Wednesday, November 30, 2011

"the limits of optimism" an allay


The limits of Optimism



                Commitment stays level, optimism steps up. Life gives you a solid X, and optimism adds an arrow, using the given to make the new. Optimism is optimization: taking what is and realizing its potential. We are cheered by life, we chose this place, we are champions of our times, and as the great spiraling arrow of time circles back and around wider and wider, we will be above ourselves, standing above our actions in this life, playing that higher game of divinity. Beauty is divine: eternity is a poem. Yes, eternity is a poem written by time. Beauty is irresistible. The man who doubts God has a God who can be doubted. But we know this: Gratitude is the root of virtue. I am grateful to myself and all that allowed me to be who I am, where I am. And Ama I cannot doubt, who speaks to me and fills my mind and heart with the warm flush of joy and brilliance. Those prophets profit nothing. They are as arrogant as a dry thunder. They have every interpretation of random disasters, but when they claim to look in the future, they are instead looking into ancient superstitions.

                Certainly fevers grant the greatest dreams, and is not our creative passion, that triangle of flux, precisely that inner passion which outs the solid charge of independent self-being? Optimism too warms in gratitude for the now, for the here, for the possibility hidden in the very earth of our being, so that we can, with Thoreau, mine goal in our own souls, or with the Mormons, realize that America is already the Garden of Eden, and heaven is nothing other than a way of looking at the world. A man doesn’t go to heaven after he dies if he isn’t there before it.

                We are grateful for what we have, and never so insolent to be grateful for what we hope for. Such a ploy against the universe is like a charity thanking you in advance for the donation it wishes you to give. Yes, prayers are self-soothing – that is their cash-value, that is their reality. But better poor than crooked: begging gifts you haven’t earned makes you a pup at the table of God, begging for a scrap God’s mother tells him to withhold.

                Optimism is invincible, for it maximizes the power that is: nerves of iron, lion’s will. Ink is useless in the well: the fingers that dance make script the future now. Our life is the flow of ink over history; any dead fish can go with the flow, but it takes a God among men to defy each and every one. Obey not kings and presidents: obey your inner soul! Obey not duty nor goodness: obey your inner soul! Obey not truth nor love: obey your inner soul. Obey and believe in the being you are: what you have will increase, what you borrow must be paid back with interest.

                Stop hoping for that heaven of yours: you don’t even want it. Would you do a thing forever? Would you do it at least for a day? Sex is the circumference of power, pleasure the limit of force. Optimism is a joy in life, the conversion of depression into power. Lack the depression, lack the optimism. Just as you must have enemies to be a good friend, so you must have failures to handle success. You think failure ruins a man? I tell you a man is more often ruined by his successes. His success is greater than him: he drowns in a tear drop of glory. Be grateful for your failures, like Washington in his endless failures against the British, which humbled his men too low to revolt, keeping them on the living level of ambition, so that a beaten and broken group of stollards would in the end defeat the strongest army of the most powerful nation in the world: celebrate with your pagan gratitude, lovers of life: we are pagans in the springtime of the world. America is Eden, Liberty is the flaming Cherubim, and though the trees of life and death have been cast down, their blood sinks in the soul and makes our city on the hill sacred and profound.

                The common man thinks himself uncommon, but the exceptional knows where he is normal. Seek not to be different; seek to be genuine. Mine the gold of your own soul, let the constitution of your health create a better republic. Nevermind those university diplomas they award for when ignorance turns studious: donkeys prefer straw to gold, and professors prefer erotic poems to the passionate embrace. He who possesses is possessed: eternity now!

                The resentful man quips “The Lord in his heavenly throne still rests upon his arse.” So be it, and are you and I any less lordly? And will we let the necessity of an abdomen put questions to our divine right to the highest glories? Is not a universe hidden in the atom of our soul?

                On the Mandela, optimism takes the place of our right leg: we step forth, stable on the foot of commitment. Each person has his Thing, his favored activity, the all thing which makes the Way of the All into a game of his life. Is optimism hope? Shall we ever anticipate the Messiah, like the Jews, who are the foreskin of mankind, who protect beautiful things and must not be removed, yet bend themselves out of shape for wanting theocracy? Let us focus on our immediate being: the Messiah within. Dear Christians! If you are not yourself the full glory and heaven of the second coming, then is your faith in vain. The immediate, and yet not quite the media, which magnetizes and type-sets our imagination. Let a man hope in himself, in his own potential, and avoid the newspapers all together --- which are more fictional than the box office. Let the world gossip forever about bad news elsewhere, let them admit in their soul, bad news next store is good news at home, but let us focus on the living moment, the action life before us, and circulate our love and hate into real objects.

                The spiritual objects in a relationship must circulate their energy. Language and gesture are the conduits. We must ever add to the world, that is our balance. Our sun-glory souls, gift giving adders to being, our inner self-increasing logos, demands that we ever give more gifts to mankind, put the All in our debt, and never mind the wars and rumors of war that are mere signs of idleness.

                The energy and power of culture is in the transfer of symbols through language. The lacuna of Lex Lux ensures that symbols obey the laws of poetic justice. Each person is eternally himself, and yet swims in the river of larger laws. The law of optimism is this: what you find you can keep, but what you hope for will never be granted.

                Flow your pragmatism in the flux of life. Flow gets ideas in circulation. Did not the stoics say “the aim of virtue is for life to flow”? yet we are more than life’s lazy river, but we add the river of our soul, the flowing blood of our soul, into the wine glass of all mankind. “The tree of liberty must from time to time be refreshed with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure,” but is not our whole life a bleeding of our soul into the greater soul of mankind. Is not the Allist the marrow of Man? Ama first: insist on yourself! And never mind the cynics.

                Believe your own joy, and shoot down the cynical birds who would have you for their dinner. Innocence attracts more vultures than a corpse. Cynicism uses little insinuations to make us doubt life. The man falsely accused is already condemned. There is a shadow of doubt with every lie and denial. Cynicism is the accuser against the beauty of life. Even if a man is proven as innocent as the marriage bed, yet the doubters doubt. Mormonism, the fools religion, yet has its apoligism with  sense of moral superiority, and wherever somebody is willing to feign certainty, the world is somehow impressed. Insist on your innocence and you always can. Don’t struggle. When you have given up your last defense, then are you invincible. “Our painful labors are unnecessary and fruitless; only in our easy, simple, spontaneous actions are we strong.”

