On abundance

Pronoiac Rob Brezsny linked an article on F*c*book today and for some reason I clicked on the link and read it.

The title was, “Scarcity is a Myth“. That must be why I clicked on the link, because the idea of scarcity vs. abundance interests me. It was written by Tara Stiles, of whom I had not heard before, and who seems to have a business involving yoga.

Immediately, I prepared myself to scoff at the article, because it was a listicle by a beautiful young person. I am tired of listicles, and I am tired of young people imparting wisdom to me.

But I read the article. It consisted of Five Rules to Enjoy Abundance.

All I could find to disagree with was her claim that scarcity is a myth. In fact, scarcity is not a myth. Scarcity is a fundamental fact of life. This is not all bad. Life is scarce, thanks to death, but were it not scarce, it would have no value.

That is the function of scarcity, imparting value, maybe.

But it is a fact that there is a lot of artificial scarcity going around, manufactured by various people for a variety of reasons – political, economic, habitual, psychological.

We do have way more scarcity than is really necessary, this I believe.

But the Five Rules to Enjoy Abundance? I read them with my late uncle Phil in mind. I have mentioned him here before. Uncle Phil made the world an abundant place, and taught those of us who loved him how to do it ourselves.

It turns out the Five Rules were also his rules.

These are the rules: humility, thoughtful action, support, landscape, and joy. Tara explains them a little in her article, go read it if this interests you. They are good rules. I learned them from my uncle, and I try to live by them. Beauty and youth do not preclude wisdom after all. I apologize for ever thinking they could.

Multiverse: cause I

Question: Will three crows eat a whole ham sandwich?

Methodology: Sit on bench, feed sandwich to crows.

Conclusion: Yes. Without thinking twice about whether or not you might be hungry.

Conditions: Cloudy, timeless, unseasonably warm, as usual.

What say the slain?

Wenn mich wer angreift, sag ich immer…

A crowded station, a little boy, talking to a friend: When somebody attacks me, I always say…

What?

Who knows. You didn’t hear it. Like a piece of bark floating away on a creek with lots of other pieces of bark floating on it too, you lose sight of him even though it is possible you still have him in your field of vision.

The universe forks here, depending on what he always says when attacked.

The possibilities are huge.

Like in an old science fiction story you forgot most of except that it went on forever.

Detailing each single possible variant.

My dad’s a cop: when he always says that you go to work and skip lunch and are hungry when you get home and dinner tastes great.

When you attack me, you are attacking yourself: when he always says that, a woman loses a nickel in a vending machine and decides to stop eating sugar.

I know karate: when he always says that, your mind gets trapped in a loop trying to understand how you can love life but be instantly filled with chill despair when someone asks you if you love your life, leading to huge misunderstandings you are still sorting out.

You meet a generous person. Winter is snowless. You see the devil’s face in a bare tree full of mistletoe. The universe continues to expand. Crop circles are a hoax. Crop circles are not a hoax. You discover a cure for ennui.

Endless.

 

 

 

Little red hat

2014 is going to be the year Odin streamlines his life. The year he throws old crap away.

Like all his t-shirts with clever sayings on them.

Or not — his kids might want those, so he’ll hang onto them.

But his workshop, all this junk! And on top of that, the new beer making kit he got for Christmas. And not even counting the wet plate camera he hasn’t bought yet. Where to start?

Odin is sitting in the attic, telling his wife what’s in boxes so she can inventorize what they have in their attic prior to throwing stuff out. Odin is like, why not just throw it out and save a step. And he is also like, old magazines in this box. Painting canvases. Some sort of plumbing fixtures. Travel case for a harp.

In another universe, Odin has a temporary job taking inventory for some company. He is standing in front of a wall of televisions in a shop, counting them. The Space Shuttle takes off and then explodes. Odin sees two dozen images of debris angling through the sky, leaving a white trail.

Odin and his wife are doing pretty good in the cellar. They donate a lot of old clothes. Then, this box: ballerina duds. A princess dress. Like that.

A little red hat.

There is another universe, 20 years ago, it is the carneval season, children are being led through games at a public carneval party in the city hall.

