Tag Archives: writing

Hypersimplificationalisms

Posted on by • Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , • Leave a comment

It took a warning from my email system to make me realise that I had been making my life more socially complex than I had intended when I retired from working in an office environment several years ago.

Dozens of blogs I found myself following, filling my email inbox.

Hundreds of friends and family on social networking sites I found I had accumulated, creating a constantly-flowing social “news” stream.

Thousands of websites I found I was tracking.

Billions of people I found I had written about.

It took an interview with an author on the der spiegel website to make me realise that seeking social connections is one of the aspects of being a member of our species.

Instead of simplifying my life, I have jumped right back in to social connections, albeit mostly virtual ones.

Back to simplifying my thought sets so I can return to contemplating the vast universe of which we are a tiny part that we rarely see through the cloud of socialising that normally defines us.

To the dozens of fellow blog writers and hundreds of social network friends, I thank you for your hospitality and kindness.  However, I bow gracefully and exit from your lives.

I have other pursuits, none as important as friends and family, but ones I want to look for, nonetheless.

I had used this blog as a means of safely storing my written thoughts.  However, with my smartphone I have a new means of storing my thoughts without having to put them out here for everyone to read, allowing me to explore thought patterns I have kept to myself in order to avoid offending any of my friends and family who might see themselves in this continuous satirical viewpoint through a serial book of parallel lives.

Have, have, have…there I go again, sending Morse code to the universe!

This blog has come to an end.

Hardware-in-the-loop

Posted on by • Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , • Leave a comment

The one area of intelligence that my wife and I agree on is the definition of X-in-the-loop.

A machine that requires input from a person is a human-in-the-loop device/system.

All commercial automobiles require a person to operate the automobile (but that is quickly going to change).

Is a road full of automobiles that require no human input a sign of intelligence?

What about the Curiosity rover on Mars?

What features can we list that show autonomous functions in one subset, intelligent functions in another and a set of features in the subset of the autonomy/intelligence junction?

What makes the autonomous functions of my central nervous system intelligent or conscious?

What about the automatic connection of my laptop computer’s WiFi radio subsystem in this room to the WiFi router in another part of the house and then on out to the Internet?

What is pure hardware-in-the-loop intelligence like, no HID required/allowed?

If a database is updated by a software program which seeks to maximise its collection of available knowledge, knowledge that it alone determines is valuable, is that intelligence?

And what about the age-old arguments of the conscious-vs-subconscious thought sets?

These words are just a few that pass through my thoughts before I make a last-second decision upon another upon another, etc., until I type these words in a coherent whole row called a sentence, in exclusion of and in competition within a finite possibility (you won’t find Croatian or Sanskrit here without the use of an online translator, for instance).

If the Internet is now an extension of my thought set, am I a human-in-the-loop extension of the Internet?

I sit here, taking an occasional sip of black label Irish whiskey (“Black Bush”), looking at the clock, which shows 22:38, and contemplate going to bed, where I will not be directly disturbed by the Internet, although my dreams (my subconscious?) may work through thought patterns I’ve had today about artificial machine intelligence which date back to my childhood days of the 1970s and the promise of LISP/ELIZA and other AI programs that relied on pattern-matching (why does the image of trees appear in my thoughts right now?).

…data structures…hmm…

On the floor next to me, in addition to “Dictionary of Quotations” by Bergen Evans, “Madame Bovary” by Gustave Flaubert and “The Schizoid World of Jean-Paul Satre and R.D. Laing,” are two books that captured my attention several years ago: “I, Cyborg” by Kevin Warwick, and “Natural-Born Cyborgs: Minds, Technologies, and the Future of Human Intelligence” by Andy Clark.

From them, I contemplated a novel I write using software agents in a database, with every word/phrase/sentence/paragraph/chapter hyperlinked/connected such that the story changed based on reading the reader’s online self, with a voiceover and accompanying 3D video that interjects based on the reader’s vital signs, the novel frequently switching to a series of random words to shake up the reader’s thought patterns, slipping in and out of the reader’s online life — social life, blog, game sequences, website, etc. — so that the reader soon could lose track of self completely in a world of half-plagiarism, half-homage collage.

As I write this blog entry, my software agent has jumped from suggesting the word I’m typing to suggesting the rest of the end of the sentence.

After hundreds of blog entries, my software agent has jumped from suggesting the rest of this sentence to write the rest of the blog entry for me.

