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Living in the land of opposites

In which women have too many positive role models; and are only permitted to exist in positions of authority be being judges, teachers, doctors, and CEOs.

The object and its opposite living in a whole. Or three objects describing the famous Borromean knot. The exclusions sustaining the explicit contradictions. And all this embodied in the toilet bowl!

In which the answer to the question has no relation to the question being asked because the question is unsatisfactory.

Should the answer to this question characterise the power dynamic between the asker and the asked? Leave or I take an early Witgenstien view that language is a means to describe the world. Remain or I take a late Witgenstien view that the bulk of language is performative and game-like. I really should go home after this pint.

In which all discourse between the UK government and its population takes the form of an exam.

Do you conform to the doctrine of being different? To what? That which everything is not. Rebelliously ignoring the law of the excluded middle. The last words of the sentence are vulgarised faeces*.

*shit.

In which itself and its opposite mean the same thing.

How are we to reconcile Ricky Gervais’ comment that “the men are the children, the women the adults” with Kant’s that all women live in a state of “self-imposed nonage”.

Each appears sexist yet they are each other’s complement. Each sentence should further the aim of the paragraph. But these are unruly sentences and paragraphs are passé.

In which I have the realisation that meta-argumentative analysis is applicable in all contexts.

Irony is just a first order dialectic. A dialectic for babies.

Obviously I don’t care about other people, I’m just worried about my own wrong ideas. But, if I’m completely dishonest, my feelings about these wrong ideas are not ambiguous. Oh you wrong ideas. You darlings!

In which women are denied the radical freedom of inherent self worth not derived from a position of power, success, influence or authority. Available even in destitution and failure. Jesus the ultimate loser. Terrorists the fake losers. Loser winner, winner loser.

The only original idea: that gender being a ‘social construct’ makes it harder to overcome than any natural limitations imposed by mere biology. It took a hundred years to overcome the speed limit imposed by mere biology. It will take eternity to end the use of men running as propaganda instrument. Eliot’s perceptive line:

“It was as if a woman’s ignorance was of a lower quality than a man’s.”

Is there a difference between no apples and no oranges? Yes, because no oranges in a box means there might be apples there. A description of a description. A false description in one sense, a declaration in another.

Those acts which are permitted by the two exclusions ‘don’t be evil’ and ‘don’t be good’. As close as evil to possible without entering that morality space.

In which we fight the battle for the origin myth.

It is important to remember that the state of nature is not a real object to be inspected but a performative one to be created. The argument over the qualities of the real object is entirely synthetic. Like an artist’s impression of the prevalent description of cosmological origin in an ironised tabloid science article. Presenting its claim to higher understanding as a modest lack of understanding.

A series of unrelated thoughts bungled on to the page.

In which we pretend to believe in some set of minds with lower instrumental and epistemic rationality to our own. The other readers. Dear everyone other than reader.

As if reason didn’t act on axioms to be chosen by whim. Euclid’s fifth postulate was thrown away by whim. And this they called genius.

In which I show a selfish concern for my own mind above other’s bodies damaged and degraded by Hollywood’s film industry practices.

Searching around my brain for all the little structures erected by Harvey Weinstein. Erected to sustain a particular form of zero. Erected by pathetic fallacy. The stage contains more information than the play on it. The space-space-time cube containing the producer’s work. I once had my wages to drive some props around London haggled down by a producer and have distrusted them ever since.

In which we see the last humanities department.

In which academic text books are the seat of propaganda.

In which satire is the instrument of the powerful.

In which I didn’t notice the inversion.

In which I fail to imagine a female in permanent adolescence.

In which technology alters language.

In which we disobey Steven Pinker’s request to omit unnecessary words.

In which we only include unnecessary words since necessary words are implicit.

Only include superfluous words.

Hypersuperfluousity.

I, malevolent.

In which the category wife sustains the category prostitute (Engels).

In which the guilt sustains the lust.

