Oh I thot I knew what LIVE LOOPING was...!

Kid Beyond (San Francisco) explains it brilliantly.
www.compfused.com/directlink/1046/

Ezekiel strikes the first note for Personal Responsibility for legal transgression

In 600 BC, writing from captivity in Babylon, the Prophet Ezekiel suggests a break with three fundamental tribal assumptions concerning Law: The Unity of Humans in the Natural World, Unity of the Tribe, and Unity of Motive and Action, the last sometimes extending to Cause and Effect.

The book of Ezekiel begins with a series of dream/visions and isolations: "This is Jerusalem" set in the midst of the nations and countries around her. This was a "sanctuary" which was defiled. 5:5, 9, 11. "I will make thee a waste". 5:14. "I send upon you famine and evil beasts". 5:17. These isolations and the analytic separation of Israel/Tribe/Jerusalem had been begun in the Pentateuch.

But the Prophet Ezekiel goes further. He writes in answer to the question which contained the cultural assumption of unity between the individual and the clan: "The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father." This is drawn from the observation that we are each born and die separately-- as in "the soul that sinneth, it shall die".

Thus we find Ezekiel signaling a change from Group Responsibility -- the collective guilt which tribal people assume.

Ezekiel then goes on to presage another analytical separation of a tribal assumption relating to act and intent. At 18:24, "when the righteous man turns away from his righteousness, and commits an act of iniquity as done by the wicked, shall he live?" Here, Ezekiel sees and suggests a separation between Act and Intent. This is a second revolutionary sidestep from tribal law, which assumes a unity of deed and motive in which any separation is moot.

SUM: Primitive or Tribe-oriented Law assumes a Unity or continuity between Man/Nature, Individual/Group, and Being(intention)/Doing(act). Ezekiel, in 600 BC presents an Analytic distinction of the components within the primitive "unities". This signatls the synthetic functionalism of modern law which seeks individual (human) responsibility (personal) for blameworthy consequences (depending further on the intention/negligence of the perpetrator).

Biblical IP / Cosmic Data baseline interpretations

We interpret the world. It is "natural" that we seek information, and translators of the information we find which is for the most part not exactly "spelled out" to us. We are in a permanent state of being UN-initiated to consciousness, to the bringing of our breath which is taken in trying to comprehend the data we gather.

Ah, and the point?

Our interpretation is historical. We learn what we take as known from the perspective of Period.

For example, in ancient times, our explanations were filled with gods who acted a lot like humans, on steroids. Olympians could fly, tranform, shape-shift, do battle with dragons and giants, while simultaneously creating everything. God used technology the ancients were familiar with -- like fashioning figures from clay, separating and sifting, breeding two by two. Birth was the big miracle and we used the mystery of coupling to explain the mystery of existence, how things and creatures came into being, using Words. Naming invoked the thing in a virtual way. Ancient explanations had an Animal Physicality: Nibelung, Baggavad-gita, PopoVul, Olympus, Genesis, these are all books of birthing and kinship structures, the begattings and creatings. We counted using fingers and toes, piles of pebbles, colored quipu, and an abacus sheet of sliding beads on a wire.

By the 17th century, the universe began to look like a clock, a mechanism, a marketplace transaction. Galileo's pendulum swinging in a Newtonian gear box opening spectrums of light and particles, with life as a moist oxidation on the surface of a cooling sphere. We counted using slide rules, orbits, water clocks, ratcheting gears, and trading companies. Thomas Aquinas was canonized for having converted Pythagoras, Plato and Aristotle in the nick of time, while the Summa was still Theologica.

By the 19th century, the study of force fields was hot. Magnetic attraction and repulsion, the electrical pulse, the particle light wave, radio transmission, and radioactive emission, were all bent to the work of ontology. We measured differentials on gauges and things were counted inside sealed vacuum-tubes. It no longer mattered what anyone "believed" about the tides, the hidden hand of the market place, or the tribe and its gods.

