I CAN'T HELP MYSELF in picking up Charlie's theme of inclusion, even though I am alert to the fact it's not the original thrust of the thread. One of the many stupid ironies of the multiculturalist enforcement program, and I do know something about these false realties first hand, is that ancient myth that we humans are actually all the same, or should be. Well, if we are all indeed the SAME, why the great push to make sure we test that theory by coercing all this sameness together? And yet when given the choice of aggregating freely under generally open conditions, we notice the tendency that real (or superficial) likeness does indeed TEND to gravitate together, that is to say, segregate by race, by gender, by levels of achievement, beauty, class, fan base, school matriculation, et cetera, but not EXCLUSIVELY. This obvious predilection is seen everywhere; in nature, in human society, on the periodic table, in a dust bunny, and in the laws of logic itself. Some may laugh, snort, guffaw, chortle and quiver in calling this an over-simplication. I'd agree, and then I'd ask, an over-simplication of what?
The house is officially on the market. Wow! Talk about "moving and shaking!" Well, I sense the sunset of an era! I guess the process is well under way towards the next age of pages. I hope to take a drive to look at the location of a handful of places our agent earmarked for us here in DC. A girl at Sue's office is a Virginia realtor. Once she returns from vacation she'll show us a few places in N. Arlington. Yep, Sue's down and out for the weekend. She's got some medication an office mate gave her, and she's got an appointment on Thursday. She wants to go the the ER, but I told her that the local ER's don't measure up to the TV version, and I think basically rest is what she needs. She may opt for chiropractic care if she can find one in her HMO available today, but I'm doubtful on that note as well. But it's her call. By the way, that last note you sent came twice, with different time stamps. Very odd indeed.
Kubelooks like I found some info that suggests that indeed this WebStar 3.02 server should be able to dish up real audio tracks. The hex gibberish you mention, hmmm, are you using Stuffit Expander v5.1.1? I forget the exact context and language but I recall there was something nearly mandatory about upgrading to the latest version of Alladin's decoding and extraction software awhile back. System 8 and above, perhaps was the nuance, but I really don't recall. Now, like I said before, I haven't dealt with the creation of RA files, so I don't know that much, hell, I know nothing about how you created or had them created, but I do know that in my experience in downloading binaries off the newsgroups, quite a few sound and video files do not play, and aren't even recognized by the purported media players as proprietary files.
I do have a copy of Media Cleaner Pro 3.0 I have been meaning to explore, which should educate me on these terms, but obviously I haven't done so yet. As fer your Java course, how did it go? Are you finished? Did that Roaster stuff help you out any? That's pretty damned exciting, pulling on your techie-bound galoshes, and wading through the jello of object programming. Also on my list of things to do...
To advocate destruction of any and all order, to reject sensibilty at any level save that of discourse (why here?), what sort of dreamlife do you expect you should have? Your leftover choices in full rejection of humanity hardly offer up a frolic in the fields of favorable phalanges, now do they? By discouraging all the plain pleasing temptations of life, you are left with a shrieking demonology and the bitterly arcane, and barely enough juices to get by.
To sum up those thoughts on witchcraft you made, it was that very same Jew we've quoted on many an occasion who said, "As you think in your heart, so it shall be..." which sounds pretty nifty, some very top drawer witchcraft, but we know it ain't necessarily true, for if it were true, we'd all be muck a muck geniuses, rich as oil sheiks, and masters of our own domain. And I have to think it ain't all neurotic self-doubt that's keeping us billions of nimrods light years away from these wish fulfillment psychic circuitries which entice us into thinking we're the one that can do what's never been done, or if so, just a little bit better, or a little bit easier, or sexier, or quicker, or stronger, or stranger, et cetera, ad nauseam.
Comedy venues. Yes, berry berry big in America, particularly in the Eighties. I've actually never been to one because I too have the same gnawing trepidations about public laughter that you have, although I do enjoy an occasional clever stand-up on the tellie in the privacy of my bricks and mortar (funny guy that Eddie Izzard), although for years in my twenties I shunned all such folly, only to recant with the remark in my early forties that comedians have become our modern prophets, the only folk who can shoot straight and get away with crossing boundaries spouting their trade of self-evident truisms that the politically correct charges in our civic life have blurred on the one hand and denied on the other.
