the golden west volume 21 part 6 - 2000-2001 december-january | work & days: a lifetime journal project |
31st December Bo's party. What life did I see. A middle gender, small men and short-haired women. A bare blank atmosphere, something bodiless in the space. Maybe it was the light, or else the music was white noise. Sensory deprivation, somehow. I couldn't warm to anyone. Bo's voice was the one living thing, her both-cheeks kiss hello, two vivid spots, her damp scented face, a tiny corner of her mouth. Her voice is slow and has a nub, like a stroke down over cloth. Her beautiful black and white screen saver over in the corner. If we could have visited in its space, an all-over glow of grainy substance loosely held in curves and sweeps. There is a crow walking the asphalt-shingle roof ridge in the rain. - I've rewritten everything in the introduction chapter except the description of the project. So what is the book about? Part I. It shows how to think aboutness without dualist/representationalist language, by thinking it as structural relation, and by thinking neural structure as a means. Chs 2-3. Part II. It shows a basic frame, basic presence, simulation. Central: example of the where system for directing perception/action. Chs 4, 5, 6, 7. Part III. Representation using presence and simulation. How representing practices allow thinking in four kinds of complex context. Chs 8, 9, 10, 11. What the neural descriptions are meant to show. I start with an artist's description of what knowing and coming to know are like: recognition, self-collaboration, pleasure and irritation, structure-borrowing, self organization of a field. Neural descriptions are compatible with this description by being all-over structure, distributed, parallel, integrated, multiple, multifunctional. - In the workbook seeing there are parts of the project I am blind to: what is its business, what does it do, how are other people served by it.
Siberry drunk with love woman. Thinking of my photos which were not drunk but intent in unhedged early love. Mystes - initiate - second born - meaning, having gone through the pain again - which integrates for ability.
3rd January 2001
- Coming down a slope and seeing a bush against a fence. Is it some sort of hydrangea? A light, loose one. As I'm nearer I see it's a daylily, the small pointed kind, orange with narrow black outside edges, like an outline in a drawing. In the same dream a town on one bank of the Fraser Canyon. We're driving a road that is built along the edge. A stone wall we're looking over, on the right a long way down. Then the road cut through rock so there is a narrow jagged edge that's the guard wall. We see over and between the peaks. And then a section where there is a walkway built out over the drop separated from the road. Later I'm wanting to go back and walk there but I am carrying some kind of case I want to take back to the truck. It's not mine, I should find a lost and found to give it to. I open it and find it packed with large flat packages of medicinal herbs. I leaf through them. A traveler's collection. I like these for the invention but what I want to note, what I have been wanting to note, is the way a dream is improvised from one instant to the next. It works off what there is. It isn't that the hydrangea turns into a daylily. Looking more closely at the bush somehow brings daylily. Looking at canyon from road somehow brings rock walls. Looking at one flat package brings the next, it was riffing on exotic herbs. Somehow a good night, I'm feeling. Something much earlier about flood waters up to the edge of the house on the farm. I'm looking from one of the west windows seeing it almost at the bottom boards. 4th I've almost got the flow of chapter 1, I'll have it tomorrow and start ch 2. Talking to Tom tonight, happy. "You're rowin' the boat," he said. He is too. When he described what he said to Dick, which took him straight up into the upper air of a miserly spirit, my solar plex smiled. Yes, Tom. I love your generous spirit. I love your fine-cut street speech. I like it that you're working class, canny and heartful. I love your enjoyment of lights and weathers. Later I even like your rage, because it comes along with your passion of appreciation and remorse. 5 Elated finishing chapter 1. I discovered that chapter 11 answers the question I ask in chapter 1, and renamed it. Boldly declared my intent for chapter 12. And library books. California light with beautiful pictures of paintings; Marjorie Grene on Aristotle, Gibson and knowing as perception-based; Djikstra on Georgia O'Keefe and the eros of place vs the gender paranoia of art criticism since Greenberg. I'm lazing in the mornings and sitting to write in the afternoon. Have five or six hours of concentration without stopping. Cannot read slowly, have to rip over a chapter a minute, sometimes starting at the back of the book. Marjorie Grene 1995 A philosophical testament Open Court Bram Dijkstra [essays in] 1990 California light, 1900-1930 edited by Patricia Trenton and William Gerdts Laguna Art Museum Bram Djikstra 1998 Georgia O'Keefe and the eros of place Princeton 7 Marjorie Grene's old-woman summary. She's peppery about academic philosophers, barrels on writing books. Her summary about knowing is Merleau-Ponty and Gibson. She freely says she doesn't understand this and that or misread Heidegger and Aristotle. That's the way to do it, confidently. The men are sharp but trivial, she says. They like gadgets. 