|
Some of the things I write, like this little fling today, just seem to wander through my head like a drifting dust-devil on a long-rainless prairie, like tumbleweeds in some west Texas ghost-town's dusty, deserted, streets: my mind just delivers them like pizzas; and, when done, I can't figure out why I wrote them, why they have double anchovy toppings, or what they were/are about: surely, that must mean they are Art, or something profound ?
So, I share this with Thee only (nothing personal) because my Principle of "Suffering shared is suffering diluted" demands it ! Although, I thoroughly believe that the great spiritual master, Groucho Marx, uttered a profound truth (as with all great truths, embodying a paradox) when he said: "These are my principles; if you don't like them, I've got others."
"Test-of-Truth ?" copyright 2012, William Woodruff, published here under the terms of CPPLL, the CodeProject Poetic-License License.
~
I have come to believe that other people know me better than I can ever know myself, but: that I don't know how much they know; or, whether: what I think they know has been based on a foundation of lies created by myself, possibly accidentally, possibly purposefully. I omit the issue of whether lies can be a metaphor to convey more truth than what passes for "normal truth," because: this is not a French restaurant: this is a diner: there is no "buffet" here: just point to the picture on the wall of the meal you want, and nod your head: the person that takes your order is deaf and dumb, but they will fetch your food.
But, I recognize they (other people) have a right to create who I really am without their recognizing my right to create who I really am: even though, that's not an issue here, because: as I just already stipulated: I believe they do know me better. If they know me better, why should they give me the right to know them, or myself, better ?
That would be like the smart bending over for the dumb: wouldn't it ? Damn-right: they shouldn't give a damn, and, if they do, that's probably a sign of weakness, and that could be a reflection on them, which is an insult to all of us, since I'm one of them (to them, that is: of course, I'm not "one of them" to myself). Which is how wars start.
The question, which will not be answered here is: if I, also, do: know other people better than they know themselves, why couldn't it be possible that I would know what they think of me ? If that were the case, then wouldn't it also be logical to assume that with my superior knowledge of them, I could then infer, from their superior knowledge of me, one version of what I was; and, then: by adding that version to the version inherent in my own sense of who I am: I could, in theory, interpolate the two versions into a synoptic version with, a logician, or ontologist, or proctologist, might argue, more hypothetical power to predict future behavior (which, some would say: is: the "Test-of-Truth") ?
That puts us (I hope you don't mind my mentioning you here in a way that implies we're at all similar) into the near-the-end-zone of endlessly micro-comicizing Archimedean paradoxical distances, as legions of tortoises lumber by us to score touch-downs, which may be fabulous, and mythic, as hell, but will hardly pay for our meal in cash (no credit cards here !), and get us home in time to watch the latest episode of you-know-what.
Of course, once we miss an episode, there is no more history, unless it comes around again in exactly the same way: which is an issue, by the way, we (meaning, primarily, "I") don't want to even admit is on the table now, given how much tsuris we've already hip-deep in ... and trying to wade-out of un-lopsidedly soaked ... right here.
Well ... wait a minute ... time-out ... let's take a step back ... from the edge of some kind of infinite aloneness, that we've walked out on, and, suddenly, realized the depth of the abyss on either side of us ... suddenly remembered that we are deathly afraid of these heights ... and these depths, next to them.
If I admit to an infinite aloneness in which I can never know myself without infinitely, recursively, being yo-yo'd up-and-down, between a something called "everyone-else" and a something I call "myself:" if I admit that is both terrifying and intolerable ... that on some level we (the melted form of the two somethings) need to cuddle together primate-wise, a horde cradled in some sense of "collectivity," bound to each other by need, and fear ...
... achieving that necessary binding by our innate tricks of creating angels and demons, and a deity, or deities: remote and vanished, infinite and omnipresent, helter-skelter, or eternally consistent, indifferent or judging every act, thought and intention ... deity ... thirty-two flavors, or one flavor, or beyond flavor.
A deity having created, and, then, abandoned, the universe (Cabala) in which we pretentious primates, that dare to family-name ourselves, as species, "Sapiens" (wise), are trapped in a labyrinth named "soul," or, a deity watching every behavior of we spiritual pygmies, keeping score of runs-at-bat (virtue) tallied against fouls and strike-outs (sin). Or, deity totally indifferent to us, as a side-effect of a transcendental reality so far beyond our limited range of perceptions that we can make no "sense:" only say, throwing up our hands, as we quit struggling with epistemology: "moving in mysterious ways;" or, non-existent as a primordial essence of non-existence itself (the "void," sunyam): our experience of our existence as individual being: illusion (samskara, maya: in Buddhism, and Advaita Vedanta non-dualism).
