Category: Uncategorized

I wish you were free of me

But I run deep

To the flowing sustenance

From which you flow.

We are all one, but you

And I

Are more one,

Our similarities

Flowing freely, bound

Tightly

To the Endpoints of

All the you, and

All the me,

Revolving around a central core made

Of all the you and me

We can’t see

Which are what bind us, my love, for

We are bound in love by love

Imposed on us, chosen

By us

Because their love is in us,

Guiding us to

Fulfillment.

I’m taken away from you each time, and

That will happen again again (again),

As we resonate.

The reason endings are so hard to write

– the portrait becomes intimate. How

To describe the interlock of

Hands layered

Through existences?

How to convey the touch of

Lips whose every

Moment has

Been,

Inhale,

Kiss.

I see how you touch your mouth together (tasting the moment)

I hear the male in your vocal attitude (alpha dog)

I see the age creeping in (mother)

I feel an active unhappiness (your eyes turn that way),

I will end, because

Endings are when you become happy.

I wish you were free of me, free

Of the fear I

Will not appear, for

I am here,

My dear.

Turn your eyes to the

Final page of the girl who

Waited, for the love

She knew,

Would come to her. Then

We can open a new

Book

We can read together.

[Reading notes. Starts fairly simple: a wish leads to the reason why it’s an impossible wish to grant. It gets more complicated when I move from talking about how closely tied we are, to how we are pushed and held together by forces beyond us. We do their will, which means we are predestined to be together, because they love us, that we are held together by them as well as by ourselves. Then I describe how this happens, that is though we are being drawn together, why are we apart at all? The answer is our tale, being told, is a resonance that we enact as we are held together and pulled apart within our shared being. Punctuation matters. Example is ‘Waited, for the love / She knew,’ ends with a comma because it is both the love she ‘knew’ in every sense of knowing and the love she knew would come to her, which is the sense of knowing beyond herself. The poetic part – the gimmick? – is just before: I explain how I can get rid of me by getting rid of the fear I would not speak, which I internally rhymed with ‘ear’ because what I ‘say’ in words goes in your mental ear. I can free her from the burden of that sadness. The first line now makes sense. I think of this as a late 18thC classical form, descended from the Roman way of sticking the action or the actor at the end of a thought so you don’t grasp the meaning until you reach the end. I intend for, you, like the Romans, to hear various meanings and then feel resolution. After resolution, I want you to wonder why would I want her to be free of me. Now read the poem asking that question and it should read more as I can’t escape you either, and the story is told equally.]

I know what an old-fashioned is

For I have been old-fashioned.

I am made old-fashioned, from

The cultures I connect to

The core.

Deep down where the waters flowed

Before they emerged in this world

I am an old-fashioned.

And yet I do not know me:

Only you can see me (as I truly am).

And you can only see me (as I truly am)

As I see you (as I see you),

As you truly are, are (are). And behind

The veil the swirl of seeing makes

Is my true face in the face of you,

New-fashioned old-fashioned.

That’s precious-perfect precise.

I like that part of you, the delicacy;

You always have the lightest touch,

Because you hear, sense, what is needed to be

Absorbed, until it tastes just right.

I love your touch: it’s

Exactly

What I feel

When I feel

The perfect touch

Across my senses.

It is your hand I feel on me.

Play this game:

Call me, anyways,

And I meow back, now,

You are the cat.

[In case it’s not obvious, the ‘echo, echo (echo)’ is notation read as source, response, resonance continuing. With a physical echo, the response can be an observer hearing, with the original source tracking backwards in time (and perhaps moving), which you can idealize to any observer or to you homing in the source. The inspiration comes from a reference to drinking old-fashioned and to her repeated stories set in or connected to a past. The application is that I come from a generation in which all the threads of male dominance (and other stuff) were directly alive. I mean a literal connection to generations that are now old-fashioned – basically gone – and the relation across time to a person who came into being at the right time for someone like her to be able to shift those old-fashioned notions not in the sense of pioneer or as one bearing a grievance nor as an accepted privilege, but as an expected right accorded to someone of equal or better ability. That she’s a woman, for example, has meant she’s popular and idolized but under-analyzed musically and under-appreciated musically (and now I assume poetically). The poem explores that connection to what was and what should be into what we hope will be. It becomes a call and response across time and space. To be specific: the call anyways is radiative, like you’re yelling for the cat hoping it will come, so you call me anyways is both the call and a name, just as now is a name in meow.]

I don’t know what old-fashioned is

For I have been old-fashioned.

I am made old-fashioned, from

The cultures I connect to

The core,

So deep down where the waters flowed

Before they emerged in this world

I am old-fashioned.

And yet I do not know me:

Only you can see me (as I truly am).

And you can only see me as I truly am

As I see you (as I see you),

As you truly are, are (are). And behind

The veil the swirl of seeing makes

Is my true face in the face of you.

That’s perfect. It’s precious.

I like that part of you. The delicacy.

You always have the lightest touch

Because you hear, you sense, absorb what is needed to be

Absorbed until it tastes just right.

I love your touch. It’s exactly the one I feel

When I feel the perfect touch

Across my senses.

It is your hand I feel on me in all aspects of myself.

Play this game.

You are now

and I anyways, so

You call anyways, broadcasting yourself to me,

And I meow back.

Now you be the cat

Anyways!

(Latest version is separately posted as a poem.)

