Nice bike. Where's the basket? Did somebody steal his tassles? Ting-aling. Is that a tail between his legs? Is he allowed to ride on the sidewalk? Since when did we elect Urkel?Contrast please with a former Russian leader:
Nuff said.J
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Choices
Nice bike. Where's the basket? Did somebody steal his tassles? Ting-aling. Is that a tail between his legs? Is he allowed to ride on the sidewalk? Since when did we elect Urkel?Nuff said.
Friday, August 27, 2010
bd
Actually this was the best birthday I've ever had. All these facebook people acknowledged me, and that was surprisingly nice. People that I love told me they loved me. It melted my dark heart. I got a card with a number of signatures on it. I got a book and some clothing items that I can use.
I should share my humorous responses to the birthday wishes, but it seems like too much bother. Inside jokes mostly anyway. I told them all that each was my favorite. I'm sure they don't network. Humor is the perfect mask. I'm still safe.
But my heart melted.
J
8 27
Jack H is tired. Tired, in mind and body, morally, feeling tired. Insufficient sleep of course, and physical demands, and something else he cannot take the trouble to identify. There is a social pressure that is wearing, but that comes with being human. Something about being drained. Jack H does not know how to relax, recharge. He does not know how to celebrate.
Jack H is having a birthday. He does not understand what this means. It seems to have meaning. He wants it known that it is his birthday, but he wants it to be ignored.
Jack H must realize now that his best days are behind him. He must count the vitality remaining to him in years, not decades. He is unmoved by this fact, because he is still strong, and healthy. He still has his vitality. This is as much as to say he still has himself. He is not alone, entirely, because he knows how to love. He does not know how to show his love. Has he forgotten how? No matter. There is an emptiness he would like to have filled.
Jack H is a kind man. He is patient, a hard lesson learned from heartbreak and anguish. He is afraid of his weakness. He has received blessings he does not deserve, and although his gratitude is insufficient, he is not ungrateful. He thinks of God as impersonal. But he weeps for the suffering of Jesus.
Jack H is cynical, skeptical, determined not to be fooled. He loves truth, he likes to think, except that he quibbles at the word "love." And "truth." He know there are such things. Hasn't he just said so? But hope is hard. He will wait and see. He will be true, as he is able, and perhaps grace will fall upon him. He is not waiting, passively. He acts. It's just that he knows how life is. Life is a succession of birthdays and other commemorative days, punctuating an expanse of time the way islands populate the sea.
There is meaning beyond and behind such a view. It's just hard to see, and to say.
J
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Ground Zero Musk
Guess you never heard of the First Amendment, that quarantines an absolute and unlimited right to free speech and non-sectarian religion. There is an impenetrable and insuperable Wall of Separation between Church and Society. Oh, did I say 'quarantines'? – I meant guarantees. Easy mistake to urge. It’s a hard word to spell. I often get it wrong. But everything else I’ve said so far is completely correct.
So the fascists who are against the Ground Zero Musk are Nazis. Christians of course, and so-called Republicans. Haters. Don’t they know we have freedom from their religion? They should be silenced. If we don’t allow and promote Islam, we’re forgetting what this country is all about. Tolerance.
Well, I am, even after this prolonged silence, still a fool, so of course I’m completely wrong, or rather, missing the point. The point is that the Lefties on NPR are correcting us about our nomenclature. “The mosque won’t be at Ground Zero. It’s two blocks away! Cor blimey! It’s not the ‘Ground Zero Mosque!’ It’s the ‘Two Blocks Away Mosque’. Duh!’”
