oregonnerd's Radio Weblog

Continued Maunderings and Ponderings

Sun, 10 Apr 2005 02:35:42 GMT

More Relativistic Blitherings

Apparent reversals of value systems (Nazi) necessarily contained in language. Question: how many new words did Nazi regime implement (note: vice mere new usages).

--very difficult to see how new ideas can be described in terms of existent words and phrases. Certainly possibility of deciding between via (say) Occam's Razor; new ideas? seems doubtful. Bear in mind most ideas deal in relational dynamics of another sort (that's one description, after all, of gravity and various other things). And doesn't mean new words necessarily denote new ideas.

Mutability of underlying value systems>identity>derived rules of conduct. Clear cultural slot for this for males--initiation rites/rites of manhood (females? dunno). Works only with primary + secondary actions. Tertiary actions (those confined to the reified world) necessarily consist of rules of behavior: nothing is actually produced + no actions which actually acquire basic necessities (other than those subsequent to servitude of some sort or another, generally wage-based) are or can be performed. (It's debatable whether or not shopping in a grocery store actually fills a basic necessity. But then we have to eat, no matter the sorts of things added without our knowledge or consent. Those who confine themselves to organic foods do have a point of sorts.)

One direct consequent of this is that the sequence of learning for survival in a rural environment is so different from that of the urban that it's unlikely the successful urban dweller can make the change. (He won't be able, generally, to co-exist with common humanity after jumping out of his Hummer or Porsche SUV.) Bear in mind that the concept of sanity is necessarily environmentally relativistic. And thus the lawyer can't learn to fell a tree-can't even learn to learn. And thus the mystery of some stories for me: because the point laid in knowledge outside of the 'correct' mode/modes.

>mode determines perceived dynamics + possible methods of response/action. [D's construction almost valid but not modes which are/must be defined in terms of relational dynamics, so the construction necessarily falls short.]

--relational dynamcs: the things that determines how you respond to a given person or situation. 'Who am I' and therefore how should I act? In a society defined by honor this process tends to be easier.

[examples: what allows you to live in your rented space and your according actions: how you act toward boss/supervisor/fellow employees]

The values which language presents are environmentally variable. (We use the same words to denote differing actions or series of actions depending upon where we are and 'who' we are...depending upon the perceived environment.) However, they can only be discussed in terms of absolutes. ('Truth' is by nature an absolute,and thus qutie simple. On a personal level it tends to be relativistic and complex.)

Rules of behavior not explicitly formulated can only be derived from (perceived) relational dynamics (and on the simplest level through 'behavioral condition').

--Glenn

An Elaboration of Sorts (On Language)

Fri, 08 Apr 2005 23:55:52 GMT

An Elaboration of Sorts

Patterns derived solely within the realms of language should automatically be held suspect. That is--'new' ideas which require no new terms or words should be held as doubtful (unless, that is, they employ Occam's Razor exactly...in which case they probably aren't new). [And thus the first goal of somehow transcending language and dealing only in ideas in many venues and systems of belief.] It is very difficult for an entirely new idea to be built solely upon ideas already existent. Because we use object- and use-oriented languages, we have to name things; these names generally and perhaps by preference have little or nothing to do with the things themselves (I live on Rose Street which has nearly no roses: it's “just a name”). The name Occam's Razor is indicative per se of no principle at all. And this is one of the reasons language lies--because only a relative concept of truth can be employed, but language as is necessitates its discussion in terms of (quite unknowable save perhaps through faith or heavy drugs) absolutes.

--Glenn

cut your teeth: a long manuscript

Thu, 07 Apr 2005 19:14:46 GMT

This is a poem of 100 poems, written in ten days.

Splinter in the Mind's Eye (Originally Journey to the West)
1.
we quite simply
lost our way, you see. those
only-silhouette figures
(and their slow
their paced movements, like
statues given life, yet still
stiff)
lent neither focus nor direction.

and the path eastward
had never been clearly marked: thus
i think it was

we sought
--and found--
journey's end.

2. separations
voyage of knowledge begun,
we'd found
the maps deceptive, though

quite often we found later
it was somehow our reading
--not the map--at fault.

there were odd and unhinted
detours, and prismed visions (edges fully
as sharp as they seemed), though
i will admit quite oft
the glitter faded a bit
upon close inspection.

3. formed speculations
though there were no
blazoned markers, progress
at first seemed quite certain.

that valley we'd started from
had quickly diminished
in blue-hazed distances.
we'd all envisaged
easier passages,
to be sure.

we made little complaint,
at least at first, being
our own taskmasters.

4.apocalyptic voyages
you must understand
we were callow youths, all
and mostly somewhat spoiled to boot.

our guides
were only sometimes present.
the worst dangers, it seemed
we always faced alone: often,

we even lost each other
though at first only briefly.
certainly
we lost various names, along the way.

5. sudden, flawed regressions
there were at times
sudden visions, too, wheeled
remembrances of what might have been

former lives, though
i don't think they were our own.
they were somehow too foreign, echoed
and lined
within some crafted play

of timely words
and movements, gestures
transficted quite momentarily
to frames' uncertain passage

6.formulated utterances
i was a herald once--a mere
boy, and not well-clad (that part
was simply a myth).

you understand
i was merely a messenger: i was sent,
one day
to the torturer's chambers

i travelled long
in buried passageways: i passed
much treasure (but i dared not tarry
in my quest)

but when i came to the torturers
when i came to those echoing halls
filled with groans and screams

i found somehow i'd become
the message, and delivered
i found true freedom, and

--once they couldn't stop my screaming--
naturally, they gave me (permanent) refuge
in one of their cells
--------------------

7.careful observations
part of the return has, of course,
been loss. that knowledge we pursued
knew nothing of words
and now we know naught else

8. peripheral visions
once when i was a bird
i flew quite high, landscape
re-rendered. i was not hungry
that day
not searching for food: i wheeled

in flight's unbounded
pleasure: i ended roosting for the night
far from any accustomed spot.

it was thus i met her. as a human, now
i know she was a goddess: then
i could neither resist nor understand
her comeliness.

and so i served her. hers
was of course one of those
heaven-bordering mountain domains, with much
celestial traffic. i fluttered

to and fro, my vision hers
as much as my will.
indeed i worshipped her, for most surely
sex, to me, was no part of her allure.

but then as i weakened
she abandoned me
and confused, i forgot
and lost my way, to return

finally
to my favorite spot
and find
but one day passed. i rested,
that night

and then again assayed the journey
skyward, wandering
again toward the cloud-hinted mansions...but then

i saw the goddess
one last time
as her bolts ripped through my wings: i think
my death was quick.

it is noteworthy, though
that my last glimpsed fleeting memories
--after that death--
are of ecstatic joy, and union.