As the 21st century unfolded, it is no surprise that the universe started to look like a computer. Compare, 1960's Edward Fredkin and Konrad Zuse. The "calculus", the little pebbles the Latins used to measure, sort, and compare alternative countings, were imbedded in sheets of silicon switches, forming a bank of abacuses. We began creating a 2d virtual reality communicating on networks. We counted using algorythms and bits. The trope of the priesthood adapts to the familiar, and life "evolved". The Pope declares Evolution to be divine. Our semi-conductor on the train of explanation takes us far beyond the Thunder God sitting astride the pile of pebbles.

Now we are staring at quantum phyics, and of course, a quantum computer (QC). We now take the universe as being not only built of atoms, but of atoms in a constant state of interraction -- exchanging, pardon the expression, "information". Compare, Seth Lloyd 2006. This QC is modeling its own complexity, each local part reflecting a greater part, computing itself. There appears to be plenty of room for an epistomology here.

Molecular Expressions: Science, Optics and You - Secret Worlds: The Universe Within - Interactive Java Tutorial

Molecular Expressions: Science, Optics and You - Secret Worlds: The Universe Within - Interactive Java Tutorial

Scientists examine things, sometimes using tools which enhance our native proprioception. Some things cannot be "seen" but are nevertheless observable through these tools. Nietzche said, perspective is all. Yet how do we keep our perspective in perspective?

University of Florida, viewing powers of 10.

What made the Herring - red and dead?

TRUTH. Suppose Truth is a red herring. Sans the fish-wife, just the fish, of dubious provenance and well-passed its prime. We are holding something that smells, and that has a sell-by date that expired somewhere at the threshhold of the origin of language. When we tried to talk about it, it died.

The Arts will fill the circle of the senses

Art used to fill the senses. In the village, you carved wood, you felt the grain and edge, and smelled the wood, and heard its crack and yawl. You smelled the food you cooked, you heard what you were creating, dipping, painting, playing.

Now, in the city "modern" art is in a sealed box. It is on the wall, walled off. The orchestra is "on stage" or in a pit. No interaction. The audience is a specialty.

In the future, as we are individualizing and interacting with art again by computers, the media are going to become MORE "traditional" in the sense that they will fill the senses once again. Pieces will smoke, smell, and sound you in the lobby, the interactive hallway, the kitchen midden of our lives. The courtyard of the future, still within cities, still urbanic, will be richer. Art will fill the senses, again.

C S Lewis ReDoubt

I always start with A Grief Portrayed, one of the finest books written about mourning. Lewis lost a long-awaited and spirited spouse to bone cancer, and Shadowland gripped Lewis' last years. I am not a biographer -- and there are already more than five -- but you see the two sides of Lewis' mind already established -- bipedaling the desire to imagine and feel "Joy" (Narnia, Perelandria), and his responsibility to the God of residual dogma (Allegory of Love, Screwtape Letters, Mere Christianity)-- before he came to be seduced by a married woman named Joy. And she dies. And he is CS Lewis, left to dry alive, not to die, and unable to return to privately priggish common room hearty bachelor life. He emerges, he does not emerge, he is living the Problem of Pain inside, and in trying to cling to a personal faith in the shadow of a personal insult to the entire continent of his belief, he finds his faith has no hands. He now KNEW that conversion was not real, and was not a means of joy in a real world.

He is left with the quest, living the questions. And here is where the believer and the nonbeliever meet -- in the realm of the imaginery, where everything important takes place, or doesn't. Where shared ritual unfolds, where the layers of allegory story each onion, and the petals of metaphor open up each rose.

Who knows what CS Lewis believed in his final hour, the author of magic Narnia slipping into the final resting Wardrobe. We cannot express enough gratitude for a man who gave us fairy tales and faith, and most comforting for those of us who escape into imagination, a permanent bed of doubt.

Why People Hate Lawyers.

Lawyers are formidable people.
I’ve always wondered why this is so.

Is it because a Bar Exam weeds out those who are thick as bricks, or plain stupid?

Is it because the Bar organization is powerful? Helping its members?

Is it because we are rich?

You know why. We may be the smartest profession with the biggest mouth, but we are not the only smart people on the planet, and many lawyers get stuck in perspective. The Bar is not a unified priesthood protecting its members from public inquiry. And most lawyers are not in the richest echelon of society. In fact lawyers are peculiarly despised by the rich, for their dependence, if nothing else.

