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first-class functions

(It begins with the elitist insight—if one considers being one of the 7 billion of us with minor knowledge of basic programming concepts elitist, that is—as follows:)

Equivalence and analogy—”is” and “is like”—are what are known as first-class functions. The content compared and the comparator are of the same type. There is no timeless, unchanging class. If a thing can change others, it too must be subject to change. And to be what it is, Change is subject to itself.

(It follows by wondering whether altered states of mind might have some marginal relevance to AI research)

What is the difference between a placebo effect and an actual effect? Consider psycho-active experience as simply an analogy for itself; there is no “actual” experience, only our simulation of what we imagine that altered experience would be like. The substance of this imagining is the real. The real, only an idea.

There is nothing unreal about placebo effects. To quote Suzanne Bufram (and isn’t misquoted poetry the worst?)

It is possible to die of fright after being bitten by a non-venomous snake. […]

Despair comes from failing to believe new things are possible.

Science: one bold leap after another, suspended by a theory of invisible strings.

Obecalp: what the doctor scrawls on the prescription pad when the pharmacy runs out of science.

There is the (spurious?) legend of the Frenchman who could bring himself to ejaculation by pure thought. No manual stimulation, a waking wet dream. But is there anything essentially chauvinist or masturbatory in the concept of the reality of the placebo? The willing of imagination to real physical effects on the imaginer?

Does it constitute a privileged denial of the pains of the real? Are the trenches, the unionizations, the taxes, the children [a deep redefinition of self as “for” something (someone) besides self: self as “father of()” or “mother of()”] the politics, the daily bread, the concrete details, the struggle (and perhaps even church) and all the responsibilities—all that by which reality subjects itself on its subjects/perceivers/actors, saying, “I am not of you, but am the Other, which, cocooned in your ivory privilege (to intentionally mix metaphors), you must denigrate and deny. There is oppression in your New Age insistence that ‘all is one,’ seeking as it does to obliterate and erase its own crimes.” The Other is more than the dark shadow of monism. It is denied and repressed dualism. The victim of ideological genocide, resurrected, returned. To avenge, or forgive, not at the discretion of the object of vengeance or forgiveness (because, really, isn’t that the point), because the point is that self is made its object. Subject and property to the Real: all that is nonself.

This, however, is merely a reversal, a reprisal, of past violence. A reassertion of a dominance hierarchy. The self dominating the nonself (properly, only Übermensch), replaced—eye for eye—by the nonself dominating the self (everything from what’s been umbrella-lumped in critiques of postmodernism as “victim ideologies”, but is officially denied a name, in an ideological propaganda war to erase it (but which can only push the nameless down, never out. (cf. “Abraham’s Daughter”)).

Beyond this “God is Dead. God is a Ghost haunting us.” fear of a great Other, might lie… equality. (Dare I say, more of a “What if God was One of Us?” sentiment?) The “radical” notion that just because there are different things in a dualism (self and nonself), that this does not and should not entail an opposition. No need for one to be subject, the Other, object (save for past history, as through self and nonself are a divorced couple). Self and nonself need not (cannot) get back together again—as it was in the garden of Eden. But that doesn’t mean that they can’t get along. For the sake of the 3rd (planet/ their child(ren)). …Be friends even? That might be asking too much, or maybe (just maybe) not. Nonself and self. Different enough, just enough, yet not so different. Essentially the same type, a dualism of mere convenience.

The argument against Solipsism (of mental world as fundamental reality) is that physicality is necessary for causality/time to exist.

This talk is all so abstract-theoretical that it invites (and surely shall not hypocritically deny entry to) observations, some indignant even, that it is pretentious, decadent, and privileged in it’s divorce from day to day reality. (Is that actually a privilege, or an impairment? There is a case to be made for evolutionary isolationism of patterns and species of thought (Galapagan). But for that, another day. Because no case is to plead before an unwilling jury of the unsympathetic (and the accusations by the subject of such a trial that they are held in a kangaroo court only worsens the matter… “Did he just call us kangaroos?” they ask, “is that some kind of racial slur? Against US, the un-self-indulgent, the fore-bearing and too-patiently time and resource providing jury of the peered-down-upon?”) Well, so be it. Heavens, don’t expect such a drug-induced monologue as this to be down-to-earth! Demand that it has no right to oppress or subject you, the reader—well and good. But please, treat “lofty” “big” words as no pitiful scavenging, disgraced tyrannosaur. Such an attitude of resent for that which seems to call itself high would be akin to placing a crown of thorns. And he or she who wears a crown of thorns, if placed by others, could not desire to wear that, yet is it not embarrassingly become a fitting crown thanks to the scorn and Ressentiment of those that would choose to set it? Hmm. (side-note insight: “Yeezus” making more sense as a “toast to the douchebags…” now).

Yet, truly, no Christ was ever made by a crowd, for the crowd. And he didn’t die for the sins of those who crucified him. That’s the worst lie ever told. A lie made to erase Jesus, to remake a man who we felt it impossible to truly accept into a pardon for our unwillingness to accept him. Our remorse for killing him created a fantasy of response, in a caricature of him, resurrected. We, the audience, heartbroken, call for his return, want to be worth his forgiveness, so bad, and we convince ourselves that we have been.