9.systematic continuations
the torturer genuflected
before each execution...bowing as he was
i don't think he could have seen
that crucified figure
turning his head away.

10.landscapes seen through stained glass
there was qutie a rush
to find the town fool that day:
the sage had died.

11. word replacement
the mountains' hilled approaches
were, i think, the hardest.
each stage's assumption

was indeed marked,
if nowhere else upon our brows, though
i'd be hard put to describe it.

i am not sure if mere days passed
or years: certainly

each passage changed us.

12.disputed omens
shipspeck
gray sea horizoned
beneath graylowering sky: we flee

wouldbe with the wind and
circled into storm
dying, embrace the sea
---------------------

13.freudian mysteries
they call her Daphne...it's really
a cruel joke. she was a nymph, and quite happy
as a rose. but that young handsome
god saw her--i forget, just now,
his name--and changed her
into human form. which was fine, while
he remained her lover. but then--
the gods are at best capricious, after all--
he tired of her, and sought other company.

now all she can do is sigh
and miss her thorns.

14.of statistical brassieres
those are foreign forces
and more heavily armored than are we. thus,
our only alternative
is to exercise our
superior moral character and make sure
not to notice them.

that way, they don't exist.
if there are any unseemly occurrences
like gunfire and you find you must die, please be sure
to do it quietly and in an orderly, approved manner.

15.hypothetical questions
“we no longer
fish the sea” the man said. it seemed
almost (though surely i was mistaken, for
he was young, proud and brave)
his voice trembled.

“they have grown voices.”
he fell silent for a moment.
“and they know our names.”

i stood attentive. i was a traveller, i think,
that life. “yes?”
“but don't you understand? they plead for mercy, calling
us by name.”

16.parabolic themes
within these veined silences
in spent passion's lax embrace
you vaguely dream of knowledge unbound,
apart from words. but then, impelled,
you utter endearments
and that momentary, illusive vision
is instantly bound and forgotten
(as your self) in words' return.

17.forelaid visions
after each
possession by vision, we'd return
much like the hawk, though
no time had passed.

still, there was a change: i remember
once asking a villager
where i might get water--he bowed to me,
and ran.

there were no mirrors there...
i wonder, at times
what he might have seen.

18.tangential parallels
i was a workman once
at some farm: the memory
has become dulled somewhat,
i fear: 'knowledge'

is many things, not least
at times
a ravishing of intellect.

but i can remember
endless drudged days
and thoughts i could not word:
they thought me mad, i think

because of that. but one day
the words came
and in their coming gathered
all the people together...i spoke

at great length, that first day
and word of me
spread throughout the land. i became
known as a scholar, and even a leader.

but then vision and words
both failed me again, and they killed me.
it would be easier to remember

the words, that way
they said

19. viable tales
i was a seamstress once
--an indentured slave, i remember
that whelming grief
when they took my child--

i had the knack
of sewing quickly
and without flaw.

thus it was i prepared
the clothing for that famous
naked king. it was
real clothing; make no mistake
about that.

the thing, you see, was
that Harry (who preferred to be called Harold
but no one would)
had imprisoned the land's greatest wizard
(quite forgetting that warning
about meddling in certain affairs); Harry allowed

him to live, after being given
a spell.
it was actually a good one: but, you see
Harry was quite clearly a fool.

the king had heard about
a suit of lights and had immediately needed
unique and unmistakable clothing.
the spell ensured
that the clothing met
its payment's worth. “why”
the mage said “if you pay gold
then it will be as unique.”

the clever king
paid in his pictures. his kingdom, he'd been assured
by his adoring advisors
would last a thousand years.

unfortunately these paper portraits
were, as we all know
actually quite worthless. so, once
he donned them, the clothes
vanished, and thus
his clothing too was worth nothing.

it was pointed out to him
variously and repeatedly
that he was quite naked
he always replied in terms of the clothes' cost, naturally--

the clothier had claimed his gold,
though
too late to affect the spell.

finally, in autumn of that year,
he “changed his clothes”
and covered his unseemly drooping sags...i must say
we were all quite relieved.

and the next summer
when he went to find his suit
it was not there, even to his
bewildered eyes.

he became quite the fop.
at times, it seemed, though
he pined
for his imaginary suit.

20.incessant variables
the guides, when they returned
(i met them at times, in those
dreams or memories of other lives)
were mostly quite silent.

we'd find supplies replenished, sometimes
though far from any city: once one of them
bound a wound with merely a phrase.

and they would give us odd jewelled phrases
that vanished somehow
when they did. still,
we seemed to learn.

21.of pebbled courses
when the race began,
we had no doubts.
winning, after all, meant freedom.

but then, one night
we found out what freedom meant.

...it's years, now, since
the race's start; we've trod
--or so it seems--
in every land. lately, there's been word
of bailiffs, searching for us

to take us to our promised
true reward. you see, the one who explained
true freedom's meaning put it this way
'only the dead are truly free'

22. pathed dreams
in deep inwardness
we knew our trails: names
though markers
could not change with

the seasons' shift, nor the land's
slow groaning movement.

some spoke of goals and endings: others
maintained the journey was the goal,
and any ending

would be short
of those fancied, promised peaks. somehow,
only continual attempt
could possibly do.

but the white man
solved the problem with his whiskey
(and, of course, those
infected blankets)

we die now, slowly
our words stolen
by these pasty-faced invaders: and
we have forgotten
where those paths, those trails
might any longer lie.

