In Honor of NPM...

The only two good poems I've ever written:

Corinthian Windchime
The pulsation 
of the wind settling
to a cling .

Alba
Her skin,
  dampened with the melting snow.

Ingenium Romanum

The soul is the city of Rome, which, despite general thinking, was indeed built in a day. For when Romulus turned back after seeing the twelve vultures, and heard about Remus's six, he saw the city of Rome clearly, and Rome was complete. Despite Remus's departure, and the halving of his own followers, Romulus constructed the Quadrata on the top of Palantine Hill, and Rome was complete. Rome was complete after the rapture of the Sabine women, and under Titus Tatius's rule it was complete; it was complete when the Circus was built, complete when the kings were exacted, and complete when the Consuls replaced them. When Hannibal looked over the city, Rome was complete. When Caesar and Pompey fought for it, Rome was complete. Augustus ruled over Rome, and after him, Tiberius. Claudius also ruled, and Nero and Vespasian and Constantine and Romulus Augustulus. The Pope, in the absence of the Emperors, watched over the city, and he too ruled. And through all this time, even when Mazzini pushed il Tricolore into the hands of Marcus Aurelius, Rome was Rome, and Rome was complete.

The soul is the city of Rome, which remains to this day the city of Rome. The city that Livius Andronicus was made a slave in remains the city of Rome. He wrote a new Odyssey, an Odyssey that his captors could read, and because of this he was freed. The ground that he ran upon, that he danced and sung upon with his new found freedom, remains, and it is still the ground of the city of Rome. Ovid said "Hic ubi nunc fora sunt," because in his time there were forums in the city of Rome; and though he is dead, and the men he sang these words to are buried with him, the forums remain, and they will always remain. The city of Rome is still the city of Rome where Cicero spoke upon the rostrum, where Aulus Gellius shared his experiences in the Attic, where "Under the oak near the theatre of Pompey you used to pace, or sit, beneath the shade. It's there a mother gave her gift of marble at which, even the rich, would marvel. And you would stare, not at the frescoes inside, but at the wall; the name 'Livia' inscribed." These things all happened in Rome, these words were all spoken by Romans, for they have been imprinted and inscribed into the foundation of the city, and not one can be taken away from the city of Rome.

De Confucio: Cat Scratch Fever

Cat Scratch Fever by Franklin Bruno is what ultimately turned me on to Confucius. If you listen really hard, you might notice this song has nothing to do with Confucius.

 - - -

I am 178 centimetres tall, but tell me right now, does that mean a thing to anyone?

"Oh yeah, I'm 185 cm, lil' buddy!"

Try something: without standing up, imagine where 178 centimetres from the ground might be. Put your hand there, if you can.

Which is easier to imagine, two-and-a-half million litres, or an Olympic swimming pool?

How many words have I written so far in this post?

- - -

You might be listening to music right now. In a piece of music, there is a certain difference in pitch between each note, and each specific difference has its own name. A perfect fifth is made when a note is played, then a second note is played that vibrates at a frequency 1.5 times as fast as the first note's frequency. Can you please try singing that for me?

Perhaps you're familiar with the main theme of Star Wars? Can you hum the first two notes of it? (Not including the first five or so seconds of introduction. The primary melody.) That's called a perfect fifth.

In Seaport at Sunset, do you think Claude Lorrain measured each individual figure in the painting? Maybe he has a specific formula written down for producing the colour of sunset? If you had all this information at your disposal, could you paint something like this?

Did Shakespeare use a metronome to keep his lines mostly iambic?

- - -

When someone already has experience with an art, it is indeed useful to dive into the technical side of things. However, someone who knows nothing will not become an artist by reading long scientific essays on painting or music. 

The same is true for all aspects of human life. People don't see things as numbers and values and measurements. Then what do they see them as? I can't say, but I know for certain it's not something easily expressed on paper or using mathematical formulas. Words work because there is a special, unknown process that connects the word with whatever the hearer is supposed to understand by the word. The word itself doesn't actually mean anything, but we have all gotten so used to getting certain ideas and images out of certain arrangements of words that we can't not comprehend the ideas and images when we hear the words they're associated with. It's the ideas and images that mean something to us, not the sound of the words.

