From Africa.
China, however you want to categorize it, is the oldest civilization, civilization defined broadly as a project of organization and legibility. Ignore Chinese history, and you are terribly ignorant.
For Western men, claims of ignorance come with feelings of inadequacy, fear, shame, or, if things are going well, excited belligerence. Yet I sit in my favorite spot, and no one is speaking English, they are speaking Chinese, and I am desperately downloading Pimsleur Mandarin.
The Chinese have been through all of this several times for several thousands of years. They were the first ones, from the walk from Africa, to settle down, formulate a standardized language, create government, and build a large fucking wall. Why did the Chinese build a wall?
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Friday, October 2, 2015
I have sympathies for other cultures
“Anyone in such torment who has the gift of opening his heart, rather than contracting it, accepts the means of salvation in his heart. Someone who in this way penitently open his heart to God in confession lays it open for other men too. In doing so he loses the dignity that goes with his personal prestige and becomes like a child. That means without official position, dignity or disparity from others. A man can bare himself before others only out of a particular kind of love. A love which acknowledges, as it were, that we are all wicked children. We could also say: Hate between men comes from cutting ourselves off from each other. Because we don’t want anyone else to look inside us, since it’s not a pretty sight in there. Of course you must continue to feel ashamed of what’s inside you, but not ashamed of yourself before your fellow-men. No greater torment can be experiences than One human being can experience. For if a man feels lost, that is the ultimate torment.” (Wittgenstein, Culture and Value, 46e)
God help me as I struggle to figure out right from wrong. I am taking the CPA, as God wants, but I run into moral issues, as the article I just submitted on global warming. I still have my friends in other countries. I still have my friends in Alaska who are asking why I am not there right now. God of the Universe, please give me wisdom and peace. Please help my friends and my family. I am lost and I pretend to understand things that are beyond my control.
I like this Colombian woman who sings this serious and beautiful song. Maybe Moraline knows about this band?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6h_kHYHBaQ
God help me as I struggle to figure out right from wrong. I am taking the CPA, as God wants, but I run into moral issues, as the article I just submitted on global warming. I still have my friends in other countries. I still have my friends in Alaska who are asking why I am not there right now. God of the Universe, please give me wisdom and peace. Please help my friends and my family. I am lost and I pretend to understand things that are beyond my control.
I like this Colombian woman who sings this serious and beautiful song. Maybe Moraline knows about this band?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6h_kHYHBaQ
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
The way my grandparents saw things
His parents moved from Germany to Indiana and he became a lawyer. Indiana was very rural at that time and in 1872, when Max Ehrmann was born, to be a German immigrant on a farm and going to the country's schools before there was much definition of anything very substantial. He didn't write Being and Time. My grandparents never heard of that book. I doubt Ehrmann did either.
Ehrmann wrote this in 1927 when he was 54:
Max Ehrmann, "Desiderata"
Ehrmann wrote this in 1927 when he was 54:
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace
there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on
good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
“
”
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Letters of Marque
Why is it a good idea to be an investment banker, lawyer, or accountant? Because all of them have in some sense a "letter of marque." If you don't have a letter of marque, you are a pirate or a criminal or a privateer, which for the state is often hard to distinguish. There is the observation that the lower class has it bad, that they are treated poorly. What may be at play is that with the world population increasing tremendously with China and India stressing the competition for resources, the significance of having a letter of marque has grown tremendously. A man can try to be a privateer (or corsair or buccaneer), but it comes at great risk. First, he has no support if anything goes wrong. If anything goes wrong and he is without assets, he has no way of rebuilding the assets because he is bereft of a letter of marque. As a privateer, he will be sold to slavery.