In which categories both describe and cause (Peter Hitchens).

In which the world is a yes or no question.

In which it all appears as one whole wrongness.

In which the world is turned upfide down.

The event

The circumstances of the event are very much specific to the event. That is why when speaking of it we must be exceptionally careful to be specific about what we mean by the causes and learn from them.

LUV xoxo

internet or not internet

inertia

0

Living in a caravan. Masturbate in the morning. There is a cow at the window watching me. This put me off. It had a big brown eye watching me wank. Now the day is off kilter so I run out the door bare shouting at the said cow.

1

I denounce feminism and all her evils.

2

Wandering down the country lane elliptical. A battalion of wheelie bins come over the top at me declaring. I have weapons. Shotgun and stick and take on the wheelie bins. Neighbours scream and shout. ‘What have you done to my bin?’

3

A sea of strewn enemies. Their innards (old food packaging etc) flowing out. Sheer sublimated libidinal energy. Such waste. Council replaced bins efficiently.

4

Amazon because it had the A to Z design possibility and the scale of flowing out. What is the sea?

5

Looking out the back window of a bus at my conquest satisfying but guilt. sHello sdarkness smy sold sfriend.

6

I watched as the finest vets of my generation grabbed a cow by the pussy and pondered Benjamin’s immortal inspirational quote ‘behind every fascism there is a failed revolution’ because ‘behind every great man is a great woman’. Was the obvious parallel lost on you?

7

A threat hanging in the air with menace.

8

Recreational agriculture.

9

How many moves ahead can you think in chess or politics? I can think between zero and one moves ahead. Did not see that one coming.

10

We never believed they would hire the better creatives.

11

The psychometric covariance matrix.

12

Windows 95.

Summary of the year two thousand and sixteen

We the hyperboreans! We the followers of David Icke. I can begin with the summary that 2016 was all about architecture. When Russian agents created the European parliament they employed a man who had dedicated his life to helping insomniacs. He did this by designing an unnational parliament that was so boring to watch that no animal could look at it for more than around 15 seconds without falling asleep. After ten seconds of stock footage to be played over any news story the camera man would slumber, the camera would dip to the floor and the lizards could remove their human costumes and begin their horrific reproduction ritual of which one byproduct was law. There were at least ten byproducts and the product was caviar. However, one day another Russian, this time a dissident; Ronald McDonald, invented the ‘tripod’ and it was just a matter of time before Britain voted to leave the union.

<Reader questions my position>

Light beech benches in the round. Cheap expensive suits in monotonous foreign mangled overly good English with perfect grammar and no idioms. A parliament designed by Ikea. Don’t worry, I will maintain some ironic distance to help you swallow the bitter pill. The prose is scattered nonsense lacking structure, which has been acknowledged and therefore cannot be criticised; blithering. A vulgar room in a vulgar building that asks for our love or disinterest. No, no, yes. Location, location, education. Minds untouched by the King James. A codified genre.

Where was I?

<in hell>

<logic>
David Cameron therefore* asked us whether the UK government should drop a nuclear bomb on us all. Should choose a policy without a government. Should heal the Conservative party. Should be racist. Should say fuck off. Should x. This was a masterstroke of long term strategy of which we are merely witnessing the first stage. The end game involves George Osborne becoming King of the Jews and completing his long term economic plan in 3000CE when we will run a surplus of 1p. When we were asked whether the world was round, he unfortunately told us that he would be upset to the point of crying in his wife’s arms, which his children would see; forever losing respect for him, if we said it were flat. And out of sheer spite I wanted his children to share our disappointment with our parents. I wanted disciplinarians and they turned out to be liberals. A yearning for authority. But there were lies on both sides. 350 is approximately 200 to a statistician. We call them the same ‘order of magnitude’. For instance the average density of the universe is around 0.000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 01 kilograms per cubic metre which is a different order of magnitude to the density of air which is about 350 000 000 pounds per week when hot. We are a stain on the vacuum. So it was a lie of size 7/4. Compare that to the lie the goodies told that the density of the universe was roughly the density of air. It was a bigger lie, but then again if two liars tell you two lies what does that reveal about the truth? this is part of the grand metaphysical debate begat by Rumsfeld who famously forgot to mention the things that you know but you don’t know that you know. For me that is that I know I don’t understand numbers above a thousand but I don’t know that I know it.
</logic>

world.history.help()