                My body is my book, my six feet the world tree of nine gestating worlds.

                Jesus is a sing, a blasphemy on the cross, if he makes you want to worship rather than to share his heights. The Buddha is a bumbler if he makes you want to be a Buddha, but he was right that you are a light unto yourself, your mind a lantern, your heart a treasure, and what you may become is greater than anything that has yet appeared. When you can know in your heart “I am all,” and feel the layers of truth in these certain words, you will no longer doubt your rightful place. Let dreams be the radiance of your actions. Let the entire cosmos spin over your Archimedean feet.

                Sing your own stories, write you own myths. Write Allays, like these allays, these all lays, poems of many threads. The vertices of our lives are a few stories that put the other stories in order. Realize  you are Ama, the Unity of all the Gods, this is your optimistic insight.

                She was Ama, divine wisdom, daughter of the mountain's snow. Did not Rome’s Caesar bow to a Greek slave? Wasn’t Ama’s kiss of decision planted on the brow of Aurelius when he discovered the works of Epictetus? Do I say too much? I feel I am sumo wrestling with my tongue.” “What is the goal of virtue, after all, except a life that flows smoothly.”

                So I am perfidious with my blasphemy for worship and my hubris for humility? Perhaps these chains of commitment alone allow my spirit to soar? The live thread of importance, the independent power of the self requires endless counterbalance from the inner and outer worlds. I speak so because I am so. The world is flux, life is flow, and optimism into the potential of your own nature cannot possibly exaggerate or brag or overstate the simple facts. A well-formed emptiness is the best of tools, and the void of the spoon, the void of the book, is where your use finds place.

                Do as you will and seek no result. That you will it is enough: the soul’s emphasis is always right. Do as you will, that is heroic. The hero inspires the poet, the poet inspires the philosopher, the philosopher inspires the mystic, and the mystic is certain of such great things the world has never guessed! Yes, innocence draws more vultures than decay, but was not Mars the protector of infants, so that the March month is war and birth all at once, War being the father of all things, and Peace being the mother.

                Ama it is night, and love, satin love, pours from your liquid tongue! I am optimistic because I already have it all, the treasure and the key. All I need is to foster the courage that says Yes and is Yes! That innermost is at center the circumference of the universe. You Gods who hate to be doubted, have you not felt the eternal inhale I feel now? Would you command praise if you felt such joy as I feel now? Perfection is Easy! Time is Now! Eternity spirals from the laughter of my sensitive lips. Sing Ama! Pour your love and joy into my itching ears! Gratitude is the root of virtue, and the fruit of achievement!



five subsections from an essay on Nietzsche

My upcoming book, the writing life, is already 600 pages, so I will have to sift through what materials to include. I do not know if I will put in my commentaries on four writers I’ve studied closely --- Nietzsche, Emerson, Zizek, and Rand --- for they might fill up a volume on their own. Every time I pick any of them I am taking careful notes to develop them into lenses for ideas I wish to approach. I was just looking over my notes on Nietzsche, and added or amended give subsections, which will follow this introduction. They concern the following.


1. Quick note on Nietzsche’s method

2. another note relating method to the man Nietzsche

3. a touch up of my translation of the Yes and Amen song, his conclusion for Thus Spoke Zarathustra

4. My breakdown of the structure of his bibliography – this section actually takes the most study, though it is quick and easy

5. A few comments on one of Nietzsche’s early works, some notes for his  university lecture on the Presocratic Philosophers.


I actually think I will leave this section for a later book, that it won’t go into my next book. These essays take incredible amounts of digestion, and perpetual practice. For those of you who have studied Nietzsche, your comments are welcome!


Take care, Caretakers!

Daniel Christopher June



1 (note on method)

                Too much energy makes irritable and susceptible. Excess energy must be powered together into one thing. The two modes of mind, focus and selection, use power and energy -- and power presupposes health, just as dissipated energy is disease. For an artistic philosopher like Nietzsche, it is best to be sensual and chaste. His dominant instinct is to reserve his for his projects, and in this, even the great man has a sort of maternal instinct.

                Thus, when Nietzsche characterizes himself as immersed in himself, lost in thought, absent minded, then he is his own superman. Energy is forced to truth. We need energy from every source, from every stimulation. We need the inspiration gained from finding and making enemies, and the goad of the foe, whether woman or warrior, makes the eager will of the hero triumphant. Nietzsche is the freespirit, above all else, the overman was a sort of symbol, inverting, perhaps the man under it, the polite thinker, and projecting it towards the sky.

                His mind tends to the same few questions, and thus he consumes them, and his energy is tamed. His most interesting question seems to be "what is the value of truth?" Everything else is backdrop and digression to this one vital center. Christianity stands only for the pretense to truth – “what is truth?” downs the whole charade -- by the man of resentment. Though it is his main enemy, he doesn't consider it formidable. Honesty was the one virtue he could not shake -- the very central virtue of Zarathustra: to shoot his arrows straight. Truth required justification.

                Truth versus art! Is not such a dilemma embedded in the very fabric of Nietzsche's styles?



2 (method and the man)


                "As happens in great men, he seemed by the variety and amount of his powers to be a combination of several persons -- like the giants fruits which are matured in gardens by the union of four or five single blossoms." This may have well been said about the author Nietzsche, if not the person.

                If a single man do his duty -- not at all what the world claims is his duty, that is to say, to attend instead to his inner law, too fully true to his innermost -- all the world may perish to save that one, or to say the same thing, all the world lives because of him. For these the universe spins, for these she suffers good and evil.

                Every man is a method. A third of what he takes is in his flesh, a third of what he takes is from his world, a third of what he takes is from his uncaused will. Nietzsche is a style. A disciple can write with a Nietzschean pen. The man, for one, never contradicts himself – as no single man ever does – if you consider not the propositional fact of each clause, but the tone, mood, and drift of his overall work. The style is the unity.

                As his method, as a series of methods stamped with the style of one personality, we need only look at the shape of his mind – which lives on in the full scale of his works – and we too think with Nietzschean thoughts. Each society, after all, is positioned amidst a series of voices – of heroes and villains, madmen divines – who are eternally interesting to that society. Who we take as our stock of characters is none other than our cultural pantheon, and they are as godly as any being can be. Their voices are the vertices and extremities of our own possibilities. Goethe stands for Germany, but Nietzsche Europe.