Fight bravely, gentlemen, but remember the value of having a letter of marque. Are you good at negotiating with pirates? If so, the value of the letter of marque is not very high. Yet a letter of marque is not perfect armor. Zymen Danseker was on a sponsored mission:
"He resided in Marseilles for a year when French authorities asked him to lead an expedition against the corsairs. Despite rumors of his capture, he returned to France later that same year. In 1615 he was called up by Louis XIII to negotiate the release of French ships being held by Yusuf Dey in Tunis. According to the account of William Lithgow,[6][7] Dansker was lead ashore in a ruse by Yusuf, captured by janissaires, and beheaded.[8]"
And there are examples of men who still conduct missions without letters of mark and it leads to tomfoolery:
"Ward and his men sailed to the Mediterranean where he was able to acquire a warship of thirty-two guns which was renamed The Gift[6] and began attacking merchantmen for the next two years. While at Salé, Morocco in 1605 several English and Dutch sailors, including Richard Bishop and Anthony Johnson, joined Ward's crew and the following year (August, 1606) Ward arranged with Cara Osman[7] to use Tunis as a base of operations in exchange for which Osman would get first refusal of all goods.[7] From this base, Jack Ward was easily able to capture several valuable merchant ships, including the 60 ton Reniera e Soderina.
Following his return to Tunis in June 1607, Ward was informed during the winter that the now rotted Reniera e Soderina had begun to sink. With several of his officers, Ward deserted the ship to one of the French prizes he had captured. The Reniera e Soderina later sank off Greece as 400 crew members, of which 250 were Muslim and 150 were English, were lost. Ironically, Ward lost his own ship, as well as two others captured by Venice, several weeks later.
While many in Tunisia were angered by Ward's desertion of the Muslim sailors aboard the Reniera e Soderina, Uthman Bey offered Ward a safe haven.[3] Ward however asked James I of England for a royal pardon which was refused and he reluctantly returned to Tunis. Uthman Bey kept his word and Ward was granted protection by Tunis.
During the next year ballads and pamphleteers condemned John Ward for turning corsair. He accepted Islam along with his entire crew, changed his name to Yusuf Reis and married an Italian woman while he continued to send money to his English wife. In 1612 a play called A Christian Turn'd Turk was written about his conversion by the English dramatist Robert Daborne.
Ward continued raiding Mediterranean shipping, eventually commanding a whole fleet of corsairs, and whose flagship was a Venetian sixty-gunner. He profited by his piracy, retiring to Tunis to live a life of opulent comfort until 1622, when at the age of 70 he reportedly died from the plague."
Fight bravely, gentlemen, but remember the value of having a letter of marque. Are you good at negotiating with pirates? If so, the value of the letter of marque is not very high. Yet a letter of marque is not perfect armor. Zymen Danseker was on a sponsored mission:
"He resided in Marseilles for a year when French authorities asked him to lead an expedition against the corsairs. Despite rumors of his capture, he returned to France later that same year. In 1615 he was called up by Louis XIII to negotiate the release of French ships being held by Yusuf Dey in Tunis. According to the account of William Lithgow,[6][7] Dansker was lead ashore in a ruse by Yusuf, captured by janissaires, and beheaded.[8]"
And there are examples of men who still conduct missions without letters of mark and it leads to tomfoolery:
"Ward and his men sailed to the Mediterranean where he was able to acquire a warship of thirty-two guns which was renamed The Gift[6] and began attacking merchantmen for the next two years. While at Salé, Morocco in 1605 several English and Dutch sailors, including Richard Bishop and Anthony Johnson, joined Ward's crew and the following year (August, 1606) Ward arranged with Cara Osman[7] to use Tunis as a base of operations in exchange for which Osman would get first refusal of all goods.[7] From this base, Jack Ward was easily able to capture several valuable merchant ships, including the 60 ton Reniera e Soderina.
Following his return to Tunis in June 1607, Ward was informed during the winter that the now rotted Reniera e Soderina had begun to sink. With several of his officers, Ward deserted the ship to one of the French prizes he had captured. The Reniera e Soderina later sank off Greece as 400 crew members, of which 250 were Muslim and 150 were English, were lost. Ironically, Ward lost his own ship, as well as two others captured by Venice, several weeks later.
