Alice in Wonderfuck

I’ll tell you the difference. I don’t find my identity in politics, or drinking, or computers, or art. I don’t o/d. on identifiers. I hear reviewers in my head, throwing out the titles : “with Alice in Wonderfuck and The Transient Fish he…” blah de da…what a wonderful sound, authority sucking my dick, saying I am right, hailing to my whims.

Mom said that she dreamed that I wrote a book. Hmm. Or got a book published. I wonder what makes her think about that. (Freud.) Or are dreams just random. Or randomly picked from the archives of the brain. I am only writing this for an excuse. Juvenile play. To ignore the one who ignores me, politely, in a telling act, with whom I have just had a wonderful conversation. Life.

And another, and another, and another. I do not know, and I will never know. What I can do is live within the current scope, and do the best I can. (Play the game of the playing class you know.) Forget the rest. It is unimportant as it is inaccessible. Mystery cannot be eliminated. Friends are important. Love, whatever that is, seems good. Do. Be. Have. Exeunt.

Toy Story speaks strongly to the question of human consciousness, which I noticed/interpreted (only) after the third seeing. You are a person, not God. Do what people do.

Alice in Wonderfuck

Questions about probability and the nature of stuff

I think my questions about probability and the nature of stuff are closely related. I like the gumball machine model with which to think about probability. What happens at a gumball machine is commonly classified as consequence. You put in a quarter, and then a gumball comes out. State implies state. You put in a quarter, therefore, a gumball comes out. However, this statement is inaccurate. The interaction at a gumball machine doesn’t always work this way. Sometimes the machine is broken. So we say : you put in a quarter, and usually, a gumball comes out. But why doesn’t it work all the time? Or none of the time? If it’s the same machine, and to it you apply the same stimulus, you should always get the same response. Yes? Well, the reason that is not the case is that it is not the case that it is the same machine, and it is not the case that you are applying the same stimulus. Commonly, we say that the machines are similar, and commonly, we say that the stimuli are similar. When you get two pieces of gum, in a row, from the “same” machine, you don’t use the “same” quarter twice, but you can expect to get a piece of gum each time, because, as we say, “A quarter is a quarter.” That is, one quarter, though it have small differences from another quarter, they function the same, they serve the same purpose. But it is important to realize that “something” is not the same in two moments. Coins don’t change very quickly, but dollar bills do. At one point, a dollar bill will work in a coke machine. At another (later) point, that “same” dollar bill will not work in a coke machine. It is wrinkled and faded, and the machine rejects it. The dollar bill does not function as it did before, so we know that it is not the same dollar bill. In fact, everything works like this. Our concept of a constant quarter is inaccurate. A quarter is made up of smaller pieces, or, at least, at some points we would say a quarter exists, and at some points we would say no quarter exists. This produces our concept of change, or something being made up of smaller pieces that get rearranged. So we know that even though we would use the same symbol twice, it does not necessarily correspond to a thing that is constant, even if we perceive it to. A quarter, for example, we refer to with one symbol repeatedly. I put a quarter in my pocket, I take a quarter out of my pocket. But, probably, the thing we are referring to before is not exactly the same thing as the thing we are referring to after. Small changes have occurred to the quarter, its edges have been redefined. With a quarter, this change is slight, but with a dollar bill, this change occurs more rapidly. What we call a quarter can function for a long time as a quarter should. You put it in the machine, out comes a coke. A dollar bill, however, fades and wrinkles and withers away with relatively few repetitions of being put into a pocket and taken back out. Almost never would you expect a machine not to recognize a quarter; more frequently would you expect a machine not to recognize a dollar bill. So a dollar bill is not a functional constant through time. We think of it sort of in the height of its being, in a (non-existent) ideal state : functionally a dollar bill. But that ideal dollar is made up of pieces that were not always organized as such…they were once so scattered that no person would recognize them as a dollar…and someday they will again be so scattered as to be unrecognized as a dollar bill. In fact, in that state, it seems natural to say no dollar bill exists. And that can lead to the conclusion that our concept of a dollar bill is just a simplistic interpretation of the way stuff is arranged and rearranged. There’s nothing dollar bill about a dollar bill. That’s just a word we use to describe part of stuff for a while. People are more complex, but, for sure, we fit into the same scheme as dollar bills. Today people would think it reasonable to say “Matthew exists” but what about ten years before I was born? What about after I decompose and scatter into other parts of nature? Will I exist then? Certainly not like I exist now. In fact, before I was born, and after I decompose, both the I concept/consciousness of Matthew and the concept of Matthew in others, has no extension; the symbol refers to no present thing. Matthew did not exist before he was born, not like he does now, and after he decomposes, he will not exist like he does now. This can lead to the conclusion that the Matthew who exists at 1:46 does not exist at 1:47, at least not like the Matthew at 1:46. My edges, at least, are different. My self has been redefined.