                Nietzsche was a man of many methods, all centered on his method of power. His use of the catalog is remarkable and breathtaking, almost to the level of the American, such as when he lists all the possible definitions of punishment in his Beyond Good and Evil. Such periodical list making requires an intense familiarity with a broad range of topics -- and indeed he said he considered the nature of morality since early youth. To make such sentences and paragraphs confirms it.

                Another unsung virtue is his ability to write up a character sketch of a friend or enemy, as when he characterizes early Christianity, or Wagner, or a hundred others in his marvelous gestures and touches. Let the aspiring writer pay heed.

                To say he was the Freespirit is obvious, but to say he was a German God is less so, a subtler theology than even he would allow. The basic psychological problem he presents -- who am I really? How do I become myself? -- takes away the religious trappings and gets at the art of the business. Jesus’ question: "Who do you say I am," is answered, "Whatever I want you to be." With Nietzsche, who he at his center is he does not place into the hands of others, but guards his secrets like a dragon. Among friends, questions of identify melt away. The more I see you, the more I realize myself. The true friend is the best therapist. A shrink can shrink your wallet and heal your neurosis, but a friend can deify you, or better, reveal what inner independence you beat in your own breast.

                The gods seem plebian. How a man doesn't fit in with his environment is a commentary on his individuality. That a man is lonely and awkward may speak of his greatness. How shall we characterize such men as this?

                If we ask who Nietzsche was, let us take the old dictum: “Judge a man as he judges himself.” He is dynamite: the hinge of history. Granted. What else does he take himself for? Nietzsche's prefaces give a better intellectual autobiography than his Ecce Homo, for while the latter gives a brilliant character sketch of his attitude and method, the former shows a spiritual progression, the man as was defining himself -- and he always defines himself in relation to his works. His place in the heaven of ideas is upon the question of the origin and value of values. He saw different because he was different. Is this blameworthy?

                Nietzsche's madness makes his writing not less, but more true. One need not drink the dragon's blood to know that madness is truth. Creativity and insanity are exactly the same thing, only the first is twinned to will, where second overpowers. Though other thinkers, such as Jung, lack the critical faculty, this intellectual conscious was the shining sanity of Nietzsche's genius.

                He who is mad is alone in his world -- the rest seem themselves to be bent and addled. The man who goes alone can start today, but he who travels with another must wait till that other is ready, and it may be a long time before they get off. And when you take the way to your own unique power, you walk a field without a road, and your feet tread where neither man, angel, nor God has seen or imagined. Don’t match the great man, footstep for footstep, but focus your eyes where he focused his: on your shared goal.





If I am the soothsayer full of that soothsaying spirit which wanders a high ridge between two seas, wandering like heaven’s cloud between past and future, an enemy of all sultry plains of all that is weary and can neither live nor die--in its dark bosom ready for lightening and the redemptive flash, pregnant with lightning bolts that say YES! that laugh YES! soothsaying bolts of lightening-blessed is he who is so pregnant! And verily, long must he hang over mountains like a dark cloud, who shall one day kindle the light of the future: Oh! how should I not lust after eternity and after the nuptial ring of rings, the ring of return?

Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wished children, unless it be this woman of my love: for I love you, O eternity.




If ever my wrath burst tombs, budged boundary stones, and rolled old tablets, broken down into low steeped depths; if ever my laughing mockery blew moldy words into the whispering wind, and I swept as a broom across the cross-marked spiders and burst as a sweeping gust through old musty tomb chambers; if ever I perched jubilating where old God lied buried, I world-blessing, I world-loving, beside the monument of world-slanders--for I love even churches and tombs of gods, once the sky gazes through their broken roofs with his pure eye, and like grass and red poppies, I love to perch on broken churches: Oh! how should I not lust after eternity and after the nuptial ring of rings, the ring of return?

Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wished children, unless it be this woman of my love: for I love you, O eternity.




If ever one breath I breathed from the creative breath and of that heavenly need that constrains even accidents to dance their star-dances; if ever I laughed the laughter of creative lightning, followed with the grumbling obedience of the long thunder of the dead; if ever I played dice with gods at gods' table, the earth, till earth quaked and burst and snorted floods of fire--for the earth is a table for gods and trembles with creative new words and the throws of gods: Oh! how should I not lust after eternity and after the nuptial ring of rings, the ring of return?

Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wished children, unless it be this woman of my love: for I love you, O eternity.



If ever I drank full drafts from that foaming spice-blend mug in which all things are blended; if my hand ever poured the farthest to the near, and fire to spirit, and joy to pain, and most wicked to he most gracious; if I myself am a grain of that redeeming salt which blends all things well in that spice-blend mug--for there is a salt that unites good with evil; and even the greatest evil is worthy of use for spice for the great foaming over: Oh! how should I not lust after eternity and after the nuptial ring of rings, the ring of return?

Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wished children, unless it be this woman of my love: for I love you, O eternity.



If I am fond of sea and all that is of sea's kind, and fondest when her fury scolds me; if that delight in searching which drives sails toward the undiscovered is also in me, if a seafarer's delight is my delight; if every my jubilation cried, "The coast has vanished, now the last chain has fallen from me!; the boundless roars about me, far abounding the glisten of space and time; be of good cheer, old heart!" Oh! how should I not lust after eternity and after the nuptial ring of rings, the ring of return?

Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wished children, unless it be this woman of my love: for I love you, O eternity.



If my virtue is the dancer's virtue, and I have often jumped both feet into golden-emerald delight; if my sarcasm is laughing sarcasm, at home under rose slopes and hedges of lilies--for in laughter all that is evil comes together, and, pronounced holy, absolves in its own bliss; and if this is my alpha omega, that all called ‘heavy’ and ‘grave’ becomes light; all that is body, dancer,; all that is spirit, bird--and verily, that is my alpha omega: Oh! how should I not lust after eternity and after the nuptial ring of rings, the ring of return?

Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wished children, unless it be this woman of my love: for I love you, O eternity.