23. salient faces
when the gorgon's troops met us,
we fled (who could blame us?)
to a nearby lake, and submerged:
peering for us

they encountered
their own reflections and thus turned
to stone

and so stand
grotesque narcicissi
forever gazing
at reflections

24. vain reflections
at times we saw
fantastic reflections, beckoning
exploration, and one or another
of us simply had to go.

yet each time (often
near glinting treasure)
we'd find
ourselves wandering within
self-created mazes

25. far reaches
i have not said at all, you know,
what i mean. my traitor tongue
distorts, my voice fails, my mind
wanders. at times it's as if

i have forgotten
common speech, as i

wander. i have been thnking,
though, you know: perhaps i should wear a barrel
rather than clothes.

26.attitudinal sways
it was because
of the danger he represented, that
we killed him

he kept asking questions
we couldn't answer, which
shows lack of respect.

and then he even dared
to ask about Patriotism, and such questions
--for obvious reasons--
are forgidden. you're to bow to Names,
and speak them
if at all
rarely.
so we silenced him.

27. on voyaging through desolate territory
as i lay with my mistress, one day
i spoke another's name in delight's raptures.
i did catch my error, and apologized
and soothed as i could.

she seemed to forget: assuredly,
i did. but then one day
she stood before me, leader

of the rebel forces: is it surprising
she emasculated me, and made me her slave?

i wonder, though, at times
if passion's bonds' absence
has not left me the more free

28.relative distances
my feet blistered, once, on our journey...
i don't think it was one of those
incessant dream-memories. just then,
we were bare-footed, and i alone
had never gone so. i bound

them with rags
and limped along. some
mistook me for a wise man
others
for a beggar.

i was silent, being
unsure in their language: i
walked through their village
and was headed toward
valleysend

when one paused me, and led me
back to her hut.
i stayed there some days: she made
me sandals, and i
went on.

at times wisdom
is quite a fragile blossom.

29.irritating mannerisms
as a pattern, life
was not hard. there was more change, though
than you'd probably think.
when you are
relationships, there's a great deal
of give and take.

eventually, of course, change
conquered and i died--gladly,
actually, even though
many people died.

i became a butterfly, you see
and was overjoyed
to be truth.

30. scheduled partitions
as a typist, i was not happy.
their patterned responses
were like scientists' mazes
constructed for rats or dogs

with one small change:
all
was failure, there was
no perfect way.

as i lay dying, someone told me
the supervisors
were required to be dis-satisfied
with their subordinates.
i died with a scream of rage
and became a curse.

they couldn't find records, screwed
customers right and left: quite surely
they'd be out of business soon.

(i believe the company still
exists, and the curse: they never
noticed the difference)

31.of odes to silence
i am sure i remember
being old, in those mountains--
bent, stooped, scarcely able
to withstand the heights' rigors.

--Though i am not young now,
you must understand
that was many years ago.--

there seems too little connection
between many events: though at times
memory's blurred by drink or drugs
it was not mostly so.

i must say, at times i stand severally
unsure
which are (if all are not)
the dream

32. ablated travails
when we built that pyramid
many of us died. no, not
from particular cruelty

it was that we could hear
the echoed surf's crashing
and our souls had to go
to the sea

33.blunted visages
the villagers accused us
of being sacreligious: when we
protested,

they crucified us to prove it.
our howls of pain,
they said
showed clearly
we were incapable of civilized behavior

that evening, we got down from our crosses
and quickly killed them all. they'd made
us into gods, you see, and we
were new to the role: it's much easier
to destroy than create

34.sealed contracts and painted spaces
you must understand
that it was the journey that was the thing
that stepped voyage that revealed
all we'd thought to know
at best half-illusion: there was no
cinematic progression of stilled moments,

and we knew the lives we'd left
irretrievably lost
soon after we began. that threat
of meaning had just frayed away.
thus it was on our return
that we were viewed with great
suspicion

meaning being fetters,
unshared meanings
were bladed goads: it is thus

they drove us from the village and this
monastery
was established. every once in a while,

they do send us young men.
they're quite appreciated; meat
is often scarce, these days

35.anti-koan
when he was killed for pederasty,
he was relieved. unfortunately,
he was reborn as an abused child.

36.circled summations, gridded distances
when we sought answers
from the wise man's emissaries, they
brought us before him. --where
he had our heads removed, for disturbing
his peace. some answers
are quite unmistakable

37. semantic distortions
the sage said he was looking
for twined passages, as he leaned above
the rain-torrented stream

i suppose he found them. he leaned
too far, and fell in, to meet his death in moments
on the rapids' cruel-edged rocks

38.grave error
i was a gravedigger, once, too
and buried both
pets and men.

it was amazing to me, really, on my single error
how upset that family became
when they found i'd accidentally switched
dog's and master's graves

39.simplified sums
it was easy when we began:
there were no more nights of flashing knives
and cleaving blades, swords truly
smelted into plowshares...

after a year or two
it was too boring, though.
knives dulled, swords gone
we cut staves
and dutifully beat each other

into bloody stupor. tradition
we justified ourselves
must be followed

40.debatable perspectives
yes, that was a forest once.
we improved it. see how well
the concrete drains?

41.general reservations
in samsara once
we sought the sun: we attempted
flight. but the ground
knew nothing of our

mythic visions, and bruised us
so
we beat it soundly with sticks.