Questions about probability and the nature of stuff

Space as continuous and finite

Jesse and Matthew conceive of {a space/stuff} as continuous and finite, like a conceptual checkerboard with regions divided by y=k and x=l…z=m where k,l,m is any non-continuous finite series of real numbers, and x, y and z are (hypothetical) axes perpendicular to each other. But with the difference that any point in the potentially infinite, and assuredly continuous, space, or plane, or n-space is in one and only one of the conceptual regions laid out by the set of delineating lines. So there are {an infinite number} of locations in space at which to conceive a mathematical point, but if k, l, and m represent finite series, then there are (only) a finite number of distinguishable regions in which to consider an infinite number of locations (coordinates). An infinite set is mapped onto a finite set.

Space as continuous and finite

I’m in a state today.

I woke up early feeling bad. I still feel bad. I’m thinking of all the bad things, all the things I can’t stand. My general want is to contact my parents and complain about college : to let everyone know that it’s not as great as it’s cracked up to be. First of all, everyone and their pet chiffarobe is drunk all the time, and I hate that. It’s not my thing, it is distant to me, foreign. I feel like I have no friends. Not only that, I don’t see much possibility for making friends. I’m always busy, I’m not doing as well as I could in all my classes, and I don’t find myself fulfilled. There are always people around, in my room late at night, at the dining hall, at the laundry, but not people I want to be around. Plus I’m making minimum wage working away all my spare time in a job where rules and regulations are the maximum thing, and I’m still not making enough money to pay the monthly bill.

I feel severely alone, and without love, and as soon as the impulse hits me to go to a parent there isn’t one. This is a crisis, and growing up. You don’t have any parents anymore.

Tuesday,
I wish I could say I was never lonelier than among the idiots in Mrs. Raimey’s class at Colonel White, or at Colonel White in general, but it’s worse here. I’ve never seen so much desolation and idiocy, I’ve never been so alone. I am not bad at making friends, I just hate everybody here. I’m pretty sure they hate me, too. It’s a nice little arrangement we have. I thought there for a while (last year) that I might have a shot at normal, comfortable life but I was silly. The world is foolish or at least between me and the world one of us is foolish and the other one is not. Anyway, there is a big difference. You are the only person I know who would understand this kind of loneliness, everyone else has had it laughing too easy. Have you ever been happy for more than about a minute? If you have tell me how you did it. I think I might be happy if I was an animal. Or something like or as desirable as happy. If I was an animal, and had no thoughts like these and not so much awareness. I tell you I’ve never felt this way before, but I think it might be nice to be dead. Why is there something instead of nothing? I don’t know. Why isn’t there nothing? It would be a lot easier. Can you tell how happy I am? But I don’t care, I don’t know what’s so hot about happiness. The photolab sucks here, I’d take the CW one anyday. It’s impersonal here, huge, and I have to carry around a bunch of chemicals in my bag. I printed pictures there once, and left. Who wants to do stuff like that? It’s no good to print in a public restroom. The only thing I find rational enough to do is write, and writing just separates you from everyone. They think you’re insane. They think you’re antisocial. They think you have no life because you spend your time away from people. I am like a victim of trauma…the only way to make myself sane is to completely and utterly submerge myself in fantasy, in fiction, in a world within my head. I am sad, I am lonely, I am unfulfilled. I hurt, I need something else, something different, something more. What is this thing called life? I’m in computer class right now. They think I’m a Freak in here. Well fuck them I am a Freak. I am not happy with this. I do not like this. I am like a little kid being drug along the baseball grit against his will, digging in my heels and beginning to cry. I am glad that I feel like this…it gives me a way to look at things, a way to understand what is happening. I need to cry here and there’s nobody to cry to, not even a private place for me to cry by myself. I am a little curl rolled up inside myself. What I know to be true for me I do not see displayed in the assumptions of others. I need to be able to live my truth, to be able to roam in my world of possibility. Other people are limited by a greater amount of external routine than I am. They take it to heart and believe that it is carte blanche necessary to pass your classes and respect your teachers even if that means kissing their cruddy ass. And I am a fool, I admit it. I don’t believe in the game…I don’t believe in the way things work. I am guided by internal things, and fuck if I care that they do or do not match up with what other people want.

