's describing the ways in which we simply are in the world prior to our conscious selves.  We already inhabit a world.  What becomes interesting is describing how we inhabit it.

Computers, so the argument would go, can retain information and even use this information in limited, rule-following contexts (like statistical analysis).  But these rule-following contexts crucially miss part of what it means to be a person: the ability to be faced with the unfamiliar.  Because we ourselves already inhabit a world, we're already given over to it, just as a computer with a large set of rules would be.  But the unexpected always shows up; and crucially, Fish argues, these unexpected amendments will "always [outrun] the efforts to take account of them, and after a while you’ve reached the point when every situation will require a rewriting of the rule, which means that there will no longer be a rule at all."  Basically, because we're "built" with the ability to "be in the world," we can adjust to new worlds and new contexts.  Not to say this is easy.  But computers, Fish argues, can't do this. This adaptive principle is unique.  This is why Fish argues that Watson's achievement is purely "formal."

Ishkur's Guide to Electronic Music

The Guide.

I think this site is hilarious.  I stumbled over it as a freshman in college way-back-when, when I would look for cool shows in Mpls to go to.  It's so sarcastic.  Funny.  I just looked over it: it's still funny.

Take this example, from the genre called NOIZECORE:

Noisecore is not music insomuch as it is anti-music. It is a recreation of the sounds in our modern technological society through an abrasive form. In this instance, then, what is commonly considered noise is not. It is simply part of our surroundings through a grual introduction. For instance, imagine living in the city, seeing nothing but glass and steel and concrete consuming our daily grind like an apathetic beast shoveling food into its bottomless belly. Imagine also the sounds that go along with it, the jackhammers and cars and hustle and bustle of people moving about. These sounds have become so much part of our daily consciousness that we don't even notice it anymore. In fact, if it gets too quiet, we feel uncomfortable, as exemplified by our need to have a television set on in our home all the time, even if we aren't watching it. If you go out into a desert, or a lake, or someplace secluded from everything so that there is no sound anywhere for miles and no wind, hold your breath and open your mouth, you can actually hear the blood flowing through your ears. An interesting trick, yes, but it brings about the realization that total and complete silence is not actually capable to us. Unless you were born deaf, you have never known total and complete quiet; that is, zero sound waves reverberating in your ears. There is always a constant sound with you, even if it's your own heartbeat. An interesting way of looking at things, but at the same time it's also rather disturbing. I think the point I'm trying to make in all this is when it really comes down to it we need noise in our lives because we can't imagine living without it. Furthermore, despite this necessity--nay, DEPENDANCY--on the sounds of life and the world around us, and how pleasing this noise actually makes us feel, Noisecore as a genre is definitely not something we are looking for, and you are much better off simply disregarding it entirely and taking everything I just said as a huge collossal waste of time.

--

Undelete: Computer Action Beta Twelve

I undeleted my blog because...I have no reasons not to.

I started another blog, more personal I think, here: disengage!.

I like blogs with purposes.  This blog was mostly non-personal while being entirely personal at the same time.  The other is more casual.  I don't really care, I guess.  Got the time.  Got the money (it's free!).

I'll post on both probably at some point, depending on what's happenin'.

ABANDONMENT

Abandonment is a leaving-behind, a moving-away, and a personal choice when performed by an agent (contrast this with the concept of forgetting).  I abandon my car that keeps breaking down and walk to the nearest gas station for help.  It sucks to have absolutely no support system in place for doing something, and in fact precisely when we're trying to do something about our situation is when we're abandoned, as this doing something is a prerequisite for abandonment in the first place (I'm being purposefully vague, here, but think it through) .  We leave behind those who can't keep up just as they are finally asking for and counting on help.  Abandonment always occurs at this very second.  We empathize but leave them behind.  We look back but this is only a half-measure and never counts as an actual going-back.  The little bundle of metaphors of moving-away, leaving-behind, letting-alone, looking-back, not-looking-back, even running-away, dropping-a-load, giving up on something, are all very apt at letting us get into the meaning of abandonment.  There's also the notion of isolation, which we should mention: the abandoned is purposely isolated or left-behind.  I think this as I nap nervously.