“ ‘Take back control’ has the character of the death wish. We know we have to die, but we want to die on our own terms.’ – some yank red. Memento vitae.

britain.finishJobOfLuftwaffe()

I met someone who thought a vote for X was an endorsement of X. How would you like to be humiliated?

self.cry('conformism that doesn\'t know it is conformism is just a further stupidity')

A slight mental smell seemed to be hinting at a coherent idea but never quite settled.

And the left destroyed the leftist Sanders and want a new war with Russia for some reason. It was Amy Schumer wot won it.

And apparently the sixties was actually shit.

And the introduction of the tritone into compositions was shatteringly brutal and radical. It took the genius of the oppressed to make such an incredible theoretical divergence from the past. But it was a victory of the intellect over order. Ugliness became an ingredient for beauty.

R_{\mu \nu} - {1 \over 2}g_{\mu \nu}\,R + g_{\mu \nu} \Lambda =  {8 \pi G \over c^4} T_{\mu \nu},

where R is the experiment being conducted on our minds by the Chinese called the internet; g is the fake clash of civilisations narrative; \Lambda is the true clash of civilisations narrative; and T is Nigel Farage.

And so it turned out that T.S. Eliot was wrong about April. It was June and even then not so much as November, less a month than a vacuum between two other gentler months. I think T.S. stands for That Slapper. For in November Hillary Duck was crowned oldest loser in history. Septegenocracy is a new evil for the world. A slow evil. A weary evil. A evil with urinary difficulties. Daffy Clinton will now have have a special bingo wing added to the Special Fancy House for special bingo times. This all poses some troubling conundrums for Jonny Muslim. And we should remember that just because they think the world was made by a male fairy type thing which is difficult to describe they are still terrorists. Just like you and me. And the advertisers have been first to champion empowered religious women. Ann Summers released a Christmas burqa with extra slits at the nipple and crutch to help empowered religious women feel sexy while honouring the prophet (PBUH) by covering their modesty. It had the full veil of ignorance allowing objective analysis of political theory. And I have started covering my hair with a ‘baseball cap’ for fear of arousing women with my brown mop out of pure respect for dignity. I have long been worried that I would tempt females away from austere piety and make blood flow to their secondary sexual organs by running a hand across my head provocatively. Seemingly unaware that I am being watched. But I know what I am doing. It says #MAGA. And we must concentrate on what we have in common. For instance us atheists share the Islamic view that Mary must have had sex to have that kid and probably told Joseph that it was God that raped her in her dream in a panicked explanation in the heat of the moment that she couldn’t believe he believed to the point where she was forced to question his intellect. Either that or Joseph ejaculated on her and I don’t need to go into vulgar details but you get the picture (his semen somehow made its way ‘down there’, ‘down south’, or raised eyebrows (I’m talking about Mary’s vagina and uterus)). But of course I feign a symmetry where an asymmetry lies. Four points on an identity space.

     

                                          a)                                                                                           b)
Figure 1: Graph of my ignorance against religion a) shows Shiantanism and b) shows Sunnitholicism. Time for the daily trip to BBC article on the difference between Sunni and Shia.

I ask myself of what topics I dare not speak. I don’t think the holocaust is a fair example.

Intentional disregard for Michael Gove’s and Steven Pinker’s contradictory rules for good prose style.