Based on the research I perform on the Internet every day and the books I have lined up to read the rest of the week, as well as following my daily patterns, including eye movements, my software agent has written the rest of this week’s blog entries for me, suggesting that I skip using the Internet altogether today and go for a nice, relaxing hike in the cool autumn morning, using my “Internet of things” kitchen appliances to assemble a sandwich along with the rest of my meal/snacks to eat that my smartphone will remind me of when my vital signs show sign of hunger along the trail.

Readers of this blog can now no longer tell when I stopped writing these blog entries, or when I sometimes step in as a person-in-the-loop to tweak a blog entry as a surprise, because both I and the software agent use the trick of occasional misspellings and grammatical errors to give an ambience of authenticity to my/its speedy typing and lack of postcreation proofreading/editing.

Is this intelligence?

If all I do between computer programming gigs and life coaching, other than go out to eat, shop, attend football games, watch movies and travel with my wife, is write blog entries here, your only connection with me, could you say I am more or less intelligent than the output of my software agent?

What if my writing became more oblique and more full of interesting Internet links, would I (or, rather, my proxy) seem more intelligent?

When all of us depend on software agents to supplement or (perhaps) better yet, substitute for our online lives, is the Internet intelligent/conscious?

When software agents are interacting with software agents to create unique output that I and the other people who created their software agents would not have thought of, is that a sign that the Internet has become intelligent/conscious?

Is a “train” of autonomous automobiles traveling on a road an intelligent/conscious entity all its own, receiving stimuli from the environment and reacting as one just like a caterpillar or earthworm from our anthropomorphic view?

How can I say that my typing here is anything more than an autonomous response by my set of states of energy to the environment?

Am I really just a hardware-in-the-loop device like any other set of states of energy in the universe?

Why should I label “me” as a special condition of intelligence or consciousness?  Because I say I can see myself write this blog entry while I “see” thoughts that do not win the competition to make this blog entry a coherent sequence of symbols we call words?

The wooden mannequin on my desk has no autonomous functions, does it?

What about gravitational pull holding it down on the desk?

What about the photons interacting with its surface, indicating a series of paths from the incandescent light bulb inefficiently emitting more heat than light that reflects off the shiny surface of the mannequin into my eyeballs?

Obviously, I’d be more convinced if the mannequin started talking to me in a manner I could understand — arm gestures, leg movements, etc.

I shake the desktop and the mannequin shakes in responses.

We have a relationship with each other, if not an understanding between us.

Is that a sign of intelligence/consciousness?

I cannot assume that what I anthropomorphically or anthropocentrically want to call intelligence/consciousness is what I will see when the interconnected wires and fibers we call the Internet becomes more than an automatic response to our stimuli, which is really all I am in one view, aren’t I?

Never assume the event horizon hasn’t already been crossed just because your definition of the impossible is the only one you can envision.

Hindsight is mostly 20/20.

Symbiosis is asymptomatic, in my book (but that’s the whiskey talking, not me).

Good night!

Advice passed on by my father (posthumously)

Posted on by • Tagged , , , , , , , , , , • Leave a comment

From the local newspaper, Kingsport, TN Times-News, 31Oct2010. p. 2D:

It’s time for us to think like artists by Shelburne Ferguson

Most of us in Kingsport value the transformation of our downtown from decades of decline and decay to the vibrant revitalization that stretches across ever widening blocks of our center city. The work of hundreds of people has brought about this progress in a variety of ways.

Some residents may view the addition of public art to our city’s streetscapes as mere window dressing. I consider the presence of these expressions of talent as pivotal to leading Kingsport to become the city known for its collective imagination, innovation and creativity.

I will be as bold as to make a prediction. I forecast that our occasional brushing up against this public art along our sidewalks on a daily basis will eventually rub off on us to the end that some of us begin to think like artists.

Have you ever considered how artists think? Have you thought about how important creativity, innovation and imagination (which artists possess in abundance) are to the success of your business enterprises? Consider how important fostering innovation and creativity is in helping the United States stay competitive on the world markets.

I encourage you to consider how artists think. Then learn from the artists’ way of looking at our world. It’s time for all of us to start thinking like artists.

• Artists observe more closely the world around them than do most other people.

• Artists realize that great achievements often follow a long trail of mistakes.

• Artists see what the rest of us don’t see.

• Artists have long attention spans.

• Artists don’t fear taking risks and suffering   possible failures.

• Artists don’t give up easily.

• Artists look for the connections.

• Artists like challenges.

• Artists see what is not there.

• Artists arrange things in unique and fascinating ways.