End of Crohn's Log

I decided it wasn't important enough to post about anymore, or that I shouldn't be thinking about it as important enough to post about anymore. So I'm not going to post anymore about it. I'll just live it.

NORTH KOREAN CENTRIFUGES

According to sources familiar with the matter, “an unnamed American academic who has now been named publicly, because he spoke out–a Mr. Hecker—has visited a North Korean nuclear site and found 'a surprising number of modern uranium enrichment centrifuges. What I expected was not what I found; likewise what I found was not what I expected. I was pretty sure what to expect.'” When contacted by the BBC, Mr. Hecker could not be reached for comment. Messages were left at both his residence and his office, and likewise two letters were not responded to, despite their being sent Royal Mail “Signature Required” AirSure™ with 2.85GBP added for Assured Delivery Confirmation™.  According to sources familiar with the Royal Mail AirSure™ and Assured Delivery Confirmation Service ™, this is surprising, as the Royal Mail service handles these requests all the time and is actually quite proficient in the handling of all types of envelopes and boxes, large and small. According to sources familiar with the matter, any size box can really be sent anywhere in the world with a delivery confirmation. The BBC did indeed obtain such delivery confirmation, but at this time has still not received a response from Mr. Hecker as of the publishing date of this article. Most probably, according to sources familiar with the matter, he did not use Royal Mail AirSure ™ to write back to us, and as a result the BBC has still not received his response. “These centrifuges looked modern,” stated Mr. Hecker in his statement. “They were shiny. I believe they were trying to send a message. A message to me personally, of course, but also to the West in general. I believe that their message was that they have modern uranium enrichment equipment. When I asked if they were trying to send a message to the West that they had modern uranium enrichment equipment, they said the West can think whatever it wants about their modern uranium enrichment equipment. But I don't believe them. I think there was a message in there somewhere.” According to sources familiar with the matter, the most likely message was that they wanted food to feed their starving people and fuel to fuel their working power plants and machines, as their centrifuges, while surprisingly shiny, have still not added up to a full-fledged working nuclear powered electric plant. President Obama released a statement himself, stating in that statement that “he will not give oil to prevent a nuclear bomb from being made unless North Korea first commits to not building a nuclear bomb. Neither will I give food, such as wheat or rice.” According to sources familiar with the matter, this has been America's policy for the last twenty years. It is unclear whether North Korea knows about this policy or not, according to sources familiar with the matter. As of this date it is not possible to send a letter requesting further details to North Korea using Royal Mail “Signature Required” AirSure™ with 2.85GBP added for Assured Delivery Confirmation™, and so we could not obtain confirmation from the North Koreans about anything.

Random Photography

1.  Set digital camera settings to automatic--as automatic as possible.  Set timer to take picture automatically.
2.  Throw camera in air two seconds before timer goes off, letting camera take a picture of whatever it wants.
3.  Catch it before it breaks on the ground (barely a success).