While many in Tunisia were angered by Ward's desertion of the Muslim sailors aboard the Reniera e Soderina, Uthman Bey offered Ward a safe haven.[3] Ward however asked James I of England for a royal pardon which was refused and he reluctantly returned to Tunis. Uthman Bey kept his word and Ward was granted protection by Tunis.
During the next year ballads and pamphleteers condemned John Ward for turning corsair. He accepted Islam along with his entire crew, changed his name to Yusuf Reis and married an Italian woman while he continued to send money to his English wife. In 1612 a play called A Christian Turn'd Turk was written about his conversion by the English dramatist Robert Daborne.
Ward continued raiding Mediterranean shipping, eventually commanding a whole fleet of corsairs, and whose flagship was a Venetian sixty-gunner. He profited by his piracy, retiring to Tunis to live a life of opulent comfort until 1622, when at the age of 70 he reportedly died from the plague."
Don Quixote
"Just then they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills that rise from that plain. And no sooner did Don Quixote see them that he said to his squire, "Fortune is guiding our affairs better than we ourselves could have wished. Do you see over yonder, friend Sancho, thirty or forty hulking giants? I intend to do battle with them and slay them. With their spoils we shall begin to be rich for this is a righteous war and the removal of so foul a brood from off the face of the earth is a service God will bless."
"What giants?" asked Sancho Panza.
"Those you see over there," replied his master, "with their long arms. Some of them have arms well nigh two leagues in length."
"Take care, sir," cried Sancho. "Those over there are not giants but windmills. Those things that seem to be their arms are sails which, when they are whirled around by the wind, turn the millstone."— Part 1, Chapter VIII. Of the valourous Don Quixote's success in the dreadful and never before imagined Adventure of the Windmills, with other events worthy of happy record.
Saturday, September 19, 2015
Is my writing shit?
Trigger warning: I wrote this for all the wrong reasons. My good friend who is hammering out a tough job on trucks is a stand-up guy, a fellow of sympathy and encouragement. He's a guys I've known for a long time who had been a huge help when I was lost in SA. Who knows why I wrote this. But it expresses my frustration for the bridge loan of legibility that I currently grant myself. When I was 18 I would never self-censor myself. Moraline and I were publishing a magazine and we got a lot of heat for it. Men react in error and hyperbole, and they have to confess their sins. This is my transition to the big city. No edits.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Could be. I'll be the first to admit that based on my background and who I am, maybe I'm full of shit. That's fine. If it's true and can be proven, then I'll be a quiet accountant who runs half marathons for Gatorade and cookies and won't be a trouble to anyone.
However, I offer the following: claims of nonsense are claims of legibility. Claims of legibility are claims of the dominant power structure. It is the Schoolmaster, the man who controls the expression of the dominant class, claiming I have broke the rules of sensibility. I know how that game works. It's a power struggle, and if you have to go underground, you have a "hidden transcript," meaning you can't say what you think because you get waxed. So you have a sublimated transcript, and anthropologists arrive in numbers and with wonder about what's really going on. So if I'm chided for speaking "nonsense," well shit write the ticket but I AIN'T PAYING THE TICKET AND I AIN'T SERVING NO TIME. I'll go further, come for me, and I got my Glock and I got my Double Tap high grain hollow points and I will take down any motherfucker who fucks with me.
Already done my time is all I'm saying. I'm here in a new city and I will write what I feel each day. If I'm full of shit, great. A great scholar once wrote that a man "gets exactly what he wants." I was broke and homeless in Alaska and had to turn tail and make money in a big city because it was to my advantage. Show me a skipper who isn't in the fishing for the money. Show me a skipper who doesn't make a spreadsheet and pay his guys fairly (some skippers rip off the crew). I fished on a boat that had an IFQ holder who is currently going to law school and a guy who was *the best deck hand* who is now a practicing CPA. I met a guy, who I've already written about, who said*he wished he had an office job in Seattle.* Tell me that Kevin, a guy who put me up for a week, thinks that I'm an idiot for trying to make money and get by. Kevin just misses my company. My skipper just misses my company. Neither of these two blame me for making money. They are impressed with my ability to do this city shit. They know I hose down decks and take hooks in my hand and work my ass off. Ask the Filipinos who was the guy who pitched the most fish in in 2014. Who was it? Who was the last guy who unloaded the last haul of Pcod in 2014 when he caught the fish? The plant manager and Danny G. could not believe we were fishing so hard and so late. If I'm full of nonsense, if I'm full of shit, show me the guy whose full of the sensibility and sense that you're aiming for. Is is a fucking whale who never stepped on shore?
