Monday, May 2, 2016

A short note on breeding pairs

It becomes clear that some people are normal,  in some people are different.  It is been presumed that the people who are different,  are different in some particular way.  For example,  they might be homosexual -  where, presumably,  the ordinary people are heterosexual.  But this does not work out - the people who are different,  are different in a variety of ways,  some of which are purely genetic -   while others are epigenetic,  that is they have some influence but are not entirely in the genes. looking at the broad overview of species,  it may be apparent that the  normal/ different may well be the same. That is,  if  a species becomes too normal,  a host of genes will set about making differences. This would in fact be the normal situation -  when a species gets to normal,  it then starts searching for variations -  which will be up,  until the species again has some fraction of its members looking for new reasons to find difference in their set up.

For example,  homosexuality is not the end of the subject.  Because it is obvious that homosexuality has many flavors, including ones which dislike homosexuality,  even though the individual possesses the traite.  That is to say,  a homosexual is repelled by its own homosexuality,  and tries to conform to a heterosexual nature that it does not in fact possess.  It is also clear that this feature is known about before the differences are completely understood.  That is,  being homosexual is understood for what it means is clear to the individual.  in other words,  homosexuality is only one clear difference,  but there are many others as well.  for example,  most people find a sexual partner who is the same -  but some people do not.  that is,  people who are heterosexual usually find a partner who is the same -  that is the normal thing to do,  but some do not.

If this is the case,  a fraction of human beings want to mix -  while another group of individuals not only one their own breeding unit to be the same,  they also want other people's.  this goes all the way up to the US Senate.

This would make it so that other patterns would also tend to equalize -  for example,  city structures.   the largest city is Rank-size distribution. But this is  ordinary if there are normal people and different people,  because different people move to where there are enough different people to meet,  and then move out to engage in reading.  the same is true of normal people,  only in their case,  it is to engage in a competitive reflex. 

北京麻雀 - Void - 2

The real kind, not the Language

Upon her arrival from New York City, she was between the high of hoping to be with him, and the low of not knowing whether he wanted her. But then came a phone call, and the news was extremely bad – he had a stroke and died in the emergency room, apparently an artery attached to a vein without the interconnectedness of a capillary system. They had tried to save him, but no one knew exactly how long he had been on conscious. Since she was the only person who was remotely connected to him, the woman on the other end packed everything that she could find in to of pair of boxes. He had enough money to do this, and be hospital did not want to take on a more extensive search, his mother was dead, and his father did not want to be concerned – having left his mama sometime ago. They were in fact, divorced. She had the feeling that his father did not even talk to him.

In three months, various packages arrived, including what looked like a novel – or what looked like something like it. There were stories and papers interwoven with a story which looked great deal like theirs – but with some facts missing, they had been together much more in the real world then in the novel, which is why she thought it was in fact a novel, taken from images that he selected, and arranged – but with huge chunks of narrative which offered a different perspective. Though they could be separate, it was clear that he wanted them together – forming a core picture of his imagined world, with climate change, economic crisis, and deleterious effects from long ago. It was not clear to her why stories from the civil war were important, but they were. In a couple of cases, she had to guess where each individual narrative would have to be settled, and she was certain that she guessed incorrectly. She tossed out a few long tracks from others work that did not attached to anything in the main story, such as To the Finland Station, which was amusing, but was not anything he had granted to the page – it was purely Edmund Wilson. Then there were fragments, such as David Foster Wallace, which belonged someplace, but she did not know where. Then there were some parts that she had to look up, because she did not know the language. It happened to be ancient Greek, written by Euripides – it told the story of Medea. She also had to look up Russian, finding that it was Dostoyevsky in a series of short stories. What he wanted from these, she did not know, in so she discarded these, because there was no clue as to how they would be conjoined. But it was painful not the less – every word that he had written was precious to her, because she would not see his real face again. She looked at the last paper – deciding whether it belonged.


The master sat. But it was different from the great master, who of course was serene. Instead, Ihara Saikaku was dreaming – not that he was a butterfly, but something more earthly and yet serene. But he was emphatic that a single day and night would encompass a story which would link to lovers, or would be lovers, in a tête-à-tête across to visions of this world. It was 1683, and the world of Japan was immersed in the floating world – where training rather than birth is the key to one's success. And, as he said, “the ancient simplicity is gone, the people of today are satisfied with nothing but finery”. And at his feet were some of the younger men, who drank up the wisdom of Saikaku, including poets and painters.