EMBARRASSMENT

Discomfort is our friend, we were thinking. I was talking this over with my friend Gabe the other day. We need discomfort in order to be happy. In order to be happy we always need to feel pressure, otherwise we stagnate and die almost immediately. Without projects, without goals (broadly conceived), I stated, we die an almost instant death. And projects and goals (broadly conceived) make us squirm and actually hurt, they cause us suffering. But not all goals and projects (broadly conceived) count as real goals and projects, I hastened to add. Most just fill time, which is itself a worthy goal but not an honorable one, I added. Honor is important to how we spend our time, I told him while drinking coffee in my apartment. We have to have honor and believe in what we're doing, a certain pride that surrounds the edges of our actions and duties, a certain righteousness without which we're dead, really quite dead. We'd be nothing, I stated, in fact usually we're nothing and only sometimes we're something. All these concepts, I said, are interconnected. He agreed, but responded that our projects and goals vary so much in size and content that there's no way to have a standard set—I interrupted him here, perhaps a it's a defect of mine that I interrupt and finish sentences. Of course there's a standard set, I said, you have to do what's honorable and this is always changing, we're speaking pure generalities, I said, about individual goals and projects, but they always have to have a standard set. Of what, he asked. A standard set of what, he asked. I replied a standard set of methods, of ways of doing things, whether we're doing dishes and doing laundry or writing a novel, everything is the same; the how (I emphasized the word) is the most important part, there's always a way of doing everything, everything needs to be done in a certain way and only in a certain way, though technically there are an infinite number ways of doing everything. But really there's only one way. I said all this while drinking too much coffee and repeatedly getting up to change the record, which was an old, relatively bad Talking Heads album. This certain way is the only way to guarantee that something is done in a real way and not an unreal way, I said while mostly focusing my attention on the music. He responded that he didn't agree, that I was exaggerating and that he didn't understand a word I was saying. I responded that I was an automaton, a clockwork person, and any action I take has to be a certain way otherwise it's just automatic. He shook his head in disbelief, and then, of course, I started to question myself, I think, I started to think I had really said too much too quickly. I immediately felt embarrassed, which was a mixture of both feeling like I said too much to someone I didn't know and also like I said too much to someone I did know, both of which are embarrassing and aren't tolerable. To say too much to someone you know is too change everything, I thought to myself; to say too much to someone you don't know is to disregard the relationship, to forget it and destroy it quickly. It's a mixture of these two feelings that I experienced, which is basically what embarrassment is, a not-going-far-enough mixed together with a going-too-far at the same time. Embarrassment is a not-going-far-enough and a going-too-far at the same time. But then, I thought, maybe sharing too much is good. I asked Gabe if sharing too much is a good thing and he just gazed at me with his coffee steaming up in front of his face, both hands clutching the mug. Obviously I said nothing, and then I thought I'd really done it. Everything was shot. His eyes glazed over and I asked him about the Talking Heads album, I realized it was late and I had to work, and nothing more came of the conversation except more discomfort and trouble falling asleep.

Scenes from the Future: Komar and Melamid

Western Modernism and Russian Stalinism were projects that demanded a denial of the past, a constant movement towards an ideal future. But the past cannot be denied. Like the repressed it always returns…


It is against this somber background Komar and Melamid’s penchant for parody and irony should be seen. It is a device, a way of combating the sense of tragedy. They quote Kierkegaard: “In irony, the subject is negatively free, free from the shackles which in reality restrain him so firmly.” Irony provides a provisional release from tragedy. At the same time it eats away at rhetoric, hypocrisy, and idealization. It corrodes myths, old and new. In his brilliant and path-breaking essay from the late fifties, “On Socialist Realism,” Sinyavsky wrote that “irony is the laughter of the superfluous man who derides himself and everything sacred in the world. Irony is the faithful companion of unbelief and doubt: it vanishes as soon as there appears a faith that does not tolerate sacrilege”—whether, it might be added, that faith is in Stalinism, Old Russia, or free market Westernization. Irony may provide only a “negative freedom,” yet this peculiarly “accursed” Russian irony, this “disorder of the soul,”…is still the only passage out from an epoch of half-measures and half-truths, from a present mortgage to an imaginary future and a future dragged back by the weight of the past. There are no new miracles or new truths to be spun out of new dreams and new delusions. It is better to start the future over with the wormwood and the rust.

by Peter Wollen
 



Isn't it nice that irony finally gets the respect it deserves?  Am I being ironic?  What's cool is that even though this essay is talking about some Russian artists who came to America and how they functioned here, and it specifically mentions how they are dealing with Russia's past, it really works the same way with us here...I'll repeat what I already quoted to make the point:

Irony may provide only a “negative freedom,” yet this peculiarly “accursed” Russian irony, this “disorder of the soul,”…is still the only passage out from an epoch of half-measures and half-truths, from a present mortgage to an imaginary future and a future dragged back by the weight of the past. There are no new miracles or new truths to be spun out of new dreams and new delusions. It is better to start the future over with the wormwood and the rust.

What better description of our present could there be?  Seems particularly timely.

Crohn's Log 7 - Beer

Yeah, guilty. 3 beers.

Update, the next day: the parcel was a Tangerine Dream 2 LP concept album "Zeit." The second side skipped for fifteen minutes before I realized anything was wrong. That's how awesome this album is. (That's a joke, but it IS amazing in its own way.)