No one needs an English grammar to speak proper English. Through some strange process, if someone hears and tries to speak enough proper English, with time, he'll be speaking proper English (whatever that might be). I'll admit: I have no idea what this process is, but it's obviously there.

- - -

I must confess: I haven't actually read Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. I think what follows still applies; please tell me if I'm wrong. 

Kant's ethics are complex. They're more or less a series of principles for deriving what exact rules one should live by.

However, no one can adequately refer to the Categorical Imperative before he does something that may or may not be wrong. If someone does try to practice Kantian Ethics, he's only practising a simpler, easily comprehended variation of them. This is still better than acting however one feels at a given moment. With enough time, a system will eventually be internalized to deal with certain moral dilemmas; however this shouldn't be confused with Kant's Ethics.

- - -

There's a part of me, 
size of a tangerine.
[Unintelligible] 
They took it out of me.

The surgeon said, You'll be fine
the mass we removed was completely benign.
Don't get cocky, 
because you might not be so lucky, 
next time.

- - -

Very few people seem comfortable with the idea of cybernetic implants or anything of the sort. Why? If you just look at things rationally, there's no problem!

Yes, that may be true. But I can't accept that. No one can accept that. From the pit of my being, my heart of hearts, I can't bear the idea of being part machine, no matter how logical people's arguments for it may be.

Franklin Bruno was sick. He went to the doctor, who told him he had to get surgery. A part of him was removed. Who cares? His life isn't affected in any measurable way.

But a part of him is still gone. I may not get, you may not understand, measurements and logic may contradict it, but he knows this is inherently wrong. Some process, he can't explain, has triggered in his head, shooting off alarms.

- - -

What is Confucianism?

The great learning [adult study, grinding the corn in the head's mortar to fit it for use] takes root in clarifying the way wherein the intelligence increases through the process of looking straight into one's own heart and acting on the results; it is rooted in watching with affection the way people grow; it is rooted in coming to rest, being at ease in perfect equity.

It is said in the K'ang Proclamation: He showed his intelligence by acting straight from the heart.

[γνῶθι σεαυτόν: Know Thyself]

As the sun makes it new

Each day make it new

Yet again, make it new

- - -

Important words from the above quotes:

• Look
• Act
• Make 
• Each day

De Confucio: Interim

There's a website I see mentioned every once and awhile called Less Wrong. I absolutely hate it and everything it stands for. Please don't ask me why; I don't know myself. (Yes, I am aware of what's wrong with that statement.) However there was a really neat article I found on there about a year back that you should totally read through. (If you can bear the typical Wikipediaesque, emotionless distance of the writing, that is.)

Mr. Yudkowsky describes a little system that rather mechanically (as usual) solves a very Confucian problem: words losing their meaning. And for once, this is a problem that actually matters! People much smarter than me (and who don't try desperately to connect with the rest of the human species by using over-stressed references to a silly game) have already explained why that is. Let's start with Confucius himself:

Zilu said, If the ruler of Wei were waiting for you, Master, to take charge of government affairs, what would you do first?

The Master said, If I had to name my first action, I would rectify names.

Zilu said, There-- that's why people say you are out of touch with reality!

The Master said, How boorish you are, You (Zilu)! When a gentleman is confronted with something he does not understand, he should adopt a respectful attitude!

If names are not rectified, then speech will not function properly, and if speech does not function properly, then undertakings will not succeed. If undertakings do not succeed, then rites and music will not flourish. If rites and music do not flourish, then punishments and penalties will not be justly administered. And if punishments and penalties are not justly administered, then the common people will not know where to place their hands and feet. 

Therefore, when the gentleman names a thing, that naming can be conveyed in speech, and if it is conveyed in speech, then it can surely be put into action. When the gentleman speaks, there is nothing arbitrary in the way he does so.

In my edition of the Burtson Watson translation of the Analects there's a footnote at the bottom pointing to XII.11:

Duke Jing of Qi questioned Confucius about government. Confucius replied, Let the ruler be a ruler; the subject, a subject; the father, a father; the son, a son.

The duke said, Splendid! For if indeed the ruler is not a ruler, the subject not a subject, the father not a father, the son not a son, then although there is grain, how will I be able to eat it?