And my small, humble voice pipes up, insecurely, because life has not encouraged me to boldness -- but still I must, as stalagmites grow, speak. The fact that there are already two mosques in the immediate vicinity of The Pit is irrelevant. The fact that there are strip bars nearby is irrelevant. The fact that the mosque would be in an old clothing facility is immaterial. The fact that the Lefties engorge their expansible tissues by observing that the mosque would not be at Ground Zero is moot -- we had not supposed it would actually be at the very hallowed Ground of Zero itself, say, at the level of some former sub-basement? (Proving again that it would and could not be at Ground Zero, but Underground Zero. It is so tiresome, having always to correct the slopping thought processes of the intellectually indiligent.) It is irrelevant that the intent of the presiding genius behind the mosque, Imam Collectionofvowelsdeesandellswithsomekaysounds, is to commemorate a victory of Islam over the Infidels, as all cultures build their Holy Places on the ruins of those they have conquered. It is irrelevant that the families of the terrorists’ victims, even of those few moslems who died, are or may be offended by the idea.
What matters is that this country is ours, not theirs, and we have the say, not they, of what will be built and what will not be built. Since this is our country, and we make the rules, and abide by them faithfully, it is for us, not some other, to interpret our meaning. So, yes, we have and allow, and demand and tolerate, freedom of religion. But we limit it for the general welfare. Molochism with its human sacrifice, cannibalistic rites, Nazism in its full expression, and other such abominations, are not tolerated. Islamism. Believe as you will. But your actions will be limited.
The erecting of a Victory Monument at, by which is meant near, Ground Zero, during a time of War, by the Enemy or its Sympathizers, is not to be allowed. The protestations of the Propagandists and Fellow Travelers are not to be heeded. There are very few absolute rights. Even self-defense is not absolute, as in the case of the murderer justly condemned to death. He has the urge but not the right to preserve himself. But it is a moribund society indeed that does not strive to preserve itself. Life is metabolism, which is a homeostatic balance, between stasis and change, ideally within healthy limits.
We allow and encourage change, but only to something better, not merely different, and certainly not to something alien and inferior. Yes, I do mean Islam. Bigotry? I call it pragmatic, and objective. Without oil, Islam has only terrorism, poverty, oppression and a fine but obsolete history. We have television phones from the future. Materialistic, you say? Yes. If you want religion, go pray in a closet. Never argue with reality. The whole world wants to be here. We go there for a vacation, in peril of becoming kidnap victims.
If no one rescues the abused wife, she will be brutalized and killed. If no one stops the bicycle thief, he will steal cars. If no one shuts up the loudmouth bully, his talk will turn to violence. Did the playground teach you nothing?
J
So the fascists who are against the Ground Zero Musk are Nazis. Christians of course, and so-called Republicans. Haters. Don’t they know we have freedom from their religion? They should be silenced. If we don’t allow and promote Islam, we’re forgetting what this country is all about. Tolerance.
Well, I am, even after this prolonged silence, still a fool, so of course I’m completely wrong, or rather, missing the point. The point is that the Lefties on NPR are correcting us about our nomenclature. “The mosque won’t be at Ground Zero. It’s two blocks away! Cor blimey! It’s not the ‘Ground Zero Mosque!’ It’s the ‘Two Blocks Away Mosque’. Duh!’”
And my small, humble voice pipes up, insecurely, because life has not encouraged me to boldness -- but still I must, as stalagmites grow, speak. The fact that there are already two mosques in the immediate vicinity of The Pit is irrelevant. The fact that there are strip bars nearby is irrelevant. The fact that the mosque would be in an old clothing facility is immaterial. The fact that the Lefties engorge their expansible tissues by observing that the mosque would not be at Ground Zero is moot -- we had not supposed it would actually be at the very hallowed Ground of Zero itself, say, at the level of some former sub-basement? (Proving again that it would and could not be at Ground Zero, but Underground Zero. It is so tiresome, having always to correct the slopping thought processes of the intellectually indiligent.) It is irrelevant that the intent of the presiding genius behind the mosque, Imam Collectionofvowelsdeesandellswithsomekaysounds, is to commemorate a victory of Islam over the Infidels, as all cultures build their Holy Places on the ruins of those they have conquered. It is irrelevant that the families of the terrorists’ victims, even of those few moslems who died, are or may be offended by the idea.