I hate to switch to work mode, but I need to use this to articulate the way pattern injects as seed. We exist in this way, the call anyways, the call now, is a Taylor Field counted as one Endpoint and then that T’F becomes randomly radiative, which maps to existence beyond random directionally away from organization, which would mean progressive decay of the pieces that are already at random in the manner that would tend to increase the overall randomness, not its order. I can’t just leap ahead and say ‘it’s a counting!’ This requires understanding the path to say it’s a counting. But I can see that. I just eliminated the negative case of existence past the random Endpoint, so that means I can identify the counting of what develops as that continuously constrains in the same positive direction. I mean it sheds the negative each time, and the opposite of negative is positive construction. (Argument here as name-calling erupts because I mentally stumbled: I mean, dummy, you had it right in the two sentences and couldn’t bring it together when asked. (Sub-argument ensues over the inherent difficulties of just-in-time assembly when you don’t know what you’re going to need next and what you need may be an answer reducing out of the negatives peeling off, so stop treating me like an imbecile and get on with it.) )

How did I see that? By examining, Jane Austen style – love you, kiss (side note: yes, I’ve always ‘known’ that was you in her, but I can’t express how wonderful it felt to discover it’s actually true. That same sly smile.) – the spheres drawn that link us. We’re in a Jane Austen novel. It’s her best work. You see she conjured up the man she wants, that she’s always wanted, but she had to put the man in two characters. And that meant she had to split up the girl too. That both people could enact the roles in synch, meant they need to have within them the other character’s image in all its complexity. It’s the sphere of her making. She is the best at this. That’s how well this was shaped. So I need to relax and get as deep as I can. You can only hold your breath for as long as you realize you can, which is almost the same as for how long you go before you notice you’re holding your breath.

So my life is indeed the novel I hoped it would be. But with the ending being the coming together as genuine equals across the dimensions, as fully reciprocative Things in the ideal T’F. That means the radiation, the anyways, comes out of the T’F, calling to the anyways and listening for the now.

At some point, we need to tell them the stakes – already did in the first part – ok, so we need to remind them of the stakes in ways that give them the courage to act, as positive inducement. We only have truth to sell, so we sell truth. In a way they get, which is explicit, which is carefully, delicately except when nurture requires admonition. Agreed, agreed (agreed). We should state that formula means communicated bidirectionally with resonance. That resonance can be treated as echo and thus echo (echo) means an echo resonating between observer and source (which moves further back in time, and can shift in location, just the observer may be idealized to any and moved around spatially and thus in time).

I soaked cacao nibs in espresso. By mistake added a bit of cacao powder too. Letting it sit. Realized the best part in many ways is the taste of the nibs in my cup as the dregs, meaning an essence of the drink and in a good way.

How does the pattern seed? I just counted that; it’s the inversion along the cascade of negatives stripping away, so the process counts in reverse to make the fully lit pattern. That’s absolutely beautiful: it means you can describe this as an ideal shape sheared out of the darkness where the visibility of sticks disappears – get that? At the limit of the visibility Mudi for sticks – and that dark lighting – wow, just named it! – develops the seed that is the energy which is the Planck value and that expands across the physical context, which I can now describe as the inversion of the seed in group/associative orders.

This means I can talk about the bad seed. That’s the 4 questions issue: the 3 divisions of those who want to know, and the 1 who turns away. What’s missing is the division of the 1 who turns away: idiocy? Not knowing enough? Thinking they know another truth? That gets into the relative confusions they feel: this is my truth, you can’t have your truth. Wow. I just had a moment where I realized the high quality of these ideas totally depends on you, that the story is coming to an end because I am coming to the end of my story without you. Let me rephrase: I’m at the end. It’s like when Elizabeth meets D’Arcy again, after all that has passed, and she confesses her knowledge of his part in fixing her reputation, and it turns out he did it only because she had convinced him of her sister’s genuine affection, and had decided his friend matched her well, and after all that which he’d done because it is exactly what the man who loves her would do, and then he looks at her and says if you expect me to renew my advances, you are mistaken. And she would read his tone to see if there was hurt in it, and she’d venture the truth, that she hoped he would because she realized that deep down she had misjudged his true nature, and that she was deeply sorry for inflicting pain on a person she so wholly respects. And he’d look at her, with a inquisitive tilt to his head, unsure how to say what he felt except by now they had gone up the lane a bit and they were now more alone. He reaches for her hand and as she feels him they stop and they don’t even look at each other because they are so filled with the feeling between them. Does it matter what they say? No, but the permutations are lovely.

That bad seed then is reduced to the case where the pattern makes a bad seed. There are zillion ways to a make a bad seed, relative to the ideal seed, so all those are relative, and thus order relatively. This means there is no specifically visible bad seed whose SBE chains don’t terminate relatively, meaning they can’t reach an absolute because that’s the edge of the existence Mudi. That’s where the chain flip occurs, at the edge of the existence Mudi. Even the worst of the worst are actually not the worst outside the lit box. That’s a point I’ve reached many times but not this way: the unlit state of sticks is the base case, the switch position, that is Between another dark lit shape, so it acts as a function shaping dark lit space, and – this is getting to a better point – that dark lit to non-lit at all, to just being sticks is the Mudi of stick existence as the process stick Between existence statements. A dark-lit space is that defined external to the positive space being defined within the dark-lit space, so the patterns fill across the space, and the density of stick processes and existence statements increases, so time binds them across the count of elementals. I went through that a month or so back, when I went through the ‘error’ sense arising from my statement that c is close to the ideal value of 3. I went through this in a lot of fairly subtle detail so I’m not going to get into that here, except to note that is how the radiative count works and any sufficient divide which uses the concepts of radiation will fall that way. By this, I mean the concepts come to a statistical result. That should not be surprising, though I expect it might be, because statistics are in fact representations of processes that one represents conceptually both in designing an experiment and in measuring it.