I nearly creamed spinach when I read your jeremiad: Jehovah Jehovah, why hast thou forsaken thy son?! Have I not remained true to thy instruction? Have I not been obedient to thy word? I have discovered the secret of Satan's power and yet shunned it as soiled and unclean; I have loyally builded NOTHING of PERMANANCE, I have shed my vital bodily fluids generously upon the parched stony ground... I have refused followers and leaders alike and wandered alone in the wilderness. I alone am pure yet shunned in the marketplaces. I have thrown myself naked upon thy mercy and thou hast told me to fuck off and die...
Otherwise the goblins of goo will sneak in for the grope, and for the most part, this sector of creation hardly cares a wit for the subtleties of spin, based on an in-your-face and mush-your-mind gestalt, as Marc Bolan of the glitter rock band T.Rex once lyrically put it,”Bob Dylan knows, and I bet Alan Freed did, there are things in night that are better not to behold.”
A veritable masterpiece of crucial understanding in depicting what the greater chunk of Western pew squatters have forgotten about that word they bandy about ever freely without pain or clue to what it means according to the very sixty-six books they so rabidly flock to worship and idolize, and that word is spirituality. Elijah's lament.
Again, concerning that mock and mocking "Deliverance" dream sequence, I am reminded of what Galloping Bill Burroughs had to say upon exiting an American Indian type sweat lodge twelve hours after entering it. Depleted of liquids and hardly cognizant of his traumatized senses, he kept muttering something about the Ugly American as the force of much evil, easily recognizable to the rest of the world by the crackling coterie of demons fluttering about the individual and collective auras of these Ugly Americans. I immediately sensed that the bardic Burroughs, unbeknownst to himself, had simply seen a vision of self. HE, WILLIAM SEWARD BURROUGHS III, was the Ugly American of his own psychotic nightmares. And so, it may quite well be that your own dreamlife is merely the product of your own conscious yearning indicated in the very paragraphs accompanying your description of these recurring dreams. To advocate destruction of any and all order, to reject sensibilty at any level save that of discourse (why here?), what sort of dreamlife do you expect you should have? Your leftover choices in full rejection of humanity hardly offer up a frolic in the fields of favorable phalanges, now do they? By discouraging all the plain pleasing temptations of life, you are left with a shrieking demonology and the bitterly arcane, and barely enough juices to get by.
Of course, unfortunately this is also a cartload of horse manure, as you so aptly put it. But as long as we are human flesh we must find some common ground with the earth and its inhabitants. Otherwise the goblins of goo will sneak in for the grope, and for the most part, this sector of creation hardly cares a wit for the subtleties of spin, based on an in-your-face and mush-your-mind gestalt, as Marc Bolan of the glitter rock band T.Rex once lyrically put it,"Bob Dylan knows, and I bet Alan Freed did, there are things in night that are better not to behold."
In contrapuntal resolve, J. Wolfgang Goethe on his deathbed: More light, more light...
Frankly, since energy forces tracked in the brain are substantive, information collected, burned and sorted in the nerve cells, thought is materialistic, its audible and other symbolic forms such as written language, also substantive material, but the stretch that telepathy involves has never been adequately reproduced outside of myth and the subsequential.
Just as I was finishing this off, I received a chain letter from my always astonishingly cheerful Auntie Maude who's just a few years older than I am, the first time she has ever done such a thing, and the first note she has sent to me in quite a few months after a year of active chitchat abruptly stopped. Coincidence or not? The spells we weave, the spells some cast. Chain letters, ouch! Of course, I almost never (maybe three times in my life) participate in these ridiculous spells, but this time I'll just have to squeeze the sponge, and put you on the list.