10 "What astonishes me about your thesis and your work on metaphor, is not only the rigour of your investigation, but that, within it all, you retain your own voice. The poet speaks through the philosopher. The achievement is extraordinary." In the process of replying to Peter's letter, I figured out what he wanted to say about Godard and intuition. It was what he said about me, his first paragraph. That's intuition: one organization speaking from another. I got it after I said I'd gotten it. I wrote "'his need to see before he writes,' that's nice. It's the key." Then I described listening and watching from the left to something forming on the right. What is said to be antithetical is something else altogether. This morning I rewrote the difficult last section of chapter 2. Very clear. Then I lost the whole thing, vanished, five hours work steady and pointed. Couldn't rewrite it today. Went down and tried to remember Pagemaker. Found Peter's letter and answered it. "Suddenly, at a later try, the site appeared. It is wonderful. And overwhelming. You continue to amaze me. Indeed, more and more." 11 At the computer desk yesterday I was describing my computer's memory glitches. The sharp young man said it sounded like a virus. We go on. Yes, that's a virus. A virus will do funny things. I should take it in somewhere and get it fixed. I've been trying to work around it, I say, starting to walk out. He calls after me, loudly, so I'm still hearing him as I'm passing the second door, insisting I must have it fixed. I woke realizing what it was about that, for me and maybe also for him. My nervous system was attacked by a virus. I do not know everything about the results of that damage. I work around it. That is not analogy as it is imagined, it is speech from a structure already active but not spoken from. It's structure that manages to speak at the same time that other structure is speaking, because there is an overlap. 12 What do I want. It's Friday morning. I'm in chapter 3. Grey air at the window. I want to be in touch with the other side. I was, when I woke. Something I lost when I didn't track it right away. Tom was being intellectual last night, and it put me to sleep the way it does. Dichotic vision experiments, where they pour ice water into the ear, stimulate the parietal, cause laughing. It sometimes happens that they'd see the vertical and horizontal bars at the same time, as if, they said, hemispheres had been segregated and alternating. Only one had been hyped at a time, but, by fiddling, they got them simultaneous. That's interesting. And that the two eyes can see different things at the same time. Of course - the way when I write I see the page and I imagine what I have to be imagining. That's what makes writers have one eye larger than the other. No, it says, there is a different reason. Honest art loses organization. One eye is fictional and not coherent with the body it is in. Writers have enlarged right eyes, more tense.
13 Section introductions. For Representing say it's the section that deals with what they think they know. It's their metaphor, the public realm. It's also where I work, and it's the realm where I find the phenomena that are my evidence that it must be thought differently. They imagine all forms of basic cognition in terms of representation and I imagine all forms of representation in terms of basic cognition. I've broken Wide nets into parts so there will be the other voice between the neuroscience sections. Should I be worried about time? It's the middle of January. A lot to do, still, on chapter 3.
14 A Christian Scientist on the radio saying that after a car accident she went day to day asking what she should do. The parts of religion that make sense. I'm a dedicated anticleric and a tender worshipper. When they say love and trust I understand. When they search the silly scriptures for rules I'm disgusted. The institutional virus is patriarchy. I mean by that, unexamined male motive, male rupture, shut-down defense against early love: guns, preachers, prohibitions, prurience and hypocrisy that follow prohibitions, violent control, ruined capability, stupid, hapless populations, ugly towns, spoiled landscapes. Religions are power politics for men. But older women get religion, why? Jan-Marie, Joyce, Diana, Daphne. They are all Buddhists after menopause. What does it mean that they tolerate the male bosses of Buddhism?