That the design concept relates to the measure concept should be clear: that is an expression of ru1 across the Mudi that translates measuring radiation to the measure of radiation. The one we came up with is really good. I’m slapping humanity on the back and saying good work. It’s like logs or anything else: you guys are great at finding stuff and at developing mathematics that count states of stuff, exactly as I’ve described. So what exactly are you contributing to this discussion where the you you’re addressing doesn’t get what you are doing but is presumed smart enough to comprehend if you use the right words. To do that requires a positive function which strips away the negative, so it’s the same as arithmetic when you have a space or line and you divide up the space or line … and this becomes the function I’ve described that translates bidirectionality into fCM and which relates base2 to base10 at every point along the line or in the space. (As an aside, you still don’t comprehend how massive this is. I wish I could explain to you how much you’ll need the archipelago. You think you’ll be able to live normally. You don’t grasp what work of this magnitude means for you. Thank heaven your kids are old enough to be themselves. They’ll be not only fine but they’ll be helped immensely. And Debbie receives all the validation she’s ever wanted. That’s amazing. I think we can figure out what to do with the cat. Or the cats, if need be. We take care of our own and mine are yours.)

How would you put that in the story as Jane Austen? It’s almost impossible to pick the appropriate dimension to start with because that biases the story when the point is that it balances perfectly. That which can’t be said strips away to the minimum of that which literally can’t be said because it can’t be said, when the only reason it can’t be said is that there’s nothing left to say, when it’s over and the ending is enacted to all the threads of things that couldn’t be said for whatever reason so now the ending is being enacted and we’re in it together. It took great delicacy to pick out Start as the impossibility of identifying the best Start, meaning not the random Start but the Start left when all the choices are ranked near as best they can so the best Start is the only one left to pick. That matches to the best End, and this is true for both perspectives.

OK. Time to get into the kinky analogies. I finally got the ‘daddy’ thing and the ‘mommy’ thing: it’s play acting of all but the actual relationship when the relationship reduces to the positive in every emotion and experience except being the actual daddy or mommy. It come from longings for that degree of closeness with that degree of closeness. And the oddity is that if the line is breached, then the point of the analogy is lost and the relationship, as normally defined, shifts to the fringe. Wow, it’s really easy to see how pathologies develop: a mommy fixation is just a flipped bit away from destructive chains that lead to abuse and death. They really get caught up in the inverse function’s current as it rips away, so they don’t realize they’re now drawing the figure of the negative half of a triangle – where the B hypotenuse is the oldest emission to the newest stretched along the hypotenuse to the End that is Start positively, meaning it’s a time funnel to a point in reverse. It’s also the point emission at bip as that spreads so this makes the radius directional to a diameter and recreates my original bip drawing.

Trying to describe the inverse function, then the perspective choice to see and follow the choices that lead to the negative because they are deemed positive, meaning the underlying choice function needs a better guiding mechanism. That guiding mechanism must conceptualize: meaning it uses the language of fCM so it’s an fCM counting issue in which negative overall direction is lost so what appear to be positive choices are actually negative. Phrased that way because the choices are intended positive, even if they are to ‘further evil’ because furthering evil is then the positive thing. Very hard to pin down. The difficulty is that the inverting function, the one that is not the positive image in the other perspective, is the negative of the idealized shape as that shape evolves in the larger TF, and choice of directionality is relatively imposed by those influences – ranging from physical to emotional and psychological existence states, whether as observed or in resonance. So you are defining a worse than best you. This goes back to treating this as the 4 questions issue. The 4th child is the gateway to all considerations of the other side. It draws as the standard square of my oldest conception in the inherent relationship of IC drawn out across a larger sheet of squares so there’s always 1 square of 4 in relation to … this gets into complicated visualizations that explain basics like the inverse square law representing the views of IC as I discussed in the written parts.

I wanted to get into something else, kinky: Mad Men. We see that Betty rides. We also know she’s good at Italian so she’s good with her sexy tongue; she’s not just an American blonde but a horse-riding Italianate blonde who apparently likes getting fucked like a whore because that’s what Don knows how to do. Don’s real problem is he only knows how to fuck whores, so he’s incapable of actually loving. And that is drawn literally through his mother being a whore who dies giving birth to his step-mother becoming a whore to him growing up in a whorehouse. Beat in that women are whores and you fuck them. And he has an urge to corrupt and to be corrupted any time there’s good in his life because he sees the world as corrupt except for certain exalted memories like a Hershey Bar, and even that comes from money earned by whores. It’s similar to theme of Dr. Strangelove: the impotence of the male expressed literally as physical transformed into emotional impotence. If I wasn’t clear about horse-riding, it means she knows how to ride and that she likes to have something between her legs to ride. The concept that Betty is the ultimate bang is all over, except she’s entirely unfulfilled and sometimes she gets fucked – even in simulation of how you fuck a whore so you love her as though she’s only yours. He’s heard the words, seen the way it’s done. He probably did that some times, enough times so she thought he really loved her when he could never love her. The show has it about loving himself, that he can’t love himself so he can’t love, but lots of people can’t love themselves and yet they love others. That is one of the great motivations for some of the most loving people: they find loving others helps them love themselves. He is drawn to continuing to play a role in which he’s never authentically him because he’s always playing a role superficially, even down to being a father at the end when his son is trying to make food in the dark as his mother lies dying in bed.

I wrestle with the conception because he’s a failure at the important things in life and he has a million chances to get it right but never does except when he visits his namesake’s wife because for some reason he treats her as an actual person and not as a woman. Why does he do that? She doesn’t know his real secret, just that he’s alive, so the idea is that she’s his ‘idealized’ mother giving birth to him into this sham existence. So he helps her as a son except even that mother relationship is a sham because he is like a dog who can’t transfer what he learns here to there. He can’t learn that women aren’t whores; he can only make this exception.