42.inescapable conclusions
each year, when the river rose
it somehow surprised them: thus
it was they built
within the flooding river's path.

we attempted to explain;
you could say we felt impelled.
they wouldn't allow us to leave, and when
the water had indeed

came as uncouth visitor
to their homes, they beat us
and then bid us leave.
“really, you know” they said

“we can't have such
negative attitudes around.”
at last report, since

the river again dared over-run its banks
they're seeking ways
to stop the river entirely, though
it furnishes all their water

43.on glyphic mysteries
it was only when we deciphered
time's worn signature
upon the cliffs

that we realized the Way

and within the stone passageways
gathered to celebrate
the random visage.

but then the earth
was torn to move: crushed
within, we finally realized

the meaning of that Name

44.circumstantial interpretations
when the river heard of new courses
it gladly leapt toward them, meeting
sea'sverge

expecting death (perhaps
for its temerity in seeking freedom)
the river instead found itself

part of a greater, mysterious Whole

45.chiascuroed appearances
i was a knight, too, i wandered
in search of a fair maiden
but none i found would do.

finally, in desperation
i took a village beauty
and imprisoned her, and then awaited

a hero's entrance. at least
i could be a villain.
but years passed, and none came; the 'princess'
and i

became friends and then lovers...
i think it was the fifth year
that i married her.
...i suppose i should have foreseen it:

she promptly
had me imprisoned in the dungeon.

it wasn't bad, though
after she allowed a fireplace
and shutters for the windows: and there was always
the conjugal visit bit.

but then one day
she ran out of food for the dragon,
and i was handy. incidentally
i've been looking into

establishing a society
for the preservation
of hors d'ouevres

46.felonious encounters
as an angel, i found no rest
for i was the least, sent
unendingly on one errand
or another.

besides, i was always seeing God,
that insufferable
egotist...my ire oddly grew unnoticed.

so, one day
afire with resentment, prepared with
the proper mystic blade

i killed God.
they cast me out of Heaven, of course:
on the whole it's been a relief. i know

there will be no more infinite passages.
as far as God being dead, i don't know...
it doesn't seem things have changed much.
i suppose they either

found a replacement, or it turned out
He was unnecessary

47.at the gates
the barbarians forced us
to many things. we would not
you understand
have controlled the populace so strictly
had we any choice.

the people simply had
to understand we didn't want
to cut their rations
and restrict their movements. those barbarians

are quite subtle, seeming
ordinary fellows, infiltrating
and causing dissension. they even
inflamed the masses

so they claimed injustice: we the rulers
they noted
--not allowing for our tasks' clear difficulty--
our rations weren't cut at all. why,
they've even lost respect
for rank

and now they say we must leave
having discovered
the barbarians are mercenaries
and in our pay

48.of frivolous sunsets
gathered once we were, grain
for the harvest. we never saw
the reaper, and can only wonder

when we shall be milled, and changed
to another's bread.
i dream of spring
and await doom

49.constrained impressions
within deep forest once
(sky hidden as echoes)
we traveled, wandering, uncertain
of our course
while it lay in that twilight

and then in a sudden clearing
we were shocked
by the brilliance of a sunlit flower

and knew our way again.

50.steeped inconsistencies
the singer's words
were full of wisdom
but our hearing
was all of lies

51.transfoliations
when we heard his message
we knew it was a new day
and we were freed
of all our imprisoning assumptions

of course, later
when the sun set
we forgot all about him

52.careless names
“those who have ears to hear,
let them hear”
which of course why
the king ordered
his subjects' ears removed.

53.fanplay
when the sparrow met
the hawk's god, he died
quicly, in outrage

ah, but when the hawk
met the sparrow's god, he found
himself transformed, and quickly

gathered flocks with his godwords. the problem was,
being a meateater
and having foresworn meat,
he weakened and died when he fell
from his morning flight.

his gathered flocks, having respectfully
and gratefully had him
for their morning meal
went toward
their former roosts.

on the way
each met the hawkgod
and his ferocious troops
determined to convert
them, and their god.

sadly,
they did as poorly
as attempted raptors
as had the hawk at eating seeds

finally, the hawk god's servitors
and the sparrows
got tired of the whole thing
and sacrificed both gods to themselves

54.scintillant visions
the cloud-covered skies
threaten rain
begloom begray the day

55.on scripted recurrence
when we remarked
on the city's silence
it was as if we'd paid them
a great compliment

“you see, that's why
we killed the children. altogether too much
chatter, and laughter, and noise”

56.fools' tales
i was a wiseman once
or perhaps mad
(the again, the two
might be quite the same)

but i was in search of wisdom, so
i studied the wordless babe, and followed
a mongrel dog
slept on porches and begged
for my food

and finally, i was declared
simply the wisest fellow around
(probably because i didn't say anything)

so the king naturally
sent for me, to learn
all my great secrets

i stood before him, shabby
i could not seem, at first
to speak: he ordered

a guard to cut out my tongue
for impertinenece. in my fright
i uttered
that unsayable Word i'd slowly learned

and he died. thus
it was that i became king, for that day
but i heard
the crow's rasping call

and i had to leave

57.scenic balustrades
when we raised the altar to Seeming
the townspeople were aghast.
they needn't have worried, though: after
the priests talked with us a while

we tore down the altar and joined them.
as they said,
it was the same thing

58.visible footprints
when we approached that ancient
monument, we were indeed afraid. it loomed
quite mightily...we concluded, though

that it had once been a woman's
likeness, with something upraised.
then the guide told us of a strange people
who walled themselves inside
imaginary and yet quite real walls

and died within their defenses
insulated
from both enemies and supplies

59.fractal exposures
imprisoned within a high tower once
--a crypt, i think, for all its height--

i was freed by words. and, bereft
of my chains' comforting lent definition

i promptly threw myself from the tower

60.circuitous visibilities
and, in one
monastery, they celebrate day's break
by a naked maiden
beating a gong. (none, i assure you
is allowed to watch)

it was quite a disappointment
to us monks, to learn
there was no naked girl
--at least, once the veiling cover

had been ripped aside
by a horny newcomer.

before the unveiling, though, they said
it was even odds she was there.

61.on constellations of visions
the emphasis that year
was on briefs--

bras and panties
and conceivably of mind (probably
on the part of the advertisers)

and then of course there were the
“hip-hugging jeans”, exposing

lots of juvenile flesh. unfortunately, they'd
mis-timed their campaign
it hit in dead winter
and that being the year
of the flu vaccine shortage, they lost a lot
of kids

but at least they sold
a lot of briefs

62.juvenile declensions
“despair and pride”
she said
“prompt men's most common words”
i think a shadow passed
over our faces: certainly
her expression changed.

