Wouldn't it be great if Chris Goode wrote blog post-sized blog posts instead of apocalyptic all-consuming tours de force? Maybe, but the only way to find out for sure is to break up a recent and helpfully modularly-apocalyptic tour de lui into thirty chunks and schedule one to post each day, but leaving a gap in the schedule of about a month and then scheduling an apology for not posting more regularly and a notice of an upcoming gig and a promise of another post the next day and then scheduling a gap of about two months and then scheduling the rest. So that's what I've done.
Here is a loosely-related question. First, Leibniz, on the difficulty of reducing mental phenomena to physical ones:
"Moreover, it must be confessed that perception and that which depends upon it are inexplicable on mechanical grounds, that is to say, by means of figures and motions. And supposing there were a machine, so constructed as to think, feel, and have perception, it might be conceived as increased in size, while keeping the same proportions, so that one might go into it as into a mill. That being so, we should, on examining its interior, find only parts which work one upon another, and never anything by which to explain a perception."
It is in the original Latin. Hurray you picked up Latin!
People discriminate between spirit and matter on the grounds that spirit is intentional (has "aboutness"), qualitative (has "what-it's-likeness") transcendentally united, without extension, transparent, diaphonous, doop de doop. But if you focus on how the spiritual process of the brain differs from the physical processes of the brain then the stand-out feature is seriality. Almost everything that happens in the brain is massively parallel. So could you -- & I think this one might just be a stupid question -- look on spirit as an evolutionary solution to seriality, rather than seriality as a necessary aspect of spirit? What adaptive advantages could a serial mechanism confer on a brain?
(Dennett's Multiple Drafts model, illustrated by the Phi phenomenon, complicates that seriality somewhat. There is no "leading edge" of consciousness in this story; one continuity is confabulated from many temp continuities; the mind slips through timespace like a snake through grass, its tail turning depending on where it wants to poke).
Could a machine ever think dialectically? There are many ways to make this a stupid question, or to make it beside the point. You could say, for example, that even a machine that can play Chess and beat up Chess grandmasters is not really thinking Chess (cf. Searle, Dreyfuss). But I think it’s enough of a question that, to treat it properly, you have to handle it with kid gloves. You have to define its terms in such a way that it is a good question, even if the definitions are not good definitions but only barely passable ones.
Maybe it can be rephrased this way. Could a computer be programmed to manipulate symbols such that a clever drudge – someone not entirely shut away from latent dialectical possibilities, and yet not so utterly their agent that inert material also becomes the occasion for their activation – reading its outputs would be led by the nose to think dialectically?
You could say such a clever drudge is a propagandistic grey area who necessarily doesn’t exist. If so, is it for the sake of the dialectic that she doesn’t?
Pared sequel to Godot. From 2006: Beckett estate fails to stop women waiting for Godot. Paul Zukofsky being a sort of half-likeable twat about people quoting LZ's stuff (I'm like 99% sure U.S. Fair Use / U.K. Fair Dealing is against Zjnr: quoting for review/criticism is not something he can forbid, "except perhaps by spells.") The usual utilitarian (incentivize!, fructify!) and Lockean (it's fucking mine my fucking dad gave it to me) arguments vs. plagiarism (or v. I guess) are applicable with tweaks to justify the belligerent administration of literary estates. They are rubbish. What's more interesting is to reverse the flow, & apply our more well-disposed thoughts re the Beckett estate watchcerberuses (like, "well it is kind of a relief to see a system run again & again with rigorously minor variations, instead of just Troilus and Cressida set in a sandwich to make it relevant ...") to the ethics of plagiarism. In brief, perhaps plagiarists intensify their complicity with "entropy of thought" (RT @JonathanLear via @KestonSutherland); perhaps plagiarism, as a kind of prototypical "vulgar" practice, contributes to the "grow[in'] mean" of words (@JosephSpence via ibid.)?