So I published a phenomenology of my new big city, and it's no different than the struggle for a man to survive. The real or fake contrast wasn't nonsense, it was meant to highlight the fact that a man struggles for his existence and courage, he struggles for the expression of his courage. I don't bust another man's hustle. Each man gets by how he can. In Alaska there is a deep respect for just getting by, because once it gets cold there it's a fucking hard place to live. Each morning I scraped the ice from my truck's windows. I went to the gas station and I got coffee. I went to a library to warm up and right myself. I had no land at the time, no base. Alaska is a tough place with no money. I don't blame anyone for coming to Alaska with money. You need it; vultures will eat you if you come unprepared.
Where I live they are unapologetic about the conflict of the natives verses the new arrivals. I run on a trail where there is a memorial for a man, wife, and daughter who were murdered in 1841 by the Indians. Texans don't have the guilt because they won a war, a few wars. They play music and they dance here and any fisherman would say I'm smart to be here, that I didn't bail but I went to a good place.
Maybe I had the wrong experience in Alaska. The Filipinos weren't my friends nor were the Mexicans. The In-Charge guys liked me for my management skills. That whole operation needed to be righted by a guy like me. I got my job on the boat from the guy in charge who no one liked. Charlie said I should get the fuck out of the business. But I was just in Alaska last week. It was dark and cold and hard again, just like I remembered. Everyone was finishing up. I come back to Texas and write my article, and I'm full of shit and nonsense? Man, I have half my fucking life in Alaska. I'm full of shit and nonsense? Tell me whose the real guy. Fucking show me that guy.
I was hired by a Finn to fish. He trusted no one but trusted me like a son. He understands what I'm doing here. He predicted it. He knows I fit in in this rat race, despite my urges to break away and live in the woods.
So I will tell it like it is as I live in this big city and manage the system of legibility that I created. I have a fraction of blood in the people I wiped out when I arrived in North America, and it haunts me. My grandfather was a dark-skinned hook-nosed high school principal, 50% Cherokee. My own father, a lawyer, is a hook-nosed half breed who wanted to be a forest ranger but who was encouraged to be be big time corporate guy. When my Scottish clan came over here, we had been doing the legibility shit for about 6 centuries. We were never big deals in Scotland, but were major land lords. The King who translated the Bible into English considered one of my ancestors like a father and trusted adviser, because he gave him measured advice on legibility, its limits and its advantages. That clan moved its way to Southern Illinois, where they were Governors and land owners and men who spread the King's matrix. They arrived to the safe shores of Lake Michigan, where they had peaceful and productive lives.
But to stay out of jail and to maintain autonomy, you have to manage the matrix of legibility, and it changes every fucking day. Hesiod said #1 is maintaining autonomy. How did I get my job on the boat? The plant manager, the one everyone hated, called up the skipper and said I was good to go. The working class doesn't like guys like me. I'll figure my shit out, but as I do it, it ain't nonsense. It ain't no problem of language or the problem of the other or the problem of hermeneutics. It's the question of competition and survival against stupid ass one-eyed Filipinos who fucked with my perfection of fish flow. The superstar forklift drivers don't get this. The forklift drivers don't know how cold it gets in winter without heat. The superstar forklift drivers don't know the isolation of cold Alaska in winter without company housing. Everyone likes the superstar forklift drivers. I'm a shit forklift driver.