VANGELIS / AND THEN THE BALLET

VANGELIS

I'm here talking to Christian, a friend of a friend, and he's saying something about space. He's comparing special and general relativity. I listen silently with one hand clutching my beer. I'm drinking much faster than he is in a dirty shit-hole bar. My eyes wander to a cute girl. Anyway he's comparing the various thought experiments that Einstein did with those of a more pre-Einsteinian flavor, it wasn't Newton but someone else if I remember, but my brain is wrecked right now and the phrase, or rather just jumbled grouping of semi-technical and moderately redundant words, “relativistic Minkowski spacetime” should never, ever be remembered, I deliberately think to myself, and my god the words are bringing something back to me that I don't want to remember, won't. So I drink and speak, nodding my head. He's speaking and he wants to speak, and my actual friends are away smoking cigarettes, and I asked the questions. You can't ask questions and not get responses: it doesn't work that way. So I nod, my god. I hear something about a doctorate in physics and lots of other things and I don't care, really don't care in the slightest, so I'm pouncing at the opportunity to leave. But there's no exit. For all the pennies, dollars, bills, everything in the world—My God!—a Vangelis song comes on the jukebox and I almost jump up, just catching myself, and I'm saved! Vangelis. I have no idea what song this is but the syncopated 1970's junk is delightful, truly a blessing, something I've wanted forever. I listen to this at home, I think. The electronica is beautiful, I think, while Christian is talking now about the twin paradox, which I will have nothing to do with; all I really—and now I'm being directly honest as opposed to every other time when I say I'm being directly honest but I'm really dodging-- Already before meeting someone we're almost always lying to their faces, directly to their eyes and brains; likewise they're lying to us in exactly the same way. But right now I'm being direct and honest. All I want is... All I want is to be at home listening to Vangelis. This is as close as I can get to direct honesty. And my god, the beauty of it. The arpeggios are so absurd and over the top I can't even describe them, and the song titles are—I think the song on the jukebox is called “CONCEPT SPECIES MAN 4” or something similar. I really have no idea but Christian is gone, passed away, dead, deceased. No longer in passing and not mourned. He's still talking, of course, but Vangelis saved me.

AND THEN THE BALLET

In all actuality the whole game of smalltalk is fun. And I think I'm skilled at it. But this is dependent on so many things, most importantly the person I'm speaking at. I can usually find common ground quite easily and fake my way through a conversation. It happens all the time. At work, to bring in a directly applicable example, depending on our jobs, we all fake our way through multiple conversations everyday without the slightest trouble. Really we're all ballet dancers dancing in a minefield. We wonder what's ok to say; what's not ok to say we hold back, and when we need to ask for something from a superior we hold back again, hesitate, meditate, and half-think our way through the request. I say “half-think our way through the request” because nobody fully thinks through these things; this wondering of what's acceptable is always on the fringe of our awareness. Our comfort zones are somewhere else. But this isn't to say that the nuances of work conversations are dishonest or somehow degenerate just because they're only half thought. On the contrary, they might be our most honest and authentic conversations, I think. We're always slightly on our toes and by being on our toes we're forced to become honest with ourselves: we become aware of our motives and our desires for the conversation and this awareness forces upon us our real goals, desires, and acts. When I ask for a favor from a boss I have to phrase it in such a way that I can get the favor, but naturally we're all half-naturals at doing this and so, again naturally, we can't think completely consciously about how to say it. We half-know what to say. This half-knowing keeps us honest in our conversations by making us aware of our real intentions and our own real positions. But then I have a natural aversion to these nuances, I think; I have a habit of tripping up these ballets and actually speaking without even half-thinking. I think I do this deliberately. And so perhaps I'm either totally honest or totally dishonest in these situations, I'm not sure either label works. This is an open question, I think, whether I would call myself “honest” or “dishonest” during these conversations. Whereas I could consider myself honest because I don't half-think my way through these conversations and say only what I really mean, precisely that's what would make me dishonest because honesty in such a situation involves such a half-thinking-through, an actual person-to-person conversation within the game of work, and that's precisely what's lacking. And that's lacking because I don't half-think-through my conversations, I think again. So I can't be considered honest. I'm too naturally averse to these nuances. I refuse to play the game; something inside of me is laughing when it shouldn't be, I think as Vangelis ends. I've been thinking at this shit-hole bar about this, talking about this, and nobody understands what I'm saying and I'm not even drunk. Everybody understood everything until the switch from me being honest to being dishonest. I'm too honest and therefore I'm completely dishonest, I say as I pound my beer. To be honest at work involves at least an awareness of the ballet dance between coworkers—even a minimal, half-thinking awareness. In fact such a half-thinking might be preferable to a full-thinking, I think, because a full-thinking would be a pure awkwardness and a losing of all honesty (because a full-thinking would make us lose the ability to be honest or dishonest by making us question what our real intentions and acts actually are, therefore making them questionable and no longer justifiable). A full-thinking is like quitting the game when we need to keep playing—and then I think that I'm giving this whole line of thought quite the full-thinking it shouldn't be getting. But non-thinking, which is what I do by nature or through choice in these specific work situations, is likewise just as bad as full-thinking, because I might as well be an automaton who can't play the game. And that's my problem. The dance is important, I tell myself, sipping my beer.  I almost convince myself I need to change. The dance is real and makes both ourselves and the other real, I think, within the given situation. But somehow I don't want to dance. I'd rather play the wallflower. I think I'd rather sit this one out. I think this is a problem.