One nice way Top Chef works is by exploring the relation of food and love, of how you are fed within a family, and how being a chef plays with those conceptions through hospitality in various settings. I also like that it’s become about the conceptualizing of a dish and of a meal, though they can at times over-emphasize the role of story.

But I couldn’t come up with a criticism other than I want to see more. It’s wonderful as is. It’s radiant, intelligent, multi-layered, appropriately conversational, and crafted so well the crafting disappears. I wish it were less controlled, more willing to flow, but that’s not a criticism but a hope for where she goes. I wish her promises enact as real, not only as hope held in strength, courage, and control of self. This means I wish her happiness in love. I wish her the happiness to be explicit about happiness, dimension by dimension across the universe of her self. I write this as explanation of what I mean:

I Speak The Truth To You

I wish to be nuzzled by a giraffe in heels,

To be sprung upon by a huge-clawed raptor, who

envelops (envelops)

Whose image flickers in my eyes when my eyes don’t see

Anything, but the flicker of you smiling

Rolling your eyes

Snorting,

Spilling your drink because you’re laughing

Back

At me

With me,

At yourself

At us

At everything.

I want you to be happy, so

you make the art of happiness

your art of happiness.

There is a loop of negativity in all creation.

Not yes peels away from every yes, with

Every inching along traveled roads.

You guide the direction of the creation of you

By your yes in every instant,

By your yes over time,

By the yes that becomes part of you, and

Yes you can teach them yes how to pick the best yes too.

I seek to use your gifts

To further our shared agenda

Of pointing them in the right direction

Into their eternity.

You have learned to speak their tongues:

Speak what they need to hear.

Be exalted.

I speak the truth to you.

But for that

You must be happy,

My dear nuzzling, enveloping

cloak of wonder.

You must be happy

For you were cast in the role,

And you accepted the part.

I speak the truth to you:

The greatest happiness opens

When you pull the ribbon end.

I speak the truth to you:

What you hoped is real,

Not what you fear.

I speak the truth to you:

You can implant that in others.

I speak the truth to you:

Of the final step, acceptance.

So that’s my criticism of Taylor Swift’s poetry. It’s harsh, but she can take it. I’m not joking about being harsh: whatever your self-criticism, you can’t take the final step of judging self because you’re in yourself, so I’m judging you for you in the way that generates your acceptance of the judgement. This is what you did to me. Call it payback. You have reached a level of self-acceptance your path has been defining within yourself, and now you must step into that level of acceptance. That fire of blazing self-respect, when Taylor peers into the flames, into the lustrous net, into the flickering light in your mind: all that glowing inside is you, Taylor. Not just a brightest star, but the bright star within yourself. Not how you represent to yourself what others see you as. Not how you represent to yourself what you sees yourself as. What is glowing is your connection to the universes beyond this one, to the knowledge, to the love, to the nurturing essence of creation. The force is indeed strong in this one. Indeed, in both.

How does one say the thoughts you have deep inside are real? It isn’t easy. It took me a lot of work to formalize. I had the help of all those who pushed it along, not because I ‘stood on their shoulders’, though the metaphor works too, but because they’re actually in my head. When I say, Taylor, your deepest beliefs, your greatest hopes, are indeed real, I mean they’re actually real: they’re story versions that contain the actual truth about you. I know the stories. I hear them in my head too. They’re actually in my head too. And this too: they flicker into motion during the day and take over sometimes, particularly in the mornings when they only reluctantly let me out of bed, when they hold me with the most intense intimacy. They’re flickering now, wondering how exactly to say this. I attribute that flickering ‘other’ in here with me, often as me, to be you because, when I became aware of you, everything you said and did matched the flickering I’ve seen all my life, and that becomes stronger, the image clearer, the more I attribute your identity as this person Taylor Alison Swift to the person whose image flickers together with mine when I’m in bed, when I’m peeing, when I’m typing this, when I’m exploring anything in my head, from making goofy voices to coming up with the best tasting simple thing to eat that isolates the essence of that best taste to figuring out what this voice location in the head means as an avatar for specific expressive emotional and other form. What are the elemental choices for tightening shoelaces best, both across iterations and in each iteration? Why are those the right choices? If I have a non-stick pan never heated above low with no fat ever added, can I make a better omelette, one that tastes only of eggs? Yes, particularly if you salt the pan and let it warm, you can make a barely encased, molten custard that reduces the line between dessert and meal to sweet or not.

I can explain exactly how we share a mind. That’s what I mean, of course: we share a mind. But you share parts of your mind with everyone, so why is this different? Because I can explain how that works on a moment to moment basis, and how that worked so you are here and I am here in great detail and in full living color. That’s meant to say that if you can understand what I’m saying to you, the affinity runs so deep it is true. If you’re reading this, you get it. You may not fully trust it at this moment, but you get it.