Finally, I didn't write my phenomenology to bust anyone's hustle. A pissing match is a waste of time. I still have a cabin to build in Alaska. I still have a shit load of islands I will sea kayak in both Alaska and Chile. I want to explore new lands and want my neighbors to do well and prosper. But if I write shit, it's not nonsense. It's my fucking my fucking day and my fucking life. I have been to the desert and I have seen the fucking swells and my body has ached and THEN I had to pitch all the fish, ice them, then re-bait, and then set, all over again MANUALLY, no fucking autobaiter. I made $2,900 fishing in Alaska, about $10,000 on the front dock. I nearly destroyed my hands. Snap on fishing with a rock fish injury--It wasn't Chris's fault, but it fucked up my right hand--is hell. Fucking hell. No philosophy to express this. I still have that spine in my hand and I still remember how I felt at 12 a.m. with a cigarette in my mouth and wanting to sleep. If I'm full of nonsense YOU'RE FULL OF SHIT.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Could be. I'll be the first to admit that based on my background and who I am, maybe I'm full of shit. That's fine. If it's true and can be proven, then I'll be a quiet accountant who runs half marathons for Gatorade and cookies and won't be a trouble to anyone.
However, I offer the following: claims of nonsense are claims of legibility. Claims of legibility are claims of the dominant power structure. It is the Schoolmaster, the man who controls the expression of the dominant class, claiming I have broke the rules of sensibility. I know how that game works. It's a power struggle, and if you have to go underground, you have a "hidden transcript," meaning you can't say what you think because you get waxed. So you have a sublimated transcript, and anthropologists arrive in numbers and with wonder about what's really going on. So if I'm chided for speaking "nonsense," well shit write the ticket but I AIN'T PAYING THE TICKET AND I AIN'T SERVING NO TIME. I'll go further, come for me, and I got my Glock and I got my Double Tap high grain hollow points and I will take down any motherfucker who fucks with me.
Already done my time is all I'm saying. I'm here in a new city and I will write what I feel each day. If I'm full of shit, great. A great scholar once wrote that a man "gets exactly what he wants." I was broke and homeless in Alaska and had to turn tail and make money in a big city because it was to my advantage. Show me a skipper who isn't in the fishing for the money. Show me a skipper who doesn't make a spreadsheet and pay his guys fairly (some skippers rip off the crew). I fished on a boat that had an IFQ holder who is currently going to law school and a guy who was *the best deck hand* who is now a practicing CPA. I met a guy, who I've already written about, who said*he wished he had an office job in Seattle.* Tell me that Kevin, a guy who put me up for a week, thinks that I'm an idiot for trying to make money and get by. Kevin just misses my company. My skipper just misses my company. Neither of these two blame me for making money. They are impressed with my ability to do this city shit. They know I hose down decks and take hooks in my hand and work my ass off. Ask the Filipinos who was the guy who pitched the most fish in in 2014. Who was it? Who was the last guy who unloaded the last haul of Pcod in 2014 when he caught the fish? The plant manager and Danny G. could not believe we were fishing so hard and so late. If I'm full of nonsense, if I'm full of shit, show me the guy whose full of the sensibility and sense that you're aiming for. Is is a fucking whale who never stepped on shore?
So I published a phenomenology of my new big city, and it's no different than the struggle for a man to survive. The real or fake contrast wasn't nonsense, it was meant to highlight the fact that a man struggles for his existence and courage, he struggles for the expression of his courage. I don't bust another man's hustle. Each man gets by how he can. In Alaska there is a deep respect for just getting by, because once it gets cold there it's a fucking hard place to live. Each morning I scraped the ice from my truck's windows. I went to the gas station and I got coffee. I went to a library to warm up and right myself. I had no land at the time, no base. Alaska is a tough place with no money. I don't blame anyone for coming to Alaska with money. You need it; vultures will eat you if you come unprepared.
Where I live they are unapologetic about the conflict of the natives verses the new arrivals. I run on a trail where there is a memorial for a man, wife, and daughter who were murdered in 1841 by the Indians. Texans don't have the guilt because they won a war, a few wars. They play music and they dance here and any fisherman would say I'm smart to be here, that I didn't bail but I went to a good place.