Are things starting to make more sense? Let's look at a few other people wiser than me. Here's an excerpt from Ezra Pound's Guide to Kulchur (I believe his economic theory is simple enough in this example that we can all mostly agree with him; at least on the points that matter):

 No conception of culture will hold good if you omit the enduring constants in human composition.

Charlemagne fights the monopolists; he decrees a commodity denar, or a grain denar, and the significance escapes six hundred and more economists in a sequence of centuries.

A.D. 794, oats, per moggio, 1 denar 
          barley     "      2 denars
          rye        "      3   "
          wheat      "      4   "

A.D. 808, oats       "      2   "
          barley     "      3   "
          rye        "      4   "
          wheat      "      6   "

the later reading "frumento parato" [protected/prepared/ready wheat. I'm not 100% sure.] and might mean superior wheat, but the rye and barley have moved in like proportion so that it wd. seem to indicate wheat as per 794 or a precaution against inferior grain.

Herein is a technical lesson in justice, there being no reasonable doubt that justice was aimed at.

Here was a lesson that David Hume had learned, presumably from some other series of observations, when he said prosperity depends not on the amount of money in a country, but on its continually increasing.

Gesell and Douglas in our time have both learned the lasson of Charlemagne's list for just prices, without any collusion.

The Catholic Church, aiming at justice, was more intelligent than professors who, in our day, fall for the stability racket, meaning a fixed set of prices, i.e. an unchanging relationship between wanted and/or needed goods and a unit of money.

The hurried reader may say I write this in cyper and that my statement merely skips from one point to another without connection or sequence.

The statement is nevertheless complete. All the elements are there, and the nastiest addict of crossword puzzles shd. be able to solve this or see this.

Having said this, perhaps the reader will believe me when I say one must begin study by method. One must be in condition to understand an author's simplest words if one wishes to understand him. A narrative is all right so long as the narrator sticks to words as simple as dog, horse, and sunset.

His communication ceases almost entirely when he writes down "good", "evil" and "proper".

Manifestly ideas are NOT understood, even when men write down what they themselves consider simple and unambiguous statements. C. H. Douglas remained misunderstood for years because he relapsed into algebra. I myself once printed an analytical formula in a discussion of sculpture, during 25 years I have had no evidence that that statement has ever fallen under the eye of any man who had both a college sophomore's knowledge of geometry, and and interest in sculpture.

* * *

Prof S. used to sneer at philosophy and at least contributed the statement that philosophers had worked for 2000 years and failed to define the few pieces of terminology sufficient to cover their ignorance.

My generation found the criticism of the arts cluttered with work of men who persistently defined the works of one art in terms of another.

For a decade or so we tried to get the arts sorted out. (I am not leaving my narrative by the jump to the present.)

For a few years paint and sculpture tried to limit themselves to colour and form. And this did I believe clarify the minds of a small group or series of people.

We traced the "just word" back to Flaubert. We heard a good deal about using it. For the purpose of novel writing and telling of stories, the composition of poems, the evocative word, the word that throws a vivid image on the mind of the reader suffices.

We litterati struggled for twenty years on this front. In the economic battle we were, after a time, confronted with the need of DEFINITION.

Definition went out in the fifteen hundreds. "Philosphy" went out in the fifteen hundreds, in the sense that after Leibniz the thought of people who labelled themselves philosophers no longer led or enlightened the rest of thinkers. "Abstract thought" or "general thought" or philosophic thought after that time was ancillary to work of material scientists.

Some Huxley or Haldane has remarked that Galileo in inventing the telescope had to commit a definite technical victory over materials.

Before the experimental method, when men had hardly more than words as a means tor transmission of though, they took a gread deal more care in defining them.

All this may be flat platitude, but one has to climb over it. The late Victorians and the Wellses were boggit in loose expression.

Every man who wants to set his ideas in order ought to be soused for a week at least in one part of mediaeval scholasticism.

So. Do you understand now? One more chance. Try reading this. (If you'd like to learn some fascinating trivia about my life, the third comment on this article is what originally pointed me to the Less Wrong article.)

Now a test on what you learned: pick up a copy of the Symposium, read it through, then tell me which speaker was most important. (Hint: it wasn't
Aristophanes or Alcibiades; if you're not crying because everyone either uses this dialogue for a launching point into discussing Ancient Greek paedophilia or as a horrible method to make their lover think they're educated, then you failed.)