The reason lawyers are formidable, is primarily because we listen to our opponents.

Like no other professional, we are the ones who have adversaries paid to play "enemy" to our ally, and who pay close attention to everything we do and say. No one else has this tool, this engine of criticism built into the work.

Politicians ignore criticism and attack their opponents no matter what they say.
If the Naziis had been capable of listening to their opponents, and learned something, we would be speaking German.

Artists want to express themselves, they are bored by dialogue, the interchange. No one created art in disintermediation, or by committee.

If religious people get into trouble, do they canvas other religions? They try to listen only to God, and to keep from hearing the Devil, and if they hear him they don’t listen and think it pious not to.

And that is what makes us formidable. We listen to what the adversary is saying, knowing that they are listening to us and will try to strip us naked in public if we cannot support what we are saying.

Carbon - nanotechnology

1. TUNGSTEN and CARBON - as light filaments. Surely it is not just the heat that makes a tungsten or carbon diode glow, but the voltage and current itself. So carbon should come out ahead eventually in a light per volt contest. If we can build a carbon filament out of nanotubes--by weaving and bonding the filaments with the right amount of radiation -- we may have a tough and brilliant lightbulb.

2. Carbon nanotubes are lightweight, stronger than steel, stiff as diamonds, and way better conductors of electricity and heat than any other known materials. This is carbon we are talking about. Thank you Sumio Iijima (NEC lab in Tokyo 1991). Picture chicken wire rolled into cylinders with an average diameter of a nanometer, or the approximate width of a DNA molecule. Now, how do we coerce these tubes, only a few micrometers long, into fiber? It took chemists 50+ years to make carbon-based polyethylene into usable material. It appears that nanotubes can be bonded together to unitize without congealing or losing strength by irradiating the line. Still, how do we get the line -- how do we "weave" the fiber? This is where I think we have to look at centrifuge or natural "spinning" effects. Not just chemistry.

Sources of Power

1. PLANTS. Are we exploring synthetic photosynthesis? Plants convert sunlight into sugar in a remarkably efficient manner, and using a variety of leaf macro-structures. Can a solar cell be developed out of protein instead of silicon?

2. BACTERIA. I still think the bacteria which glow inside aqueous cells inside animal/piscine hosts could be adopted and adapted to live in synthetic environments which need low level light. Consider the new materials -- for example, synthetic peptides developed by Shuguang Zhang (MIT). If we imbed the cells in plant hosts, we would have trees that provide shade in daylight and moonlight at night.

3. PROTEIN. Photosynthetic proteins from spinach and Rhodobacter sphaeroides imbedded in a peptide cell membrane on a silicon surface coated with indium tin oxide and an organic semiconductor topped with a silver electrode, create a current. Marc Baldo (MIT 2004). The beauty of this is the sandwich could be manufactured in a continous assembly line--a complex film. Even without solar cells, could be protein-based electronic devices. Protein may not degrade and could be self-repairing or replenishing.

4. NATURE. Solar energy collection and conversion has been optimized over a very long time by nature. We seem to understand this, yet we are so obsessed with burning carbon fuels we seem to overlook the model Nature presents. Nothing in Nature is burning fossil fuel for its energy source. Why do we?

LINCOLN: “...the better angels of our nature.”

LINCOLN: “...the better angels of our nature.”

He said in his first inaugural address, "In your hands, my dissatisfied fellow-countrymen, and not in mine, is the momentous issue of civil war. The government will not assail you. You can have no conflict, without being yourselves the aggressors. ... We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield, and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

ALL wars are civil infractions, breaches in our brotherhood of arms, a betrayal of our genes, our culture, our ancestors and our children. A betrayal of our "better angels". The chorus of our Union, once begun, excludes no voice.

Valentine -- No Pesare No regrets

Valentine with Fur and Gold

Repent not. The lady is not for blaming.
Even sins would be forgiven, and we only pray
there were more of them.

No ribboned remorse is wrapped and stored
in the cupboard. Not there is the egg-shelled air.

Mi pesar please and thank you and
sweet heart my dear. No getting a rue over your head.