Maybe I had the wrong experience in Alaska. The Filipinos weren't my friends nor were the Mexicans. The In-Charge guys liked me for my management skills. That whole operation needed to be righted by a guy like me. I got my job on the boat from the guy in charge who no one liked. Charlie said I should get the fuck out of the business. But I was just in Alaska last week. It was dark and cold and hard again, just like I remembered. Everyone was finishing up. I come back to Texas and write my article, and I'm full of shit and nonsense? Man, I have half my fucking life in Alaska. I'm full of shit and nonsense? Tell me whose the real guy. Fucking show me that guy.
I was hired by a Finn to fish. He trusted no one but trusted me like a son. He understands what I'm doing here. He predicted it. He knows I fit in in this rat race, despite my urges to break away and live in the woods.
So I will tell it like it is as I live in this big city and manage the system of legibility that I created. I have a fraction of blood in the people I wiped out when I arrived in North America, and it haunts me. My grandfather was a dark-skinned hook-nosed high school principal, 50% Cherokee. My own father, a lawyer, is a hook-nosed half breed who wanted to be a forest ranger but who was encouraged to be be big time corporate guy. When my Scottish clan came over here, we had been doing the legibility shit for about 6 centuries. We were never big deals in Scotland, but were major land lords. The King who translated the Bible into English considered one of my ancestors like a father and trusted adviser, because he gave him measured advice on legibility, its limits and its advantages. That clan moved its way to Southern Illinois, where they were Governors and land owners and men who spread the King's matrix. They arrived to the safe shores of Lake Michigan, where they had peaceful and productive lives.
But to stay out of jail and to maintain autonomy, you have to manage the matrix of legibility, and it changes every fucking day. Hesiod said #1 is maintaining autonomy. How did I get my job on the boat? The plant manager, the one everyone hated, called up the skipper and said I was good to go. The working class doesn't like guys like me. I'll figure my shit out, but as I do it, it ain't nonsense. It ain't no problem of language or the problem of the other or the problem of hermeneutics. It's the question of competition and survival against stupid ass one-eyed Filipinos who fucked with my perfection of fish flow. The superstar forklift drivers don't get this. The forklift drivers don't know how cold it gets in winter without heat. The superstar forklift drivers don't know the isolation of cold Alaska in winter without company housing. Everyone likes the superstar forklift drivers. I'm a shit forklift driver.
Finally, I didn't write my phenomenology to bust anyone's hustle. A pissing match is a waste of time. I still have a cabin to build in Alaska. I still have a shit load of islands I will sea kayak in both Alaska and Chile. I want to explore new lands and want my neighbors to do well and prosper. But if I write shit, it's not nonsense. It's my fucking my fucking day and my fucking life. I have been to the desert and I have seen the fucking swells and my body has ached and THEN I had to pitch all the fish, ice them, then re-bait, and then set, all over again MANUALLY, no fucking autobaiter. I made $2,900 fishing in Alaska, about $10,000 on the front dock. I nearly destroyed my hands. Snap on fishing with a rock fish injury--It wasn't Chris's fault, but it fucked up my right hand--is hell. Fucking hell. No philosophy to express this. I still have that spine in my hand and I still remember how I felt at 12 a.m. with a cigarette in my mouth and wanting to sleep. If I'm full of nonsense YOU'RE FULL OF SHIT.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Scholarship in Eugene
I used to go to work in this town and read all the books and write down the thoughts. I went to the Chinese eat spots because it seemed they had their shit together. No matter what paradox I was trying to solve, a bowl of noodles with the chili oil made me straight. February, 2015, Eugene.
438. “It is very difficult to
evaluate Watkin’s suggestion. If he is right that Hesiod has without reflection
inherited a very old Indo-European tradition, it nevertheless seems clear that
Hesiod almost certainly does not know that he means penis; if Hesiod does not
know that he means penis, it is hard to imagine what his audience thought this
riddle may have been about.” (Notes to English translation of Hesiod’s Works
and Days, David W. Tandy and Walter C. Neale. Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1996, p. 108.)
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