If ever I spread tranquil skies above myself and soared my wings into those skies; if I swam playfully in the deep light-distance, and my freedom's bird-wisdom came--but bird-wisdom speaks thus: "Behold, there is no above, no below! Throw yourself around, out, back, you who are light! Sing! speak no more! Are not all words made for the heavy and grave? Are not all words lies to those who are light? Sing! Speak no more!" Oh! how should I not lust after eternity and after the nuptial ring of rings, the ring of return?

Never yet have I found the woman from whom I wished children, unless it be this woman of my love: for I love you, O eternity.



4. Nietzsche’s Tree of Knowledge oYo


                “Fertilizer” is the nickname I give to Nietzsche’s aphoristic books, Human all-to-human, The Dawn, and The Gay Science—fertilizer, as Freud called his Interpretation of Dreams, or as Emerson referred to his journals as his savings account. The seed of Birth of Tragedy, clapped shut in the shell of the Untimely Mediations, grew finally into the tree Thus Spoke Zarathustra, a central trunk and branch from which grew the twin branches Beyond Good and Evil, and Genealogy of Morals, whose leaves were his letters and notes of Will to Power, and whose fruits were Twilight of the Idols, springing from Beyond Good and Evil, the Antichrist springing from Genealogy of Morals, and Ecce Homo and Nietzsche Contra Wagner—springing from Zarathustra.

                Zarathustra is pure ejaculation, and as a mix of seeds for Venus, requires Psyche’s ants to sort them out. Fortunately, this work was not edited, giving us raw Nietzschean creative flourish. Ecce Homo, which is written in the same spirit as Zarathustra, is insanely hyperbolic, and yet, eventually, proven to be in fact modestly true. Beyond Good and Evil is only about Willful Interpretation. Who is ‘beyond good and evil’? The Good European Superman who must learn to willfully interpret—the last two books of it are the reason the work was written. Every other topic and nuance is mere parable and underscore for its method regarding how to interpret. The methods of interpretation, as created in Beyond, derive from the aphoristic earlier of the fertilizer works, are implied in strict illustration in Genealogy of Morals, which is above all a demonstration, and finally triumph in the superlative fury of Wotan of the Antichrist, in which every pretense of Christianity is outraged.


5. Scholastic Essays – Seed and shell


                Nietzsche's early works I hardly touch: I'm no scholar, I am under no compulsion. The breath of Schopenhauer submerges Nietzsche’s buoy of joy, but impetuous is his optimism and it rockets back up. His lecture notes, for instance, regarding the Greeks, though kind enough to praise the greatest people to every live, sings praise, only to spit on his own people. He had grown up eating Hellenic grapes, these were his teachers, these his influence.  He says "other people have saints; the Greeks have sages." He then laments that "we have no genuine culture," lacking what the Greeks had: unity of style. Cynical, idealistic, damning and damnable. But Nietzsche outgrew it. He often said that he philosophized in sickness and in health, and thereby he became philosophy's physician. We all grow sick of the idealistic idiots who whine about the degradation of culture. They lack amor fati, they do not know they chose this place for a reason, and their triumph could happen in no other time. The Schopenhauer quotes are a stench, but his teeming adulations of Heraclitus shine through -- how he loved the man! How he considered Heraclitus the type of the philosopher -- for the Greeks had invented "all the philosophical archetypes." Nietzsche effuses: "His fame concerns humanity, not him; the immortality of humanity needs him, not the immortality of the man, Heraclitus. What he saw, the teaching of Law in Becoming, and of play in necessity, must be seen from now on in all eternity. He raised the curtain on the greatest of dramas.”

                All the gab about unity of style making a culture was easy for the Nazis to adapt, and it is even true, for what its worth, but culture not such a rare blooming flower as the young fumer imagined. He is correct to define the everlasting in each philosophy not in its truth, but in its personality. Philosophy is the art of Man Thinking, and behind the thoughts, man himself. Man abides. Man is truth. Art is irrefutable. And with the same craving for style, Nietzsche made a second immortality for himself.

                Those who believe in no heaven hope for fame. Was Nietzsche after the Heraclitian immortality, or historical fury?




Sunday, November 20, 2011

2 riddles, 4 comics

The riddles are mine, the comics are things I’ve come across online.


Riddle one:


When I’m at my fastest

   I stand on one toe

I get clumsier

   The slower I go.


What am I?



Riddle two:


I got a penny in the mail and agreed to take it only to discover its strong smell rose to my nose


What’s a better way of putting this?


(answers after the comics)
















Riddle one:


a top.



Riddle two:


The sent cent

    I assented to own

I sensed the cent’s scent       

    As it made ascent to my nose.




Take care, Caretakers!


Daniel Christopher June



"fractal essay" an experiment in chaos theory

I have recently read a book about Chaos Theory, and whenever I read a science book such as this, I try to attempt stylistic experiments based on what I’ve learned. With set theory and the idea of redactive structures, I had attempted a self-referential sentence and paragraph. This time my model is the fractal, the self-similar structure that iterates its forms on many scales. These next five paragraphs are an attempt to create this structure. Try to read them and then I will explain my attempt:



Fractal Essay

                The initial conditions of a complex environment are superbly sensitive to the least idiosyncrasy -- the gravity of a raindrop a continent away changes the weather of your hometown --, and so the development of a style of language from the moment of inspiration has as much to do with your lunch, and the last three words your wife said to you as it does the breath of memory's daughter, and that starting punch determines everything, the final shape of the equilibrium, down to the bend and tilt of its fractal structure, till the entire system is entrained in a redundancy of order. With such a stylistic initiation, our style can echo the forms of science, the equilibrium between observation and language impregnates literature, and in this case the fractals of chaos are echoed out in the sentences and clauses, essays and paragraphs, working like a fugue to flee again to the same redundancy. What starts peaceful, grows into a peaceful style, finds a balance in the wide web of possibility, slitters down to parts, and iterates the leit motif straight and center. What is fractal at inception sets the tone of the style, predicts the ending with the first phrase, breaks each part into a microcosm of the over all design, and repeats in new forms the initial idea in fresh and unexpected tropes and twists. Style imitates its initial conditions, the forms are derived from conceptual shapes, a bag of tricks from an abstract or invisible geometry, so that a man takes from the various forms he has understood the right corresponding example and cadence to balance his system, rebounding that formal structure to increase the fractal surface area of his system, making a hybrid style to the given concept, that repeats in the very layout of his clauses.  A great novel, for instance, sets the tone in its first sentence, the style is derived from an overture of tone, a form built on form to set the flux into equilibrium, branching in chaotically smaller structures, till the entire system resonates with the micro redundancy of the overall drift. The initial inequality sets the pace and shadows a confusion, and the subsequent stylistic choices ache to resolve the initial imbalance, till a thing creates a navel point of pure balancing chi, not quite at the beginning, but still suggested into every single unit, the balancing mode of entraining each subsystem. The initial style of the fractal structure, infinitely nuanced and so nearly impossible to imitate by a mind conscious of only four stylistic forms apace, finds equilibrium in a personality style able to ken the subtly repetitive underflow, breaking by very etymological variance a style of fractalized dispersion, setting a vibrational resonance of a style of reading in the entrained fractal mind of any given reader. For the initial impression, the style in a glance, to entrain the reader, the writer must take a style of love at first sight, imitate the style of romance when a heart is set apace with a second, till the two lovers, reader and writing, both read and are written in a mirror and mutual contemplation of hypnotic style of beat for beat, so that like the sublime, the sentences take a character of suggestive fractal infinity, tying what is seen to step in cycle with the infinite, making the reader become in life a footnote to the book, living his life in the style of one who has put mind to mind with the master. The beginning alludes to the end, the style itself finds its full being in the first uttered unity, so that the balance, the evening out, the left foot followed by the right is initially implied at the beginning, yet a little atilt so that the initial imbalance immediately breaks into an infinite nuance of balancing acts, setting together a balance breath of initial inhale to final equal like the ever redundant breath.

                Nothing arrests a man better than that first narrative boldness of a complete redacted salute, where the final figure is alluded from the very promise and contract of the initial personality of the author’s wink, so that whatever is lacking, like Zeus in his marriage, is balanced by a limitless entourage of lovers in stylized tropes, this against that, so that the process could be balanced with a little underthrust like a hundred overtones over a piano tone, a million, an infinite, so that all similar violins find their partner in balance in the style of that one entrapping soulmate of the first. Each introduction of an idea or term balances all introductions, every stylistic form in the author’s bag of tricks balances every other stylistic form from that same bag, the writing agrees with the reading agrees with the writer and with the reader, so that a keen reader could grab any sentence, even a word, and intuit the whole economy of infinite checks and balances, so the reader nods and nods as if looking into the friendly hypnosis of the writer before him. The very first word is infinite, balanced against itself, the very style balanced and self sufficient in the infinite style of Aristotle's autonomous nobleman, so that whether whim or ecstasy upset him, like jazz it will balance itself with the very overtones of an improv, and thus the balance, if opened up infinitely, would have a surface area to cover the whole city, and the man who reads the book enough times finds his whole life balanced and even put in sympathy to the book’s infinity. What starts off balanced keeps you in the suspensive pain of boredom, the author’s predictability is the stylistic clue that the reader is already too balanced and entrained to his world, the structure must be disrupted by entraining the reader to a surprising permutation, the initial yawn must contain a glimpse of the abyss of an open maw with the open maw within the open maw, so that the reader goes from agreeing too easily, to realizing he has gotten himself in over his head, and like one of Socrates’ interlocutors, finds his certainty to be inwardly unbalanced and in need of agreement with the seeming ignorance of Socratic wisdom.

                It might surprise you to know there is an infinite structure in the simplicity of a literary clearing of the throat, the very style is already infinitely initiated by the unsaid glance of writer to reader, the equilibrium of infinite balance depends on the disruption of initial suggestion, the very first words are opened like an infinite origami, and even when the unfolding paper is set down, the life of the reader begins each project with that clever bit of infinity now at his own centermost. Perhaps the style of the parents’ love-making, the very energy of the orgasm and nature of the relationship to its infinite nuance, makes the style of the child, knits his very soul from the edge of the universe to its innermost moment, so that the child becomes the equilibrium of the parents’ balanced and unbalanced romance and contract, a thing whose borders are characterized by infinite complexity, so that from his every first step till his last move, the child is the style of his parents’ complex love, and the nuanced means of entrapping each other sets the beat of the child's destiny in life. The very word let there be is infinitely nuanced as the balance of the glorious ohm which created all to the mmm, the Motherverse hums from infinite to simplicity, to balance her knitting of the laws of being, for the very infinity of vocal disruption is balanced by the styles the universe and her people respond to her name, so that infinity balances infinity, godhead balances godhead, the entire universe is present in each atom, and the secrets of reality are in the pinch of corn balancing on your fork, so that suicide away from or growth into infinite complexity, will be balance her as she sets you to her step. From the first blink it is difficult to guess the nature of the infinite structure that is any living experience, but as each word of a book repeats in every new forms the writer’s style, a style which balances the style of his city, a fractal which balances the fractal of his country, of mankind, of nature, of the universe, so does each part sink into each part sink into each part sink, till you realize the final thing is in the mere nodding of your head as each infinite word makes you blink in agreement. The very first burst of the infinite word repeats in each sigh of your life, the style of your thousands of friendships keep you walking in line, a style you can't see is really in all you choose, so that with each friend you balance yourself against your other friends, and bring that internalization of that friend to interject it into each new friend, so that even if they are perfect strangers, they walk in step to each other, so that, really, the very way you talk to yourself is in terms of how your friends have set their minds to yours, they are in your thoughts and you in theirs, and how they view you is internalized to you, and how you view their view of you is internalized into them, and so on and so forth, until you are both overtones infinitely repeating from the same string of the violin.

