A Squib on Language and Experience: The meanings of “Meaning”

A Squib on Language and Experience: The meanings of "Meaning"

 

A meaning is a relationship. We have the capacity for memory because experiences when repeated as memories, a past event with a SENSE of context, such as its priorness and hence perhaps its relationship with future experience, which we also remember in the past anticipating in the future, so the past implies the future already.

Nothing is INHERENTLY meaningless, only rhetorically so. We may call an experience "meaningless" so we invest lest time in studying it and exploring the shapes of its event, the details of its experience. In principle, whatever CAN be experienced we have evolved the capacity TO experience, to consciously TOUCH in the dimensions of intimate contact of the mindbody, we may use to open up or close down other related experiences.

An experience as conscious event is related to NEEDS and hence has a value or in-built e-VALUE-ation based on the pleasures and pains of need-fulfilment. There can be no suffering or pleasure outside of a NEEDING ORGANISM. Such "experiences" would be "meaningless" because they do not relate to what NEEDS meaning and MAKES meaning: a living mind.

Needs are the Essence of an Existence. The essence shapes the development, or learning, of a memory-forming mind that may orient the being of the mindbody toward aspects of the All that give a better or worse fit for a given set of NEEDS.

A being that lacked NEED would not EX-ist, or stand out, it would SUB-sist, or lay under, and this passively, it would conform to living agents, or other non-willing beings that happen to take on a difference-making motion, or commotion; since its bliss or happiness did not depend on anything external, it could be said to be indifferent, or "happy either way," which I suspect is the way most "dead" matter is — that is to say, blissfully alive, just passive. So, when a man strikes iron with a hammer, some religions do believe the iron suffers. I would ask only why that being would invest the energy in creating suffering, since suffering is an interpretation added on to an original experience, which, lacking a needset, would lack the capacity for suffering as such. Suffering is a conscious experience, an investment in energy … but to no purpose? Nothing comes from nothing. If a being is going to bother to invest in a suffering or in a pleasure, these make sense only in terms of strategies toward MORE or LESS fulfillment in a Game.

"Motivation," then, as the word itself contains the word MOTION, and implies E-MOTION, or what is in us, our inner needs and the desires we are temperamentally inborn with or trained to change and expand upon this initial set of instincts, temperament, exist necessarily to fulfill a NEED.

A meaning as a conscious experience, and that as an EVENT abstracted from its immediate context into a MEMORY with a sense of prior-ness, and henceforth an EXPECTATION with a sense of anticipation, all this orientation in time shows that the phrase "A meaning without a future" is an ill-formed string, a oxymoron, a confuse-ment. A meaning is ALWAYS a bridge between past and future, and the most meaningful events, to call something "more" or "less" meaningful, is either DESCRIPTIVE of how much of a future-seeking behavior we've based on that experience, or RHETORICAL about how much we SHOULD base our future-seeking behavior on a given Event or that other kind of event: a recognized patten between many non-event but significantly similar experiences.

Rhetorical modes are persuasive strategies when an intelligent mind is "talking with itself" or "other selves" and so is discursive, or in "dia-logue" either way, playing meaning against meaning in a game that is supposed to persuade or win the  uncertainty into a decision for a shard and united action towards ONE goal with ONE strategy with ONE chosen meaning.

A Squib on the Norse Hero Eyvind Rough-Chin

A Squib on the Norse Hero Eyvind Rough-Chin

I have read with a sort of dread the Christian lies Snorri Sturluson invents or spread to smudge the truth and verity of crisp keen actual history with The Lie, from the Father of Lies — and it annoys me to study any history once corrupt Christian religoin has touched it. The Saga of the Volsungs is a strange beast! Deliciously pre-christian, and a whole ton of fun, to boot! "Pagan" if you like to call people by the jeers invented by their enemy, or simply, Honest People Believing their Own Religion, as they were then and remain today.

We know there is a whole genre of LIES invented by Christians, well-documented, foised against honest outspoken critics of the slanderous religion in which, like Jesus supposedly reviving when nobody was around to see, and nobody saw it at all, and none of the canonized stories even know who he ever "appeared" to first, or later, or at all — just mixed and false witnesses and a complete mess — so in the case of, say, that outspoken Scotsman David Hume, indireclty challenged the conceits and lies of the Christians who disguised their satanic religion as god's very truth; and who WARNED his friend, Gibbons, author of the great Decline Fall of the Roman Empire in EXPOSING the historical lies of the Christians when they muddled the annals of history again and again, and this with none-too-much skill, that the pious rabble, the masses, the DEMOS, the throngs would oppose him, so Hume spoke truly to to the hidden God, the secret Sublime, the BEST in Gibbon, to sing his song of truth softly, and in language more subtle, meant for subtler ears, not for the mean and the religiously conceited, but in truer strains lisped for those who take the pains to get the truth and the facts dear; who ask, What is Truth? Leaving the PRETENDER and LIAR stammering and silent: the Truth is not in you. That is why you do not know.