Indeed one of those painters was dipping the pen, and begin to imagine the welter of images that his master had conjured up in each one of his stories. And so he began to rapidly paint one of them, the story of a maiden who want desperately to sleep with a man, and a monk who desperately wanted to sleep with a woman of the flooding world. One of the secrets – and open secret, if you will – was that the ritual was for the younger men would take on the feminine role, while the older men satisfied themselves, and the younger painter had a desire for the master. It was a desire that was unrequited, because the master did not like something about the young man, though he did not know what it was perhaps because there was something to feminine about his face.

Though it mattered not at all, because still he drew as the master was talking. And what talking it was, first as he set the scene – in a grand way, with a wooden house that was laid out in Rosewood and teak, a very expensive building arrangement, though it was not large in any way. If one knew the type of structure it was, one would understand that it was owned not by a samurai, but by a wealthy merchant. He had money, of course, but not enough stature – thus he could not build beyond a certain limit, as described in the prefect limits - which were strictly enforced; most strictly enforced.
But there were certain flaws in the rules; while it laid out the ground size, it did not actually specify the height of each individual room – thus in the long room, which would be where guests would sit partaking of music, drama, and poetry, it could be as high as one could wish. And in the story that the master told, the lavish merchant – with a beard and hair that was neatly cropped – entertained the monk with an amusing set of tales, each one was built in a maze like structure, each one would be stopped as a character would recite a different tale. Thus, it was like the Thousand and One Nights Tale, where it spiraled with different tales stopped as new ones were started. The merchant and the monk were both amused by the sweeping story – or rather, stories – that they did not notice the eldest sister creeping up to listen.

If only she had been listening, that would have been fine. But her hearing mixed in with a feeling which was inside of her, and the mixture grew inside her and attached itself to the monk – with a definite feeling of more than attachment. In short, at that moment she loved him desperately and dearly, she could see no other man but him. His smooth cheeks contained a swelling reticence that she thought of as pregnant with a tender bashfulness, she had never loved anyone before. In her heart there was a melting, that she had never known before. Her glance had peaked out through the sheer doorway, and at that moment he had looked up and caught her eyes.

But the monk was not interested in her, despite her long hair – flowing and silky though it was, or her dress – which was red and white, and tastefully showed the back of the neck and her feet – as was the custom in that time and place. No, such charms did not at all allure him at all, but rather he looked at the merchant with delight, and, he thought, it would be a secret delight. At that moment, however, the daughter saw that the monk was not interested in her, but in her father – and she resolved to speak to him, and show him that she, not be, would be his lover. Because, after all, the monk was prohibited in that time and place, from partaking of either of them, man or woman.

The monk bid his goodbye to the merchant, standing up as he did, without talking to the girl – for so he thought of her – and immediately left. This made her desperate, and her face, as depicted in the painting showed that as well. He was out the door, but the woman – as she thought of herself – ran after him. Out the door, and far away – trying to catch this man, this monk. But the monk was to break for her, and rapidly dwindled in the distance. Far away, through the fields, with not a cloud in sight. Thus was set in the first panel, which the master spoke, and the apprentice with rapid strokes showed. The apprentice then set aside this drawing and started another, he felt that it would be not one panel, but two. Because he knew that Ihara would recount something startling, though he could not guess at what. It might even be shocking, even repugnant. But it was still young in the story, and in the second frame he waited to depict what the master was one to do. So he waited with brush in hand.


In the present, the Chinese woman wondered how much reality was present in this story? Could it be that the man she had been obsessing over, was in fact attracted to men? Or was it simply a story, with a deeper and hidden relationship to the two of them? She had to know, and had to know intimately – what was the connection? Settling down to read more, and thereby to divine what meaning there was. It was an obsession of hers, which she admitted – was the telling the story about the monk, or about the painter, about the master? Or was he telling the story from his own point of view, relating the fevered tail with detachment, as one would relate the story secondhand, with an ironic detachment that comes from a joke between the reader and the writer – a joke which was terribly unfunny to the actors in the scene. She looked once more over the great room, and the bay it over looked, that it was placid and serene, with two small ships painted in the distance. She thought for a moment that this was the master and the story was something that he had observed, not created. But still made her wonder whether he was an actor, or the painter, or the master, or looking on from above – talking to her, and relating to a humorism that she did not quite understand – as if all of the dogs and the birds made flesh of the ruined heroes.