‘When I was seventeen, it was a very good year’ is a lyric that today’s seventeen year olds will never be able to sing. Except ironically if they still have that. I don’t know, I remember when a telephone was still two plastic cups and a bit of string, which lets face it: it still is. I wish I was seventeen, and it is our duty to ruin things for them so we don’t feel so jealous. Like really humiliating until it’s like literally ‘thank god I’m not seventeen’. Twenty Seventeen. Seventeen feels like a cute diminutive for seven. The seven blasphemies of modernity: the Shard, the Gherkin, the Walkie Talkie, the Lloyds building, Canary Wharf, the Olympics and Mary Berry. The bland international city state which mocks the sublime modesty of a small Norman church. They holiday in Tuscany while English winter sunsets mock the base vulgarity of Mediterranean heat on paid leave. A dream that our star will replace carbon through pure commercial supremacy.

The bland international city state cries a liberal tear. The pseudo leftists weep. Is it a coincidence that the principle image of our global warming is a biblical flood? The salary of crying. The cinematic aspect of the scientific theory is its essential appeal.

I am grateful to be alive (stars, life etc).

My main prediction is that since Jonny Chinese is a more effective capitalist than Jonny Yank we will see the Cold War in reverse in the twenty first century. Peace Hot. We are at peace but we all kill each other. The yanks will be the commie bastards. Elections and liberty will be opposites. The world is upfide down.

What is your preferred binary? Old-young? Educated-uneducated? bigoted-liberal. My preferences are rural-metropolitan and pessimist-optimist.


Figure 2: Bisections of a plane.

The glass is not half empty, it embodies dread.

Some old ideas as a front for something or other.

Merry Summery across gorgeous rolling green hills to a blood orange horizon,

* No causal relation permitted.

Buzzard

London Tourism Guide for Foreign Tourists to London on “Vacation”

Welcome,

The General Theory of Moral Relativity

Peace and Love

Peter Fowler hasn’t won the lottery

Rural Racism

Aliens

And a little song companion piece:

Donald Trump Medley

Peace to yanks everywhere,

Melancholy Woman

Please enjoy it. Make the most of it. Fourth album on way,

Human Garbage

Not the best mix but whatever yeah.

P+L

Ada Lovelace

Come on now gentlemen get in formation, you could be the next Ada Lovelace in the making.

Love,

Inheritance Tax Threshold Harvesting

Detective Manners, short and fat, sat at a cup of coffee. Progressing slowly through the Metropolitan police he carried the air of disappointment that a lot of forty year old men who use internet dating algorithms do. He had been given a case by a particularly irritating boss that was going nowhere. A series of missing vagrants across London, had dissapeared in similar circumstances. His response to this was ‘obviously’. Spread out in front of him were a series of photographs from half way houses and veteran’s organisations. Resigned and bored, he pushed them away and looked up out the window. A smartly dressed but unusually wizened man walked past. Buzzing with an energy he hadn’t seen since his first day when a pranking senior officer told him he’d been given a murder case which turned out to be a call from a nice lady who had had a tramp use her doorstop as a toilet, he looked down at the photo on the top of the pile and knew immediately it was the homeless man. Cleaned up and besuited; but the man.

Throwing five pounds at the counter and grabbing his photographs he ran out the door and began to follow the man. He went to a rather nice looking off license and bought two bottles of wine and a cigar. He then crossed the street to buy some pornography and continued casually down a well to do street of terraced houses. He noted the address the man entered and returned to his car, a shabby minute little thing that made him look slightly bigger by virtue of the strain required to enter it but no less ridiculous. He returned to the street and resigned himself to a night on ‘stake out’. He had never done this before and therefore his only point of reference was a few American movies. He thought perhaps he should invite a ‘buddy’ but he had no ‘partner’ so merely mirrored the food consumption. Sitting alone in the sodium half light, in an oven of smells from Subway sandwiches and Peperami, he began to make his discovery. One by one, the pictures in his folder were beginning to be associated with well dressed faces. Manners became wildly enthusiastic and put on some Status Quo to celebrate.