For you, a life in the provinces in the middle of all kinds
of march behind the cat on the queen victoria. My sweet.
No self-reproof of any pudding here. Her indoors, and
outdoors, and her compunction. The lady of the lake
and the forest, and the coming along the shore. Who could
ask for more and always will. Give me the dance, not
the guilt-tripping a lava-light fantastic. Who would know
is never done and the Be in your bonnet is a bonnie lass.
My sweet. My pudding. Ah it is you were meant for more
than scuttings, and woulds that dishes were never
ever dirty dirty dirty in our purty flirty midden kitchen
you middle march through.

You’ve walked those nights. You’ve talked those days.
Lonely no more, great beloved woman. You were meant
to inhale. All the mothers and fathers of the sure-would
forest and the imps of the everlasting glades only travel
for the hope of seeing you, and only leave on the back of their
spingling regrets, not of yours.

Penseverance pay, say it is not so. You were intended for
fur and feathers, and pockets you can reach into, and
those fingers, that arch, the justice of the piece matched set.
The guilt was all gold, no really, gold, oro de todo. A thousand
times–oh so many times–you still end up nowhere you
have ever been a stranger to.

Believe in the way of loving. It works with pastels, it works
with the tropical accents, it composes the seeing and
fills the being, and afterwards, when all introductions are
gone and the beginnings have exhausted themselves,
your love is the wow factor that every one remembers.
Your love. Wow. I factor this:
Your love is all that people see.
It is everything to me.

Mary Ritchie Key, died peacefully with her remaining family September 5, 2003. We need help trying to figure what to put on the stone. 

Huara - one of the most astonishing hunters. Very calm, confident, happily married, wore a woman's necklace/piece, bleached his dress. Cared for people. 

Someday we will have stories to tell. 

Order of the Condor - largest bird, flies the highest, hunts the widest range.  

Great swim, once you chase away the stingrays, snapping turtles, electric eels, pirana, small children...

Main house; logs were from back yard, but the lumber came in oxcart from the Ivon river boats. 

THERE IS NO GOD BUT HUNGER; AND FOOD IS HIS WORD.

THERE IS NO GOD BUT HUNGER; AND FOOD IS HIS WORD.

The day leans against a midday melting sun. Sliding across a blue sky, the hour opens where it fell, and under the white glare, showers its cornucopia of hunger, emptiness, and waves of golden pain. “Here”, he says. I take the fruit. It is the sun’s plum, the orange, the banana. The vegetable. The sun is a generous vendor. “You like radish?” Always this red rimmed white-hot starter, the fireplug of the garden.

The day has no name. But there is the brown sack, the round fruit, the parable of the leaves spiraling up, twisting down. “You want apple?” This is pulpy or sour, not the waxed hybrid of the modern market. And it is little, the seeds chambered in a snarky skin that smells of almond. Did I say almond? “Hey, try this thing. Is new.” The day hands over a couple of peaches. Ah, the stone fruit, a whole school of orchards begins to form.

My teeth dive into the flesh of the snow peach. I pull a quenching meat away from the red arteries surrounding the glowing crimson pit. Interesting innovation. The stone fruit committee announces a successful marketing plan for peaches, in yellow, orange, and white...and peach. A skin as innocent as youth, a thing to touch and feel, as close to dawn as taste can get.

In my belly, the fruit received a standing ovation. The whimpering subsided, all the petitioners from the headlands and the outlands, and even those ingrates that hang around my heart, all rebounded with songs. They held hands and sang little songs. The words were worth remembering – something like

“Arger barger fine the burpo gurpo
how does the meal proceed?
“Willy filly buy the natcho
on sun fruit will we feed!”

My teeth chattered from hunger kept in its bay. I could imagine the pearls falling around in my head, and scampering to their positions at the last minute upon hearing a call from the crow’s nest – “food ahoy”! Oh, it’s only fruit. Well, not so bad. Not so bad at all.

So, by noon already, where the day was falling open, already we were squatting down together and passing the fruit bowl, the wattled basket, the string bag. The leaf-bag of brown fruit is torn open. We need words for this.