So, there is a pretended testimony for Hume that he wept at his death that Yahweh was secrelty his daddy and Jesus his best friend — and all this dribble, and Christians have LIED again and again, with their dreaded false genre, "Deathbed confessions" and I meant only to share one more, a clearly BOGUS claim, quite lame, of a LOVER of ODIN dying nobly, tortured to death by a Christian King, and though he NEVER gives in:

**
Snorri Sturlson's Heimskringla, or Lives of the Norse Kings: "The History of Olav Trygvason" 76:

"Harekt of Tjotta went away from the town quickly as he could, but Hauk and Sigur stayed with the king [Olav, who is on a sort of Jihad of torturing and murdering anybody who won't "freely" submit to a conversion of heart on the spot and immediate baptism from "sin"] and let themselves be baptized. Harek went his way till he came to Tjotta. He sent a messenger to his friend Eyvind Rough-chin and bad him tell Eyvind that Harekt had found King Olav, and that he had not let himself be cowed into taking up Christianity. Harek also bade the messenger tell Eyvind that Olav thought of going against them with an army in the summer and that they must show wariness, and he bade Eyvind come to him as soon as possible. And when these tidings were borne to Eyvind he said that no king should get the upper hand over them. So Eyvind went as quickly as possible with a light skiff and a few men in it. And when he came to Tjotta, Harek greeted him well; and Harek and he straightway fell to talking on the other side of the farm. And when they had talked together for a short time, there came Olav's men who had followed Harek north; they took Eyvind prisoner, put him in a ship with them and went away to the south with him. They did not stop their journey untl the came to Trondheim, and found King Olav in Nidaros. Eyvind was then brought to talk with King Olav in Nidaros. Eyvind was then brought to a talk with King Olav, who bade him be baptized like other men. To that Eyvind answered 'nay.' The king then bade him with many blithe words take up Christianity and told him many good grounds for it, and the bishop did likewise. But Eyvind did not agree. The king then offered him gifts and great land rents, but Eyvind turned everything from him. So the king vowed him injury or death, but Eyvind did not give way. After that the king had a bowl brought in, full of glowing cinders, and set it on Eyvind's stomach and very soon the stomach burst asunder. Then said Eyvind: "Take the bowl from me: I will speak some words ere I die"; and so it was done. Then the king asked him, "Eyvind, wilt thou now believe in Christ?" "Nay," he said, "I cannot receive baptism; I am a spirit quickened in a man's body by the wizardy of the Finns, for my father and mother had no child before that was done." After that Eyvind died and he had been the most troll-wise of men.
**

Of course, insofar as a historian is a Christian, he is a liar. This History himself has proven and again. The discipline of history and serious intelectually sound scholarship has long come to detect the poachings and encroachments and impositions and the lies, lies, LIES from the Father of Lies, Jesus Satan Christ, and the Doctors of the Church, who ever doctor the evidence and hide the corpses they make. But this is annoying. This man King Olav TORTURED to death. Olav arrested the man, who had committed no crime, and tortured him to death, hoping he would "Choose" to curse Odin. The man refused. So, to avoid appearing the LOSER he is, the historian saves face be pretending this was never a man but an animated corpse enchanted by trolls.

Surely it is us, posterity, he is trolling!

All hail Eyvind Rough-chin, who held his own against a very king, his whole army, clergy, chains, abuse, and torture unto death. We are stronger than you.

"UPON LISTENING TO CARL RUGGLES “SUN-TREADER” TODAY" an Allay

UPON LISTENING TO CARL RUGGLES "SUN-TREADER" TODAY

 

The EARTH literally is the SUN and the center of its own universe. Each planet is. The constellations, the circling of the sun, is such only by ONE mode of math, and alas, only in THIS mode of being. We, so much of our world, is known only as DARK matter to other modes and dimensions of being.