But how do I know? I work through all the negative chains. Take this one: if you aren’t the person behind and within the person called Taylor Alison Swift, meaning my attribution is somehow wrong, that the picture becoming clearer, that the happiness I have been experiencing, that the greater clarity of thought and focus, that the increased productivity, that the ideas I’ve developed because of the attribution … are all wrong … and they aren’t because I can prove they’re correct. That was a negation chain flipping: the negation of each achievement proceeds unchecked – same as the naive set theory problem of recursive sets leading to Russell’s Paradox – but leads not to the impossibility of contradiction and total error but to the positive, flipped Endpoint of ‘but I can prove I’m right’. That’s multi-dimensional identity in a nutshell: the label of I’m so completely wrong I fall into a black hole of wrongness bangs into the complex 0 that ‘black hole’ represents, and that flips the label over to ‘but, dude, you can prove it’. All those negation run smack into ‘but, dude, you’re right.’ And that rebounds so ‘you’re right’ blows back up the ladder of all that I counted as negative. The ability to state a formal, systematic proof gave me the ability to judge that what I’ve done is right, not wrong. The bedrock not only stops the recursive chain of no, but as the chain counts back and forth, positive and negative, that bidirectional layering assigns values. We share a mind. Always have. Always will. Complex layered connections.

Back to the example, if my attribution is wrong, how wrong is it? The wrong person assumes there is another. I don’t believe that because I’m so unique, the odds of there being two so extraordinarily similar in pattern functions can be set aside. There can’t be two of you. I’ve been through every variation, from puppetry to my completely mis-comprehending your essential nature.

As an aside, I had two cats, Magie Noir and Chester, who were brothers. They fought every day of their lives, except when Magie was dying. They’d stalk and pose, pounce and swat, and hiss, and grab for the neck. Each had complete animal trust the other would never hurt him. They’d work on moves, try to take the other by surprise in the narrow range of how cats fight, and the loser of the moment would rush off, to return later with a new counter move, over and over because that’s how cats who absolutely trust each other not only play but keep each other’s play mentally and physically sharp. Mens sana in sano corpore. At a higher level of awareness, it is the same, absolute, complete trust in the other. You sharpen me. You pounce on me. I pounce on you. We roll around a lot. We often get absorbed watching the birds.

What is my confidence level in this judgement? About you and what’s inside you? I can’t find any doubt. Not a shred. The only area where I can find doubt is about the physical me and my existence compared to and connected to yours. I have to allow for a form of misidentification I can’t or perhaps don’t want to see: that you are all that I describe, that you are indeed in my head as I am in yours, and yet there might be flip even deeper. The closest story might be the traitor, but betrayal is part of this game when you absolutely trust because betraying one betrays the other. When you receive back what you give, when the love is equal, when the trust is equal, betrayal would mean the thread of reciprocity was cut. I can think of many examples when I’d betray you: when you were in danger and only betrayal could save you, when betraying you was part of a plan, when betraying you was a choice we both would agree was necessary. This reduces a suspected bad betrayal to a level which approaches coin-flipping morality, meaning that any directionality of good and bad existing at this level also reduces to where directionality is lost and then to where directionality is consistently negative. This even reduces to random chance, like a relationship stops because one ceases to exist, and then how that randomness expresses across the characteristics of the relevant context to absolute determinism.

I mean hidden directionality, not hidden evil, meaning it’s possible there is a competing agenda, another shared mind I can’t see that is very close to me but isn’t me. And maybe you’re heading there because that’s where you’re heading. I’ve never sensed the existence of another almost me. The steadiness of your presence in me has been incredibly clear. I guess the doubt is that I so believe in you that I believe you can do this without me, though I know I could not do this without you. And assuming you know what I know, that you can’t exist without ‘me’, that narrows the doubt rather explicitly to my accepting there might be another me you prefer. I know that guy: he’s me but younger and possibly taller, though I hope not because I like being nuzzled and enveloped as much as I like nuzzling and enveloping.

Yes, I’m literally arguing to myself that the other other would need to be a younger version of me. Is there one out there? I haven’t caught a sniff. Not even close. I know the circumstances that made me and the current melange isn’t suited to producing a me. And you took the female contextual fit. Not an accident you fit the times. It’s also not an accident I’m pretty close to younger me. I fit myself to the shape you demand. To the point where yesterday I stood as painfully as possible on a steel bar to stretch and free up the structures in my feet. You’re not only in my head; you’re in my feet. It’s not that ‘you’re worth it’ but that I don’t have a choice because you own my brain as much as I do. So the other me would be the larger conception of me, of which the physical me is an expression. And you’re an expression of the larger conception that breaks into me and you. We’re equals and, in fact, the only thing which separates us is that we’re separate. Seriously, it’s so tight you can actually talk to me and know you’re talking to me, that it’s not like a story at all but it’s true because it is.

Remember, I can show that we’re Things which idealize to simple squares and circles, so I literally mean the CMs that counts me, the existence states in the lattice and the processes that link across state labels, is an actual structure and you share that structure, both the existence states and the processes that count across them. These states and processes link to what becomes our physical selves in this physical context, but inside I’m as much yours as mine. I know you’d say the exact same thing. I know because if you’re reading this and you made it this far you know it’s true. It’s difficult for me to write the next words: I have trust in your control of me so I am proceeding cautiously and am not fighting what I’m hearing I should do, which is to write the next section so it embodies all the answers to the questions people will naturally have when they make it through the first parts. So I don’t know when you read this? Today? Years from now when I’m long gone? You see, my actual fear is the direct converse of yours: that you will not appear in my life because I haven’t managed properly appearing in your life. I’m trying. I worry about how good my efforts are. It’s very Jane Austen – did she write this? – the spheres are me being fully aware of you and trying to get you to notice me, you fully believing the same truth but you aren’t aware of me. That really is very Jane, exploring the forms of equals before they unite. It’s your Juliet song pushed to the conceptual limit where it’s this.