“that is, the ones
smart enough to talk”

63.passing, lent perspectives
within the greened spring
we sought our selves' reflections
but then found
our random-seeming acts

had painted but one visage
(a leering idiot's)

after contemplation, we destroyed
that graven image, and made
a search for meaning the gravest possible offense.

64.prospective illusions
and i was the wind once
i walked a god, earth quaking
beneath my metalled feet:
i gloried in destruction

but as i gloried, i weakened
and, at last undone
fell to the bitter land
as gentle rain

65.scented byways
with her swaying stride
whole continents
were born and shaped, she was

uncaringly fertile
and never knew her power
to doubt or guard it

and thus it was
the male gods
stole her glory all away

66.saturnian moons
yes, of course they
taught her to forget
her self

after all, it's
plastic dolls that sell

67.a tribute to ray charles
the blind poet
sat and sang
so many years

at that piano
every musician who's sat there since
has heard his voice
and the knowledge echoed ever after
in their song
-------------
--though admittedly this title doesn't fit with the general tone of this piece (made of a hundred pieces) it seems nonetheless quite fitting.

68.in deep glimmering
when we walked the Path
we thought to measure
reality with truth and then found

all, or none
was Path

69.frontal stages
when she told us her name
we were quite properly abashed
but then
being her adoring public

and seeing she had
no guards about, we proceeded

to strip and photograph
and otherwise
ravish her, expecting of course

a goddess' thanks

but then we saw she
was bleeding, and ran.
it was her fault, of course

our idols were supposed to be
quite impervious to abuse

70.tenebrous glissades
“i am trying to dance
in time godamit, i
got no natural rhythm and don't care
what who has to say

“we'll dance as we want to,
thank you
and then we'll burn your factories down
the ones

“that make plastic figures
that walk like men

“plastic figures like us,
marionetted
by various entangling strings

“no, we don't want your plastic
burgers and irresistible
cars, don't care to run
circular rounds to power some

“supposedly benevolent but imprisoning
machine, i

“no, don't got no rhythm, i can't
march to your tune at all.”

of course, when the brave marchers
finished with their voiced defiance
the owners of
those tangled strings

had them all killed. rebellious puppets
just aren't good entertainment
after all

71.solipsis
'your veiled utterances' i told him
'provide no path,
give no way. uncertain progressions
save no one, names lend no nature
except perhaps to mages'

i wasn't sure he'd heard me
as he walked away.

--i've been in this prison
five years now. and you?

72.pyramidal assumptions
yes, at times we became lost
in that unending torrent of selves
and curved unspoken questions.
but then, we'd never really
been found

73.phenomenal objectives
in one world i lived
--i know it's hard to credit--
they'd decided to build weapons
that could destroy all humans.
(they said “all men” of course,
which wouldn't in a way
be so much of a pity
what with artificial insemination)

eventually, of course
out of boredom or stupidity
they had to try them out.
the weapons worked quite well.
i remember
as i was dying (of course,
the others were too)
all of us congratulating ourselves

on how safe we'd made the world
and were really amazed
when the world quite agreed

74.unfeigned gratitude
when we liberated those foreign
savages (after
all, they didn't even speak our language)

--i'm not quite sure what from
but they assured it was terrible,
something about
their former evil ruler
killing lots of people--

they were totally ungrateful,
even after we explained
patiently and at length
so we lovingly
killed them all

75.caught within
there was no constant
reflection to find
within that faceted stone

and thus there was no constant way
to find
and we struggled

caught within those prisms
time defined by speed

we spent eternal days within

and yet (diminished, it seemed)
upon escaping

we found no time had passed

76.sounded spaces
within summer's furnaced limits
we guessed the mountains' heights and cooliness
during those drought years. we aspired
toward them
yet no matter our momentary treks
they grew no closer

we cursed the heat, the glinting light
and prayed for its cessation

then a monster volcano
as if in answer
dirtied the world's skies

a year ago.
...we pray now for sun
though foreknowing
its harsh imprisoning grasp
----------------------
the 'monster volcano': Krakatoa

77.fractured dreams
the ones who had seen the savior
were quite persuasive: they explained
his apparent absence was just a state of mind

he'd be popping in any second.
one old gentleman declared
he'd been at seat's-edge for years, sure
it would happen any moment.

when pressed, they admitted
they might not actually really
have seen him, he'd died
apparently
some years before.

they said something
about “faith” and being
“chosen”

and going to some vague
future (unseen) reward.
i found out some lives later
that self-flagellation and other
assorted religious delights

were really very addictive , and
--though none of us dared experiment--
gave a good high.
of course, there was some indication
it involved brain damage

78.somatic disturbances
with curved fragrances
and finespun passions
the temple girls came to visit

they were from Parvati's
retinue
and with each stamping step

left Kali's afterimage
-----------------------
dedicated to Roger Zelazny
and Nishant Shah

79. reasoned discourses

those fevered passages of blood
left many traces not least a scarred wisdom which was unfortunately

confined to surviving wars
(in the short run)
and other such men's games

80. sybilled foremembrance

those moments of wisdom we found
were most precious, and entirely
obscured

the dreadful bound passages
of the unsought Word:

a mother, suckling her child, full
of uninflected love, or

a quiet oldsters' embrace (passion
indeed unforgotten, but no longer
paramount)

a child's first-discovered
butterfly: eternity

divided by infinity
becomes a succession of unmouthed moments

81. agitated stillness

give me no more songs! this rush
of fettered moments and confined motions
lends no escape.

give me no more sounded chants
swayed movements
and chance-caught instants' glances

lend me no more slogans
and new-coined names--rather
try something novel: silence.