                I'll have you at my very first word, my style will tell you all I am, and what I am will be forever in your soul, so that with my first word you have balanced yourself against me, and forever balance your soul against mine, where I am in you, from the first moment I laid eyes on you, so that even the quark upon quark of our first handshake shakes us down the subs of our subs, and the first words I said to you will be the last words you remember of me when you pass on. My style you know from the first breath you hear, and have you like a punch of the tar babe, your heart cannot resist each word it lets into the intimacy of its own style, so they tandomly ride, and love me or hate me I will balance you and the cadence of your breath, if but a bit of my ways enter your heart, they will change its waves to the infinite down, and we will forever talk with the same accent. We're balanced, we're equal, the first word announced it, we are forever as one in the manner of our breath, so that just a flash of your face balances my style with these words, and balanced forever each new surprise we bring on each other, and the infinite nerves of our minds are connected, as if threads balanced us to each other, equal to equal, infinitely down, and together will be, by balance of word against word: I'm yours. The Trojans became Greeks with the first gift of the Greeks, man within beast, and beast within man, so that my gifts are my ownership forever to settle in your soul, and yours in mine, so that we style together a whole logos for the west, a balance of Pandora's gift on all mankind, with a balance of Greece's gift to the unGreek mankind, so that each of our narcissism is haunted by the Greek echo--or are we the echo of the Greeks?--so that the West is Greek, and the Western religion is Roman materialism, Lucretius the prophet, with a spirit within, and within that spirit more matter. That first gift to the west has caught us accepting bad things from beauty, and good things from ugliness in the figure of Socrates, we are forever after seeing ugliness in truth and badness in beauty, the style has caught us, we've learned our lesson: the West is Greek in style and manner, its great balance, reverberating to the Tao of the East, which lacks any inception myths, and balances our concern for beginning and ends, so that the West is the cross and the East the yin yang, and yet in each yin a cross, and in every cross a yin, so that west is eastern is western, forever, down to the pith, and we are all together as mankind, all glorious gods to be mankind, walking in step, in the ode to joy that is ever man, criminal and saint, walking in step, with words balanced forever balanced, breath for breath. Vivoce.



This experiment was difficult for me to write, one of the hardest things I’ve written. The essay is broken into five paragraphs. Each paragraph is broken into five main sentences, each sentence is broken into five main clothes. The order of these fives is always the same, the general topic of each being:

1. Initial condition

2. Style imitating forms

3. equilibrium

4. fractal structure

5. entrainment

Entrainment, by the way, is mode locking, when two systems become locked in cycles, such as the fact that the moons rotation around its axis and around the earth keep the “face” always towards us.

So in this essay, the first paragraph emphasized initial conditions, the first sentence of each paragraph emphasized initial conditions, and the first clause of every sentence emphasized initial conditions; the second paragraph emphasized style imitating forms, as did the second sentence of each paragraph and the second clause of each sentence.

As I said, this was a challenge to write! But it has inspired me to create a new structure for my upcoming young adult novel: the Emilegends, which I am writing for my second daughter.

Take care, Caretakers,


Daniel Christopher june



Tuesday, November 15, 2011

What is Freedom?

How am I free if I owe anyone gratitude for my freedom? I am indifferent to you dead and wounded soldiers for your presumption to fight for "my freedom" -- as if my freedom were created or allowed by you. I am as I am. If you give me what I did not request, I owe you nothing at all, not even gratitude. If I decide to pay my taxes, that is for the convenience of avoiding the courts. But I will not be balked by the name of goodness, or virtue, or duty, which are the lies and tricks by which men and women have been manacled throughout all of history. I am all. I owe not one ounce of my existence to another. I created myself. What presumption my parents and society have if they think I own them a second of my effort. What I do and choose to do is not from debt or duty, but my own creative will, which is and which grows. If you play any part of it, give me gratitude for such an honor. Where I speak, the greatest God speaks, and where I walk is omnipotence. I refuse to bow to any other, be it man, or president, or king, or the human race, or any God or gods, or even the very Universe, who should be grateful to know me. Would you share in glory, stand out of my way. Would you seek glory, be sufficient in yourself. There is nobody who can die for me, nobody who can live for me, nobody who can give me anything of lasting value. What you steal you cannot keep. What you are given you must give back. What you create from your inner being is yours forever. Therefore, seek no blessings, favors, gifts, nothing secondary. Make your own way. Be your own self. The greatest of all virtues, the centermost of centermost, is independence, self reliance, autonomy, separation, perfection. Is there a God who would dare offer you heaven, when it is every man's birthright to grow for all eternity? What charlatan with his own blood for snake-oil will dare try to buy my soul in exchange for eternity, when I am and I will. Stand aside, back down, bow. Die for yourself--that would be sufficient. What I am I was from eternity and to eternity. Before God, I am. And for eternities I will unfold and grow in increase. This is the place of manhood. Let us all assume such an attitude.


Daniel Christopher June





some notes on the concept of perspectivism

            Imagine a billionaire who has a fleet of Mercedes Benz cars, his own jet, his own helicopter, servants, whatever money can buy. Now imagine a poor man. He works double shifts but still can’t pay the bills nor get out of debt. He plays the lottery as some sort of impossible fantasy that he might be rich one day, but deep down knows he will die in debt and won’t be able to afford his funeral. Chance happens to them both: the billionaire loses all his money and goes bankrupt. He liquidates his assets, and comes out a few years later, living in a middle class lifestyle, with only one car, and a regular job of no great distinction; the poor man has beaten the odds --- it being more likely that he get hit with lightening twice than winning the lottery then – but after the taxes, and paying off his debts, getting an education, and buying a house, ends up in a middle class house, neighbor to the previous billionaire, working a similar job. The previous billionaire is bitter towards life, the previous pauper believes he is blessed. From one perspective, they both make the same money and have the same sort of job, so presumably on that account, they should be happy, but from another perspective, one has advanced in life and the other lost in life.

            There is a simple experiment you can do at home, if you don’t mind a little discomfort. Put out three bowls, the one on the left with ice water, the one on the right with near boiling water, the one in the middle with room temperature water. Put your left hand in the ice water, your right hand in the hot water, and let them sit for a few minutes, though it will be painful. Wait the full mark. Then submerge both hands in the middle water. The room temperature water will seem to be both very hot and very cold at the same time.

            The first cold day in October, when the temperature drops to 60 degrees (in Michigan) is the coldest day of the year, and we pile on the sweaters. The first warm day of spring in March, which rises to 60 degrees is the warmest day of the year, and we put on our short sleeves and strut through the park.

            Having a special needs daughter who may never speak, when I heard a coworker in tears because her kid had to take retake kindergarten, I didn’t feel pity so much as quiet amusement. She thinks she has it bad? Her kid can tell her she loves her, will one day go to prom, marry, have a job. She should count herself lucky. But then I see a man pushing his daughter at the store in a wheelchair, and the kid is crumpled up, moaning, having no comprehension at all of her surroundings, no awareness that she has parents. Then I imagine a mother whose son drops out of med school to be a poet, and how discouraged she is, and how she curses the day she had a child, or the father whose son has left Catholicism to be a protestant, and the shame of it all. Hmm. It is easy enough to say that these people are victims of their perspective, and that again would be our own perspective, no more relevant than God’s, the Universes, or anybody’s, except in relationship to an individual consciousness and its needs. It is useful to try to see life from different perspectives, to look at a thing in different ways, but sometimes it is best to hold to one view.

