The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

Ironic, considering the nature of my thoughts these past several days, and chilling, the language of the visual cortex, bright and bloody, glowing on computer screens, placed there by layer and layer of electron combs and filters — I can see what you’re seeing —

http://www.cell.com/neuron/abstract/S0896-6273(08)00958-6

When we see (to pick one sense out of many) we do not see what is seen but rather see what we see. That is, we do not see the object standing or the events unfolding before us, but rather we see our vision of this object or these events. Our vision is chemical, the intricate workings of soft & spongy clockwork (the eye is not just a gelatinous ball of goop), twisting and turning beneath the “light of other days” — old light, stale, shining down — and somehow this chemical vision produces within our heads the illusion of vision — we think we can see the world — but in truth, we live within our skulls.

Even so, we must accept there is most likely some truth to our visions, that these chemical apparitions summoning the outer world must bear some close correlation with the spatial objects beyond our actual perception — refined into something useful by the generations of competitive dying of which we are the heirs.¹

 

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1. Isn’t it strange that we’ve now short-circuited this process by not dying quite so quickly — what does this mean? That natural biological selection has slowed, and that our improvement now lies within our own hands and responsibility.

Language that reveals and obscures, or in obscuring revealing. Some relevance to Plato and Aristotle’s different conceptions of art and the cave — in terms of the motives and outcomes.

stephoscopes: i am not on facebook so i cannot be your friend there

Did I remember what I think I remember? What is the process of the self-authorship of memory? These are the movies in our head, purporting to be the remnants of our lives — when I try,  I can remember carrying my uncle in his coffin to his grove through the snow — I remember his funeral, sitting next to my cousin Jacob, sitting next to his grandfather Dan — (who had the face of my uncle grown old, my uncle whose face would now never grow old — oh memory, oh sadness)

The fuzzy trace theory model canl help explain how false memories are created. According to Reyna and Brainerd (1995) the fuzzy trace theory states that the processing of items is determined by gist traces or verbatim traces.  The gist traces are general senses and meanings of presented items that consist of rational information.  Gist traces are pieces of information that closely match the event, while verbatim traces are item-level data, which is specific detail of item (Neuschata, Lampinen, Preston, Hawkins, & Toglia, 2002).  Reyna and Kiernan (1995) found that participants sometimes falsely notice verbatim traces, although they had better remembered gist traces. The fuzzy trace theory theory will help in deciphering the cause of false memories in the photographs that are shown in the present study.

http://www.anselm.edu/internet/psych/theses/2005/creaser/Introduction.html

 

Band, named after pickpocket academy in South America in the 1980s, that led to pickpocket epidemic on easts coast in the 80s.

Influences: Dreampop, 4AD Records, M83, David Archuleta

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/School_of_Seven_Bells

However, it was at one of these balls that I first saw the cake-walk. There was a contest for a gold watch, to be awarded to the hotel head-waiter receiving the greatest number of votes. There was some dancing while the votes were being counted. Then the floor was cleared for the cake-walk. A half-dozen guests from some of the hotels took seats on the stage to act as judges, and twelve or fourteen couples began to walk for a sure enough, highly decorated cake, which was in plain evidence. The spectators crowded about the space reserved for the contestants and watched them with interest and excitement. The couples did not walk round in a circle, but in a square, with the men on the inside. The fine points to be considered were the bearing of the men, the precision with which they turned the corners, the grace of the women, and the ease with which they swung around the pivots. The men walked with stately and soldierly step, and the women with considerable grace. The judges arrived at their decision by a process of elimination. The music and the walk continued for some minutes; then both were stopped while the judges conferred; when the walk began again, several couples were left out. In this way the contest was finally narrowed down to three or four couples. Then the excitement became intense; there was much partisan cheering as one couple or another would execute a turn in extra elegant style. When the cake was finally awarded, the spectators were about evenly divided between those who cheered the winners and those who muttered about the unfairness of the judges. This was the cake-walk in its original form, and it is what the colored performers on the theatrical stage developed into the prancing movements now known all over the world, and which some Parisian critics pronounced the acme of poetic motion.

— James Weldon Johnson: The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man, 1912, Chapter 5, page 50

Desire is the memory of desire. Before — one would have thought they would die as the desire is leached out — but we never die — not till we die — I fade into the machine — I am hungry — or long to hear music — let the sickness pass — let the fever reign — old loves — I am delayed — caught waiting on the deck of the Titanic —

We are all children of the universe, made from the same starstuff, emerging from the same singularity, carrying within us the fundamental rules of chemistry and physics (one the subset of the other); we are organized water carriers, flitting around with rudimentary programming which emerged organically though the process of wind blowing across the sand and forming castles –

two million years later we sit here in our sand castle wiling away the hours wailing at the lookingglass, in mad love with our contingent flesh — the magic of our coming is real but contingent — we are surrounded by magic — the world, grass poking up from the earth — magic — a tree grows out of my belly, when the privileged observer looks at it sideways —

let go of the contingent, and hold the absolute, and do no violence to each other —

There is a marching band sound to this band — and a very clear voice — simple rhythm — lyrics I can hear — simple true poetry — the love songs of a fifteen year old girl in the 1960s, writing her thoughts into a purple spiral bound notebook while the record plays Pet Sounds — How did this thing called Time ever come to pass?