De Confucio: The Analects Part I

I am a white male who has lived his entire life in the United States. I'm going to preach to you about Confucianism. (N.B. If you actually know anything about Confucianism, please tell me. It's pretty obvious I have no idea of what I'm talking about.)

As good a place to start as any. From Watson's translation:

(1.2)"The gentleman operates at the root. When the root is firm, then the way may proceed. Filial and brotherly conduct--these are the root of humaneness, are they not?"

So why are filial and brotherly conduct the root of humaneness. As far as I can see, there are two approaches to answering this (or any question); actually attempting to answer it, and, what I call the Wittgenstein approach, showing an answer is unnecessary and either non-existent or unattainable by logic. How does Confucius answer this? Waley's translation:

(2.22)"The Master said, 'I do not know how a man without truthfulness is to get on. How can a large carriage be made to go without the crossbar for yoking the oxen to, or a small carriage without the arrangement for yoking the horses?'"

What makes us a part of humanity? (That is, not what makes us human, but what makes us a member of the human race.) Whatever that might be, isn't that the root of humaneness? the something or somethings that bind each person together as 'humanity'? To use Confucius' language (or in this case, Waley's), the crossbar.

Surely language is a major part of this 'crossbar', and the assumption of truthfulness seems necessary for language to function, but can't humanity exist without language? Imagine being stuck on an island with a girl who doesn't speak your language. Can you cooperate? Can you love her? Can you do all the things characteristic of human interaction?

What about apes? They can love, nurture, defend, play, learn, etc. Don't their relationships possess many, if not all, of the same qualities of our own? Is language (truthfulness) the root of 'apanity'? Then what is it?

Can we list the common factors of the above two scenarios and everyday life? Does love bind us? How about honour? Shame? Enjoyment? Duty? Hatred? Reverence? Or is it--

It seems the list is limitless. Confucius' answer (or rather the answer I pulled out of his words) is only leading to further confusion. Perhaps if we analyze one of these binding elements we may come to understand it, and thereby understand the 'crossbar' as a whole.

Reverence is as good as any. What does Confucius have to say about reverence? From Watson's translation:

(1.9)"Tend carefully to death rites, and pay reverence to those long departed, and the people will in the end be rich in virtue."

Again, more questions arise. Why does paying reverence to the dead lead to virtue? Why is virtue important? What is virtue? Whenever a statement like this is made how can we hope to understand it? It's filled with vague terms without definition. Without understanding what virtue is, what does it mean to anyone?

However, think for a moment. When you had read that, didn't you understand exactly what was meant? Or at the very least it did mean something to you. You understood that virtue's important, even if no reason is given. You also have an idea of what virtue is, even if your idea may differ from Confucius'. It is impossible to know how virtue came to be understood and given the name that it has, but it is something; and no one can say it is a vague term without definition.

Confucius weighs in on the matter as well. From Mr. Pound's translation:

(3.11)"Someone said: 'What does the sacrifice mean?' He [Confucius] said: 'I do not know. If one knew enough to tell that, one could govern the empire as easily as seeing the palm on one's hand.'"

Somewhere within, whether developed from evolution or placed by god, there is/are insatiable need(s). Of course 'need' is not the correct word, because this far precedes language and is too simple to be expressed through it. No one can understand what this is. You know what I'm referring to. The examples I gave above are all parts or results of this. It's difficult to say how they relate, but they certainly do. A few other potential words: emotion, necessity, humanity, or impulse.

This is where the 'crossbar' comes from. I am a member of humanity because I must be. My insides are screaming to love, to learn, to do, etc. This is not chosen. I can't rebel. There is no reason to.

But why? Why is this here? Is it a mechanism we've evolved in order to increase our chances of survival? It probably is, but that answer makes no sense to the human psyche. Even saying we were made in the image of god makes more sense. This is apart from logic. It's just there.

It's seems to me that this is what Confucius is talking about. He wants to do something about humanity, and the only way one can affect humanity is to analyze the individual human.

His ethics may or may not be flawed, but they give us something. A bar to measure up to. As Pound said, "What the reader can find here is a set of measures whereby, at the end of the day, to learn whether the day has been worth living." It doesn't matter if they are logically founded or not; it's apparent that everyone needs some sort of ethics (why? I don't know) and Confucius gives a way to find them.