• Artists don’t mind fantasy.

• Artists like combining things that never shared a canvas before.

• Artists don’t care if others think they’re weird.

• Artists find beauty in things the rest of us once thought were ugly.

• Artists take a chance doing things never done before.

• Artists see competition as a challenge not something to be feared.

• Artists combine old things in new ways.

• Artists see failure as merely an idea or concept that just didn’t work out.

• Artists get accustomed to being balanced precariously on the cutting edge.

• Artists often don’t take the same direction in getting to the same point.

• Artists don’t mind working hard.

• Artists are often colorful people.

• Artists let their work speak for itself.

• Artists don’t mind sharing the spotlight with the Creator and the Created.

• Artists are more analytical than you think.

• Artists have to let out their creative energy or it will dissipate.

• Artists have an irresistible urge to express themselves.

• Artists are usually a step ahead of the rest and are off the road most traveled.

• Artists seek to look over the horizon.

I’m pleased that our city understands how important public art is to developing not only an appreciation for art but an appreciation for what art on the street corner can do to encourage us to start thinking like artists. What are you thinking about today? Visit Broad Street and its environs and be motivated to think like an artist.

Mr. Ferguson is an attorney, businessman, and management consultant in Kingsport (and a friend of my parents). His e-mail address is  shelburne@ferguson-lawoffice.com.

 

What not to write

Posted on by • Tagged , , , , , , , , , , • 2 Comments

While Nigerians get all burned up over spilt fuel, Syrians kill each other because there aren’t enough regular citizens to say, “Hey, Syria is no longer a country, which means countries don’t exist, which means a lot of people who call themselves politicians are suddenly no longer needed, which means the unemployment rate just shot up…,” and labels are still labels, let’s stop a moment and ask ourselves, “What should writers do when they write” (and they aren’t journalists, film critics, thinktank analysts, students, or others engaged in something besides [non]fictional storytelling)?”

In other words, humour me and make me think, if only mindlessly.

Let’s let consciousness (not a “conscience”) be our guide…

A Second Look at Female Suicide

Posted on by • Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , • Leave a comment

Is it true more American military kill themselves than die in battle or perish in motorbike wrecks?  If so, what is the ratio of military men to women self-sacrificers?

Compared to the civilian population and, more specifically, civilian job categories, how much higher or lower are male military or female military likely to kill themselves than, say, dentists or cops?

Finally, is it because we’ve infested the military population with the same microorganisms that push cat owners into ending their ninth try at a nice life?

Could we look back at those of the female persuasion who left written records and killed themselves, analysing their literary output for clues as to the true cause of their desire for demise?

For instance, take this poem of Sylvia Plath.  Is it just me or is she perhaps using her poetic licence to drive home a point that it was secretly a creature of the feline persuasion that persuaded her to say goodbye to life, to children, to husband, to career?:

The Companionable Ills

by Sylvia Plath

The nose-end that twitches, the old imperfections—
Tolerable now as moles on the face
Put up with until chagrin gives place
To a wry complaisance—

Dug in first as God’s spurs
To start the spirit out of the mud
It stabled in; long-used, became well-loved
Bedfellows of the spirit’s debauch, fond masters.

Looking Back

Posted on by • Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , • Leave a comment

A reposted blog entry referencing Andy Griffith (from here):

02 February 2009

What’s a groundhog got to do with it?

2 February 2009, 11:32 a.m. – Two nights in a row with no sleep…am I supposed to see my shadow today? At my age, I know my moods, my body ailments, and my set of reactions to the familiar world around me. Once, I would attack the world like Don Quixote, jousting at monsters with relish, exhilarated in the extreme during the thrust and plunged into depression when the dragons of the world defeated me with laughter. The highs and lows have mellowed somewhat with age. I, I, I…it’s not all about me. I have to keep telling myself that, reminding and repeating myself often, because as a selfish person I tend not to care about others. I just said this to myself and heard echoes in my thoughts of repeating even these set of words. The next thing I know I’ll say is, “Yet, because I was raised to worry about what the neighbors think, a selfish person like me still doesn’t exceed a limit of social decency that I wish did not exist.”

I look at the words, phrases, and sentences I’ve written and exasperate myself with my attitude of “good enough” (as in “good enough for government work”), not taking the time to perfect my use of the rules and suggestions of the English language. Thus, I’ll use too many commas or place a word with a similar but not quite precise meaning (e.g., “I see” versus “I comprehend”).