Oh well some Molloy workshopped:
Could a woman have stopped me as I swept towards mother? Probably. Better still, was such an encounter possible, I mean between me and a woman? Now men, I have rubbed against a few men in my time, but women? Oh well, I may as well confess it now, yes, I once rubbed up against one. I don’t mean my mother, I did more than rub up against her. But another who might have been my mother, and even I think my grandmother, if chance had not willed otherwise. Listen to him now talking about chance. And if you don’t mind we’ll leave my mother out of all this. She bent over the couch, because of her rheumatism, and in I went from behind. It was the only position she could bear, because of her lumbago. It seemed all right to me, for I had seen dogs, and I was astonished when she confided that you could do it differently. I wonder what she meant exactly. Perhaps after all she put me in her rectum. A matter of complete indifference to me, I needn’t tell you. But is it true love, in the rectum? She favoured voluminous tempestuous shifts and petticoats and other undergarments whose names I forget. They welled up all frothing and swishing and then, congress achieved, broke over us in slow cascades. And all I could see was her taut yellow nape which every now and then I set my teeth in, forgetting that I had none, such is the power of instinct. We met in a rubbish dump, unlike any other, and yet they are all alike, rubbish dumps. I don’t know what she was doing there. I was limply poking about in the garbage saying probably, for at that age I must still have been capable of general ideas. This is life. She had no time to lose. I had nothing to lose, I would have made love with a goat, to know what love was. She had a dainty flat, no, not dainty, it made you want to lie down in a corner and never get up again. I liked it. It was full of dainty furniture, under our desperate strokes the couch moved forward on its castors, the whole place fell about our ears, it was pandemonium. Our commerce was not without tenderness, with trembling hands she cut my toe-nails and I rubbed her rump with winter cream. Poor Edith, I hastened her end perhaps. Anyway it was she who started it, in the rubbish dump, when she laid her hand upon my fly. More precisely, I as bent double over a heap of muck, in the hope of finding something to disgust me for ever with eating, when she, undertaking me from behind, thrust her stick betweens my legs and began to titillate my privates. She gave me money after each session, to me who would have consented to know love, and probe it to the bottom, without charge. But she was an idealist. I would have preferred it seems to me an orifice less arid and roomy, that ould have given me a higher opinion of love, it seems to me. However. Twixt finger and thumb ’tis heaven in comparison. But love is no doubt above such base contingencies. And not when you are comfortable, but when your frantic member casts about for a rubbing-place, and the unction of a little mucous membrane, and meeting with none does not beat in retreat, but retains its tumefaction, it is then no doubt that true love comes to pass, and wings away, high above the tight fit and the loose. And when you add a little pedicure and massage, having nothing to do with the instant of bliss strictly speaking, then I feel no further doubt is justified, in this connection. The other thing that bothers me, in this connection, is the indifference with which I learnt of her death, one black night I was crawling towards her, an indifference softened indeed by the pain of losing a source of revenue. She died taking a warm tub, as her custom was before receiving me. It limbered her up. When I think she might have expired in my arms! The tub overturned and the dirty water spilt all over the floor and down on top of the lodger, who gave the alarm. Well, well, I didn’t think I knew this story so well. She must have been a woman after all, if she hadn’t been it would have got around in the neighbourhood. It is true they were extraordinarily reserved, in my part of the world, about everything connected with sexual matters. But things have perhaps changed since my time. And perhaps the fact of having found a man when they should have found a woman was immediately repressed and forgotten, but the few unfortunate enough to know about it. She too was an eminently flat woman and she moved with short stiff steps, leaning on an ebony stick. Perhaps she too was a man, yet another of them. But in that case surely our testicles would have collided, while we writhed. It is quite possible that she held hers tight it her hand, on purpose to avoid it. And it is quite possible that everybody knew about it, and spoke about it, with the sole exception of myself. But there is one thing that torments me, when I delve into all this, and that is to know whether all my life has been devoid of love or whether I really met with it, in Ruth. What I do know for certain is that I never sought to repeat the experience, having I suppose the intuition that it had been unique and perfect, of its kind, achieved and inimitable, and that it behoved me to preserve its memory, pure of all pastiche, in my heart, even if it meantt my resorting from time to time to the alleged joys of so-called self-abuse. Don’t talk to me about the cambermaid, I should never have mentioned her, she was long before, I was sick, perhaps there was no chambermaid, ever, in my life. Molloy, or life without a chambermaid. All of which goes to demonstrate that the fact of having met Lousse and even frequeted her, in a way proved nothing as to her sex. And I am quite willing to go on thinking of her as an old woman, widowed and withered, and of Ruth as another, for she too used to speak of her defunct husband and of his inability to satisfy her legitimate cravings. And there are days, like this afternoon, when my memory confuses them and I am tempted to think of them as one and the same old hag, flattened and crazed by life. And God forgive me to tell you the horrible truth, my mother’s image sometimes mingles with theirs, which is literally unendurable, like being crucified. I don’t know why and I don’t want to. But I left Lousse at last. one warm airless night, without saying goodbye, as I might at least have done, and without her trying to hold me back, except perhaps by spells. But she must have seen me go, get up, take my crutches and go away, springing on them through the air. And she must have seen thewicket close behind me, for it closed by itself, with the help of a spring, and known me gone, for ever. For she knew the way I had of going to the wicket and peeping out, then quickly drawing back. And she did not try and hold me bak but she went and sat down on her dog’s grave, perhaps, which was mine too in a way, and which by the way she had not sown with grass, as I had thought, but with all kinds of little many-coloured flowers and herbaceous plants, selected I imagine in such a way then when some went out others lit up. I left her my bicycle which I had taken a dislike to, suspecting it to be the vehicle of some malignant agency and perhaps the cause of my recent misfortunes. But all the same I would have taken it with me if I had known where it was and that it was in running order. But I did not. And I was afraid, if I tried to find out, of wearing out the small voice saying, Get out of here, Molloy, take your crutches and get out of here, and which I had taken so long to understand, for I had been hearing it for a long time. And perhaps I understood it all wrong, but I understood it and that was the novelty. And it seemed to me I was not necessarily going for good.