What matters is that this country is ours, not theirs, and we have the say, not they, of what will be built and what will not be built. Since this is our country, and we make the rules, and abide by them faithfully, it is for us, not some other, to interpret our meaning. So, yes, we have and allow, and demand and tolerate, freedom of religion. But we limit it for the general welfare. Molochism with its human sacrifice, cannibalistic rites, Nazism in its full expression, and other such abominations, are not tolerated. Islamism. Believe as you will. But your actions will be limited.
The erecting of a Victory Monument at, by which is meant near, Ground Zero, during a time of War, by the Enemy or its Sympathizers, is not to be allowed. The protestations of the Propagandists and Fellow Travelers are not to be heeded. There are very few absolute rights. Even self-defense is not absolute, as in the case of the murderer justly condemned to death. He has the urge but not the right to preserve himself. But it is a moribund society indeed that does not strive to preserve itself. Life is metabolism, which is a homeostatic balance, between stasis and change, ideally within healthy limits.
We allow and encourage change, but only to something better, not merely different, and certainly not to something alien and inferior. Yes, I do mean Islam. Bigotry? I call it pragmatic, and objective. Without oil, Islam has only terrorism, poverty, oppression and a fine but obsolete history. We have television phones from the future. Materialistic, you say? Yes. If you want religion, go pray in a closet. Never argue with reality. The whole world wants to be here. We go there for a vacation, in peril of becoming kidnap victims.
If no one rescues the abused wife, she will be brutalized and killed. If no one stops the bicycle thief, he will steal cars. If no one shuts up the loudmouth bully, his talk will turn to violence. Did the playground teach you nothing?
J
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Wittgenstein
I don't read philosophy. It is at its essence an argument -- otherwise it would be a sermon -- and it's flusterating for me to have objections that some long-dead philosopher can't respond to. Well, maybe the Lord God allows him in Hell to hear my objections, but then it is I who cannot respond. As I say, flusterating. Nevertheless, I'm reading Wittgenstein. Generally proclaimed to be one of the true geniuses of the 20th century. Who am I, so humble, so lowly, to dispute it.
His Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Lofty sounding title. A gnomic work but not by any means impenetrable. He imbues common words with special meaning, which is just annoying. If at a first such usage he would define his meaning, it would be better. Instead there is much circling, unnecessary. First eight paragraphs, also sentences: "The world is everything that is the case. The world is the totality of facts, not of things. The world is determined by the facts, and by these being all the facts. For the totality of facts determines both what is the case, and also all that is not the case. The facts in logical space are the world. The world divides into facts. Any case can either be the case or not the case, and everything else remain the same. What is the case, the fact, is the existence of atomic facts." And so on.
So, the world is the totality of facts, and the case, which is facts in logical space and also the existence of atomic facts. Why not just say that? The world is all the facts, determinedly so, and divides into facts, yet atomic facts are made up of objects, things, which are not the world. You see why I don't read philosophy. It comes off as a guy who is really fast on his verbal feet, able to out-argue Bertrand Russel. This is not to say he's wrong. Although he later changed his mind about just about everything he argues for here.
He had thought he'd solved all of Philosophy's Difficulties. What he'd actually done was bind himself up in a one-to-one correspondence between symbolism and meaning, sort of a Platonic Forms thing, or do I mean Ideals, and Aristotelian? No matter. Like Descartes, their ideas came out of the oven half-baked. The universe is not linear, not binary. It is a hologram, analogue, and a continuum. No one loves boxes more than I. But in a universe of Schrodinger's cats, what sort of boxes can we make out of foam?
The trick with dealing with the Wittgensteins in our lives is to pin them down. "If I can think of an object in the context of an atomic fact, I cannot think of it apart from the possibility of this context." There is some technical meaning here, but the common meaning is that, if I can think of a horse in Oz, then since a horse is real Oz must be possible. But it isn't, because Oz is a self-contradictory fairyland. I should know, having read all the Oz books, and also having lived there for a number of years. Good Dr. Johnson refuted Berkley's metaphysical quaverings re the existence of existence thus: to demonstrate the reality of a rock, and therefore of everything that exists, Johnson kicked the rock. Either you get it or you don't.
Johnson was also a true genius.