I write for an unknown reader. Well, I write for myself first but myself as a person with a group of colleagues (including some imagined ones, such as other writers who had brains superior in calculation capability than mine but whose inspiration gives me hope for the value of my work), well-read colleagues who may not exist except in my imagination. Colleagues who enjoy reading dictionaries, plant identification books, philosophy, cartoons, economic analysis reports, sports headlines, milk cartons, random blogs, user manuals, billboards, handwritten letters from friends, LP liner notes, fortune cookie slips and literary fiction.

On a flight from one forgotten destination to another a few years ago, I read a book highly recommended to me titled, “Eats, Shoots & Leaves.” The friend who suggested the book to me majored in English in college and had more than a passing interest in the correct use of punctuation, even though her career had moved into computer equipment sales. I suppose our lives crossed paths for a reason (a reason, mind you, not a purpose). I reason that I wanted to major in language studies or literature but my upbringing pointed in the direction of the hard sciences such as chemistry, engineering or computer software design, thus my vocation would always clash with my avocation of reading and writing literature (literature in the form of poetry, short stories, novellas, skits, plays and novels; I hesitate adding the word “essays” to the list because the blogging world has taken over the world of the formal essay, where even a haiku becomes both blog and essay; I might add “graphic novel” one day should my artwork interest hold my attention for longer than a day of drawing). So literature becomes a joke about a panda that serves as a book title which mixes my life and my friend’s life well.

You know the joke, don’t you? A panda walks into a bar, sits on a stool, munches on some peanuts, kills the person sitting next to him with a gun and then calmly walks out of the bar. A patron turns to the bartender and asks, “What was that all about?” The bartender responds, “Don’t you know that’s a panda?” The bartender hands a poorly written children’s alphabet animal book to the patron, who turns to the letter P and reads the definition of panda: “an animal, native to China, that eats, shoots, and leaves.”

Today, literature as solely a written art form almost has no meaning. The Internet has invaded our thoughts and actions so pervasively and persuasively that we’ve become both creator and audience at once. The visual arts, including rap and hip-hop songs, take literature from the static written page into the three-dimensional realm from whence it originated. Our storytelling ancestors sitting in caves would understand us and our need to carry around Internet devices in the form of cell phones and other UMPCs.

Yesterday afternoon, my wife and I watched the movie, “Inkheart,” at a local theater. If you haven’t seen the movie and plan to, then you should stop reading here because I’ll soon discuss spoilers. As in right now. LOL Toward the end of the movie, the character played by Jim Broadbent (one of my favorite actors, by the way), the writer of “Inkheart,” expressed his wish to move out of the regular, lonely world of writing and into the exciting world he created with his writing. I don’t know how the third act of the movie jibed with the “Inkheart” book series on which the movie’s based, but I was happy to see the writer character get his wish granted.

The night before, I slept in a fit of delirium. I tossed and turned, fighting the enemy who has stalked my dreams and wishes like the shadow from “Inkheart.” I suppose all of us have seen such an enemy as mine, who works night and day to drain me of my true desire, waiting for the moment to suck the life blood out of me and turn me into a zombie, with which the shadow can play like pieces on a chess board or marionettes on a puppet stage, reducing me to the role of an automaton working in an office full of fellow robots. In the dreamlike state, I defeated the enemy because I surrounded myself with the love and support of those who believe with me that my creative talent is worth calling myself a writer. Or more than that, really…I’ll take a deep breath here, look around me to make sure no one is looking, feel my heart beat in my throat before I speak and finally say, “I am an author.”

After watching the movie, my wife and I returned home to watch the spectacle known as the Super Bowl. With a superlative like “super,” we can automatically assume the bowl is anything but. However, I have accepted the conditioning of my society to cheer for or against the participants of the main event, grown men running around chasing an inflated bag of sewn pigskin (and if you ever want a humorous view of football, listen to Andy Griffith‘s comedy sketch “What It Was, Was Football,” – even if you’re not a fan of “The Andy Griffith Show,” the skit is funny), whilst with bated breath we gaze at the screen for gleeful exposure to commercial advertising.