My mind is broken — like my language. I don’t know what time it is. Where in our galactic circuit do we now stand? 10,000 civilizations — 10,000 civilizations out there — are they liberals like us — do they love and hunger for love — do they love their children — believe in free markets? how many eyes do they have and how many arms? Do they war against each other with rayguns and hovercars? Hey Buck Rogers, Hey Flash Gordon, There’s a Bomb in the Air, Ticking.

How do I know that the world didn’t end in 1962 and I’m just the mind-dream of an alternate universe hovering? As I sit here trapped in this fleshbody, mostly forgetting about it, except for the aching in my right foot, I know I could be anywhere anyone — my soul (my mind) my soul (my mind) floats away from this as easily as from anything else – trading miseries, let’s call it.

Why sing of miseries? Sing of all the beautiful things you’ve seen this past year — the Washington Monument out your dining room window — the Empire State Building from your roof — a dreadlocked guitarist in Washington Square Park — a ruffled white miniskirt lifted up by the wind — driving a rented car across the Golden Gate Bridge — your face — the face that I didn’t know sixteen months ago — the face I’ve come to love — the face that loves me back — these visions — did I imagine them? Did I dream them? Did I dream myseslf holding you in my bed in Arlington, Virginia, in Chevy Chase, in Philadelphia and Rochester and Monterey and New York City and New Haven?

This love affair — tinged by something — the first gray hair in my twenty-something head that I can’t yet see — I lie here on my maroon bed in my peach room in the City that Never Sleeps not sleeping. And I don’t think about the past or all that history of jazz — I look to the future — that time which is as of yet unknown — still plastic and pliable — mine to make — mine to hold — unknown — new frontiers — where maybe I’ll find strengths I never knew I had —

There will be other things — sickness — mourning — grief — and the sleepdeath at the end — maybe I’ll miss it — don’t want to miss it — fear of death is real but is also a dodge, a step out of the way — clearly a symbol / synechdoce, standing in for something else — I’m standing on my head, juggling cats for your amusement, the 1st cat’s name is Dedication, the 2nd cat’s name is Truth, and the 3rd cat’s name is Dinah —

Is this poetry? Philosophy? Research. No – no – like Bill Shakespeare, I lack Latin and have less Greek — and yet, here in Fourth Rome, New Babylon, Not Sleeping, I write, staring backward at the long generations of Western History, watching as we all rose together from fear and darkness and slavery to this brave new world of freedom, love, and light — we must care for each other — we must care for ourselves. we must care for each other. Is there irony here? Maybe — irony of false thought. Irony of procrastination — would it be enough for me? To be a scribe? To be a poet? A minstrel dancing? The bullockbefriending bard? Oh, the sentences I’d write — crossing the streets and catching the eye of a strange girl who does not know me and I don’t know her — not thinking about the strange view that might/must be seen from behind her face if I could be her for a moment — and see myself, ugly but intense, as others see me — matted hair — eyes dancing behind squared-off spectacles — already becoming an affectation in this brand new 21st century — give me plastic lenses — the tiredness of morning and touching my finger to my eyeball — I cannot stand it some mornings — and yet — lighter on my face all day — I can feel the lightness. Shat my brains out this morning. Almosts missed my interview.

I got my god and I got my gun and I got my bitterness too — up and back and up and back the northeasts corridor from Washington to the City of Brotherly Love and I’m ok if you’re ok and the night is long in the City that Never Sleeps and I’m not sleeping and I hear your voice on the telephone and it makes me smile and it makes me warm and I am coming to come see you on a train and take you in my arms and spin you round like ring-around-the-really-really-rosey dance, in and out, up now down, left right, left right, watching screens of screens glowing, humming, brightlight lightbright etch-a-sketch my darling in the Twenty First Century in the Twenty First Century I’ll see you in the Twenty First Century I’ll meet you — and can wax quixotic and I can count to ten and skate across the lake in icy winter with the ducks trapped below swimming swimming swimming in Central Park in winter – spring is coming, baby, spring is coming, baby — hey there, snowflake, hey there, hey there, hey there, I got rhythm and I got soul and dance with me tonight, dance with me in Paris and dance with me in Spain — televised revolutions burst out on the screen — the books —