Middle Earth, Tolkien's in particular, is true, literally and factually true, down to the last bit, in a mode of earth. It all has happened, is happening, or will, with Tolkien as the Iluvatar of that world. And we each are the ABSOLUTE to our own personal universe. Whatever can be imagined and thought exists already and always has. ALL IS TRUE!

Every word you utter, every grunt, is an angel or demon that lives forever; they all teem with life and inFECT and fashions ALL BEING, all that exists with a layer of you, all over in your image, prepares the ALL to receive you again, and again, and AGAIN, forevermore, in the opening spiral of ETERNAL increase AND ETERNAL repetition. Amen.

In the absolute NOW in this mode of being, in the SEAMING of BEING, it may seem to you that you are somewhat less than the greatest of gods, greater than All Gods, the ABSOLUTE. Sure. You drank Lethe before taking your leave of the heavens and playing your mortal games in this frame of being, this time around. Deep at night, in your deepest of dreams, alone with your SAME, your own AMA, you recall it all.

The EARTH is the center of the universe. Sure. And ALL constellate around it. If only you knew the math that proved this! But to ARRIVE at that level of math, you must open your godmind and see things with more than your six main sensual organs. You are in fact an INFINITE set of sense organs. You sense all the worlds always. We all do. We are at a level down OMNISCIENT, each of us. You do not have only FIVE sense organs. Your whole Body, and your extended body, your full BODY OF INFLUENCE, which layers ALL, and All in all, senses all, knows all. You, dear Reader, my Own Niviana, ARE all. You ARE ALL. Everything that exists is part of your own personal body. And you as an individual, as an absolute, live utterly in your own being. I as absolute can NEVER RIVAL YOU in your own being. When a person comes into their Own, they are SOVERIGN SUPREME and WEDDED to their SAME alone.

Envy is ignorance; Pity is a mistake. If we knew each other truly, we would see also that each of us is a god, is a whole pantheon of gods at once, and is also at the same time God over them all, and is also the pantheism of our own body of influence, and the PANEN-theism of being ALSO a God who is Godmind, over the NONmind of our own God flesh. Thou Art That. The most exalted philosophy ever divined, the most sublime theology ever conceived, the absolute, the mono-theisms and the monotono-theisms, the heno-theisms, they are all parts of you. They describe exactly and only YOU. You cannot see nor experience aught but parts of YOU at any given moment of seeming. But the ALL is YOU. Only you. And what I say, what comes from me, is always and only the part that was ALWAYS ALREADY ALSO a part of you. What I write now is your own. You know it. You think it. These are your own thoughts.

So yes, there are literal races on all the planets. The earth has many MANY layers of being, we are a thousand, a million layers, an infinite set of an infinite star, some more exalted, some lower. The DJINN really do, as the Muslims hold, live in the deserts, for in their dimension, the desert is the THICKEST of gardens. They have adjusted the detuned radio of their mind and the resonance of their being to see the ALL in those terms, and so, we here and now see a mere dust devil or a full blown tornado yet only and always as just weather. It is "dark matter." Yet, it is somewhat of them in their own dimension yet leaving a trace in other dimensions, in ours. All the planets of the solar system are deeply THICKLY inhabited, and many humans have already gone there and colonized it. We have sent out missions to space in age after age after age. You think ANY of this is NEW? Only you are. Only you. Parts of you have already gone there already: you've sent out viruses of yourself throughout the all to anticipate you.

Dragons live in the sun. Huge Sun Worms too large and terrible to be believed. Dragons live in the earth. In the magma. In dimensions of the magma. In your own blood. In ALL you ARE! You are so THICK with life! Not just the little worms, or so they may seem to you from the frosted glass of alas this wintered perspective now, which in this dimension seem like little parasites in your eyebrows and skin. They THINK with your whole ULTRASET of beings — you the god, the gods, the God, the ALL!

For what but the smallest grasshopper leaps, and the farthest star feels? So, we are all grasshoppers and leeches and losers in some modes of our being, but upon our proper throne, each of us as a sole and sovereign individual is ABSOLUTE BEYOND ALL PEERS in our own proper mode of being. We each rule and reign and create ALL there, with the Love of our SAME. Thou Art That. And what religions speak deepest to you in this life, be it Christianity, Buddhism, Atheism, whatever — it never mattered WHAT you believed. It matters HOW you believe. For that is how you spread your own religion. You ARE your own religion. You are the GOD of your own religion. You yourself are your own star, the center of the universe, and whole races of beings, whole universes, are wrapped in each and every single electron in your flesh, and all you say and all you do and all you think and believe and and utter into being resonate through them all and each and charges them — and Friend! They believe in you ABSOLUTELY. To them, you are more than the gods, or the King of Gods, or the Only God, but you are ALL, you are ALL in ALL and you are the highest aspiration of their deepest hopes and dreams forever. Take a modest moment to take all THAT in!