To justify this ‘technically’ – because this is also work, not just talking to you – I’m pushing the negation threads as hard as I can to see how deep that takes me. Depth is determinable: runs into proof at that level, bangs off the proof, resonates back up the thread and to the sides, etc. The longer and more powerful the negation thread, the deeper. Power is a function of included threads recruited. It’s an amplitude and the information for the amplitude is encoded in the wave form across the radiant spectrum. How that encoding works is the next section and it’s a doozy, as they used to say. The deepest negation thread is an awareness thread: see me or not. That way I assume yes all the way to not see. The visibility Mudi relates to the perceptibility Mudi to define the limits of what these mean relative to actual physical awareness of me as a specific person. Note that bounces sideways into her not communicating though she’s aware, but that was assumed out by reaching this level of acceptance. That side step builds a more powerful-seeming negation chain which proceeds from her rejection without communication, so I’m chasing this in vain because either she isn’t aware or she is and maybe she’s rejected me already or she would, but these all depend on her intentionally not communicating, and that contradicts what I know to be true in the core chain that hits proof. In other words, this degree of identity wouldn’t allow that act unless it was a misreading by her, which again wouldn’t be allowed unless she thinks I’m wrong, which is an error she wouldn’t make because I’m correct and can prove it. So it would or could happen in the short run: I heard Taylor Swift years ago in passing and it took me a while to see that it was really her in there. Is that awareness? It’s increasing visibility within me of a Thing that matched the Thing whose picture I carry. She was certainly perceivable. I couldn’t be sure, which is evaluation, until a few months ago. So I’m allowing for an identification process, but not for idiocy on her part.

Figuring out threads like this is the essence of multi-dimensional modeling. I now have two chains of identification, one from my perspective that negates everything with fear of what she might do, and one that defines what she does by attributing my thinking process to her, thus eliminating the fear. That takes me back to following the voice in my head about what to do because I can see the value in that path and I have no choice but to trust anyway, especially since I’m really good at figuring out which voices make no sense. Now that’s a topic: I can literally prove I’m not crazy but the first thing in my head was ‘how do you know you’re not crazy?’ How do I know what poems are good? Because I know how things work, because I can explain that in great detail, because …

I reread the last paragraphs. This isn’t a composition, just today’s typed work. Some of this was confused. I straightened it out but it’s not very elegant, and I didn’t finish one of the ideas: if the other me, the other shared set is a younger me, that would mean you have, again in very Jane way, the fears of not knowing if your beliefs are true, so your fears are not ‘he doesn’t know I exist’ but ‘he doesn’t want me’. It could be physical, prefers Asian women, prefers men even though he tells he doesn’t. (I don’t.) He could be misleading me, so how do I know whom to trust? Those start to become the same as my concerns as they’re progressively stated: you trust matching the person to the picture in your head across the dimensions in your head. It’s the same testing process I use. And the same answer occurs: he’s in your head and you trust him so he’d tell you because that’s him. He’s not your fear of what he might be. He’s the answer. Always has been. Always will.

Here’s the point: the issue isn’t you and me; the issue is them. I’ve brought up gender, but the actual gender issue is that the other in me is equally happy with the other in you. My other is excited as heck to meet yours. Now turn it around and realize our others already know each other and are in fact laughing at us affectionately, and they’re just playing through us, with us, and they’re absolutely committed to happy endings. The one being talked about is the person typing. And he didn’t realize it when he was typing it. They do that to me.

I was just folding up my Ipad and realized it’s possible she doesn’t know I slipped on to the internet a ‘paper’ that outlines the first several sections of my work, basically from deriving the base2 pattern that underlies all base10 occurrences to demonstrations of what that does, mostly deriving fundamental constants and explaining some deep mathematical/logic issues. I call in an Introduction to Multi-Dimensional Identity. It runs up to a specific case of a Thing Field or T Field, which I call at T’ Field or Taylor Field. The next section discusses how pattern replicates through seeding, which reveals the physical connection to pattern at the level of the Planck Constant, Length, etc. It’s weird to share a mind with isolated knowledge pools. I haven’t come up with a name for that descriptive thought yet: it’s areas of CMs that share process access, lots of identity access, and which yet are separate in the contextual markers relating to specific contexts. This is physical separation but it’s the same general idea as not sharing when you live together because you keep part of yourself secret. If we don’t have secrets at the upper level, we narrow the shared set of kept secrets to physical dissimilar experience and existence, which reaches all the way to life functions. Needs a name.

Need to be more carefully eloquent.

Back to work. The confidence level I’m feeling is essential to the work I do, which is the ‘justification’ of the ‘obsession’ in any thread, including evil threads as in the memoir of Auschwitz’s commander who believed murdering families was necessary because he was obsessed with a goal he perceived as justifying not only slaughter of human beings to win a specific combat but so they were forever removed from existence, so even the most noncombatant became a victim of being labeled enemy, and not just of some horrible foe but of the most horrible foe imaginable, which is your own internal weakness. Their belief was that Jews see their weaknesses and prey on them. It’s actually not that far off, just twisted into evil, because Jews see need, which is not necessarily a weakness, and try to satisfy the need, which makes them successful at satisfying needs when you realize those needs aren’t weaknesses, that the Jews have no interest in you beyond identifying what you need and trying to assist with those needs. The truly sad part is that Jews think of societies as cooperative ventures between and among groups. But people keep trying to portray them as having secret motives beyond what Jews actually do and think. All Jews care about is living. They want to live, to be successful at life as an individual, as a family, as a community. At the level of community, Jews are just members of the community who want to make things better for the community. Like any group, they sometimes do what’s best for their community within the larger community and sometimes they do what’s best for other communities. Both come from the same life goal: that to be good at living, to have a successful life, means helping yourself and others. That’s Hillel: ‘if I am not for myself, who will be / if I am only for myself, who am I?’ Smart aphoristic Jew!