--but after a moment's experiment, afraid
(thoughts' echoing trace ungainsayable)

the song resumes, amplified
even more

82. of reasoned discourse
they were all very wise, there: they
told us so, at length, before
they allowed us entrance
into their village

it seemed quite unreasonably
dirty: fetid, even.
we accepted their food
with suspicion, and couldn't

bring ourselves to stay
the night. they had to
show us their treasures, before
we left: they were actually
quite wealthy.

i pointed out, as we left
that they could well afford
to have thei village cleaned
or even live within a castle

“oh, no” their leader explained, smiling
“that would display our wealth
and there would be thieves: none
must know”

and, still smiling, he killed us
to protect the secret
and preserve the status quo

83.visible forbearance
and once, within
great vasty woods
we were lifelong lost
and quite content

84.within visible dimunitions
he filled me with his song
each time i heard him
i could not separate
teller and tale--

a funny little guy with big glasses
a rather engaging grin
and at least half a hundred voices
pounding away
at the piano

creating a sounding and
(for the moment anyway)
eternal-seeming melody

...still, the song always
ended

85.of faltering utterance
this comfort you
seek to give me
clogs my veins and freezes
my heart, palsies

my hand. i know naught
of your trailing tales
of semblance, and honors
grimed transformation
to mere words

o, give me
no more comfort
but ending instead

86.sorted summations
her fractured song beguiled me
and perhaps transformed me: certainly

she changed the shapes i saw
and even inflected my line

crystalline images! but within
a flawed stone, so that

now, remembering
i've only fragments
of her song
------------------------
dedicated to Annie Lenox

87.in remembrance of wisdom
we paused in our travels
upon the topmost pitch
of some unnamed mountain

and thought
to see the world, but
our eyes' blurred vision

allowed only flicker shapes, as
of shadows
projected by firelight
upon some cave's uneven wall

88.subliminal images
i don't clearly know
how long
we were lost within those caves...muttered

echoes pursued us, in our blindness:
we stumbled often and fell

searching at first
for treasure (here, we'd been assured
lay a box like Pandora's
but filled only with priceless knowledge)

and then exit...

once escaped (blinking, unaccustomed
now to light) at first we bewailed
the treasure's loss...but then

(having unwillingly surrendered
to silence) realized we'd found it,
after all

89.of dimlit spaces
you have given me
too many flowers, i think: i
am one of the old gods, semi-

retired: i prefer
wine, thought and song
these days

i have no gifts to give you
save one
and you cannot know the giving

for if that gift is ever grasped
it is no more

90.on the meeting of reality and truth
that singer had clearly
been on many travels: his melodies
beguiled us

with visions of foreign lands
and truthful speakers

but then Yama deathgod passed
and the song changed, inflected

by mortality's awareness:
the god seemed pleased, and paused
and gave his greatest gift

at times the true
is not the real

91.light's knowledge of shadow
and yes, these
are circled paths we tread

though neither

time nor circle
masters all. this
is Maya's time, illusion

and those that wake
from that dream
pass
beyond the skull

92.on Names and knowledge
we were often, perhaps mostly
lost, for what we sought
had, could have no name

it was like seeking light
and asking a blind man the way
all unknowing
of our own blindness

the cup cannot contain the stream
--nor, for that matter, could any container;
for once caught, it would
no longer flow and thus be no longer stream

:when we realized we'd lost our names
(they'd after all long been unused)

we began seeking our way home
though knowing the search futile

93.prolonged statements
“and i would tell you
of your course” he'd said
“but it is no worded
way. language
can only approach

“you go to find the Real--
and most will fail”

as we were leaving on the Journey
he added
“failure is a name, you know”
--------------
--dedicated to LT

94.imprisoned utterances
i think it was the unmarked path
that aged us most: half
those turnings were hidden until made
and half those
obscured the entrance

certainly it was fascination
itself, turning
into a cul-de-sac, weighted
with some life's dreams and memories

(the scent of violets
that now evokes
a last aged embrace, though
i am yet young)

had there been some
marked end, though
i think we might have despaired

some journeys are all of steps

95.chanced summations
i cannot seem to say
i tell you
quite what i mean

some neolithic
carver
anticipating fine-edged tools

and gleaming blades
or maybe a medieval painter
imagining computer design

and these thoughts i cannot word
halt and silence me

96.frayed resemblances
she was a goddess then
and walked the Earth
unseen, untouched

like some thought's whispering fringe

and then chose
mortality: she would, she told her peers
understand better

the fragile change between
a blossom's first bloom
and soon-following senescence

97.importunate assents
knowledge is not bound
nor is it truly named: that cup
holds only the torrent's
stilled fragments, words

cannot pause nor paint
that falling crimsoned windfleet leaf

that
sign indicating direction points
all ways at once, with knowledge
'at the mile marker' though
my stride's been changed to insect's, i

cannot give you
knowledge nor wisdom, no

98.straitened circumstances
when
his visage's recollection told us

we were fogbound, we could not
understand, 'til

we'd taken the next few steps
and had entered
what valleydwellers
know as cloud

99.toward split infinitives
maya wakened once
and finding no dream to breathe
was quite discontent

until

she realized
it was a waking dream

100.of circled ends
i think i am not wise,
my knowledge
is fragmentary, incomplete

i know silence well,
these days: perhaps sharpening
a knife
or carving a pipe
i am wordless

and between
each curved swing of blade
i walk worlds

--Glenn

Thu, 07 Apr 2005 19:12:17 GMT

you seem to ask for anger, posed
as you protest another of my villanies--this time, i think
i didn't empty the fucking rabbit's whatsit
and i can't say, really can't
that i care as you rave: one of pain's few virtues

is its ability to block your droning chant
of my many misdemeanors
and fancied lovers: words i think
have gotten no child yet from any loins

though it's rumored the Word
might have done

and you
crucify
yourself upon my silence. perhaps
i should have bought you a lash
for your birthday

Glenn

Thu, 07 Apr 2005 19:08:46 GMT

Musings Upon Language

Language in its first usage allows storage and conveyance of ideas about how to do things and what things are. This is characteristic both societally and individually. In the process of its construction, certain observations about the 'real world' are embodied. The easiest example is of course the concept of possession--which has meaning, incidentally, only within the parameters of society (and arguably, by rumor, there).