15 I'm lacing a boot with a lace that is too long. There are round seeds on it. I see it is the wire stem of an asparagus fern. Having laced, I've laced my hair so it is a mass I am seeing on the other woman's head. Medusa. A change from shoe to boot, foot to head, me to her, and then from carrots to oranges to purple tomatoes. They were carrots on a string. When they fell off they were oranges. The nice moment was when I heard singing. One voice, then joined by many others. Many young cooks standing working at a long table. I want to say nine of them, cutting things, singing in beautiful harmony. A moment earlier in the night where I wake in a bed in a strange house because a crazy old man in a room further up the corridor is shouting as he masturbates, You're coming, Marnie, you're coming too, Ellie. The room and the corridor too are full of people sleeping here and there. - Some of the things Tom has learned in five years: he's managing his money, he's eating well, he's keeping his room organized, he's cleaned up his language, he's calling to tell good and bad news. He can hold his temper at work, he's taking care of his clothes, he tells the truth, he listens. I'm saying this after he called this morning to tell me he got a raise. 16 But also: when he called and said, How'r you doin'? I said, I'm a little wobbly. I was in fact on the way to Dr Sylvia to find out my pap results and whether I was having a heart attack because I felt whoosy. He said, I feel wobbly too (because his paycheck was xy) and never did get back to what I'd said. Just so I don't overpraise his listening. - California light, 1900-1930. Plein air, "informal committee of cultural ecology." "Expressive of a strongly desired ideal of selfhood." "All aesthetic choices are moral choices." - The point about rep is simple, don't talk as if persons or parts are related to inner structures. There are structures that are means by which. Like all means we talk about, they are partial means. They are means ceteris parabis. Go on from there. People are related to things, first. Being related to aspects of things is part of that relation to things. But color, but color...? Before dyed artifacts, people are related to sky, sun, plants, skin, earth. The pleasure in color is ongoing life value response to these things. Dyed artifacts are convolved simulation. I'm related to a real rug but my pleasure in it is simulational pleasure in fur and sun. What I like about this way of thinking it is the understanding of biological gratitude. Seeing green is seeing leaves and the value of leaves. 'Color values.' But I can see a color in my head. No you can seem to see a color. 17 Today my car passed AirCare except for the gas cap; the student loan papers came, $3000; Tom phoned unexpected and praised me for the length of an entire phone card, eighty minutes, and then called back to keep going. He said things he's said before and some he hadn't. He poured. When he put down the phone last night he was two inches off the floor, he said. All day he was full of love. He woke at 5:30 with a big boner and imagined my beautiful ass, and his sperm jumped up and hit the carpet. I listened very awkwardly. I giggled. I was interested when I heard what he likes about my asshole and what he was thinking when he first saw me limping across the lobby. I was feeling what I sometimes do, Is this the afterlife, it is like a coming true beyond the limits. I was squirming the way I do when I agree to listen rather than talk. I felt we should start being together so we could get used to being interested the way we are, so I could know what he's seeing while he's seeing it. The first half of ch 3 is good. The fruits of the spirit, isn't it. I could never have done this without Joyce. 18 Next morning. The contradiction was there in that hour. I was being praised for my mind but nothing I said was heard. He was a torrent of action and could not allow me to be anything but a boulder in the stream. I was lying awake an hour ago in the dark remembering Oma and Clearbrook Road. I was seeing the house, the brown radio on the corner of the counter next to Opa's chair at the kitchen table. The feeling of their success, that house and land, young people driving up and parking on the yard, fruit trees, nut trees, grape vines, current bushes, bright floors and a dining room window to the south. How they made that wealth from nothing, with eight children, in thirty years. Oma's humor and Opa's command. The clean order their work achieved. When I was thinking of it I felt something for an instant. It was as if the center of gravity of the time and place. I felt something drop in my body. I thought of Grandpa Epp's place in that time and felt it drop further. This is not sayable.