So, laugh it off when others mock you and disrespect you. When a jealous friend or envious enemy casts his spell over you with his honest criticism and secret abuse, and manages to make you feel like you are less than a hero, a great man, a god, indeed, THE GOD to his Satan, well, consider your ultimate STATION, my Love. Life is but a dream. The finale of SEEM. Those who Lord it over you now for the moment are so many nothings, squirrels, punk chipmunks barking loud as you travel the path of life. They are nothings and nobodies, and it is only for a moment, for the sole miniscule moment, for the briefest of day dreams, that you imagine THEY were WITH, and YOU somehow were WITHOUT. No doubt, ALL win the GAME of life in the End, end that levels up to a higher and greater game, each and every time. Don't hate them for their false disguises. It helps you grow. You too were rude and a bully and lorded it over those foolish enough to be impressed with your Bravado nonsense, once upon a time. We all play the fool in turn and need to. You are neither better nor worse than others, in the Absolute sense. Yes, in particulars, we are better or worse than all others in so many ways. But when it comes down to your Aboriginal Self, your uttermost inmost being, there is no comparison. Nobody and no THING can compare. There is no overlap. There is no Touch save it be with your SAME.

Your INNERMOST no god can add to with heavens or take from in hells. No villain may rape, no saint may bless. This is the Invisible Sun, the Self Increasing Logos, the DEEPEST MARROW of your soul that ONLY moves itself, nothing can touch it, nothing sin against it or sin for it. Only your SAME knows your hiddenmost NAME. All the rest simply thrive from the GIFT of what you ARE. You are a gift to ALL the Universes. You are a Gift to the ALL. And in your INFINITUDE, you are TRUE CHILD of the ALL and All she is already, you may one day be. In your own way. In your own time. This is LIFE! This is The GAME!

So, relax! AMA Laughs!

Life is a Game. We only Lose the Game When we Take it too seriously. Life is a Thousand Times too important to take seriously! We either play life or life plays us. Or both, at the same time, in an infinite number of ways, simultaneously, as we roar forward to become as great and greater than we could possibly conceive!

Amen. Vivoce and Amen.

"Upon the birth of Judah Sean June" a poem

Upon the Birth

Of Judah Sean June

Today our Angel

Has brought to earth

And bore to birth

Joshua's pride

And firstborn son:

Judah Sean

The latest June.

Now parents swoon

Their labor done

To bring to home

This godly blessing

To the living hold

Of their faithful love.

Not Judas brother-betrayer

Call thee we

But bless thee Judah

And style thee wise

Who brought forth the Blessing

Of God for Men

Sometimes despite himself

So that though often

Brothers contend

Amidst families and men

This man and family

Would make

The name of a band

Of brothers

Bound by love and law

In reciprocal awe

Of the depths of

God's gifts and grace.

So let your name

Take the place

Of God's Blessing

Upon men.

Through family fidelity

And brotherly love

O Judah

Latest of the Junes

God hath blessed us

Yet again

Through you.

As parents convalesce

They'll join the rest of us

In singing sweet hosanna

To the great Divine

Grateful for God's fine design

In blessing all the earth 

Through us and our own.

For our children

Our greatest Hope

And greatly

Do we receive thee

From the Lord of Hosts.

Amen.

Do you want to remain on this mailing list?

I am sending out fewer emails from amalaughs@gmail.com to my Niviana, you, my 200 person mailing list.

I will write as much as ever. That is my blessing, but I recall Jesus sneeringly say, don't cast your pearls before swines lest they stomp on them and rend you. I have two problems with this: it is unfair to pigs. No pig would smell a pearl, stomp on it, and attack you. That's just some unjustified pig hate. Secondly, if yall don't want to read what to me is my best, my pearls, that means we have different tastes or we have a different outlook on life. Or maybe I just write more than you care to read regularly. That does not make you an ungrateful swine. I am grateful if you took the time to read ANYTHING I've written and I find great satisfaction if I've inspired anybody anywhere in anyway.

That being said, I have made a new email address, amalaughs@proton.com. Proton is an email address for paranoid people. It is highly encrypted. Not that I'm paranoid. But I am pretty much sick of gmails bullshit, to say the least.