Further investigations the following morning told him that the house had had a significant basement room built a year ago and that they had applied for permission to grant marriages. On returning to the premises in the afternoon, quite to his astonishment there was a funeral in progress. Feeling confidence like he had never felt before, Manners in an act of almost mad recklessness started walking towards the front door and rang the bell. A cartoonish butler appeared seemingly straight out of Wodehouse.

‘I’m here to pay my respects.’

‘Of course.’

Manners entered a champagne wake. A clashing combination of people from either end of the social strata were interacting quite freely. He noticed how the homeless chose to wear lavish, almost outlandishly aristocratic dress. While the hosts were much more casually dressed in golf shirts and slacks like international business elites do. No one successful enough to wear a T-shirt and jeans was present, but there was the odd pair of trainers. Choking on his champagne Manners then noticed the coffin contained the very man he had seen yesterday. At this point a priest entered the room and, surprises now compounding like water drowning a rat, said something which was not predicted by Manners.

‘We are gathered here today to witness the matrimony of…’

After completing the wedding of an elderly woman to an elderly woman, a great volume of bureaucracy took place. Then the priest continued:

‘Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.’

And the coffin was lowered into a furnace.

Six months later, Manners was a little fatter and still unpromoted. He had taken to reading romantic literature, watching Renee Zellwegger based romantic comedies and drink. He had been convinced the work from the start of the year was to be his finest moment but of course it was not. He had found no wrong doing. No law had been broken.

Romeo and Juliet production concept

Basically Romeo is an EDL thug and Juliet is from a wealthy Muslim family. Sparse staging with two microphones at the front and two coffins at the back with a white line down the middle. Proximity of social classes in an urban environment. A lot of speeches delivered to audience almost like stand up. A mixture of Islamic calls to prayer and Death Metal. Highly abridged down to an hour without an interval.

Capulet to be a successful business man who enjoys a liberal western lifestyle yet insists on a traditional family life. Romeo sneaks into party by wearing the full veil and meeting takes place when both unveil to do make up.

Need help. Would ideally like a young cast and a small studio space.

R x

Lies, damn lies, and a statistical analysis of multiplier effects in fiscal policy

I hope you have heard the old phrase ‘lies, damn lies, and statistics’ otherwise the title may just seem a very odd thing to say. And if there is one thing I hate, it is odd things to say. I profoundly believe in the revolutionary act of saying things above doing things. I haven’t done anything for a very long time, but boy have I said some things. Things to absolve any sin. I have for instance a wonderful collection of sins which set my central object at beautiful counterpoint to the unfortunate. The devils!

A position on hypocrisy, which renders me the eternal un-hypocrite.

And yet I give myself away. Like a bad lute player improvising in solitude, she gives herself away in her accidents. Little slips structured like a language. We can’t help but give ourselves away in our prose. Is it non-sense or unsense or merely senseless and which is preferred? The three Ps: pornography, propaganda and profligate prostitution party. What if Aliens came down to earth and saw our ways and mores from the outside, what would these wise outsiders think? They have arrived, they are Islamic State and they are distinctly unwise. If there was a god and he had a son that would of course be an obscenity. But does this vulgar obscenity give us the possibility of the un-obscenity. Without it we have a necessary obscenity. A triangle on the floor. At one apex the UK tabloid newspaper The Sun, at another a gushing volcano of internet video pornography and at the other the hidden Islamic State propaganda. All forming a Penrose Tribar. A Borromean knot of Penrose Tribars. An intertwined mirror image. One impossible with any apex removed the other only possible with any apex removed. And as atheism sets itself in negation to god. So does Christianity, which with Islam forms this vulgar trinity. Each impossible without the other two. The monotheist, the anti-monotheist and the un-monothiest. We can have any two but not all three, or we can have all three but if any is removed the whole disintegrates. For the sake of animal humans let us hope it is the latter.