I'm forlorn a bit, am I? Alone, a bit lost. The middle of the network section has been very slow, I'm not sure it is sorted yet. I haven't felt a grip. I'll look at it tomorrow. Let me be simple-hearted about what happened with Tom, if I can. Am I ashamed, am I afraid, am I lonely. Lonely. Homeless. Did something very bad happen. As if. I don't know. How do I feel. Soft, sore. Do I feel abused? Was a child called forward, and did I offer her throat to be slit by someone casually brutal? Did Louie feel a blow I didn't feel properly myself? I have to keep calling myself to be simple. I want to reason myself safe. I don't doubt it is the way he feels and is. I believe it's better he poured it out. The energy of defense in it is clear to see. And yet. Did I take a blow I should have known to turn. Am I dull and confused, not alert enough, asleep. 19 [Frank died this day] What is it with this section of the work. It's as if I can't read it. I don't come to grips with it. I don't see where I repeat. I don't see to organize it. And now I'm at the same time thinking about Tom's performance. The energy in it. An hour and a half of sometimes interesting verbal invention. A writer's performance. "I burn incense to it and then I stick my dick in it." That was uncommon self-description, for him. That's the demon poking through the ring of flowers, from right to left, a core of masculinity. It absolutely is not love, neither the admiration not the sticking are love. Love risks and investigates. It says, I will know you. For myself, understand something about wanting to be praised. I want it because I am denied it everywhere. And yet it turned me to stone. He was saying things many people should have said and refused to say. I couldn't refuse to hear it. And yet it was not true in the moment. There was not a speck of investigation or mutual creation in him. He was like a tennis player who only can serve, who when it is the other player's serve looks blankly at the ball and stands where he is - I think I'm through the tangle finally. I've got to subnets and the net metaphor section is clear and integrated. This is a long chapter. 20 Billy Elliot and Traffic last night. Was there a split second of anything in either? No. Yes, but corrupt: a dark-haired pregnant woman in a white nightgown lying back on pillows on her bed at night, seen with a long lens through a window. The nightgown had string straps and half-held her swollen breasts that were falling sideways off her chest. Billy Elliot's little face. The Mexican scenes in Traffic tinted desert yellow - all the Mexican scenes. The powerful and the poor - the way Traffic went back and forth from the cold blue light of power in Washington to that shit-brown landing strip south of Tijuana. What do I know about drugs. To be in a state of fullness needs moral action of great bravery. If one fails in that, one is cut off from joy and exploration, which is unbearable, so then inner and outer drugging. The solution to a drug problem is only and ever always everywhere personal courage. Person by person. Drugs should be legalized and people should trust life and tell the truth.
We live in heaven and make it hell.
21 On the Christian station out of Blaine, last night, the Darwin's Black Box guy who has written a book called The wedge of truth instructing conservative Christians on how to 'win the war' to, for instance, have creation taught in schools. The liberal arts no longer teach value, he said, meaning that the universities themselves are discrediting the humanism that pushed back the clerics. There are two things, he said, first that there is a creator, and second that it is possible to be in a wrong relation with him. His argument for creation was a code argument: the proteins in a cell are so complex there is no way they could organize themselves. There have to be instructions written into the cell. Begin with the weaknesses in Darwinism, he said. There will be other things they will be ready to hear later.
- "What opened my eyes to my own temperament as a writer was Sons and lovers." "A very deeply physical and celebratory side." Says Amat Choudry on Wachtel, with his fluent, pebbly/bumpy Bombay accent. Stylistically, Woolf, Mansfield and Joyce, he says. I finished ch 3 today, section I, and it is right. Once over, the whole of it, tomorrow, and print it. The tone is more even, I think that now I shade from technical to lyrical extremes, and enfold the two in some places. I am looking forward to part II. It helps to think in sections rather than the sweep from 1 to 12 unbroken. "Temperamentally a modernist, but part of a post-modernist world." "I don't think epiphanic possibilities exist in the post-modern world." "You don't have the ability to trust that if it comes to you."
- And then a talk with Tom that went through the roof. He described the Bush inaugural, C-SPAN's steady-cam coverage. He was brilliant for an hour straight. I was brilliant for the first half hour. It was Tom and Ellie as Bill and Hillary, waltzing on the balcony - while the Bushes cooled their heels downstairs - saying to the telephoto lenses, postmodern does it better. At their inaugural Maya Angelou recited The free bird / spreads its wings. All the black people..., I started to say. IN THE WORLD, he said. He was so brilliant it was as if what shot out last time was a big fibrous plug. It was not just what he said, it was recognizing what I said about it and surviving. Buddhist slash paganist slash humanist slash post-post-modernist. 24 I mailed to Nicole, Kirk, Nathalie, chapter 1. 26 The way Tom's voice relaxes. I listen to him laugh, I feel how far he's come. I realize as I say this that I would like it too and don't have it. I listened to work stories, which I like. His moves with the men behind the desk, his scene. He's thinking like a leader. That was what needed to come next. I'm pleased with our work, I know it is mine too. I want to say, and yet. Should I say, and yet? Yes. What do I want. Something for me. To feel that central relaxing into the pleasure of myself in company, so I have many things to tell and give and show. What I keep alive in the journal because I have it nowhere else.
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