What's that you say? Jack H is so impressive and fantastic that he too must stand shoulder to shoulder with these other giants of intellect? Well, it would hardly be appropriate for me to comment. The grace with which he passes through the brambles of argument may be due to some factor other than genius. That Jack H can identify and correct the flaws of his peers is perhaps just a quirk of, say, genetics? His celerity of wit is a sort of savantism hovering like a barrage balloon above the no man's land of his life? It is a mystery. Enough occasionally to dip into the sweet pool of delight that is his prose, and return refreshed and enlightened to the wasteland of your mere existence.
And that, my dear, is the meaning of life.
J
His Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Lofty sounding title. A gnomic work but not by any means impenetrable. He imbues common words with special meaning, which is just annoying. If at a first such usage he would define his meaning, it would be better. Instead there is much circling, unnecessary. First eight paragraphs, also sentences: "The world is everything that is the case. The world is the totality of facts, not of things. The world is determined by the facts, and by these being all the facts. For the totality of facts determines both what is the case, and also all that is not the case. The facts in logical space are the world. The world divides into facts. Any case can either be the case or not the case, and everything else remain the same. What is the case, the fact, is the existence of atomic facts." And so on.
So, the world is the totality of facts, and the case, which is facts in logical space and also the existence of atomic facts. Why not just say that? The world is all the facts, determinedly so, and divides into facts, yet atomic facts are made up of objects, things, which are not the world. You see why I don't read philosophy. It comes off as a guy who is really fast on his verbal feet, able to out-argue Bertrand Russel. This is not to say he's wrong. Although he later changed his mind about just about everything he argues for here.
He had thought he'd solved all of Philosophy's Difficulties. What he'd actually done was bind himself up in a one-to-one correspondence between symbolism and meaning, sort of a Platonic Forms thing, or do I mean Ideals, and Aristotelian? No matter. Like Descartes, their ideas came out of the oven half-baked. The universe is not linear, not binary. It is a hologram, analogue, and a continuum. No one loves boxes more than I. But in a universe of Schrodinger's cats, what sort of boxes can we make out of foam?
The trick with dealing with the Wittgensteins in our lives is to pin them down. "If I can think of an object in the context of an atomic fact, I cannot think of it apart from the possibility of this context." There is some technical meaning here, but the common meaning is that, if I can think of a horse in Oz, then since a horse is real Oz must be possible. But it isn't, because Oz is a self-contradictory fairyland. I should know, having read all the Oz books, and also having lived there for a number of years. Good Dr. Johnson refuted Berkley's metaphysical quaverings re the existence of existence thus: to demonstrate the reality of a rock, and therefore of everything that exists, Johnson kicked the rock. Either you get it or you don't.
Johnson was also a true genius.
What's that you say? Jack H is so impressive and fantastic that he too must stand shoulder to shoulder with these other giants of intellect? Well, it would hardly be appropriate for me to comment. The grace with which he passes through the brambles of argument may be due to some factor other than genius. That Jack H can identify and correct the flaws of his peers is perhaps just a quirk of, say, genetics? His celerity of wit is a sort of savantism hovering like a barrage balloon above the no man's land of his life? It is a mystery. Enough occasionally to dip into the sweet pool of delight that is his prose, and return refreshed and enlightened to the wasteland of your mere existence.
And that, my dear, is the meaning of life.
J
Thursday, August 5, 2010
On Manipulation
I don't actually listen to popular music. I prefer to manufacture my own manipulations. One cannot help however but hear it. The problem is that I always think below its surface. Of course it's some manipulation, an attempt to make us feel some certain something. But that's what communication is. Nothing wrong with that. The problem is who it is, who is making the music. Some pervert drug addict.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this pop star has an exemplary character, a truly admirable man. It's possible. Like politicians. Maybe one of them has integrity, and wisdom. And the fact that he has pushed himself forward, saying, "Here I am, vote for me, I'm a real leader, a hero of public virtue. I will save us." If it's true, then he's right. Sadly, mostly it's just poseurs with big egos demanding some privilege that only ambition qualifies them for. They have a skill only for being, somehow, popular.