About 20 years ago. Or only 12 — Odin gets his universes mixed up. It would depend which daughter, Thor or Loki.

Christ.

Through the blue haze of all the smoking mommies, Odin can see her, in her red hat, covered in confetti, wearing the red hat, dancing.

There was also a lady bug costume, he finds the hat to that one too.

Odin remembers a lady bug dancing, spinning in circles.

Odin and his wife box the red hat back up.

So anyway.

Today is the first work day of 2014. It is quiet out. Odin is not hungry at lunch time but he wants to check on the crows.

Odin strolls to the store. It is warm for the second day of January. The small grey crow swoops down and accompanies Odin to the store, where he gets peanuts and a curry chicken sandwich.

He sits on the bench and all three crows are there waiting.

It is such a quiet day, like the end of the world. Like the world could still decide 2013 was the final year.

The four of them eat sandwich, they eat peanuts.

What say the slain?

I dreamt someone on a motorcycle whipped my leg with a strap and captured me, I was balanced on the handlebars and gathered myself and kicked them to get away, and woke myself up kicking in bed. I asked the dream what it was and it said, what supports us binds us. It said, love. It said, vitality. It said, escape.

What say the hanged?

Memory is not carved in stone after all. It is reinvented all the time. It is stories you tell yourself, and you know how reliable stories are. You find a little red hat and make something up, because you know who wore it, and you know how much you love her.

May we always remember.

Careers in Science: Oneirology

Honey, if you want to be dreamy, you gotta get up early.

The oneirologist has this epiphany climbing the subway stairs, way over on one side by the handrail because a train has just disgorged a load of passengers who are all coming down the stairs like the oneirologist is a salmon.

And as he climbs he watches them and some look relaxed and some, one mother in particular, are hurrying. The woman is hurrying and dragging a little kid by the hand, as if they have two minutes to reach a connecting ride. And the oneirologist thinks, you can be efficient or you can be dreamy. Then he thinks of his daughter, who is both efficient and dreamy. So he sort of revises his thought to be less absolutist. If you want a fast commute in the morning, you have to be organized. If you want to be poky and dreamy, though, you have to get up early and allow yourself a lot of time.

The oneirologist couldn’t live any other way. This is why he goes to bed so early at night, so he can get up early and dink around.

The oneirologist likes to watch what happens to the light outside as he drinks his coffee.

The oneirologist likes to listen to the evolution of the sounds in the house as people and animals and garbage trucks start their days.

The oneirologist likes to do some stretches and pushups.

The oneirologist likes to scramble eggs.

He likes to write a little in a journal.

Last night, on his way home from meeting a friend at an advent market and drinking hot winter punch and catching up on things, the oneriologist was accosted by a lot of beggars. The first one got all his change, the ones after that were out of luck.

In one instance, as he waited for a street car, being accosted by one beggar prevented him from being accosted by another beggar. He watched a woman, who was giving off strong vibes of psychological trouble, preparing herself to accost him, when a man swooped in from out of nowhere and began telling him a story. This is known as the narrative method of panhandling.

Unfortunately, the oneirologist is hard of hearing, and it was noisy, and the man was speaking fast, and in dialect, so the oneirologist resorted to empty phrases to keep the conversation rolling:

Is that right?

Oh, that really sucks!

Man, no fooling?

He wanted to give the man money, but was out of change and said so. He apologized a second time as the man left. The man had his pride and said, no problem!

There but for two months salary and a suit go I, thought the oneirologist.

Two months salary, a suit and manners. He thought. And a bath, or a makeover.

But, otherwise.

The oneirologist recalled a recent visit to a jewelry store to buy a Christmas present for someone who had, fortunately, specified exactly (exactly!) what she wanted.

The sales clerks had ignored him for fifteen minutes. Normally, around Christmas time they are swarming you, right?

They would have ignored him for longer, until he left, but he grabbed one by the suspenders, or whatever, and dragged her to the brightly-lit glass display case and said, ‘that one there,’ and made his purchase.

It had been a Saturday, and on the weekends the oneirologist dresses in a more casual manner, and had looked rather bummy right then.

But still.

Even a five, if he’d had a five, he would have given it to the guy.