2:15 p.m.
Then again, one’s personal attitude toward failure and success should not be one of apathy. You’ve got to be a fighter, you’ve got to want to win, and you’ve got to want it bad. Here’s how it works : you pick your destination(s), you get there regardless of the terrain before you. You do what you have to do, to get what you want. Okay, it’s a survivor’s attitude, Matt, not like this morning. You’ve got to know what you want, and you’ve got to do everything you can to get there. You’ve got to dedicate your life, your energy, your every day to getting where you want to go. Let no one stop you. Know that you can get what you want. Get passionate about getting it. Okay, assume that things are going well. You’ve got to become your own parent, you’ve got to create your own world. You’ve got to be the one who is constant in the face of doubt and problems. You’ve got to be a person who gets excited about the unknown, feels adventurous about the uncertain. You’ve got to be a person who, when faced with a situation you are uncertain about, heads into that situation resourcefully. That’s what it is, Matthew, it’s an attitude of humility and struggle, like : okay, here I am, here’s what I’ve got, there’s what I want, let’s do it.
I feel like I’m hiding. I’m not hiding.

I sort of reject guided discussions, where the leader says : “That’s exactly where I’m going here.” I’d at least like to enjoy the illusion that I am freely conversating.

I’m in a state today.

I think I hate people.

I do not understand the way they cheer at a hockey game, not only for our team to win, but for our team to draw blood from the other team. Zach comes up to me while I’m writing and I say you can’t read that and put on a new document. He is offended by this, which shows a real disrespect for me. I like to have some privacy, and it is disrespectful of me for him to act as though I shouldn’t have it. I am very much an individualist…I see people as primarily individual, and then secondarily organized in social groups. I deserve to have at least the privacy of having some written thoughts to myself, and I reserve/take the right to tell other people when they can read over my shoulder. And then him and Mick and I are standing around during one of the breaks in the hockey game, and Zach’s like : “So what’s the plot of your movie?” “I don’t know yet,” I say. “Are you just writing it for the heck of it, or what?” Now this I don’t know how to answer. “Yeah, just for the heck of it. I’m writing it because I like to write,” I say. Fuck you, Zach. I know that Zach does not understand things the way I do, and intellectually I know that it is improbable that he would understand things my way…but it still makes me mad that he does not.

I hate people who are cool. What is “cool” to me? Cool is being concerned with how other people perceive you. This leads to excessive worrying about clothes, friends, and otherwise appearances. Worrying about the packaging instead of the meat, as Einstein would say. Cool is needing to have somebody with you at every meal. Cool is needing external validation. I don’t want to be that way. And I’m certainly not cool at this point in my life, but I would like to go even farther from that loathsome state.

I like the idea of setting my own rules about what people can and cannot do in relation to me. I like the idea of administering my own justice. I like the idea that in my thought world I am most important, and others can be corrected for infringing upon my space. I like the idea that I can protect my interests, my needs, my wants, my self. I like these ideas. I can decide what people get away with in dealing with me. I can decide what is okay and what is not in my world. And niceness is no object. It is okay to offend, hurt, and anger in order for me to get what I desire.

I think I hate people.

I hate the bigness. I hate the impersonality,

I hate the fact that I’m spending so little time per thing, doing so many things. I hate the word “cramming”. I hate the word “crash”. I hate when my neighbors come into my room at 12:30 a.m. to watch TV. I hate that the TV is on in the first place. I hate commercials. I hate high volume. I hate hard core guitar slamming music, even if it does have upbeat lyrics. I hate sitting in large lectures. I hate MTV. I hate E! I hate football, and baseball, and women’s arm wrestling. I hate ESPN and ESPN2. I hate talk shows and sitcoms and political commentary.

Let me think of writing not as a performance
And not ask another’s opinion of it
When sent let it not be for want of praise
But a piece of self given freely without expectation

I hate the bigness. I hate the impersonality,

eyes of April

step
above the hill
and there
the sky
is crouched
and able

ready
to revile
with vengeant claws
and eyes of grey
of April
and enigma
petals
hide their flowers
leaning lowly
for the cover of empty ground

I go and
sink into my chair
droop arms
legs spread
taking lustful breaths

in the background
of my ear
a peaceful muttering of logic’s verse
the tap of chalk
line drawn
point made
crack
compose
continue

moth
around the chair
the legs
it flutters
pattern-like
silent movie

jump
I move
above the seat
my place
is out
and slam
my foot
to dodge
to spar
to smush
squirt
squeeze
and look around
the class has stopped

the only sound is a deceptively academic fluorescent hum
but

outside
I know
the dark is rising
slowly
from the edge
of space
to cover all
to suck
and suffocate
to kill and
hide
to bury
like the ocean
rolls

eyes of April