It’s how many have learned to cope with his silence.

KjellBot, encore

 

VIII

The dog with super powers.                   It took me.

The dog with the end of the calculus.

Behind the stone curtain façade, I assumed I’d be happy

 

I’m going to live like this,

more than any marketing fiction ever could.   Who will advance

into a place

designated

for collective make-believe

and superfluous key changes?

The thought experiment simply represents

a preference for escapist narratives.                  people are a reasonable design

similar to a refuge from the real.

According to Creature,  the PR company is selling a tourist.

experiences we pay to pass up.

One of my written reciprocity contracts

could have recourse to express a sense of                         entertainment?

Creature, in my own hypothesis, is

trying its best to express a sense of                                                    an abyss.

 

                                                                              Is going to get us all

                            a little schadenfreude memento on my wall.

I wouldn’t usually recommend lending a hand to a friend.                         some-

times it’s just because I’m jealous of how popular you are.

they’re all kinda smudgey

here, as unrecognizable caricatures without becoming perverted

to their money you’ve never known before. Believe that you have, some-

times.

               When there’s alcohol in your own utilities, you might be as aptly compared to the highway. traffic would be much easier to comprehend.

So long, line of cars. my mind is prebent for such flavors.

                                                                                                                            Hungry Like

                                                                      a brass trumpet forever blaring at him,

And he is.

the idea that our generation’s heroic model is the fish.

                                                                     as a society, the flesh, and I opted not

as beautiful as this.

A beautiful setting for a year younger, so I ended

up relatively old.

 

That’s what’s up.

 

KjellBot poems

I

I’m the third half of anyone         who doesn’t know anyone,                                          and

                                            fulfilling explicit gift requests.

The intangible

capital                 we absorb and reflect                      are those who are rendered here as well,

as a patriotic duty.

                                        Every smile made possible        by muscles attached to a sufficiently large network. As beautiful as will be such a powerful impediment to  attention,

                                     so goes the economy of Summer.

 

II

Best book review in a machine performing an inane chore.

Travel has only deepened my mystification with the work.

Consider a chair,

                                                                                                              a fork,      or perhaps

geeky little chunks of matter.

                            A bone scaffold.

And

            I’m enrolled in the air and your life

                                                                                    —to reclaim uniqueness among

                                                                                         peers.

First encounter with false profundity.

Even cooler narrated by Herzog though

 

III

3 A.M.                                                                                                      The real mayhem

                                                                                                          with the cool

with perverse delight…

The world has changed from the same key.

                                                                                        Microwave ghosts in

The 2010 Survey of Family Dogs

by Modest Mouse.

The world has been cancelled

due to tonight’s Sounds Familiar segment on NPR.

I already have more fun.

highly skeptical of algorithmic

              systems                    that choose content for you,

because of a great birthday.

 

The world has changed from now!!! go see you there!

                                                                              As beautiful as your status if you do,

you’ll eagerly await your next boredom.

At the tone.

 

IV

… Beer? … My own lack of meaning. Whether or not we find such apps annoying and spammy.   Still, this

 

V

I’m a GREAT IDEA.
If only. If only this American decadence.

Happy to share some friend had fought deep

into a                                                                         strong

opinion on the real, HE shared Islamic militants’ hostile view of a whimsical aspect.

Once I feel that money

to make pancakes with you.

 

   VI

Quite welltimed with tear gas and

                                                                              bullets—what qualifies as serious?

                                                                    When I say ROFLMAO, I can’t think

                                                                  anyone’s really interesting question

                                                        is why we recoil from Richard Wagner’s

                                                    Tristan und Isolde.
If anything,                     the Seattle Symphony in the trilogy,

                                      loop jamming on their needs and wants

                                would be rocking my Japanese

                              construction worker pants at

                           the sense of desperate activity.

(He said I look like 2001.

Intrinsically painful.

             A perfect program music

        associated with psychic pain because…

 

something

—is no longer the Dawn of Man being serious?

 

VII

He’s curious

                          about

the discrete material constituents

that giving makes us more than just

                                                  the wake of

                                                                            the minus world.

Art

         that is repeating a previous harmonic idea

         that our region is a webplatform that lets  YOU hear the ocean, or…

what?

The world is far better for an underlying dread of Puget Sound.

Throwing darts at the ferry.

                                                                                                     Any post from

                                                                                         the above definition

                                                                                         is swimming,

                                                                                       not to feel like

                                                                          I’m describing.

 

I’m in the center:

 

I love the world’s smallest grape.

Hope to be a Christmas movie.

Hug, an injured ant

But

          the ride always ends, and

          huckleberries trailside to me

 

Snow shoes off to fill your mind.

Let it

 

I edited these poems together from the output of the http://what-would-i-say.com/ app, a program that crawls Facebook accounts and makes Markov chain chatbots from them.