            Novels and narrators give unique viewpoints. We can see the world as Scrooge sees it, we can see the world as God sees it, we can see the world as Hamlet sees it. We put on a new pair of eyes. We could even forge a document supposedly written by a president, or a friend, or God, and convince many people of its authenticity, because we are able to predict how another would think, talk, and write. Some scientists look at the earth as a speck of dust, imagining themselves to be a galaxy, I suppose, and some novelists criticize our society by having aliens talk about us, or the far future, as when Spock goes back in time to save the whales, a concern of a couple decades ago, and doctor McCoy, a future physician, calls one of our doctors barbarous for wanting to cure an internal injury with invasive surgery, preferring to wave his technological wand and immediately curing it. “How the other side sees us” might be interesting and helpful, but it has limited use. Those who speak for God like to “judge” humanity, as when Pat Robertson immediately claimed that the terrorist attack of 911 was God’s judgment on American homosexuality; and how natural disasters, which are inevitable and regular, are given some theological interpretation, which amounts to nothing more than a moralist’s viewpoint looking for grounding in an unrelated event. The hurricane that hit New Orleans a few years back was claimed to have been God’s judgment against some political decision we made in Israel, cutting funding or something. There is no lack of wacky interpretations, auguries, and such. These again are foreign perspectives which try to make themselves plausible. They are sometimes helpful, sometimes distracting.

            A perspective is a mask, or a “me as.” We internalize all the people around us, the groups, the gods, the nations, and put each on as a lens, so that we can “plug in” our “persona for” them. We understand their perspectives, at least a bit, and know how to put on the right face to present to them, and what to say, and what not to. I am going to avoid certain jokes with my religious friends, and jokes altogether, at a funeral. We anticipate the results of all actions and sayings, so that watching a character on tv about to say something stupid, we cringe because we know what will come next.

            The central I of the mind, the focus with with power wills a thing and with energy selects different things, is the pure consciousness, unaltered by habits in itself, but only able to see through the lens of habits, from the world of desires which gives it light to see what is relevant to our needs. The truth is not in any one perspective, but trying on many perspectives, and arranding them in a hierarchy relative to our needs and interests. The universe is not intelligent without us, but intelligent through us, through all sentient beings. Our ideas and minds are each a neuron on her larger brain, so that among all the trillions of planets in the billions of galaxies, she has nerves spread throughout her whole body.

            Yet even if we could divine her thoughts, they would not trump our own, but merely be one more perspective, to sometimes accept, and sometimes dismiss.


Daniel Christopher June



Monday, November 14, 2011

"Fate" an audiobook

I have begun to record my favorite book, conduct of Life, by Ralph Waldo Emerson, in order to donate the audiobook to I would like to make his materials available to a wider audience. There are many reasons why this is my favorite book, which I might get into another time, but meanwhile, here is the first essay of the book in mp3 format.





A summary of a book about Chaos theory

Some scattered notes on Chaos Theory


I am just summarizing what I learned from a book on chaos theory. Tomorrow, or soon, I will try to apply what I learned to the development of literary style.


Daniel Christopher June


====================================================== .


I recently read the book “Chaos: Making a New Science” by James Gleick. This books is written for the layman, and readily understandable without extensive knowledge of science. Gleick tells a lot stories, filling in biographical sketches and anecdotes of the many scientists who worked to define what is now known as “chaos theory.” Nevertheless, despite the reader level the author intended, I feel I did not grasp everything he had to say, so I will only share those few points I think I do grasp, and then lay out how I think they can be used to enhance a writing style (in a later email).


Chaos theory began with “the butterfly effect.” Put less metaphorically and more scientifically, the butterfly effect shows that in complex systems, where there are many variables, such as in the weather on earth, initial conditions determine how things are going to look later on. The scientist made a toy climate on his computer to calculate how the weather would develop. After collecting the data, he tried it again a few days later. The computer had changed some of his numbers, rounding up on decimal points, making something akin to a wind breeze of 12.23400000000126 mph turn into 12.23400000013 mph. He had accidentally discovered that the variables involved in weather control are so minute and dispersed, that even if we had weather equipment at every five feet over the whole globe, we could not predict the weather next week, for those spaces between the devices would have data that effected the results.


At one point, it was shown that the sensitive equations involved with complex systems can be greatly changed, even if the change is nothing more than the gravitational pull of a raindrop five miles away from where the experiment is happening.


We now believe that weather prediction is impossible, beyond the hit or miss stuff we already have.


Note that chaos theory is a science allowed by computers. The models and paradigms of chaos theory involve complex calculations that could not be drawn out by a human being. Not that the equations are difficult --- even a highschool senior who had some knowledge of differential equations could do them ---- but the math involves endless iterations of the same equation over and over again. I will try to explain more…


The sensitive dependence on initial conditions led to some further discoveries. Lorenz, the scientist who in studying weather, accidentally discovered this behavior, put weather aside and studied this. He discovered what has become known as the “Lorenz attractor.” It’s like this: when a data set is chaotic, that means if you graph it, you can see no pattern, let alone make a formula to express it. But if you graph things a little different, make a graph that accounts for periodicy, you will see surprising patterns emerge. Though the data is nonpredictable, it is patterned, the data point loops around attraction spots. The new graphs replace “time series graphs” with “trajectories in phase space,” which are fully contained in the graph, give the full picture, do not go onwards off the graph into infinity.


In every day language, they were able to look at the data differently, and suddenly it was discovered that chaos is ordered. These new graphs allowed the view to understand the equation all at once: all the info is in one picture.