idyll nr duration / pandemonium? (but “heaven”)
“utopia” instead of “idyll”?
“about in the garbage saying probably”
“knowing it was love, for she told me so”
“none does not beat in [?] retreat”
“but retains its tumefaction [?]”
les institutions d’amour traînent loin derrière
ce que le corps invente.
mon premier kien était un épagneul nommé
Spangles. il est devenu aveugle. Puis
j'ai eu un kien nommé Barry. il
est devenu aveugle. il enveloppait
le chat noir nommé Cat que j’avais et
recroquevillé faisait l’amour kienin avec
l’air au-dessus du dos de Cat, peut-être frôl-
ant ses poils avec son va et vient,
je ne sais pas trop, et puis
il éjaculait. c'est le genre
d’amour qu’on pourrait faire ensemble.
* En fait pas pour Kai Frank-Hara. Pour Slobby Robber-Baron.
“the underfunded cheese” respuesta to the First Evil
coke u sold u
nose wrapped in wedding dress & smashed with
including leaving the chopping tongue to leak,
if milk actually one day beaten on by babymomma
actually is soya one day I pick up family men in barracks
on so if milk if actually one day beaten on Barack is soya
one day Nick Clegg said piss off
and he decided to set up shop with the socialists
roflmaopenly at the back with godfearing men if we back down pews
like world bank kaf*irs putting the “j*w” back in “bejewelled camps” does
anyone know what dagga means? [e.g. RO]
does anyone know what dag means? [e.g. LR]
you two should talk cuz I put the dag back in dagga I
install easter eggs in nuclear protocols, by my flows.
sell you dag contaminateds dagga in those little baggies
sell you charlie in noses smashed a trillion stanzas ago
her ballot river
the toilets at the ball and
heart, slay the sombie rose
not playthings now but toys
sell you hoof in cobble sparks
u think you’re getting draw you’re
getting a vegbox of pants a viable idiot idiolect
eyeflawiform, y’re getting entoptic rope
yr Repeater Manson yr fold-in tear became
Trident subs staffed by Big Society volunteers that speed
is cut with syntax organised gollum, “Damitus” if
I so what if it sold u so what if it sold u & so what if u did if u did
f*cking frame the State
for what it did to Ian Tomlinsin &
milk would be beaten – as on the Ian,
& milk beaten on Amiri Baraka &
actually feint left, go on the car,
get on the car, fake okay u am calm cops
u’ll come down fake right go left • crowd
shrieks with its kids & parts & closes
like behind but too slow b/c the plainclothes
most primates can sustain 150 bonds I sustain four
my glock my god my mom and [e.g. LUKE ROBERTS] mollykettle
let’s not forget that proportional representation is hardly liberal democracy yet
even in its own terms generously interpreted [freestyle etc.]
I’ve fill britches in the living room getting them on
baton extent in spirit of defibrillation chill mint triage twitter lambing warm
upon the hill of comments
lately rather from rape skipping
“my worst arm ever was a” Clegg
I stitched it on in my Tory Laboratory
I’m a pennied Hawking
a little shaking red boy
taking teaching metal tapers
vicissitudes Tory ghosts
swarm the Ambridge
your bones are relics already
I blew to the docks in my own bubble guilty
my face at yr glory hole’s not plumbed in properly
to my body leaks your cum to grout tiles that otherwise
would have come loose straight gridded fly him norm sheets for ease of use
my cum on centrefold girls forms clothes
and changes their jobs like to NGO workers
you’re just normal wankers