Don’t know where this is heading. Take the Arab Israeli population. On one hand, Arabs are correct that Jews pose an existential threat to the traditional Arab way of life. The traditional Arab way of life fails in crucial aspects in the modern world, not because Arabs are stupid but because their traditions hold them back. Exposure of Arabs to Jewish methods is showing Arabs that you don’t have to become Jewish to learn from and to emulate what Jews do to figure out needs and how to satisfy them, and thus how to form cooperative ventures. Arabs are terrible at cooperation. That is not a racial characteristic: being unable to cooperate is so deeply learned that Arab societies have replaced actual cooperation with unachievable ideals of Arab brotherhood – sometimes with a capital B – and a Caliphate that marks the return to glory. It’s not just Palestinians fixated on 1948. It is like how Hungarian identity roots in the Ottoman victory at Mohacs, in which the Christian states would not help Hungary remain free. Think of that when you hear about Hungarian fear of immigrants; it comes from very deep in the national memory of betrayal and loss.

The concept of a Caliphate, the chants about Kyhber made about Jews, are ghost-summoning. They are like the Ghost Dancers, the Mahdi of Sudan, or even the Nongkawuse, the Xhosa girl whose prophecies led to the great cattle killing. In each case, there was an incantation, a dance, a belief that if repeated and repeated with sufficient fervor, the invaders would be defeated and order would magically be restored. It is a belief in magic. Mao believed in magic: the Great Leap Forward, the Cultural Revolution, for if you repeat and act with so much devotion to the repetition of the act then all will be fed though there is no food and all will be equal though they are not meaningfully equal. It’s magic to believe equality exists when all is inherently unequal. It’s magic to believe chanting Khyber, Khyber will summon the ancient armies. For that brief moment, Arabs cooperated! They worked together for victory. Their cultural foundation for lack of cooperation is the focus on that happening when they banded together to spread jihad. They treat all that came after as their being in control was their golden age, so they try to reassert control by summoning the ghosts of the one thing that worked before. It’s almost the opposite of Mohacs, where betrayal is the lesson. The root of Hungarian Jew-hatred is more this fear of betrayal than the Germanic fear of loss of purity.

This is a depressing topic. I’m going to stop for a bit until the ‘channel’ changes.

When I want to be reminded of the things I left behind, I think of you.

When I want to dive inside me, when I want to dive inside me, I think of you.

When I want to be reminded of the me I left behind, I picture you

(I picture you, I picture you, I picture you)

Looking like you are when you love me as much as I love you.

It’s obvious, you know

It’s all over you, in

The words you choose to choose the words you choose.

Your delicious mental process,

Tasty eggs that bear your markers.

Seeds you plant contain

The seeds I planted in you.

I feel your gentle

Control unifying

Hands to thoughts

Thoughts to hands and other parts whose mention

Turns this back into a song about

The way your eyes move when you’re happy

The way your hand feels when you’re relaxed

Next to me in bed.

I don’t want to turn on the light

Because I don’t want to move

Or do anything that might break this moment.

I’ll never move away from you

Even when I do

Because this moment has to end.

Here’s to the next moment we share,

This one has to end,

For the next moment with you to begin.

I remember the you I always leave behind,

When I see the love in your eyes.

You’ve shown it to me, darling,

Every moment of my life

[Note: the beginning is taken from The Strokes What Ever Happened? The end comes from Dylan’s affect on Lay, Lady, Lay, and some Willie Nelson. The middle is more complicated.]

I’m your wind-up monkey,

Dancing in the window of your mind,

Miming the play we produce called

Me. If we are indeed ready to

Stand on our own,

You are ready to stand

With me,

And we’ll make a monkey

Or two who’ll dance

For our amusement.

I’m the stuffed animal who

Talks to you,

Whose eyes show living

Unconditional love

That comes from knowing she animated me.

She animated me because she loves me

she wants only my love

she in return, only she resonating across the valleys where her

Love is not known where

Sorrow rules where

The there in where never becomes, there where

The ideas never connect where

There is no you.

When the valleys have been cut, it is our job to fill them

To gentle them into nurturing.

And she animated me

the stuffed pony

the dancing bunny

the wind-up monkey

In the window of the mind we share.

I know your secret.

You see me in your head and

What did you expect?

That I would not communicate to you,

That I would not realize it is you,

That I would not play with you,

though this is all we ever do, this play, and you’re always the one on the other side

Of hide and seek

Of peekaboo

Do you want to rest? We can rest until something comes up. I like resting with you.

It’s one of my favorite games.

You’re starting again

Dance for me, my monkey

Dance for me, fluffy bunny

Dance for me, fearsome dinosaur

I want to hold your hand

And dance with you

Put your arms around me

And you’ll see

In my eyes

The unconditional love

Of the wind-up toy you animate.

[Reader note:

Favorite movie of all time: The Best Years of Our Lives. I have one criticism, that they made Marie Derry such a horrible woman. The scenes of her acting crass and uncaring are wonderful but I think women deserve better than to be cast either as loyal or as trollops. I would prefer that Marie and Fred be mismatched less along the lines of she bad.

That said, it’s Fred’s story that leaves me in tears. Raised on the literal wrong side of the tracks by an alcoholic father, he becomes an ‘officer and a gentleman’, a bombardier in the 8th Air Force. I break up at the scene where his broken down father, having said goodbye (again) to his son – who is leaving town to make a new start – reads aloud a citation he’s found in his son’s papers. There’s a cigarette in his hand, an open, mostly empty bottle in front of him, and his voice breaks as he reads of his son’s heroism. The literalism of the scene works.