You and I are at war. You think I write for your comprehension like Orwell at his most mediocre. To flatter! To flatter you? Never. The lower upper middle brow of the lower upper middle class drosser. I wouldn’t treat you with such disdain. I mean to give myself away in a mess of vulgarity and pretension. Half formed ideas from half understood books half read and probably half written. The idea that prose “should” be easily understood and clear. Stephen Pinker’s style guide. Orwell’s five rules. I think my lifetime supply of sanity may be running a bit low. I won it on a scratchcard but I’ve been using it up too quickly.

Outturn vs projection. Lets put rocket boosters on jobs. The clarity of prose not making up for the complete lack of clarity of meaning. I’m lovin’ it. Sitting quietly on a bench with a far away look through a restaurant. Aggregate demand and planning Mrs Jones’ trip to Co-Op for milk. Call the dairy, work those cows. Employ another driver. But now the driver spent more in a restaurant. Start again. My own personal competence in a graph. Projected to grow with rocket boosters. Really filthy prose. Making the page stink. Held noses. Analysis “in” a graph. I am competent. Extremely competent. At producing bull shit clarity. Politics and the English language. Very sane. Increased productivity and increased employment with static GDP. Beauty in the contradiction. Automatic prose.

I love words! Indiscriminately. Anti-Semitic rants from drunken ruined men I love as much as total purity. Clear straightforward prose. Dear David, I am afraid I can no longer remain unemployed by you and will be showing up for work tomorrow. I fear that you have been denying multiplier effects intentionally. An iceberg of meaning under a clear sentence. Statistics are like Nietzsche: you can find a quote arguing anything as well as its opposite. Return to the beginning and repeat.

It all comes down to the brutal unpleasantness of “we”.

Collage 5

Aisha’s rebellion

She looked at the cookie and pondered her options. She knew that the scientists believed that rejecting the cookie displayed what they called ‘the ability to delay gratification which is strongly correlated with various metrics of success in later life’. She was unsure whether to remove the cookie and therefore internally confirm her lack of concern in their opinion about her or to wait until the second cookie was delivered and destroy both in a bitter act of symbolic violence. Since the second seemed to show a concern for her observers even in the negative she rejected it. Therefore, she removed the cookie from the weighted scale and put it on the floor. Then watching the camera focused on her, she carefully and thoroughly stamped on it.

Professor Red came in and looked disapprovingly at the empty scales. When he noticed the intensity of the stare pointed back at him he was taken by surprise and made a mark on his notepad.

‘Are you a stupid man?’

‘No’, said Professor Red emphatically and bizarrely quick.

‘Then why do you behave as if you are?’

‘I didn’t take the cookie.’

Aisha pointed at the spoiled cookie. Professor Red struggled to understand the consequences. A pause filled the room from the ground up until the professor struggled to breath above it.

‘Eat it.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’m not going to repeat myself.’

‘I’m not going to eat it.’

‘False.’

Smugly yet unsure the professor turned to leave and found that the door was locked from outside.

‘Are you instrumentally rational?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you act out of rational self interest?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then eat the cookie or get struck off for using your position of power to molest a child.’

‘Excuse me.’

The professor waved at the camera and moved towards it, at which point Aisha jumped up and pulled the cord out of the back of it.

‘Why have you turned the camera off Mr Red?’

‘I didn’t, you did.’

‘Can you prove that.’

The old man started to panic and felt his heart murmur. A stabbing pain struck his chest and he slowly started to fall to the ground. Cold and unsympathetic, Aisha watched.

Finally, he was woken by a concerned nurse, and coughed up the last of the cookie. Aisha stood above him. She had visibly been crying and had a distinct bruise on her left arm.

xo

A Portrait of a Provincial Nobody

    Words and pictures from Raph Shirley, in humorous weblog form.

    Infecting the internet like so many glimmering tentacles
    ( ).

    He is a fictional character.

    Buy the book!