Back when the words were cutting edge. When we were looking for food and words and so often found them together, at watering holes. The game leaning down to dip their tongues and we would leap upon them in silence and come out with our arms full and our throats thrilling with victory and something would come out we wanted to repeat everything:

"OK, down this knoll, no, directly, on the hypotenuse, then between the two trees legs intertwined, and where the stream bends into the fingernail moon and wide and flat the riparian bank, behind the toyon bush– dense, dark, still, wait. At water’s edge, the forest buffalo out the canopy, and entire family wade in you jump on the little one quick like a spurt of death, like lightning strikning struck you hold on, hold on!
"And let us all then know, by giving great noise and still to hang on as we chase off the bulls and dive upon the calf to drown our food all around, and in the shout, what is the word for this, what is the word of it, what is the silent luring, and coming close, and the cast off, the brilliant leap, the blood all waiting, the great legs pushed into deep water, lock your fingers into its fur, grasp the limbs, all the up-endedness of a yalping calf, the word for this, the word for buffalo meat on the edge of its foodness, at the bank of its hoof and ready to bake flank, the organ meat grinder burger in its bucket of blanket about to be made! "

My plight was not what was its name. My sole concern was for eating’s sake. How to fill the mouth, and in-so-doing, the stomach, and still its little songs, quench its pathetic gassings, the way it pinches into the way of the day. Even by its noon and the fruit is fine.

Still, once that apple was Adam-ed, once my Eve consorted the snake, the fruit was on the plate. All the parts of the mouth were distributed so, the hard boulders, the cutting edges, the daggers and prongs, surrounding that tongue on three sides, and the tongue dancing inside the semi-circle, leading the morsel chorus into the dark gullet of happiness.

But was it over? The belly no longer in direct communication with the teeth, no longer chattering them, leaving them strangely alone. And the tongue, still dancing, but alone, now, no longer the consort of the morsel, no longer dancing to the rhythm of the bite. The hollow darkness no longer echoing in emptiness and pain, but palletizing satisfaction, gurgling the story, replaying the sounds of the buffalo consonant, and reprising the vowells of fruit.

And the buffalo was hunted and the fruit gathered by mastery, and then around the squat midden we came to share it all, and then the word came out by mystery. By the tongue done its escort service and the dancing begins in earnest, re-filling the mouth, with a thousand names for food.

There was no name for gratitude, for thank you, and for why we could speak. Why the hunt, the gathered fruit, and the chewed bone became words. Why we filled our mouths again. There was no name for the told story remembered with longing, for the morning pinch before the sun’s first pink blink, for the hope of breakfast, for the source of rivers, no word for wanting, for the measure of things, the stem, the stone, the stamp. So we called it God.

It is true that Things with no name still exist. They are out there, coming to water’s edge to drink, behind the curve in the river, perhaps where the banks are steep and deeply covered. Somewhere out there is a god of the ubiguitous, a god of mice, a god of the knats, and the drops of rain. We do not know its name.

Just as the belly communicates directly with the teeth, just as the skin shares a common nerve with fear and ice and fire, so does the word begin with God and God begins with having no name. At the cutting edge we named everything. Still looking, we catch everything in that net, the hook of a word. But God could not be speared. The first word for God was No Name.

Of course, the significance of this naming, and the point of naming the nameless “God”, is entirely lost on those who believe in things which do not exist.

Now, we are stuck with what is on our plate. Grabbing God down by the river where all Things come to drink, and having dunked the lesser god under water, and drowned it fair and square, not one of the big ones sitting in the Sun, but a downy-fur little youngster, a mouse-god, we started filling our mouths with it. The mouth-feel was addictive. The little bites became lessons we wanted to learn. We wanted to write home to mother. We wanted to have a mother. We wanted a father and a little family of gods.

The addictions became ways of life. We rolled dice. We worshipped intravenously. God got bigger. The sun began to look like a candidate. Thunder was clearly begging for an explanation, and when lightning struck someone we all knew, further introduction became moot. The rest was just development. A little matter of bribing the one-eyed artist to draw the bulls on the wall, or trick Michaelangelo into lying on his back on a scafold, and next thing you know it’s the papacy and we’ve got hell-fire religion just waiting for a bit of sprinkling from an unsuspecting heaven.