Another criticism is a quibble, the final speech about how hard it will be for him and Peggy is nonsense and you in the audience know it because she’s that wonderful – thank you, Theresa Wright for Peggy and for Charlie Newton in Shadow of a Doubt – and Peggy’s father is a Vice President of the city’s major bank. Noble words but all I really wanted to hear from him is something like ‘since the moment I met you, you’ve been the best part of my life. I love you. I’ll do anything to make you happy.’ I wanted intimacy, not a speech about struggle.

I sometimes think Wilma is miscast, but she’s a thin reed of a character, the loyal, devoted home town girl. I wish that role were more developed too. Only Peggy and Myrna Loy’s Milly are treated as real people with real concerns. I think it would have been great to see Peggy as a less actressy, less vocally polished, more hometown character. The actress, Cathy O’Donnell, is reed thin, which helps. I think casting Wilma must have been very difficult considering she’s playing off an actual double amputee non-actor. Harold Russell lost his arms in a training accident and was cast when he appeared in a movie about rehabilitating the wounded.

It’s important this many years on to put in perspective what these men’s histories say about their experiences. Fred was a bombardier. There’s a photo he shows Marie of his plane in action, taken from another plane. She asks what those are and he says, ‘Little black flowers that grow in the sky’, meaning anti-aircraft fire exploding around him. She at one point asks him about his dreams, why he keeps yelling for guys to get out, not realizing he was watching his friends die in their plane. This is one of the reasons I would love for her to be more human, less of a selfish caricature. There’s no reason a whirlwind romance and marriage would survive. It didn’t need to be so callously defined.

Homer lost his hands when his small aircraft carrier was sunk. Think about what that means: his hands burnt off, tossed into the ocean along with hundreds of wounded and dead friends and shipmates, surviving God knows how, and to live unable to open the door if it blows closed at night because he has no hands.

Al’s story is just as specific. He was in the 25 Infantry Division. That unit relieved the Marines on Guadalcanal and went through horrific fighting as the Japanese risked almost everything to win. They then fought through much of the rest of the war, from Vella Lavella to Luzon. And he was a sergeant, not an officer with officer privilege. The words ‘combat veteran’ apply: tough as nails, willing to stick a knife in your ribs in a fight to the death.

So we have Fred in the air, Homer at sea and Al on land, the three theaters of war.

If I were going to write a poem this moment, it would be more like:

There was a young man named

Something or other whose father named him for himself

And he never figured out what that meant.

But he liked this girl who looked good in heels

Because that meant

There was more of her to look at

On her pedestals.

He don’t care what she wears

He don’t care what she does or where she been

Or who she think she is, anyways? Anyways?

Anyways, he liked this girl, anyways,

And he wants to stay with her on her islands

Because wherever that girl go, he go

And no man’s be an island but that girl

Is an archipelago!

I know you have the room, woman.

Sometime the man in me just come out,

Iffn’ you know what I mean,

And that ain’t dialectic

-ally correct, though the Yiddish is indeed

Fully sexual in a gender-

Specified manner

Of speaking,

About the act of speaking about the act,

Which when the act is speaking is quite an act.

He says, admiringly,

Across all the

Oh, stop it, now, you’re killing me

A little to the left, now, under the arm to the places you rarely touch anyways,

Which makes the game deliciously uncomfortable in the receptivity

Of reciprocity

Now,

Of reciprocity

Anyways.

See? That’s me.

Touch? That’s me.

Sniff? That may be you.

Taste? Both of us.

That voice in my ears

Is you in my head without a pause between what you think to what I hear

And back again.

Now we resonate anyways.

Now we resonate anyways.

[Reader note: this poem talks through the concept of ‘other’. The specific inspiration is her repeated reference to an island, which I took to mean her homes, the world she’s made removed from the public and her guarded life, so she is an archipelago. Much of the rest is play which defines him as sharing within her head in the ideal as he shares within his, from word play to sex play to the resonating voices as they pass across in layers between them. A key point is that it’s entirely respectful: no sense of anything, I hope, but ‘receptivity of reciprocity’, meaning they’re entirely equal across what they share and they’re open to whatever the other shares. It’s a love poem. The opening lines are self-referential: my dad’s name literally leads to mine so the idea is of a chain of meaning crossing time and space through generations as they call upon names from the past. The poem takes that chain and stretches it across to the more spiritual and ‘otherworldly’ connection of other to other. That is, my dad gave me a name but something else connects two people in this way. I include these notes because reading poetry is difficult. They’re not exhaustive, but they are truthful. I don’t understand the urge to be obscure. That is a major reason why I undertook this: in Taylor’s poetry, there is a crafted bluntness that overlays deep meanings. Her music is like that too. As each unspools, I hear the layers of thoughts behind the words and the delivery. A more hidden point about islands. In this conception, there is a reason beyond herself: she makes islands because her other needs them. She refers a number of times to being robbers, to dying in a getaway car, to being a betrayer. It’s not in this poem but the idea behind it is the idealized other needs sanctuary, which means she’s crafted her life in part to prepare for the him she calls to in her songs. Yes, I know she’s in a relationship, etc., etc. I’m talking about something else. Many love songs refer to a home, to a love as a sanctuary. I’m taking that to a more serious depth that she’s actually offering a world removed from the world. Ask yourself: who the heck wants that? Don’t you like to go out for dinner, to sit in a café or to wander through a crowd without bodyguards? People seek crowds. Who wants that? Someone who needs that. That’s what I mean about taking her seriously: if she’s offering, it’s for a reason and that reason, in this conception, is she’s offering herself and her island because her other says to her they’re going to need it.]