Another is the idea of good and evil acts, upon which civilization is at least partially founded. Let's just momentarily divert to the idea that legally an act can be 'evil' (or, rather, contrary to law) either by intent or result (however unintentional). In fact, the intent to commit an illegal act is illegal, which I find a fascinating concept: almost all writers of fiction are thus felons (certainly I am, if...never mind). This legal summation of the allowability of action seems unilaterally descended from religious dispensation. Thus my choice of 'good' and 'evil'. Modernly we are also presented with a presumable morality of questionable antecedence. Because it has no source (God being dead and all..I wonder who informed Her and how...) I've never seen it codified that I can recall beyond the liprule 'The Golden Rule'. It does, however, seem quite clear when concernign property, which seems ready to be the chiefest concern. Kill if you must, but don't steal. Actually, killing is still somewhat frowned upon in southern Oregon, except for the police. (That is, it's okay for them to target practice on civilians once in a while. Never fuck with a cop, let alone kill one. That's right up there with deciding to swim around in a pond where you know there are pirhanas (actually, bad example; that's not usually fatal). Let's see. It's up there with jumping right out in front of a semi doing fifty miles an hour. You will die...if you're lucky.)

In other words the basis of behavior is actually undefined except legally. This seems mostly due to the fact that after a while religion has more to do with religion that whatever's being worshipped. The church has to serve some purpose, after all, thus it is the mediator and repository of Truth. Where might it be if the believer were to have contact with the worshipped on their own? Individual religious experiences seem most often not accepted at established 'houses of faith'. Just imagine Christ (conveniently speaking the correct language) showing up at a proper Sunday gathering. Iconoclasts are all very good and well when they keep their place, in this case properly dead. Also, if he were to appear in suit and tie--or at least well-bathed in pressed robes--well things would be a bit different.

Yet the entire matter actually has a titular position in society--good and evil. An interesting matter, thus far. To state the matter more precisely, we have an area of entire relativity experientially which we can only pursue in absolute terms. This means we have problems with our reference system--not only our language but the assumptions which lie behind it, chiefest of which is whether a yes-no (bivalue) decision can work...and the answer most often is that it can't and oddly enough doesn't. This kind of definition actually only works on a community basis, and interms of rather small communities. A rational basis for evaluation of moral conduct is available only within terms of civis (and thus of the reified)--and this is a distorted example by nature.

[There is something unsaid here which should be obvious, and hasn't been added because it's not to the point. The title is “Musings Upon Language”, after all.]

Glenn

Wed, 06 Apr 2005 17:02:37 GMT

A brief update on the Social Security situation: on March 15th a decision was reached, oddly enough in my favor. On the 17th the local Social Security office called me to set up an interview for the payment approval (we won't go into that now, the whole thing is fucking well bizarre and complicated)...happened to be the same day I found out about the decision. That Thursday I had a small advance payment. April 1st saw a partial payment. What happens now? I would say within 20 days there will be about $20k sitting in a bank account, which is very little money, but enough to move.

However, there is a moral to this story.

Social Security benefits are smaller than VA benefits. Social Security gave me approval based on PTSD. The PTSD largely stems from military service (and much of my physical condition stems from VA care, for that matter).

Thus.

Glenn

Wed, 06 Apr 2005 16:57:07 GMT

in memory of the muse

that remembered veiled dancer
remains nameless in memory, though
i can recall her musk
and for that matter the taste (later)
between her thighs...

odd: it was as if
she just momentarily appeared
and then vanished to never-was: but then

both in youth and age
love (even for oneself)
is maybe just that:
never-was
------
:for the record: I've never seen a veiled dancer in real life and I do love people. So if there's a gentle reader peering over my shoulder--I'd been musing over a writer--Delany--who's forsworn, apparently, fictional writing--as has (for sure, he says) Stableford. I regard both as great losses. And the poem's not merely fictive, as should now be apparent.

Dedicated to Samuel Delany and Brian Stableford (duh)

Glenn

Mon, 21 Mar 2005 21:06:59 GMT

Saying for the day: "Each moment is either the creation or the destruction of the self."

Samwise Davies (quoted by permission)

Sat, 05 Mar 2005 01:58:00 GMT

An Update...And I'm (more or less, at least) Back In Business

And how do you like all the caps?

A cursory review of my blog ( http://www.livejournal.com/users/oregonnerd/ ) will show that on the 25th of February, I busily set about contacting a few people.

I've had various replies. A county commissioner called me, and basically just bullshitted--I'm not saying that in a bad way. I am, after all, among other things...a 'redneck'. A hillbilly. All that sort of thing; rural, that is, in outlook.

A state senator replied. So did a state representative I hadn't contacted. Social Security went once more around the block, which was fine; it was just on the list of things to do.

No replies from the Oregon governor or secretary of state.

There was one reply, just received today. It's from the person at the very top of that list.

“Thank you for contacting [read prior blog entry] for assistance in dealing with an agency of the Federal government. The [read it, dummy] has asked me to respond.”

Now for the kinda cool part.

“We are forwarding your matter to the Social Security Administration. That agency will review the facts and either start a case, reopen your old case, or explain their previous decision on your former case, as applicable. We have requested that they respond directly to you with a copy to us for our files, and we expect this to be done at the earliest opportunity.”

Okay, I'm kinda cheating.

“Thank you for contacting the Vice President. Best wishes.”

etc.

Oh, an (just an incidental little note)

“cc:Agency”

March 10 (in review) is the year anniversary of my hearing. No decision issued as yet.

March 27 is the four year anniversary of my first application to Social Security.

I was never examined prior to the hearing. Instructions for examination were issued after the hearing.

Seems there will soon be a decision. That was what was sapping all of my energy and concentration. I can almost believe this has happened...
Glenn

Sun, 20 Feb 2005 01:59:12 GMT

Spaghetti, Borgia Style

When Violet got in the car, she was shaking with rage. “Well...” she managed and then just strapped her seat belt over and (falteringly) clicked it in place. I could see she was near tears--tears of rage the more bitter for the helplessness involved. The corporation had moved again in its mysterious ways, its wonders to perform. What now, I thought as he put the little car in gear.