Fantastic Cat

From Fantastic Cat's comment page.

Disappointment:
"We wanted to do a cover of this with my roommates, but we waited too long and we finished university and never put the band together :)
faaantastic cat!"

Despair:
"Can anyone help me because i have been trying to get the song but i don't know the singer's name!!! please help me!"

Anger:
"Is it just me or there is not one single fucking cat in this shit, except for some fake ass paws in the tv and those shitty computer cat heads. So where is this fantastic cat?"

FYI:
"Judging by some of the lyrics I can understand that she states she's a fantastic cat."

Enlightenment:
"What a masterpiece of music!!

fantastic cat!!
it changed my life!!!! now,it is time for me to go out and buy all her discography!"

Spite:
"Stupid asians"

Fraternal Devotion:
"i only like it becuz my bro has it"

Anecdotes:
"Aye man - its like telling a gabba that hardcore sux cuz its angry - DAM - lyrics in this song are not supposed to make any sence just like a main theme is actualy recorded with childs toy"

A Fantastic Fantasy:
":S Fantastic cat with a fantastic Dog =D"

Nostalgia:
"This sounds like Mrs. Potts from the beauty and the beast on drugs. Chiflele mi señora Potts!!"

Sitiens:
"Kinda getting thirsty...."

The Real Question:
"Right so how do we find this tortoise?"

Criticism:
"this is the worst.. no skill. wtf zombies like tis stuff?"

Confusion:
"This is soooo wrong, but, can't find a reason why, like it"

Revelation:
"Mon dieu..."

Needless Bashing on the Romantics

Ezra Pound came into his life with ABC of Reading. Caught by the pink, yellow and white cover, he immediately purchased it and ran home.

After opening the first page he realized he couldn't just read this. There was something more to it, something far beyond him. Change was necessary, so he decided to change.

He slowly got through the introduction. Little made sense to him. Gradus ad Parnassum? All that would turn up in Google was a long essay in Latin concerning counterpoint. He wrote a note about it, deciding he'd have to read that too, then continued.

Agassiz, sunfish, Ernest Fenollosa, and a (seemingly) countless number of Bach and Ravel pieces. So many names unfamiliar to him. He wrote each down, not really sure why. He thought the kind of person who reads books like this might write stuff down. Or at least do a shitload of underlining. He decided to do all of that. Whenever he didn't understand a reference he noted it, and planned on reading it, watching it, listening to it, or whatever else being able to understand this book might entail.

His adventures with Mr. Pound were often interrupted by old friends, not realizing he was on a ultra-romantic, super-fantastic journey into intellectualism, filled with champagne, incense, and whatever else smart people like. They would ask him to do such common things, like go to the mall or a pub. However he would humble himself to the level of these lesser beings and do whatever they asked of him. "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do."

On one of these pointless excursions he decided to make this time useful. He began brainstorming, "what is the one common element of every intellectual who has ever lived?" After about an hour of walking with his mongrel of a friend he came to the answer: a beret.

He came by a thrift store, entered, and searched the entire building. It seemed he spent days on this holy quest of his, trying to find the sacred garment which would ultimately complete him. After some time, dejectedly, he headed for the exit. At that moment, his cretin of a friend called out, he had found one. He payed and put it on.

Returning home, he looked up photos of Ezra Pound. Not in a single picture of him was there a beret.

In time, he finished the book, then read it two more times. Each read-through the book made a little more sense. He started to understand the fundamental ideas Mr. Pound was expressing. Something about Dichten equaling Condensare, and how poetry's supposed to be 'musical.' Whatever that meant.

He did the exercises repeatedly. When finished, he would look at them, struck by how much of genius he was. Such genius, he thought, ought not be hidden from the world. The next day he set up to read his work at an open mic night.

Wearing his beret, a cardigan, and a cravat he found at a thrift store, he got on stage and read his masterpiece:

I walk outside and see a tree
I think it is an oak.
It's time to clap for me,
I assure you I do not joke.

The crowd was stunned. Never before had they heard such lyrical genius. After he got off stage five different people handed him their phone numbers and emails written on napkins, asking to see more of his work. All sorts of other people gave him the fascist salute and told him how meta his poem was. He wasn't sure what any of that meant, but smiled and thanked them.