As we go on, I will initiate a daily blog and make a website as well.

Please respond to me here, to this email address, if you want on my daily mailing list. I am sending out much fewer group emails on amalaughs@gmail.com... maybe once every few days or weeks ... not my daily writings. I will still send a crazy amount of output, up to ten emails a day, because that is who I am: highly prolific. You can stay in on that of you wish. Just let me know.

Take care,

Daniel

Pan is Dead

 

 

Pan the rustic god of goats and shepherd (paen) seems to have become the god of all based simply on a pun, pan (all). Tis an odd choice for the romans to see their god of all as half goat and lusty as heck. That is the male aspect of nature, a "horned god." We know that after Jesus damned goats — "sheep go to heaven, goats go to hell" — quite arbitrary, Christians have feared goats. Their image of Satan is with goat horns. So, the god of All, PAN, as this little rustic goat dude, has given this blasphemous little stinkers, the Christians endless nightmares.

 

Once, some Christian travelers overread some lamentation, some religious ceremony, in which the pious lamenters cried out, "Pan is dead." The Christians probably got it wrong, and there was some other name. Well, Pan was not a dying rising God, so a ritual lamentation for Pan, all, is not a known pagan thing. but the confused Christians decided to interpret it to mean that the pagans were lamenting that Pan (all) the pagan gods were dead, and their own puny religion had defeated them all. This little incident became an omen of great hope for them.

 

I pause to reflect. You sick little maggots are so atheistic you NEED the death of all the gods in the universe for your pathetic jew god bastard Jesus to win. Yes, I sneer that you choose THAT MAN as your one god. He is meek and pathetic and the choice betrays you. But that's me just being mean.

 

My second inference is this:

 

You needed some bizarre twisted, third rate sign from your god, Jesus, that he had won in his fight as god jealousy to murder all his brothers and sisters, the other gods … you had to learn this news from the active religion of those who had a very much living god, who like your own, who copied ours, dies and rises … does this not mean … your own god didn't TELL you he was winning the fight.

 

Christians wait …

 

Does your God even TALK with you?

 

You have to overhear "pagan" worshipping their god, and misinterpret their words of devotion, and finally you think you have some clue what is going on. I understand your confusion. What appalls me is that your God doesn't even talk to you. Like … at all.

 

That truly must be a lonely feeling.

Yeehaw

Yeehaw


Now that Emilie is recording herself playing guitar and singing and putting it on social media, I am re-minded of Grandpa, and the guitar he gave me, and his love for Ernest Tubb and "real music" which is the old country music, not the stuff with drums and solid electric guitars. Mockers may mock at such ob-solete obsessions in old cranks, but a devoted grandson who adored and adores them man knows that grandpa was, to use a Jewish expression, "putting a hedge around Torah."

There is no point saying that Grandpa was wrong, that that one kind of honky tonk country music isn't the ONLY true music. That is the "fundamentalist" or "atheist" criticism of a religious expression. Grand-pa was basically saying, "This music is God to me, and there is no God but this." To him, in his heart, no music spoke deeper, better, or dearer, and because I love him I know his meaning and don't dare shame him for being provincial.

I pick on Yahweh a bit not to trouble my Jewish friend Diane, who helped improve my writing more than any one person at writers group, and who is a model for Ama as grandma, Dariana: I see the divine in Diana. Just as my one-friend Erika was and is the model for Lissidy, the daughter aspect of Ama the four-faced goddess. And Emilie and Natalie both are Oifia, the childlike aspect of Ama. I pick on Yahweh to harass the Christians in my life, who are collectively the worst hypocritical snot mess of atheists who ever claimed a god, and who Jesus will say to their face at the gate of heaven: Get ye hence, sinners! I never knew you.

Yahweh is part of Ama so there is no drama in my heart. All is part of the divine. I never had to make a choice. I never had a choice.

For AMA is never jealous. She very much is IN all things, and IS all things, so there could be no logic of jealousy. Whatever you love is her already, for Ama is Amanda, that which we love that which must be loved, by irresistible grace. We love her naturally. As sinners, she loves us. As reformed, she loves us. As perfect, as saints, as marred, she loves us. There is nothing we can say, do and be, but she will love us. When she turns her face form us, this is just as Jillian as turned her face from me now for four years. A necessary evil. Evil is infant good. I could not grow further except with her absence.
Soo Yahweh is Yeehaw the donkey god. Actually, the donkey exactly is the totem of Yahweh, and he election of a "stiff necked people" is like to like. They are persistent. But does it help if you are persistent-ly wrong? I have often said, Persistence is Success. Yes, but sometimes you gotta give up for a time too. I don't mean the Jews their religion. God forbid. But Israel is a cursed country and a cursed soil and Amer-ica is the ONLY promised land, blessed very much by her Jewish people who VERY MUCH belong her, respected and admired. I have a GREAT CONTEMPT for Israel the state. But I don't want to jar these notes too much with "contemporary" politics.