Music used to be about melody and its permutations. Rhythms and harmonies. You know, skill. Yes, that's still around. But it's words, mostly, now, it seems. What is a love song without words? Nothing in tonality itself that's innately sexual. It's the words, baby baby baby. Then we associate the music with the feeling, like a bump and grind riff. Isn't it strange, though, how we do that? -- let almost all of our music be about love. Not love at all. Sex. A bit of I will love you forever. But mostly it's because I can have sex with you. There sure aren't many love songs to our kids. But even they are the product of our need for sex.
I've said it before, in my wisdom. Emotions are just how our instincts influence our actions. It's all biology. Our urge to procreate makes us love. Our urge to survive makes us feel fear, or anger, or whatever motivating emotion our childhood wiring and innate temperament predispose us to. No, it's not determinism. We have choices. But we have to think about them, to act on them.
The soulful 20 year old crooning about his girl friend who left him ... it makes me impatient. If he loved her, why did he not take the effort to make a real commitment? Marriage is not a piece of paper, certified by our politicians and judges. The love he claims in his chanted rhyme? It's just a feeling, the way we love ice cream. Real love commits. And the anguish he skillfully injects into his vocalizings? The dramatic rasping breaths? Very artful, it is. Highly manipulative. Simulates experience very well indeed. Sounds like it's sincere. But losing a girl friend is no tragedy. Sing a song about the sons you've lost, and I'll believe your anguish. Oh, wait ... there are no songs on the radio like that. I guess they don't have enough to do with love. Not enough anguish and drama in a song like that. Maybe it's too much of a downer. Not commercial enough.
I've been pretty busy. Energies directed elsewhere. You will be grateful for every blessing you get, however, including my now-rare blog posts. According to my whim, I will write more, or less. And you will appreciate it, humbly, as is appropriate in those who receive undeserved benefit.
J
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this pop star has an exemplary character, a truly admirable man. It's possible. Like politicians. Maybe one of them has integrity, and wisdom. And the fact that he has pushed himself forward, saying, "Here I am, vote for me, I'm a real leader, a hero of public virtue. I will save us." If it's true, then he's right. Sadly, mostly it's just poseurs with big egos demanding some privilege that only ambition qualifies them for. They have a skill only for being, somehow, popular.
Music used to be about melody and its permutations. Rhythms and harmonies. You know, skill. Yes, that's still around. But it's words, mostly, now, it seems. What is a love song without words? Nothing in tonality itself that's innately sexual. It's the words, baby baby baby. Then we associate the music with the feeling, like a bump and grind riff. Isn't it strange, though, how we do that? -- let almost all of our music be about love. Not love at all. Sex. A bit of I will love you forever. But mostly it's because I can have sex with you. There sure aren't many love songs to our kids. But even they are the product of our need for sex.
I've said it before, in my wisdom. Emotions are just how our instincts influence our actions. It's all biology. Our urge to procreate makes us love. Our urge to survive makes us feel fear, or anger, or whatever motivating emotion our childhood wiring and innate temperament predispose us to. No, it's not determinism. We have choices. But we have to think about them, to act on them.
The soulful 20 year old crooning about his girl friend who left him ... it makes me impatient. If he loved her, why did he not take the effort to make a real commitment? Marriage is not a piece of paper, certified by our politicians and judges. The love he claims in his chanted rhyme? It's just a feeling, the way we love ice cream. Real love commits. And the anguish he skillfully injects into his vocalizings? The dramatic rasping breaths? Very artful, it is. Highly manipulative. Simulates experience very well indeed. Sounds like it's sincere. But losing a girl friend is no tragedy. Sing a song about the sons you've lost, and I'll believe your anguish. Oh, wait ... there are no songs on the radio like that. I guess they don't have enough to do with love. Not enough anguish and drama in a song like that. Maybe it's too much of a downer. Not commercial enough.
I've been pretty busy. Energies directed elsewhere. You will be grateful for every blessing you get, however, including my now-rare blog posts. According to my whim, I will write more, or less. And you will appreciate it, humbly, as is appropriate in those who receive undeserved benefit.
J
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