Mandelbrot is a scientist who “discovered” the fractal, or a mathematical model in which the shape of the whole is repeated in the parts. Some of these graphs are beautiful, I suggest you look them up online. We call such fractal shapes “self similar.” If a coast line is variegated on a map to look rough and irregular, imagine that rough pattern being the same on every level, down to the microscipice, infinitely. No matter at what level you magnify it, it looks the same. Strangely enough, a circle with a fractal circumference has an infinitely long circumference, though it is only two inches long! These were not invented by Mandlebrot, but scientists are always playing with mathematical toys that later prove useful. Such a one is the “Sierpinski carpet, constructed by cutting the center one-ninth of a square, then cutting out the centers of the smaller square that remain; and so on. The three-dimensional analogue is the Menber sponge, a solid looking lattice that has an infinite surface area, yet zero volume”


All this turns out to be most relavent to just about every physical system. There is no part of your body where a cell is more than two cells away from a blood vessel. Yet the vesicles take up less than 5% of your body. How could our DNA have made such a complex system through the body? With a few basic rules that repeat again and again. The lungs too are fractically structured, so that your lungs contain a bigger surface area than your typical tennis court.


This applies to how lightning bolts form when they come to earth, in fractal patterns. In fact, as the Fibonicci golden ration was discovered to be all over in nature, from sea shells to sunflowers to galaxies, so are fractal shapes all over in nature. A dynamic system is one in which the variables of at least three differential equations create an infinite behavior. It appears random and unpredictable. It has been found the explain the behavior of the twitching of the eyes of schizophrenics, the orbiting of three suns around each other in three dimensional space, in heart fribulations, etc.


Fractal energy is a engineering problem. Turbulence is the energy lost in a lot of machines. Small scale motion drains energy. When you push an oar in the water, there are pockets of turbulence in which the water makes big whirls, and in those big whirls, smaller ones, and smaller, and smaller till it gets to the atomic level. That disperses energy, so that it is wasted. This is important for airplanes, because turbulence is chaotic and can crash a plane. Turbulence is disorder at all scales. Yet these systems can be graphed with incredible accuracy using a “strange attracter” or two dimensional graph that can looks like an owl mask with lines going in looping behavior.


The author gives a detailed biography of Mitchell Feigenbaum, a scientist who added a lot to this field. He was a detached intellectual as a kid, who avoided other kids and thought a lot. He would take 4-5 hour walks to think out his ideas, listened to the music of Mahler, and identified with Goethe’s Faust, his favorite book. When he got to using computers to figure out his equations, he would spend 20 hour days for months exploring these things, looking for keys behind them. He loved Goethe because Goethe, unlike Newton, was wholistic, and did not aim to “divide the light into a spectrum.” He was inspired by other outmoded types of science and seemed to find what he need to figure out his equations. To say the least, his ideas were rejected again and again. Yet new discoveries are discovered not by specialists or committees, but individual passion.


Much of his work was taken up by Libchamber, another eccentric scientist who believed in the great Man theory of history, loved Goethe and was obsessed with old books; and unlike his fellow scientists, he was not a communist. Libchamber found ways to experiment with and verify Feigenbaums equations. It explained the growth of ameba in a dish, the growth of a crystal, of rivers. It was discovered that boundaries are the most interesting places to study. When one equation imposes on another, or when system on another, interesting things happen.


Many other mathematicians contributed, before straight physicists joined in: “Simple equations often produce ellipses, parabolas, and hyperbolas of conic sections or even the more complicated shapes produced by differential equations in phase space. But when a geometer iterates an equation instead of solving it, the equation becomes a process instead of a description, a dynamic instead of static.”


It was discovered that from very simple equations, if iterated, infinite worlds could be created, and if looked at graphically, each layer could have its own organization, patterned yet unlike all the others, so that from simplicity came infinite complexity and variation. Not all these systems needed to be self similar. Some could be infinitely unique, yet patterned and structured gracefully, based on only a few equations.


These types of equations can explain otherwise impenetrable data sets. They explain how the immune system organizes itself and how sugar is converted into energy by yeast, the patterns of growth..


Reality doesn’t follow “linear equations” so much as “dynamic equations.” When an object is in motion, it creates friction in the world. The friction is not constant but related to how fast its going, so that to measure anything accurately would be impossible. Not only are there many variables, but the variables change each other. It’s like playing a game whose rules change depending on how you place it.


“Was chance necessary for biological systems? Hubbard, [a biologist studied in this book] thought about the parallels between the Mandelbrot set and the biological encoding of information, but he bristled at any suggest that such processes might depend on probability. “There is no randomness in the Mandelbrot set,” Hubbard said. “there is no randomness in anything that I do. Neither do I think the possibility of randomness has any direct relevance to biology. In biology randomness is death, chaos is death.”


A group calling themselves “the dynamic system collective” worked together hippy style to explore chaos in different systems, though they were grad students and got no funding to do so. The created many relevant discoveries on how chaos relates to physics and biology, and had to scratch their way into getting professional acceptance.


(The author shows how strange attracters are engines of information, and he goes into information theory, talking about how chaos is ordered and what this means for the second law of thermodynamics.)


The Collective did an experiment on a leaky faucet, noting how often a water dropped. By graphing it in this manner: let X be the time since the previous drop, and Y the interval between a drop and the next drop, he made  a two dimensional graph. After adding the Z coordinate as X + two drops he got a three dimensional graph that resembles a Lorenz attractor, or in other word, the chaos of a dynamic system.


“The paragon of a dynamic system and to many scientists, therefore, the touchstone of any approach to complexity is the human body.” The system was applied to the human heart. “Modeling any one piece of the hearts behavior would strain a supercomputer; modeling the whole interwoven cycle would be impossible.” Yet dynamic systems were discovered in the heart. The pressure in each valve changes the thickness and flexibility of the walls, which add different pressure based on how much is in them. Artificial valves create areas of turbulence and areas of stagnation, where blood clots get formed, which can lead to stroke. “The mathematicians found that the heart adds a whole level of complexity to the standard fluid flow problem, because any realistic model must take into account the elasticity of the heart walls themselves. Instead of flowing over a rigid surface, like air over an airplane wing, blood changes the surface dynamically and nonlinearly.


Mental disorders and sleep irregularity have been shown to be dynamic systems. (He talks about mode locking of the moon and other systems, so that its face always is near earth, and satellites tend to spin in whole-number ratios of their orbital period 1 to 1 or 2 to 1. Etc, and says that “biological equilibrium is death.”)


He summarizes his work saying that simple systems give rise to complex behavior. Complex systems give rise to simple behavoir. And that the laws of complexity hold universally, caring not at all for the details of a systems constituent atoms.”