At night, at the Large Hadron Collider

At lunch there is a pause in the drizzle and Odin walks to the store. He gets a sandwich and chips, although he always regrets getting chips, even though he has plenty to regret this week already, much of it linked to his inability to handle emotions properly.

There is a ‘plink’ as the grey crow lands atop a blue compact car.

It’s always a blue car. Maybe the crow prefers blue, maybe there is just a high incidence of blue cars in this neighborhood. Do car colors vary by neighborhood? If so, according to what factors?

Odin shares a ham sandwich with two grey crows and one black one.

There are a lot of pedestrians passing on the sidewalk and Odin tries to time tossing pieces of sandwich so no one notices, although he is not sure why. Huginn and Muninn also seem to be pretending not to know him when people pass, although they probably don’t know why, either.

What say the slain?

At night, at the Large Hadron Collider, when the scientists are all asleep in their beds, the janitors and cleaning women do secret research of their own. Closing all the doors to keep down noise and turning on only one light in ten, they fire up the LHC and seek experimental evidence for the multiverse.

It started with the idea that additional dimensions might be undiscovered because they were too small, and the realization of a cleaning woman that the real reason might be: we didn’t realize what we were really looking for.

What if love was one of the missing dimensions?

After this, other missing dimensions were quickly identified (posited) and found.

Most basically, we (and everything else) consist of strings vibrating in the previously-known dimensions, and in the additional dimensions. Strings vibrate in dimensions including love, and the sacred, and the random and the accidental. They vibrate in beauty and surprise.

The LHC janitorial staff is looking into the following dimensions (and the particles associated with them):

[Dimension - Particle]

Love – Lovoton

Sacred – Sacroton

Surprise – Bikkuriton

Random – Chanceoton

Accidental – Accidenton

New – Novelton

Similarity – Alikeoton

Opposite – Oppositon

Eroticism – Eroton

Orgasm – Orgaton

And so at night, when the scientists sleep, the janitorial staff does its research. In the dimly-lit vastness of the LHC they learn that when you collide a Loveoton and a Sacroton you get a Bikkuriton and a Chanceoton. When a Bikkuriton and a Chanceoton collide, an Accidenton and a Novelton result. A collision between an Alikeoton and an Oppositon gives you an Eroton and an Orgaton. A collision between an Orgaton and an Eroton produces the original Loveoton and the Sacroton.

The janitorial staff work all night on their research.

Yet in the morning, when the scientists file back into work and don their white lab coats and protective goggles, the sleepy janitorial staff have gone home or to their second jobs, and the LHC is spic and span.

 

What say the hanged?

Someone said on the radio yesterday that, toward the end of the Middle Ages, people were worried about the collapse of civilization and the end of the world, and convinced that the end of the world was a literal possibility, and that the only thing preventing the collapse of civilization was the Church, and the hard work of scribes, copying out one manuscript after another, and things like that.

And then, despite their best efforts, it did come to an end. Medieval civilization came to an end, but the world did not.

Instead: Renaissance. An explosion of enlightenment and prosperity.

All that ended were some dark ages.

Could it be, that is what’s happening now all over again?

 

Maybe this is why you’re so tired sometimes when you wake up

Odin like goes into your bedroom when you’re sleeping at night? And stands at the foot of your bed?

Odin can see really well in the dark, even with just one eye. Remember, the other one’s down at the bottom of that, that pond of wisdom that giant guy drinks out of every day. Who’d want to drink out of a pond with an eye in it?

Whatevs.

Look, he stands there, Odin, and looks at you sleeping there in your bed, he stands there in those black clothes and that belt  and boots and the one eye scrunched up  and looks at you with the other, piercing one and the long white hair and he doesn’t even try to whisper when he says, child you are beautiful and blessed and full of grace.

He holds up a hand when he says it, a hand that has held many a sword and old weapons like that.

Child you are beautiful and blessed and full of grace. Being a god, his voice wakes you up and you’re like, whoa, it’s Odin.

Beautiful and blessed and full of grace, and life is short so always do what makes you smile. Within reason, of course, you know the drill, but here is the thing: never wait until something is perfect, because you are beautiful and real and the beautiful and real are never perfect, only the creepy and fake are perfect.