Crohn's Log 6 - Remicade

and by my goals (at the end), I mean,

1. stop drinking because it is bad for Remicade treatment (somewhat).
2. look for a part time job to save money (I didn't mean quit my job now - need full time job for benefits.  I like my job.)
3. keep making small good choices, like food-wise and such, that will benefit my recovery.

Also: Steve Zissou lookalike?

INSECURITY

Every loss of confidence is ultimately a step towards death. A step towards indecision. A step towards incapacitating, bedridden reflection. I think this as I stare at my newest painting, The Dot, which is a painting of a small black dot in the center of a rectangular piece of blue paper. I framed it and hung it on my wall and now I'm standing in front of it, staring at it, trying desperately to remember the instructions that go with the painting. There are instructions for looking at this painting but they are only written somewhere else, somewhere I can't find right now, so I'm half-making them up even though they were very specific, specifically designed to bring to light something cold and dark, something that we never think about. Something that is deep within us. A secret. It actually works. (I think.) But I can't find the damn instructions so I'm just staring at this damn dot. I've lost all confidence in this work and all my work as I stare at this dot, I think, I have no confidence in anything anymore. Not only have I lost all confidence but now I'm even telling myself that I've lost all confidence, and this can't be a good sign. It's one thing to just lose all your confidence; it's another to tell yourself that you're nothing, that you're finished, done, dead. In the first case at least you still have your pathetic self; in the second case you've lost even your pathetic self and created this commentator second-self, and this second self is standing there behind your first self laughing at the first's own inability and insecurity. But really you're performing both parts like a bad stage play. I think this while staring at the dot. I start to wonder what people think about while looking at paintings. Do they interpret them? Where are my instructions for this damn dot, I think to myself, these damn instructions need to be posted with the painting—I really don't understand why I didn't post them right up here next to the painting. I've lost my confidence, and while I was going to try to get some work done today now I realize that it's impossible, that I've lost all my confidence and that I'm slipping towards death, towards total incapacitation, which is really the same thing as death. The Dot, in fact, is precisely about this, I think, clicking my tongue and letting my eyes wander from the dot (but then quickly forcing them back to the dot in the center of the blue rectangle). The Dot was supposed to be about deciding to stare at the dot, telling yourself to stare at the dot, and thereby becoming aware that you are telling yourself to stare at the dot. I believe that this was what it was about. I've decided to stare at the dot. Now, who is staring at the dot? I am. There's the blue rectangle and there's the black dot in the middle. I'm staring at the dot. But now that I'm staring at the dot and now that I'm aware that I'm staring at the dot, who is giving the command to stare at the dot? I'm staring at the dot but somehow this second-self still seems to be there, commanding me to stare at the dot, but really I'm this second-self too, commanding myself to stare at the dot. The second self isn't laughing anymore. My eyes are darting and I'm being distracted but something is being dredged up from inside me. The dot is misshapen, I think, I didn't draw it very well with my sharpie, I think—but instantly I stop this line of thinking as I can't let myself be distracted by the aesthetic aspects of the work. The work is more important for it's phenomenological import. So I'm staring at this dot, and I've split myself into at least two people: he who commands and he who obeys. Yes! This is The Dot, I think. This is what I was supposed to realize, I think. My second-self is really myself, as is my first self, but this duality is deeply rooted and my two selves are inseparable. Any loss of confidence, I now think, would have to take into account this indivisible duality. Or at least think it through, and I will think it through, right now. Insecurity, indecision, and even bedridden reflection need to be reminded of my ability to act through my meditation on The Dot. Even if The Dot is not a major action (it is in fact a simple action), and even if it's an arbitrary action, we can see that The Dot can remind us of our ability to do in the face of insecurity, incapacitation, and bedridden reflection. I stare because I believe in my ability to do at all (because of my indivisible duality, which commands and obeys—but this command/obey relationship is really only metaphoric, we have to remind ourselves), I think, and my act proves my ability. The Dot is a savior. I must remind my loss of confidence that I can still act, that even though I feel my loss of confidence deeply, that I can still act, that even though I've basically become metaphorically bedridden (temporarily) due to my inflamed bowel, that I can still act. I think all this while staring at The Dot. I wonder where those instructions went. They must be somewhere. But then I wonder if I need them at all, or if I just needed to be reminded to listen to The Dot. What do people think when they look at paintings, I think again. Would anyone else have acted upon this painting in this way without a signpost pointing him or her in the right direction? Those instructions must be somewhere. I'll have to find them. I need to find them because I need to be reminded to actually listen, to be receptive. And I will find them. And I'll share them without anyone who needs to be reminded.