“They fired me. From the monitoring job.”

It was the only thing she had except the phones--the damned phones...which became, eventually, personalized. (These personalities were like the devil deities of old.) The company had made the infinitely wise decision to combine order-taking with customer service--on two companies. More than that, of course, it involved two different access modes and procedures (GUIs, for the enlightened).

So one might patiently shepherd the willing and able customer (with, market research assured us, one and a half degrees, which--just as legend had it--meant complete blithering stupidity outside one's specialty, on a good day) through the difficulties of supplying names and addresses for gifts to go to, and then of course selecting the gifts. This rarely goes smoothly. Problems vary between the deaf (a common occurrence); the aged, lonely and rambling--AADD in different form maybe; those incapable of the step of identifying the recipient; those impatient at the beginning of the order (and generally with not the slightest idea of what they wanted--from beginning to end)...and that last and hardest step, supplying a credit card number (and expiration date, a step baffling for many). In a maximum of 3.5 minutes.

Perhaps, luckily, it might be next a dis-satisfied customer. An order number is a rarity. A clear description of the recipient (the name, that is) is a distinct possibility. A slightly lesser probability is a clear description of (a) the gift and (b) the problem. Eliciting (c) what would the customer like can be difficult.

Bear in mind one is to save money. Refund percentages, replace parts. Send handwritten cards instead (bear in mind the time for this is charged against you as non-productive). And sell more. Make sure to sell more.

Never become impatient. Never take abuse personally. When you have to take something down by hand, accept it as one of nature's vagaries. The gods willed it. Be happy about it. Be fucking ecstatic because you shouldn't have to write anything, you do have to, you are...and you're getting blamed for it.

Oddly enough she was upset.

“I can't take it, Sam.”

I searched mentally for something to console her, while thinking of her blowup over being monitored on the phone. Better than that, it hadn't been the response but the wording thereof. “I'm sorry” I said, knowing it worse than inadequate.

“You know. Drive me to the end of town. I'll walk back. You know, it was the blowup after that monitoring session.” That effectively ended all conversation. I simply couldn't think of what to say.

“Okay.” She slammed the door hard; I didn't blame her. After all, it was the same place that had disabled me.

It started with the dreaming. I'd be asleep, Violet said, and there I'd be, talking on the phone with a customer in my usual patient, polite implacable way. But the customer wasn't listening. And I'd have a seizure sometimes, or sleepwalk or maybe wake and sit sleepless and shivering in the living room. I was hearing voices, too. I needed to be at work--adapting to an impossible environment, satisfying everyone (and I did, for a long time)--but once there I couldn't stand it. It was a searing pain of the soul to be there, and an aching void (because the agony wasn't there to be pursued--the impossible done and better yet unappreciated) filled with those echoing, demanding voices, whispers...memories of past customers...they fired me, of course. Social Security figured I was pulling something and sent me in for electroshock therapy--that's the reason for the twitch. Finally gave it to me after it turned out my back was broken; I hadn't even noticed, in the pain of my soul.

I bled for her. And there was nothing I could do to comfort her. Nothing. I drove home and sat pondering. It was so unfair, and so characteristic of Wyer Brothers.

I went in and rolled a cigarette...considered, set the cigarette down and had a toke of pot first. Chronic pain isn't fun. I recaptured the cigarette and went outside, ignoring the various teenagers as best I could. (The 100 decibel raucous ones are the hardest to not notice, and they've kept the law against shooting them out of season in force.)

Wait a minute, I said to myself. Roger had an uncle who was a certified...whatever: killed bugs and varmints. And died of inhaling some spray. They said he turned blue, whistled and flopped like a fish. He regained normal color, said “Wow, what a high” and died...anyway, Roger got his stuff.

I called him. Yeah, Roger thought so. I could come over tomorrow and we'd look.

Violet got back, and I comforted her as well as I could, though I was rather cautious after she kneed me in the nuts and head-butted me...she made it clear she resented the caution. “After all,” she said, “I did say I was feeling a lot of angst. So I did warn you.”

“I was rubbing your shoulders at the time. Fuck you.” She feinted toward me, and I made sure there was an easy chair between us.

“See? You don't trust me.”

What could I say? I made a break for it--she was between me and the pot--she only managed a shoulder block into my ribs. I retired to my room for the night. I could eat tomorrow.

“Coward” she hissed. She was right.

II.

After a long search, we found it--quite well-labeled. I could have sworn there was a smell of almonds, even with it capped. I'd brought the (Wyer Bros.) candies over, and the syringe the vet had given us for Anton, Violet's pet hamster. Well, one of them. She had a gift for hamsters...and, for that matter, cooking, gardening and of course home decor. At 125 pounds, with a ravishing face framed by kempt tresses of mahogany hair, she looked incapable of anger: violence would seem unbelievable. I was actually relieved she hadn't body-slammed the ones who ousted her.

The holes couldn't be noticed, and the wrapper was intact. At the bottom--for forensic's sake--I put, “Violet knew nothing of this. This is all my doing. Sam D.”

I drafted a note for Violet to go with the chocolates for the two who'd rewarded her with an entry back into the fulltime world of phones and irate and confused customers. It was conciliatory. It was humiliating. And since I'd written it, she could stomach signing it.

I'm awaiting...well, something. The cops, I would think. There. The phone. It's Wyer Bros and they want me to come in right now.

--Later--

It seems there's a Borgia tradition in the company. They welcomed me back--were well aware that I could only work a few hours a week--and I'm in charge of the department. My first act, of course, was to fire Violet. Too much of a rebel factor.

She did send me some brownies, though, and an awfully nice letter. I almost regret having set the company hit team on her. She'll be dead by sunset. It seems unfair to eat the brownies--but they're my favorites. Just one--I'll throw the rest away, out of respect. But almond brownies.

-----

Glenn