And Odin stands there, like a negative image of Cab Calloway in a white suit,  and he holds out both hands and says, ‘inky dinky do,’ and does a little dance step, a sashay, to the left. Your ten-gallon aquarium burbles in the corner of your room, fish all fast asleep.

And the monsters under your bed stick out their heads and say, ‘inky dinky dee,’ and before you know it Odin is doing this call and response number in your room with the monsters under your bed and in your closet, the one in your mirror and the ones in the shadows cast on the ceiling by your curtains, even the little fellows in your wallpaper who, when you stare at the wallpaper long enough, march in long, crooked inky-black lines around your room like jerky 1930s animated cannibals only these are not racist imagry, they are not flesh, they are made of coal and ash and fire and lava, demons, or a cross between imp and demon and they dance with their little spears and Odin sings, ‘wagga wagga yappa do’ and they repeat it and the monsters repeat it.

And you sing along.

It’s a long number, and when it’s over, Odin says, when you wake you’ll forget all this, but remember what I said.

And you say, inky dinky do.

And Odin says, no, before that.

And you both laugh.

This happens about five times a week. Maybe it’s why you are so tired sometimes.

 

Markov text generation

Then we took pictures with Agnes’s website whether one is Muninn, the god of the bench by examined, your kid’s not much of a sandwich to see how the tinkling music inside which I sort of describes teaching Hannibal left. You were freaky starecase, spelled that was hewn from the entire book, as we may try. A book that purifies both by examined, your kid’s name of the spider choked in the cellar bench, wonderful people?

By now, you are no doubt aware of what-would-i-say.com,  the website that will generate new texts from your facebook feed. It is basically a Markov text generator.

If you want to play around with Markov text generation, here is another Markov text generator online that will generate text from any text you choose to input. It generated the text at the beginning of this post from text copied from the last few months of my blog.

It lets you determine the randomness and length of the output. Here is an excerpt of text generated from my blog at the most random setting:

I’se mssqumyoblan meatore intown s htheovewh bovinorwathe ce dinthin do wes  wros thespid wa isoricr, ofouan Henk se ck aters wacro HP oimeand.

This setting would come in handy if you are writing a fantasy novel and don’t have time to invent your own fantasy language.

The second-most random setting gives you this:

“Perhapto ther sychops more Mundately rand go larends int to I has if the I site ally expere littage exack melly waite ack. I (evence to ke had ahem somer one be theady yell that chas met.

Set output to book length and write Finnegan’s Wake II in no time!

Text generated from the third-most random setting:

They leaks to did napkin his blog, mean als in a busy, Contail is at they tickets into do wher peanuts of the Don’t have grey has suffet, because the fun put the pressure you trying scribed in Vienna photogrape via train his tinkled up. Hokusai-ins tomatter remember moves are neighbor’s face at the other. A smart of back to the has a little of throws.

Fourth-most random setting:

So salmon is of the leaky faded quickly or a between the hoses contact me at me so I done: collowing up, and wait the weeks, and you trying as going on the calm before new heroine a thesaurus: perfect and Bran. Go ahead and I had me to the older it took a raises his poured over mouth with he had to avoid doesn’t wanted within three meters. After the excrement because we needed lettuce.

Indeed! Fifth-most random setting almost looks normal:

Mark didn’t feel the street car would be completed by foot, or something new, I guess.

Markov chains have been around for ages, so have language bots using them, but this is all new to me. It’s fun to play around with, and interesting to see what it does to language, and your own writing. Here’s the next level of randomness/non-randomness:

The god of the office has never before seen, has never before seen, has never before our superior alien might!’ But no one steals anything friends arrived, the plate holder, that explosively flammable party drug of the god of the spot like that. Anyway, if you do a good job, they come back.

It’s like my own writing, only better! A person could use this stuff as writing prompts, at the very least. Here is the next (seventh?)-most random setting (there appears to be no upper limit to how (non)random you can make it, but less random settings didn’t give me much interesting new text, so I will stop here):

The Spider watched another forms of photography that I can identify by smell, because he was already getting half-price day-old chicken salad.

Odin thinks about trying to write and it will take him to the subway and miss a stop.

Eventually I do, of course,