He asked other people about their work. They would tell him about their epics written in Sapphic stanzas chronicling the life of a Japanese porn star. He would say that's very interesting, and ask to see some of it. His interlocutor would then admit of having not written anything yet, but always would add that it's still being planned, and these things write themselves once you get the ideas straightened out, don't you know?

A few months later after memorizing the majority of ABC of Reading he felt he should move on to something else. He got a copy of the Iliad because he related very much with the whole being unanimously praised thing Homer had going on. His edition was entirely in ancient Greek. This couldn't stop him. He figured he was Homer reincarnated anyways, and learning Greek would be no problem.

After three years he finished the twenty-fourth book of the Iliad, only having a general idea about what the Greek was saying. By this time he gained an intimate familiarity with Wordsworth, Keats, Coleridge, and above all Byron. He also had quite a number of his poems published in magazines, and was universally praised. Critics called him a Neo-Romantic.

His image was carefully designed. He made sure to always mention that he never went into his work with a plan, he just wrote and ecstasy popped out. His beret was fastened securely upon his head and he donned a cravat at all times.

He had a book of poems published, receiving perfect reviews by almost all who read it. Almost. A single reviewer pointed out that his poems said nothing not already made into clichés. The reviewer claimed the contents of any poem could be guessed with fair accuracy after looking at just the title.

The guy's an idiot, he thought. "Avoid accepting opinions from men who haven't themselves produced notable work." Who said that? Ezra Pound. He'd forgotten all about Mr. Pound. It was years since he had read ABC of Reading. He looked through his shelf and found his copy. In the next few days he read through the entirety of the book. After finishing it, he set it down, astounded that he was ever so interested in this guy. The book was just an elaborate insult to all of those blessed with intelligence.

"And what notable work has Ezra Pound produced?" he thought. It occurred to him there that he had never actually read any of Mr. Pound's verse. The next day he checked out a book of Ezra Pound's selected poems from the library. He carried it home, hardly able to wait for it to be terrible. He opened it up at random, and read the first thing he saw:

You were praised, my books,
       because I had just come from the country;
I was twenty years behind the times
       so you found an audience ready.
I do not disown you,
       do not you disown your progeny.
Here they stand without quaint devices,
Here they are with nothing archaic about them.
Observe the irritation in general:
‘Is this’ they say, 'the nonsense
       that we expect of poets?’
'Where is the Picturesque ?'
       ‘Where is the vertigo of emotion?'
‘No! his first work was the best.’
       'Poor Dear! he has lost his illusions.’
Go, little naked and impudent songs,
Go with a light foot!
(Or with two light feet, if it please you!)
Go and dance shamelessly!
Go with an impertinent frolic!
Greet the grave and the stodgy,
Salute them with your thumbs at your noses.
Here are your bells and confetti.
Go! rejuvenate things!
Rejuvenate even 'The Spectator.’
       Go! and make cat calls!
Dance and make people blush,
Dance the dance of the phallus
       and tell anecdotes of Cybele!
Speak of the indecorous conduct of the Gods!
(Tell it to Mr. Strachey)
Ruffle the skirts of prudes, 
       speak of their knees and ankles.
But, above all, go to practical people
       go! jangle their door-bells!
Say that you do no work
       and that you will live forever. 

Needless to say, he was amazed. Over the next week he made sure to read every poem in the collection at least five times. How could the words of someone as well know as Ezra Pound be so ignored today? Poetry has atrophied, and he knew his own work contributed to that.

From that point on he was done with imitation. Done with trying to be poetic. He wanted to be honest. The beret and cravat came off. He would spend hours sitting in front of a blank page with a pen full of ink trying to come up with just the perfect words to express every experience life presented to him. After doing this he would look at what he had written, tear it apart, and try harder and harder to produce something worthy of Mr. Pound.

Two years passed, and he arranged for something new to be released. He expected the critics to look at what he made and have revelations of their own, having never seen anything like it. They would come to detest the state of modern poetry and desire to change it. Desire to make something new and beautiful.


Pitchfork Media ended up giving his collaboration with Michael Bolton a 5.2 out of 10.