As the NFL game progressed, I glanced at the clock, mentally counting down the hours until the countdown ended for the opening of submission of works of fiction for the 2009 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award at www.createspace.com/abna. When the game ended after 9 p.m. Central, I grabbed another bottle of Yuengling Black & Tan and headed to my study, where I could sit and listen to jazz on old vinyl LP albums and watch the countdown clock on a webpage. Tick. Tock. Or so my brain thought because the silent digital display simply showed the word, “Tonight,” underneath was which a counter of hours, minutes and seconds. My blood pressure leapt when the numbers dropped from 01:00:00 to 00:59:59. Had I made any glaring mistakes in the work of fiction itself, much less the other text I had to submit for the contest, including an excerpt of less than 5,000 words, a pitch statement of less than 300 words, an anecdote, a biography and a description to be used for the novel should the contest judges deem my novel worthy of posting on amazon.com as a semifinalist in March?

Finally, as the hour shrank to ten minutes, I resigned myself to the fact that no matter how well my novel succeeded in capturing the attention of the editor(s) who reviewed first the pitch statement (to reduce the 10,000 entries down to 2,000) to create a reasonable set of good entries and then read my novel excerpt (to drop the entries down to 500, I believe), I had written an opus, though not perfect, which represented me, complete with poor punctuation – with ill-advised comma placement, or omission – and lack of precise word usage.

A groundhog does not determine the next six weeks of weather any more than a randomly selected judge determines the worth of my writing. At 23:11 (11:11 p.m. Central, or 12:11 Eastern time on 2nd February 2009), I clicked the Submit button and received confirmation that my novel submission was completed and accepted for the 2009 ABNA contest.

HAPPY GROUNDHOG’S DAY, EVERYONE!

Posted by TreeTrunkRick at 1:12 PM

= = = = = = = = = =

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!!!  Thanks to Megan, Pat, Gail, Derek, Andrew, Heather, Roy, Cassandra, Shirley, Stephanie (a/k/a Athens pie)

Another secret revealed

Posted on by • Tagged , , , , , , , , , , • 1 Comment

In the arena where this blog-in-reality meets reality-outside-of-this-blog, we watch the words reveal the past and the future through your present reading.

Turn on the Suite No. 2 for Orchestra, Op. 64, from Romeo and Juliet, by Sergey Prokofiev.

Or the Orchestral Suite No. 3 in D Major by J.S. Bach.

Then, sit back and watch this video…

Before you see the video, I’ll ask you a question.

What is your password, any password?

You see, Rick left the room a few minutes ago and I noticed a Bible askew on the bookshelf nearest the computer terminal.

I thought for a few seconds what he would be doing and then it hit me.

An old world globe on top of the bookshelf fell on my head!

After I replaced the globe, I thought about why the Bible would have moved on its own.

Then I logged onto this network; that is, Itried to log on.

Then it hit me.

The cat perched on the headrest of the chair gave me a whack across the forehead, begging for food.

After I fed the cat, I figured out why Rick had moved the Bible.

He had created a new password for the network.

And what’s one of the best known phrases, or verses, in the Bible?

I typed J3164GSLTW and logged back in.

C’mon, Rick?  John 3:16?  That’s the most difficult password you could come up with, “For God so loved the world…”?

Dude, you’ve got to make it harder than that.  I guess “Jesus wept” was too short, wasn’t it?  I’m sure Genesis 1:1 would have been too easy for me to figure out, wouldn’t it?  I suppose I could have tried the 10 Commandments next.

Oh well, now that I’m back, I wanted to share with you the infographic that summarises the secret code that unlocks the world of Rick’s writing (and thus, mine, the plagiaristic copycat that I am).

Short, but sweet, the secret of storytelling.  Rinse and repeat.

Suite No. 2 for Orchestra, Op. 64 Ter from Romeo and Juliet

Writing a short story for a book review in a History college course…

Posted on by • Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , • Leave a comment

Walden Two: Just Another Religious Cult?

In the very books in which philosophers
bid us scorn fame, they inscribe their names.
——Cicero: Pro Archia XI.xxvi.

“Here it is,” I said, holding a Webster’s dictionary in my lap. “Utopia… well, there are three definitions. Which one do you want?“ I turned to my longtime friend, Jessica, and waited for a response.

She looked at me, and with a sarcastic tone, replied, “Whichever one suits you, how about that?” We often discussed the way people have the tendency to only make remarks or statements that defend their position. No one wants to be proven wrong. This time, though, I told Jessica I wanted to find out how good a utopia could be. She argued that I was not going into this project with an open mind, that I had decided long ago utopias were “nifty.” People always remember what I want them not to.