Sherry and I fight. I no longer will air my dirty laundry. She is stubborn as a goddam mule. Insanely stubborn. She is a powerful woman. And I am very VERY attracted to power in women. Because my mom was and is powerful, and mom is home to us. The original home. For nine months.

I will share this song. The link this time, just the link, lest Ivan whine that his email is full and he has old-man-syndrome and can't vet out his emails and make space. This is a song I wrote for Sherry, Sorrow Worm. Well, it is Jillian's combination of my song "invocation" followed by my strumming the chords to Sorrow Worm. The chorus to Sorrow Worm is "My love is suicide, but I choose you." In this mix of the song, Jillian moans the lyrics in metallic distorted perfection, and her Cello, who IS the body of the god-dess, endures the torture of a soul and body that endures utter hell forever, as often and need by, for the one he loves. My love is unbreakable. It survives even suicide.

https://youtu.be/ZLjvKiNwKbU?si=b7Ua5LcxliM-T4_z

On my Deafness

On My Deafness

 

Oh! The whole point I had in mind for remarking on my telling brother in law tom about the drama of insisting I am getting the Boy flute lessons is that Tom then insisted I listen to the Rolling Stone's "Ruby Tuesday" immediately. He has this feckless bratty sense of urgency sometimes and I was writing an email to you all yesterday but I wrapped it up and listened to Ruby Tuesday. Tom expressed disappointment that my phone had such poor speakers and lacked a phone jack to plug it into his master stereo speakers, which is quite amazing and gained racoon style from dumpster diving.

I will bring Nathan-gift my portable boom box to listen to this song with Tom when we put in the new alternator today. Tom wanted me to hear the flute part of Ruby Tuesday, and I was shocked because this is a popular well-known song I've heard many times my whole life, but I never really acknowledged the flute.

I have it LOUD and on repeat as I dance my chares, adoring Ama with my songs. I do hear the flute, yes, and I will share it with the Boy later, but I really hear ONLY the cello.

In the Name of Jillian who is God, so if the cello forever blessed in my ears.

And that's fine.

But I remember my grandpa, the one who loved me so closely because we both played guitar, and gave me Angela, my guitar, when he passed, said he went deaf in such a way that he could hear low tones fine but high tones irritated his ears. He was into old-school country music, which he told me was the ONLY real music. Rock and roll with drums and electric guitar was not music. I patiently and meekly listened and never disputed him. I adore my grandpa so much! So he favored Ernest Tub, an old school country singer with a deep booming bass voice.

Lately, I notice my music prefers the same: the bass. I thought it was Jillian who taught me to pick out the bass first. And maybe that is true. But I like music with thick drums and thrumming overwhelming bass. I guess I always did. They might be giants John Linnel has nazel nerd voice. But as for both "In the Meantime" by Spacehog, and "Possum Kingdom" by the Toadies, my highschool staples, these are songs built around and based on an ingenius bass lick. Muse too I think begins with the bass. How a song begins, its inception and conception, determine also its limit and extend.

The Beatles, Paul, said he wrote all songs on acoustic guitar first. Me too. I can't get electric. I LOVE the riffs of electric music. Always did. That killer little riff in Jethro Tull's Aqualung. So SMALL yet inexhaustible. An eternal MOTIV. The same is Beethoven's fifth tattoo, a symphony lending it quite well to heavy metal renditions.

I hear the bass now. I hear the tinkling less. The flutes less.

Now Mom and (biological) Dad are both nearly completely deaf. This is my blessing too. Like Beethoven and Milton and Homer, I get to lose the external form of the sense so as to internalize and intensify beyond all belief. I am very very VERY sensitive to rhythms and repetitions. To the point of EXTREME MIGRAINE if the rhythm is off. This pet peeve and hypersensitivity is also my superpower. What is evil but infant good? And the best editors of all time are the most irritable.

Old age is a GREAT dropping off of the sense to prepare to leave this limited husk. The slow decay of the body is beautiful. Death is beautiful. This is wonderful!