SEEKING

Seeking is harder than finding. I tell myself everyday that I need to clean parts of my apartment. Parts of my apartment are really quite clean all the time, but other parts are dirty and maybe even necessarily dirty. My bathroom is dirty but I always avoid cleaning it. My closet is full of stuff, “stuff” being the apt description of what's in my closet, really the only word that describes what's actually in there. A lot of clothes, games, sheets, books, Christmas lights, boxes of Christmas lights everywhere, Jesus Christ Christmas lights everywhere, practically filling up the place, if only I plugged in an outlet and turned them on they would glow brightly and burn through their boxes, I'm sure. And of course then start a blaze that would hollow out not only my apartment but the whole building, leaving nothing but scar tissue—really just a burned-out brick foundation in which people used to live, love, crafty, die, probably not give birth but maybe get pregnant. This scar tissue would remain for a winter or a year or however long it takes demolition crews to demolish a burned out brick building, possibly forever, but actually not long, as the land is worth quite a bit of money and I'm sure there are developers who would love to buy the property and put it back together. A profit motive. I imagine it would succeed, I think to myself as I search for my glasses, being completely unsuccessful in finding them. The capability is there: there's plenty of machinery and tools and manpower and money; like ants on an anthill they would swarm through the burned out building and, using shovels or perhaps diesel powered machines, plow away everything burned down by my mistake of turning on my Christmas lights in their boxes, I think, even as I look everywhere for my glasses. Where are they? My glasses not not anywhere on the floor, I think, I've looked everywhere, even under the bed. The proper method is to start from the ground up and then look everywhere, knowing that at some physical level one will always find one's desired object. So I've started at the ground and completed that portion of my search to no success, and then without even moving on to the second level, which is just above ground level—somewhere around a foot up, but possibly somewhat lower or higher (this method allows for deviance)--I've given up and now I just think about burned out scar tissue. Thankfully the blind don't need eyesight to think, I think as I sit down in my chair, half-tired and half-mad, impatient and inept in my search. I'm not blind but I can't see right, something's wrong: I'm either nearsighted or farsighted, I believe near-sighted, though at the moment in my impatience I'm only half-thinking this thought, so I can't really be sure whether I'm really nearsighted or farsighted because I can't form the thought, really I'm only thinking about the scar tissue that would result if I turned on my Christmas lights. Thinking about it so much, in fact, that I actually get up and stand in front of the boxes and pretend to turn the lights on, snapping my fingers and pretending to start the fire. I imagine leaving the building. I have no desire to burn my building down but I imagine the possibility of it happening. Fires are terrifying , or at least I imagine they are terrifying. I imagine this as I sit in my large red chair, one leg resting on an arm rest and both my arms grabbing this leg together, and then in one motion I actually pull myself up and over so that I am actually standing in front of the chair looking at it. And then I sit back down again, only this time in a normal position. Scar tissue amazes me for a second, and instantly I start to think again about the burned-out building—but these thoughts quickly turn to the scar tissue in my gut due to my inflamed bowel. Basically somebody turned the Christmas lights on inside me, I think, as if my colon were an apartment in a multi-apartment complex in which someone like myself lived and had no motivation