“Okay, smarty, here’s the whole definition. ‘Utopia, imaginary and ideal country in Utopia by Sir Thomas More, from Greek ou: not, no; and topos: place. One, an imaginary and indefinitely remote place. Two, often capitalized, a place of ideal perfection especially in laws, government and social conditions. Three, an impractical scheme for social improvement.’ Wait, here’s a good one, the definition for utopian socialism, ‘socialism based on a belief that social ownership of the means of production can be achieved by voluntary and peaceful surrender of their holding by propertied groups.’ That’s exactly what Walden Two is, a utopian socialist community.” I had found the definition I wanted!

“You don’t have to shout. I’m right here. So I guess you’re trying to convince me of something. First, you say a utopia is ’imaginary’ and ‘impractical.’ Then, you try to cover that up with another definition about a utopian society full of ’peaceful’ people. Can you imagine President Reagan asking everyone to peacefully give up their property and bank accounts for the good of our society? Be real.”

She’s right, I thought. There’s never going to be a…

“But don’t you see,” I burst out, “that’s what Skinner is saying. There will never be a political solution to forming an almost nonpolitical society.”

“Okay, but my point is this: do you really believe Americans are going to give up discotheques and funeral homes for SOCIALIST living? Remember, this is the land of Richard Nixon, J.C. Penney’s and apple pie. I just don’t see everyone wearing robes and traveling in buggies.”

“Very funny,” I snorted as I picked up a copy of Walden Two looking for a passage to help me out. “Listen, ’What would you do if you found yourself in possession of an effective science of behavior?’ You didn’t get the true message of the book. This isn’t a real utopian society. And, this isn’t a socialist government, either.” Jessica gave me a questioning stare. “Well, not much of one, anyway.”

“Have you decided what you’re going to write your paper on yet? I thought you were going to write about All The President’s yen…I mean, Men.”

“I was, but the professor said that 80% of the class would probably write about the same book so I decided not to do that one. I’d say everyone in the class has already read about and knows about Watergate. Too  easy.” And besides, I thought, why write a story on a great president? If I could write a convincing story on a socialist society, then I could try proving the worth of a phone—bugging president.

We sat in silence for a few minutes. I went over my notes on B.F. Skinner, searching for some supportive evidence on the idea of my paper.

Meanwhile, Jessica read the Wall Street Journal. As I looked at my notes, my mind began to wander. I asked myself, Is there such a thing as a utopia? Would anyone want it if they had it? How can there be a perfect society when we, the components of this society, aren’t perfect? Is Skinner’s ’science of behavior’ the solution to a utopian society? I just couldn’t find a reasonable answer.

“Lee,” Jessica asked, looking up from the paper, “did you know the Indian tribe that ate the first Thanksgiving dinner with the Pilgrims doesn’t exist anymore?”

Still lost in thought, I responded, “What did you say?”

“I said, did you know the Indian tribe that…”

“Hey! That’s it,” I said, nearly jumping out of my seat.

“That’s what?” was her response, angry with me for interrupting her (first) discovery. She knew I was about to go into a long monologue and she’d never be able to finish her thought.

“Didn’t you read some book about an Indian named Black Elk or some such?”

“Yeah, and…”

“Well, I seem to remember you saying Black Elk was in touch with God or some spirit. Wasn’t that his argument for returning to the tribal life, because of our losing ’harmony with God?’”

“He didn’t argue for tribal life. He just stressed the importance of a spiritual life. If you want, I can get the book for you.”

“No, that all-right. I think I have something, though. Let me find the page I’m looking for first.” I began thumbing through Walden Two. “Here it is. ‘Walden Two isn’t a religious community.’ There’s some more here somewhere… oh yeah, I don’t know if I told you but in this book, Skinner isn’t the builder of Walden Two. It’s this guy named Frazier who formed it. All through the book, Frazier is defending Walden Two against the doubts of Skinner and a colleague of his. Anyway, Frazier goes on to say, ’It would take me a long time to describe, and I’m not sure I could explain, how religious faith becomes irrelevant when the fears which nourish it are allayed and the hopes fulfilled—— here on earth. We have no need for formal religion, either as ritual or philosophy.’ Don’t you see? He’s saying the same thing that Black Elk said.”

“Uh, Lee, are you sure you know what you’re talking about?”

“Come on. You’re the one who’s studied Hinduism and Buddhism. They all have this belief in God or…what is it the call it?“

“’The absolute experience.'”