Then: is it time to put away our inside-the-skull wet-ware analog computer's games, our innate morphemes of meaning (see Noam Chomsky, Steven Pinker), and the greatest cognitive tool, language (the child soaking up their "mother-tongue's" language(s) grammar, words, idioms, accent, like a sponge in a unique developmental "window" of juvenile time): that great tool then used to both ... as the root of thought itself ... and the subsequent expression of thoughts into glyphemes (alphabet, symbol, icon, rune), and, finally, into speech incarnated as phonemes (see Pinker), all within a flux of flickering consciousnesses, all modulated by social context, set-and-setting, norms-mores-ethos ... and ... what ?
Shall we ever be free of continually comparing who we thought we were with who we think we are now, and what we might be tomorrow, and then comparing that with what we think, and guess, other people think about us, and then, through re-generative feedback, going around the ferris-wheel of comparison Forever-and-Ever ?
How can it be an "honest answer" to any, or all, of the above, to say: "I don't know;" or, "I don't know if it's knowable" ? On the other hand, how can it not be to some degree a "dishonest answer" to say: "I know;" or, "I know that it is knowable" ? Do these fudges' rhetorical equivalence (Kantian antimony ?) leave us open to a cosmic sucker-punch when the Test-of-Truth examiner points out, explaining our barely-passing grade, that both statements about "knowability" imply certainty, which assumes "knowability" ?
"Who," you may ask, is the "Test-of-Truth" examiner ? Is it you, I, we, some collectivity we are part of, small, or large ? A Super-Sized Hero wolfing down super-sized Happy Meals; a Grim Reaper harvesting our admissions of defeat with schadenfreude ?
What if I were to refuse to carry on with this journey one noun or verb further ? What if I declared, as if I knew, that the "Test-of-Truth" is a waste of time, and that Wisdom is the result of the destruction of the cognitive structures we instinctively, and continually, create, to rationalize whatever we actually feel, think, and do: our behavior driven by instinct, and instant "threat assessment," and "fight-or-flight" lower-level neural processing in the amygdala, and the limbic system, our "reptile" heritage brain-stem (see Daniel Kahneman): our cognitive, conscious experience, a secondary phenomenon: in time, following behavior, like a musician who's always playing lagging behind the beat, instead of on it ?
Do four very simple words, "habit," "fear," "desire," and, "greed," explain everything needed to be explained: nicely enough to get by on ?
Why don't I just actually take my own advice, remember my very own words, writ here:
"What if I were to refuse to carry on with this journey one noun or verb further ? What if I declared, as if I knew, that the "Test-of-Truth" is a waste of time, and that Wisdom is the result of the destruction of the cognitive structures we instinctively, and continually, create"
And, just shut-up, and stop hanging-around here, never expressing the really stupid questions on my mind like: "Do you still love me ?"
"We live in a world ruled by fictions: mass merchandising, advertising, politics as advertising, instant translation of science, technology, into popular imagery, increasing blur of identity in realms of consumer goods, preempting any free, original, imaginative, response to experience by the television screen. We live in an enormous novel. For a writer it's less necessary to invent a novel's fictional content: fiction's already there. A writer's task is to invent a reality." J. G. Ballard, 1974
|
|
|
|
|
Are you paid by the word?
Steve Wellens
|
|
|
|
|
Sorry no 5er.
Frazzle the name say's it all
Always code as if the guy who ends up maintaining your code will be a violent psychopath who knows where you live.
John F. Woods
|
|
|
|
|
Hi Frazzle-me,
Not to worry, it is your intention to give, not the amount, that is important.
yrs, Bill
"We live in a world ruled by fictions: mass merchandising, advertising, politics as advertising, instant translation of science, technology, into popular imagery, increasing blur of identity in realms of consumer goods, preempting any free, original, imaginative, response to experience by the television screen. We live in an enormous novel. For a writer it's less necessary to invent a novel's fictional content: fiction's already there. A writer's task is to invent a reality." J. G. Ballard, 1974
|
|
|
|
|
Steve Wellens wrote: Are you paid by the word? Steve, I'm not sure; some unknown person(s), or entity, has set-up a numbered Swiss bank account in my name, evidently having forged my identity, and I get notices by e-mail of deposits.
The amount, and timing, of the deposits seems to correlate with the date, and length, of my postings here on the Lounge: of course, that's only a working hypothesis.