However, if positive thinking is such a powerful force, then why did it take 400 years for the Negro slaves to gain their freedom in this treacherous land of freedom of mine? And why do rich tycoons die and beautiful starlets grow old and ugly despite millions of fans and dollars in their favor? Sure the kid responded, but what if a nurse had sung instead, or someone had piped in a copy of Karen Carpenter's greatest hits? Funny thing is, earlier today I heard an NPR broadcast by some doctor who wrote a book which touched upon the topic of the mystical roots of today's modern healing professions. Noting that there are situations that medical science can't qualify or quantify in the healing fields, many people seek supernatural explanations, but he was reminded of a couple of quotes, and I'll have to paraphrase. One was from Samuel Johnson who said I think, "Physicians seem to confuse the consequential with the subsequential."
The other was that ninety percent of illness are gone by the next day, so in effect, anything doctors do, encourages them to think their treatment was the cure.
This author suggested however that within 20 years science should begin to sport answers to these mysterious powers of positive thinking the brain exerts upon the body in times of dire necessity or yearning, for instance, why statistically few terminally ill people die during special holidays or events they've earmarked for personal reasons, but will buy the farm shortly after these mustered occasions. And throw in those sudden cures most doctors have witnessed but none can explain.
Soft thinkers of various stripes attribute all this "miraculous" activity to love, positronic thinking, outside intervention, auxiliary hocus pocus, yawn and fawn, and some of this is very well likely, but a chain letter fer godsakes???? I mean, St. Paul's epistles were chainletters in every sense, and look at where they have led us...
You must expand your thoughts on the witchcraft you perceive as more powerful than prayer and other traditional sources of collective bargaining on the earthly-otherwordly intercessional plane. Or is witchcraft just another word for what other cultures dub with other cheeky labels? But how does this truck with your stand as a materialist? Frankly, since energy forces tracked in the brain are substantive, information collected, burned and sorted in the nerve cells, thought is materialistic, its audible and other symbolic forms such as written language, also substantive material, but the stretch that telepathy involves has never been adequately reproduced outside of myth and the subsequential.
Anywaze Kubhlai, I trust that friendly reciprocity has been achieved with this note, and look forward to your next outburst.
Sitting around on high discussing bankruptcy plans, we are paralyzed by high-priced beauty battering us in piles of magazines. Loosely kept secrets and cleavages strike the pose just like the cowboy song saysthere's no other way. Our kingdom crumbles the same way burnt toast, virtual memory, and a livid lion's den melting with envy struggles to remain in vogue, new foci vain and too hip but in a well-measured pain, the American struggles of hard work and meritocracy (resonating in quicksand of the celebrity crush) shortcircuiting the way we're taught to reign.
And as the familiar bell of gasoline slips into the morning welcoming me skewed and priceless, no longer the surveyor with chains and maps and plans and rods, or fine instruments bound to the circle, straight lines, or schools of sweat,
I dig into the vision light scatters across the wallpaper, a pastel Monet, and irises rising into profile like soldiers guarding the soul, where the only death here is imaginary and immune to the newspaper or the streets where yet another rape is spun (where details are withheld as purposes) of business because I don't own a gun and this ain't no comic caper of the shapes we're in.
Victims are a dollar a dozen. Inflation stealthly bites into our proverbs, but have you noticed how well dressed the common poor are these days? Fine cars, fine threads, fine guns, fine beds, fat to the gills, but still no ease comes to our revoltutionary heads still hung in dry nooses conjured up by witch doctors of the dead, mouthing words no longer built but retrogressed.
The spies are elder foils for demons of hatred and pith, luring a whole generation, maybe more, ever down the path thermotaxis where juice scales weighted (baby don't wanna be no social experiment) are meant for no one, not even these heavy-laden with rubbery myth of the thirteenth generation
Fall out! Fall in! The message the same, eating into the muscle life buried within our name under cheap shelter shaping the unknown, until we give the victorious word, undressing with dowried care of an innocent Brahmin calf the issues done especially for us, inspecting, undressing the fevers, draining off the pus infecting, suspecting keen the trajectory our souls must make without claim
and finding the circle of fate is God cubed, we erase mere tangency with yet another claim of superiority complexes, the tangent, and the fake inferior rugs our interior has scrubbed.
[ 1993, Washington, DC ]
"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""