She had noticed, a long time before, the red Symbols which were at the bottom of the silkscreening, these were there to indicate which direction that the album leaves were to be taken with. Many people, especially Westerners, would not know that the pictures should be right to left, and this would cause confusion. Colophons would only work if someone knew what they stood for. If not, these inscriptions would not mean anything, especially because it was only very late in the 19th century that Westerners mixed images and words. The glyph that formed this tale were very spare, as was the custom in Tokyo at the time, for ornate structures would be both earlier and later. But not now. This was a time of images not words, because there were suggestions which could not be discussed – man making love to boys, a woman desiring a monk, the changing from a boy into a man are just three of them. And in the present, she still did not know what her American boy wanted to say: it was a picture of the picture, set to words with that reason. She actually preferred the graceful branches that were set among poetry, herself.

Then she looked at the two crows flying up over head, and wondered what they were chattering to each other, whether it was bird talk, or it was translated so as to the understandable – as the speech of humans given other form. One of them called to the other, and she could almost understand what it was saying, but not quite. But crows were intelligent creatures, and it might be that each individual reader would have two decide whether the language was of crows, or of people. She decided, that they were talking as people did, over the building that the merchant had laid out. Then in the distance, out over a bay, she saw two sails, of a great ship. She wondered what this meant, because obviously the painter had wanted to say something, even if tangentially. But no meaning came to her.

While looking at the merchants daughter, again inflamed in a kimono of red and silver, with an intensely focused expression, she pondered why it was the daughter was inflamed. It was a longing for the monk, that echoed in her own way, for this man who came over the sea. And she did not know why either the merchant's daughter – or herself – would throw her heart in to this quiet, almost theoretical, intense application of desire. On this second frame their was no trace of the monk at all. This to had a precedence, because when she was alone, she often wondered whether the man actually loved her in return. In her mind's eye, some time he did, and sometime he did not. This mingled with the constant prattle of the birds, and the relentless mind of the merchant's daughter – until finally it became a fugue. Everything calling at once to each other – in Chinese ( in modern, in classical, and ancient), and English, and Greek, and in words that did not have languages yet, made of sounds that were strange to her. Perhaps she would need a Millman Perry to guide her way through the thicket, at least this is what her man said to do. She realized that it was in the manuscripts which she felt with him the most, not in other ways – not even in making love or other tristes. It was in his mind that she felt most akin to him. Perhaps that was his gift to her, a mind that she could love.

Over again she glanced at the second frame, looking at the daughters feet, and upwards to her torso, and then to her human face. Their was no trace of monstrous psyche yet, though she knew that was going to be coming, after all this was a tale by Ihara Saikaku, and usually that meant that something was going to happen, and she felt something out of magical folklore had been implied. Perhaps it was the crows which signaled it. Then she realized that it was both the master, and the painter, and the subject, mixed with the watchful eye of the American which sparked a light, and this light was a ghostly premonition of what was to come, even though it had not happened yet. Even though the pine tree had graced itself over the doorstep, with an intent that was foreboding, decidedly so in fact. Obviously, it had been intentional that it was clipped so as to be broad, rather than tall, one could in fact see this if one looked at the branches, which were an indicator that the pine tree, left to its own devices, would skyrocket up - rather than spread out. Clearly, the pine tree was the first thing planted when a house was selected.


Midway upon the journey of the life, she found herself within a forest dark, for the straight forward pathway had been lost. The trees, those that were forward, had been carefully crinkled, into forms that had been formed into gohgshi – philosopher's stones – with bonsai tree rapt around them – the horizontal nature of humanity, as opposed to the vertical nature. Through the two panels she ran, and almost as an afterthought, a bit of new fabric came in to being – it was not solid, but a Kitty corner which just drooped out from behind, a silvery bit of reflection. But it had not been there. This was the beginning of a change, from a natural to an unnatural state of being. Her face was still serene, but there was a clue that something was stirring in the blood.

Just behind her, were three wanderers who were talking among themselves – pointing the way to the town, and all that was in it. There were no trees, and the sea was not to be shown – it was almost as if she ignored them, and put herself on the trail of the monk. The monk, monk, monk, it was an obsession for her. As if all of the beginnings of every work of literature were set here, and repeated. The analect of the past, in great storms of fury, or calling to the gods for divine inspiration. East and West, the Chinese woman asked them to reveal themselves, whether Chinese, Greek, Latin, or English. It was all the same to her, because she wanted to catch the American boy, but he was not with her – but dead, even though she saw his face – and understood what he wanted, though too late to give back to him.

