anti-auctor's Journal: I don't reject anything, but I have a right to be rejected

There seem to me to have been no inordinate crises or sudden exceptions in the evolution of man, so far. Nor do I think that there possibly could be. That is the very strong impression I get from my only 39 years on the planet, and I believe that it would stand up to some more detailed scrutiny than this (well, there is none here).

I did give a lot of diligent study to physics for a few years, but unfortunately (?) my thoughts on the particular matters that quite genuinely interested me were not very good adhesives to the common lot of institutional physics or to the singularly more interesting threads in indepdendent physics (two broadly undefined terms, I admit). I tended to think of my thoughts on certain matters of physics as scrutable in a general sense, that I could detail out to some degree.

For example, I still believe that mathematics is only, and only the fascinating reality we get from a long mental list of particulars that have built up but which have no sense unless they are, so to speak, given the benefit of being subjected to the morphic liability placed on things by otherwise neutral functors that do kill-off residual information (this relation of not having meaning unless there is a rule saying 'add context x', is called a syncategorematic relation); thus the precision of mathematics, when we then have it in our hands. Mathematical realism is actually the final output of that, I would think.

This does not mean that I think that mathematics has an ontogenetic nature nor that it does not have one. I believe that its realism is as true as the law as literature thread is true, as the literature as law thread is true. Maybe this sounds like a lot of relativist poop. I submit. I submit to any criticism or ridicule.

On another hand, after all of this is done and made ready as well, I can't think it would be less interesting to subject that realism to the similar or to the same tools that made and make it possible. Of course this will be done with a consciously philosophical and analytical attitude (probably a mistake in itself), which could never be equal to the more natural way that the stuff got born from in the first place. But there is a danger here, I do concede that to myself and to a friend of mine, that one can end up being an aspect-monger or a paradox-monger, or any kind of monger, with this attitude. That's for sure. Otherwise a guy or gal would have to attend an intellectual funeral every day, and that would be depressing, unless your name is Harold.

But Stendhal and Ibsen were for all of that penetrating analysts and gifted dramatists and interpreters of the march of human events (that which other people call history, not I, I am not so Manichean as that, not yet).

I have no time for fundamentalist Dominionists, Opus Dei, Pope Benedict's support of Opus Dei, the NED, the CNP, MoveOn, NATO, the EU, the OSCE, the Council of Europe, the Georgian president, the Dalia Lama (still on a CIA, now NED, stipend), the Pentagon, the NSA, and pimps. I do have time for gays, transvestites, bisexuals, sadomasochists, gigolos, and prostitutes, and occasionally for Greenpeace. But why don't we have Anthropic-Peace, or Every-Human-Pigment-Peace?

The Mahatma Gandhi made salt in defiance of the British and preached the sermon on the mount, Thoreau wouldn't (and never did) pay taxes for the repair of one his shoes and went to Walden Pond to the prove the sustainability of dietary and mental sovereignty, Martin Luther King wept for mankind and took them to the Mountaintop sure as anything, Leo Tolstoy wrote the postscript to War and Peace (and War and Peace itself) on the arbitrariness of the sequences of human actions which end up being revised as history, founded civil disobedience and protested Russia's pogroms and policy towards the Jews, built schools for his Souls. George Orwell submitted to tuberculosis with good knowledge about its eventuality, submitted to poverty in Paris, wrote Homage to Catalonia, essays on the English language, the short autobiographical story Shooting an Elephant, gave us the insight that Jonah's entry into the whale was the alternative that Henry Miller offered to us all in the Tropic of Cancer, and exposed Tolstoy for having the same failures which he (Tolstoy) hated King Lear and its author for having. Isn't it our turn now ? . . . not to hate Shakespeare, of course, that's not what I mean.