“Yeah, well, isn’t Walden Two a sort of absolute experience? I mean, according to all that’s in this book, Walden Two and the science of behavior are like the Brahman or nirvana of Hinduism. I’m not sure if Black Elk used this word but it’s like the manitou of the American Indians. They all seek to reach an ultimate goal, the perfect reality. Just think, to Christians, the reality is God and we fall short of God. Thus Christians must always try to become perfect, god—like. They believe we never will on Earth. Neither does Skinner.  His science of behavior stresses the need for improvement in every aspect of our lives. You know, the funny thing is Skinner has combined science and religion in his philosophy, and he admits this in so many words, too. Yet, he flatly denies religious beliefs in his teachings. I copied this passage out of Collier’s Encyclopedia. Read it.”

“…the aim of Indian philosophy is not a mere intellectual
apprehension of reality but an intuitive experience of it.
Emphasis is consequently put, in every system of Indian
philosophy, on the need for practical discipline. An aspirant
to philosophic wisdom must be not only intellectually alert
but also morally pure. Metaphysical contemplation is possible
only for one who has cultivated such qualities as equanimity,
self—control, and contentment. All schools of philosophy,
orthodox as well as heterodox, are agreed that a seeker after
metaphysical truth should cease from harboring a thirst for
the fleeting goods of this world, and should turn to the
eternal reality for ultimate satisfaction. When a candidate
is considered morally and emotionally ready, he enters on the
enterprise called philosophizing. Guided study, rational
reflection, and continued meditation constitute the technique
of philosophizing in India. This process continues until the
metaphysical truth is realized. That such realization can
come to one in this life is the teaching of many schools of
Indian philosophy. Even those which believe that the final
realization comes only after death nevertheless teach that he
who has received philosophic knowledge leads thereafter a
transformed life …. The integration of the new with the old
has been the technique by which Indian philosophy has grown.
In the struggle of ideas there are no vanquished. Some ideas
become dominant not be conquering others but by absorbing them
and thereby becoming richer.

While Jessica read the passage, I started realizing how far our conversation had gone. We had started talking about the possible existence of utopias. Now, I thought, we were discussing religions and philosophy. What I needed to do was explain more fully how I thought the two should be or have been combined in Skinner’s Walden Two.

“What do you think?” I asked, hoping Jessica would give me some way to finish what I wanted to say.

“Well, I studied this last fall in Religious Studies class. I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”

(Occasionally, I get people to say what I want.)

“I guess you really need to read this book to see everything I’m saying but that’s okay, I’ll tell you anyway,” I said wryly.

“Sometimes, your humor escapes me.”

“Let’s just say I feel in control right now,” not unlike Frazier in Walden Two, “and I’m in a good mood.”

“Ignoring your ego problem, what do you want to say?”

“Okay. Well, aside from the fact that a utopia is impossible…no, let me say this. I’ve been thinking about it and I decided what a utopia is. I wrote it down here somewhere…I found it. A utopia is ‘the balance between recognizing our mistakes and acting on and correcting them in the least amount of time. As long as we’re constantly striving for perfection at some maximum rate then we’re doing the best we can. Depending on what level our success rate of correcting our errors has reached, we will be in a state of utopia, not perfect, but as close as is humanly possible.'”

“Did you mean State of Utopia as in State of Tennessee?”
“NO.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I didn’t really think about it.”

“Think about it, then. I’m not going to let you get by with a thoughtless statement.”

“Uh, well, a state of utopia is kinda like being reborn as a Christian.”

“You’re still being vague,” Jessica said sternly, displaying her impatience at my not thinking through everything I’d said.

“Okay, okay. Give me a break. Let’s see…hmm. You know, Christians consider being reborn as the highest goal on Earth…and, well, everything after that is soft of a self—improvement and recruitment program.”

“Yes?”

“Well, and this is a deep subject…”

“Very funny. I’m not in the mood for your jokes right now.”

I laughed despite her anger, “You’re too much sometimes.”

“And you’re not. I’d appreciate it if you’d finish. I’m really interested.”

“Oh, sorry. What was I saying?”

“You were talking about Christians.”

“Anyway, it seems to me that Skinner is no better than anyone else who wants to be immortal.“

“I see what you’re saying but not exactly.”

“Fine, I’m not finished.” Jessica smiled when she realized how harsh she’d been and how silly we both were about our seriousness on such a light subject. I thought about the guy is Skinner’s book who had been so objective throughout the visit to Walden Two that he refused to believe he had any feelings about it.

“Before you finish, Lee, I’m curious. Do you believe all this stuff?”

“Kinda.”

“Okay, I just wanted to be sure.”