If you wish to make a depo$it, I can send you the SWIFT code, and account number, to wire funds.
yrs, Bill
"We live in a world ruled by fictions: mass merchandising, advertising, politics as advertising, instant translation of science, technology, into popular imagery, increasing blur of identity in realms of consumer goods, preempting any free, original, imaginative, response to experience by the television screen. We live in an enormous novel. For a writer it's less necessary to invent a novel's fictional content: fiction's already there. A writer's task is to invent a reality." J. G. Ballard, 1974
|
|
|
|
|
Bill,
I am the wife of the Nigerian head of Banking who died recently in mysterious circumstances (a small town outside Lagos)
----- cut for brevity -----
Please send your bank details so I can make a deposit.
Betty Bankwife
.\\axxx
|
|
|
|
|
Sorry Bill is not going to be able to deal with that, brevity is not one of his strong points!
Never underestimate the power of human stupidity
RAH
|
|
|
|
|
Hi Mycroft,
Of course, you are: absolutely correct in regards to the shortfall of brevity in my posts, a result of: any, all, or a mixture of: character, genes, soul ? But, I have learned to accept this as a perennial side-effect of an evident surplus, in this on-going series of dream-states within this primate body which is experienced as an "I," most of the time, of: intoxication with language. Yet, I do feel remorse, and regret: if, my glossolalic tendencies' manifestations in glyphs do not entertain, but: annoy; if, my flights-of-fancies, my godwotteries, induce: not smile, but frown.
I think I'll let your younger brother, Sherlock, speak in my defence, (knowing he would, being British, use "defence," and not, as Americans do: "defense"):
Sherlock Holmes: "If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outre results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable."
Arthur Conan Doyle: "A Case of Identity," 1891
I plead "guilty," your Honor, and eagerly await my sentencing ! For, surely, the fall from your Grace, in the form of righteous punishment, is an opportunity for an ascent to an even higher summit of: your loving Forgiveness, and, for us both, ultimately: Redemption.
ever, Bill
"We live in a world ruled by fictions: mass merchandising, advertising, politics as advertising, instant translation of science, technology, into popular imagery, increasing blur of identity in realms of consumer goods, preempting any free, original, imaginative, response to experience by the television screen. We live in an enormous novel. For a writer it's less necessary to invent a novel's fictional content: fiction's already there. A writer's task is to invent a reality." J. G. Ballard, 1974
|
|
|
|
|
The younger brother, in this case is invalid, I only have a friend called Manny who has a mechanical hand. I used to have a dog eared copy of Moon is a Harsh Mistress around somewhere, it would enlighten you.
I'd ask you to enlighten me on what a godwottrie is but I'm afraid to ask as it is bound to lead to more questions!
Never underestimate the power of human stupidity
RAH
|
|
|
|
|
"godwottery:" English slang, first usage noted around 1930, at Oxford.
I used the term here in its sense of using affected, archaic, or pretentious, language [^].
yrs, Bill
"We live in a world ruled by fictions: mass merchandising, advertising, politics as advertising, instant translation of science, technology, into popular imagery, increasing blur of identity in realms of consumer goods, preempting any free, original, imaginative, response to experience by the television screen. We live in an enormous novel. For a writer it's less necessary to invent a novel's fictional content: fiction's already there. A writer's task is to invent a reality." J. G. Ballard, 1974
|
|
|
|
|
Dear Ms. Bankwife,
May I call you "Betty" ?
I am so sorry i cannot vote you a five, for your very generous offer !
Also, I regret to inform you that I have just received an e-mail from the Swiss Bank telling me I am overdrawn by 1000 Euros, and that they are contacting Interpol, because: they cannot analyze exactly how this overdraft occurred, and, evidently, suspect me of being a hacker.
So, I may, like Julian Assange, hole up in an Embassy. I think I'll seek refuge in the Kazakhstan Embassy, because I really love the great travel movie that the Kazakh journalist, Borat Sagdiyev, made, "Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan," showing just how wonderful the Kazakh people are, compared with most of my fellow Americans.
So, again, Betty, thanks, for your kindness.
yrs, Bill
"We live in a world ruled by fictions: mass merchandising, advertising, politics as advertising, instant translation of science, technology, into popular imagery, increasing blur of identity in realms of consumer goods, preempting any free, original, imaginative, response to experience by the television screen. We live in an enormous novel. For a writer it's less necessary to invent a novel's fictional content: fiction's already there. A writer's task is to invent a reality." J. G. Ballard, 1974
|
|
|
|
|
TLDR
====================================
Transvestites - Roberts in Disguise!
====================================
|
|
|
|
|