Even as the daughter through herself in to obsession, she to was weeping for the loss – now that she understood that it was the mind which intrigued her, even conjured her. Wet were her tears, now that he was beyond the grave. Beyond the grave and beyond consciousness. But it was no use looking backwards, but forwards somehow. She needed to pen the words which he left behind, even though it needed some description, here and there, to make clear what he was talking about, in many strange details, and in many strange tongues.

From the beginning of written language, to talking about economics, and infinity, there was a thread to them which she only grasped intermittently. But she was sure that such enduring fulfillment was enough to grant to the reader a touch of the demonic force which motivated both the daughter and herself. To race towards the divine, even though it was reticent to take a touch. Because, she understood now, it was the touch which was important – the touch which was natural, and understood, deep in the skin. The hero with 1000 faces, needed to be caressed by the other self, assumed in natural faith by the other sex.

Oh! For a muse of fire, to change the direction of the course of history. What hot things could be said, which would only be understood by a language which had caught out the primonomal words that described time and place, and rooted down to the nominal verb instead. What gripping things would be upgraded, as English or Chinese. Mature Michelet is a strange phenomenon. He is in many ways more comparable to a novelist rather ordinary history, if history were to tell an ethereal tale such as this. And still the blooming pen scribbled past two keep up with the master. Master who sat, who considered, and then plot on to his next plot point, giving only enough time for his anger to etch finally with analogy.

Then a new sheet was drawn forward, and it had a tree, deciduous in its nature, with knots at each program, that made it known that this was a tree which described a turning point in the story, because the daughter had horns and a decidedly changed face. No longer was she serene, but ghastly and unearthly in her form, and the nondescript silk had been transformed to a dragons tail. She was getting longer, and deadlier. She no longer wanted to love, but to destroy the Anjin, instead. She reached down and growled, because she wanted to consume the monk, to the bitter end. The Chinese woman did not want to admit it, but she too wanted, in part, to consume, because the American man had deserted her, leaving a wastrel form to wonder what her new purpose was. For in truth, writing his words down was a precocious wandering.

The holes in the wood had secrets inside them, as if the daughter's new form was transfigured by them – darkness swallowing up any goodness which might have been attached.

And in the next sheet of paper, she was transformed completely into a dragon, face form and feature, with the whole of her body transfixed in two the weaving form that had appeared so many frames ago. She looked at it, and tried to reject it, but it is form had a magical hold upon her – the daughter had become a dragon – and standing there be Chinese woman was conflicted in her feelings for the dead man.

In the penultimate silk, there was a ruckus – for a monk came to report that the Dragon was coming, and the Anjin knew well that it was coming for him. Pens were scattered, parchment was upended, everything was out of joint.


I can feel the heat closing in Hilton out there making their moves sitting up there dental doll stool pigeons - I have named my own way of the martial arts the two heavens one style. Though, Kafka-esque, it was a gathering storm, wrote Churchill, of the Satanic verses - to be born again sang, Gibreel Farishta. A study in the writing and acting on history, chimed in to the Finland Station. As if population genetics and molecular evolution were intimately involved in the neutral gene. Even if the planet was Hârn, rather than the earth, middle or otherwise, with a faun wondering down the path, trying to remember the key attributes of Hitler studies, for this afternoon's lecture. But sadly he was imagining thumbing his way through the watchmen imagining how Rorschach would tell the story of I, Claudius this and the other, surrounded by heads and bodies, consciously congruent to the shape of my hard chair. Medea, you are whispering that there is no Greek, and that should be a sin of all sins, to Avalon mists and Empire again. There was lost a little boy named Aaron Swartz, for stealing works that could not be stolen, as reminded to us by Jacques Derrida, in Speech and Phenomena, and Immanuel Wallerstein, in The Modern World System – which pointed out the serious implications to see banditry as a form of traditional futile a position to state authority.

Creeping over, now his hand is on your shoulder, never mind, I will remember you this way. With a bell and a dragon, with a tail that extends longer than her body. She roars, and spits fire – though there is no background anywhere on the page. Nowhere was the kinsman see sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the victories in the Alameda gardens yes all the peer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the Rosecrans and the just and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar has a boy. I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all programmed yes and his heart was going mad and yes I said yes I will yes.

This was all said in On Language.