“Whatever. Where was I? Oh yeah, my question I haven’t answered. Is Skinner advocating using people for an experiment? Yes. Is he saying he’d do it? No. Well, he has a lack of faith. As I once told you, I believe there are a few men who control the direction of our world. And women, too, of course. Anyway, my goal is either to make sure these people are going in my direction — that is, where I believe the world should be going-—or that I make sure I’m one of these people. What do you think?”

“I think you’re crazy!”

“But don’t you see what I’m saying? If, as I think you’d agree, we live in a world of predestination, then the only way I can test this belief is to try to see where I fit in the Plan. I know this’ll sound stupid but if I don’t fit in the Plan the Plan doesn’t exist. If there is no Plan then my belief is wrongly founded. I do, however, have faith in my fellow human, and that if one is told to do something, he will know whether to do it. If there’s no Plan, then I want to help make sure that I am there to tell people what is and what will be so they’ll know what to do. Am I making sense?”

“Yes, but I hope you don’t believe you’re as perfect as you just made yourself out to be.”

“No, no, no. I don’t believe I’m perfect. I never will be, you know that. But I feel I know a number of things, that together with other people, you included, by the way, we will help head humanity in the right direction.”

“If there is no Plan?”

“Right.”

“Okay, what do you believe is your place in the Plan?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Guess.”

“Well, that the goal I choose in this life is already known and I will do what’s right in accomplishing that goal.”

“That’s it?”

“No. Also I believe these people who control the world don’t really control it. I mean they have been chosen by God, or whatever you want to call the Creator, they have been chosen to pass messages on to the people as to what to do. We all have the choice to how we’re going to accomplish that goal on the whole. Yet, there are a certain number of people in the world who have the responsibility to make sure general objectives are carried out. As you’re probably thinking, mistakes are going to be made. I feel God has left a lot of room for mistakes, and thus, of course, for improvement. Who knows, Hitler may have been one of the chosen people. In a way, we’re all responsible. In a way, it’s the preservation of the species, but it’s more than that — it’s improvement of the species for the improvement of the universe.”

“You’ve never told me this before. When did you think of all this?“

“I hope you won’t get mad but I’ve been saying it as I’ve thought it. I’ve been fighting for the right words for months, though. I still haven’t gotten all my beliefs into perspective, though I know they fit in the same picture.”

“You know something, Lee. This has been a neat conversation.”

“I’m still not finished, though.“

“How much more do you have? I’d rather wait if you’re just going to keep making things up as you go. No offense, of course.”

“None taken, my dear. No, I do have a few more definite things to say.”

“Okay but hurry. We only have a little while before we have to go.”

“Have we decided what to do?”

“I thought we were going to see ’The Wall’.”

“Oh, that’s right. Which reminds me——do you think Skinner took acid, from what I’ve said about him?”

“What do you think?“ she asked, smiling.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,“ I replied, knowing her answer intuitively. We often communicated ideas and feelings without actual words. “Anyway, I believe Skinner sees himself as one of these chosen people. From what I can gather, I believe he is, too. Just by reading this book, I understand him to say that all religions are a science of behavior. He even said that the control is in the hands of the wrong people. I believe there are nor wrong people just those who, for one reason or another, have chosen the wrong goals in their lives. Skinner also comments that Jesus was a ’personal emissary’ sent to reveal God’s plans to put God’s people ’back on the track.’ Here’s what Frazier said in the book. Oh, in the book he as the one show said that about Jesus. Anyway, Frazier said, ’”0f course I’m not indifferent to power,” Frazier said hotly. “And I like to play God! Who wouldn’t under the circumstances? After all, even Jesus Christ thought he was God!”’”

“I hate to cut you short ,Lee…”

“No you don’t,” I said, laughing at a joke of ours. We’ve always kidded people who say “I hate to say this but…” because they do want to say it.

“Yes, but you haven’t decided what you’re going to do your paper on, and we got off track a bit from utopias, don’t you think?”

“You just brought us back, didn’t you?”

“Everything goes in a circle,“ we said in unison, laughing.

Swashbuckler, “the magazine for mad people”

Posted on by • Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , • Leave a comment

While clearing off my desk to create space for a graphics tablet, I found a stack of some papers of a previous life (before marriage), including a laboratory book from an “Analytical Chemistry” class, notes from a computer programming class, material from a Sociology class and bunches of my writing, including the following copies of one of my underground magazines called Swashbuckler, a spoof of the ETSU college newspaper and poke at the ETSU literary magazine, with devoted fans from whom I accepted guest writing from time to time.

Swashbucker – Volume 2 – Number 1