to clean his little corner of the building. Or even to clean a little corner of a corner. So one day he turned on his Christmas lights and cooked the whole place, only this time there was no developer and no profit motive for rebuilding the property, even the healthcare system gave up rather quickly as he couldn't afford to pay and in fact even refused to pay. And so the scar tissue stood longer than expected, a year, a lifetime. A lifetime of scar tissue, I think, due to someone inside my gut turning on his Christmas lights hidden away within a cardboard box. But would this even start a fire, I question, and I'm tempted to turn everything on, light everything up, illuminate the darkness of these boxes and see if I even notice anything, let alone a fire that rips through the entirety of the building. But rather than do this I simply sit and think about various methods for finding my glasses, which are still missing. I simply sit. And think. And I don't know where they could be. I've gone over every inch of the floor, I think, and of course I've gone over every other obvious place. Seeking is harder than finding, I think. And not only for the pleasure of the find, because everyone loves to find something. Seeking is harder for more insidious reasons even if I can't explain it. Seeking is a crossing, but also a separation. Separation is hard if we have a desired object and we are separated from it, but seeking is a crossing towards this object, always hard in itself but harder still if this object is impossible to find and no method of search completes our crossing. In fact, because of the nature of my own search (I can't see without my glasses—quite the cliché), I can't even begin a cursory search of my apartment, even the clean parts. For all I know my glasses are lost in one of the parts of the apartment in which I cannot clean, cannot even imagine myself going into and cleaning. My god the thought is loathsome. And so again I sit in the red chair and think, arms grasping at my leg. And so method comes in here: we seek a method by which to understand how to even begin seeking, and my method is as good as any other method for seeking, I should think. Seeking is a trembling before the infinite, I think, but then I wonder what I mean by that and of course I'm overstepping my thoughts, so I get up from the red chair and go looking for my glasses. The scar tissue inside my body due to my inflamed bowel doesn't hurt, but it can hurt. Somebody turned the Christmas lights on and burnt the place down, I think, and now I have a dilapidated piece of real estate inside my bowel. One wonders about the future; one always anticipates the future. The possibility of developing this piece of land is grim. I think acceptance comes into play here but again, acceptance is impossible, it's infinite due to something more insidious than we've previously suspected. Seeking is harder than finding. Seeking is a trembling before the infinite and now I think I've made some sense of this senseless thought—I really quite like that red chair, I think. Everything is encrypted in images and metaphors and deciphering is only a waste of time. Encryption can protect us from people by helping us remain undecipherable. But really we're an open book (really we're documenting everything, it's plain to see). Really everything's there in front of us, presented to us, but most of the time we're too lazy to connect the pieces and really read what's written. Everyone who writes makes monstrous errors—and we must always remember when reading that, of course, and obviously, seeking is harder than finding.

How to Decorate an Apartment

You see, the point is to stare at the frame on the wall and wonder about what goes in it.  (Or why we frame pictures and things and put them on our walls to begin with.)  If you'd like, you can imagine something for my apartment, or what you'd like in your own apartment.  Sit and stare and imagine for a while and I promise this will do you well.