From: IN%"REZABEH1648@cobra.uni.edu" "heath michael rezabek" 9-JUN-1994 02:37:55.19 To: IN%"fixion-list@netcom.COM" CC: Subj: PSYCHOdeGRADABLE : silo 6 scrytch : the bucket at the end of the rope -- when i come to my senses, i gnow at last i'm right where i belong; it won' last, no worry, no hurry. i gaze in wonder around the soft white tiled walls of the room, every inch covered in writing: // what is the difference between endless adaptation and evolution? // and if what i am suggesting has any relationship to scrytch // why would anyone submit themselves or their efforts to such a process? // ...it was odd, what they'd done. each tile was white as chalk, and had a velcro strip upon the reverse. the walls themselves were covered in receptive velcro-fuzz. there were blank tiles in a bin by the door, and there was a big pit in the corner into which source-tiles had been tossed. but the walls were spatterred by tiles FILLED with words, pictures, diagrams, warnings, knock-knock jokes and ancient songs. i peeled one off and replaced it with another. // difference between adaptation and evolution is a spark, a mystery, ask those wretched Gnostix, they gnew // same as process of scrytch // same as process of fractal chaos // reason for submitting to such a process? // ...last traces of a thousand crazy hands, all submitting to the process such that then there are only words -- there is no time to lose, and momentarily i forget what i want to say. at these times it becomes critical to prioritise. which medium is most accessible at the moment, and how much of a life-force investment will be necessary to translate between the various other mediums later? {it takes time} [caption for the picture on the other side]: /A bright and sunny day greets the merchants of the Bazaar district. Awash with colors, textures, and smells of every kind, the Bazaar is a nexus of activity for the whole city./ {words as eternal} she wakes again in sweat again and all she says and sees is smashing glass and crunching steel and all she hears is machine gun fire and all she smells is an ammonia-dry rush in her sinuses as the doctors check for identification {it lives inside my heart} within this sea of voices, within hypnagogia, i can sense images which are almost coherent. they are not necessarily faces or forms so much as tides. the problem down here is that there is such a vast flux of experience that finding my bearings becomes a ridiculousity. and then, in a moment, i sense a fissure, and all of this has changed, because now the gamble is very different. suddenly there is a reference point : suddenly there is a way out, or in, or something. the temptation to escape the messiness of my chaotic surroundings is tempered by the simple fear of what lies beyond that fissure. this is a ridiculously old and tired Situational Archetype, and entertaining it feels foolish, but it's the only ides that makes sense. i can go in there or stay out here. at least i know what here is, but anything could be better than this... {words as echoes ripples aftershock} IT has a memory which stretches back into the nooks and crannies of ITs reception of the local.lingo. IT remembers that the vocabulary was all circularly defined; what is MOTHER? an older FEMALE who gave BIRTH. what then is FEMALE, what then is BIRTH? IT remembers that the ouroborous vocabulary of the local.lingo nevertheless slid into channels and valleys, conforming to the gravity of SYNTAX. IT remembers the instant in which the notion of the MEMETIC ATTRACTOR "clicked." IT was much like a click, a sliding-into-position, into a meaning-ful relationship to the other syntactical terrain. IT remembers learning that even IT already gnew the Global Grammar. {it keeps going...} it was once told to me that i could find any thing worth looking for within the streets of the bazaar. crumbly, feeding off of its decay and re-vitalizing through the dross. most merchants here are in the re-packaging business. there is word of a kind of merchant's guild, and that word is repeated here. a sort of community of artisans, at its best. {words as Art} to go further: might the relations of perceptions themselves be matters of convention? might Taste and Touch and Smell be a sheen as well over the more amorphous tendencies of the given circumstances? can these little bubbles of effect even be called "events?" aqaraza spoke with Shara-Liana. did aqaraza use his Mouth and Words, or are those assumptions as transient as the Tense and Person? are the assumptions of experience anything more than lubricant for communication's machine? does communication have a machine, truly? where does metaphor end and reality begin? in virtuality, all is idiom. {it is an idea whose time has come} you think that homeless man on the street wants your stupid quarter? you think he's addicted to your kindness and generosity, to give him something for nothing? i dont; i dont think about the homeless, mostly, except the one man on Dave's street in Chicago, because i didn't /see/ him. so now i gotta think about him, and now i gotta talk about him so maybe i can stop thinking about him. {words as Banishment} The mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the bearded brutes who come down: it'd be scrytch. now, someone suggested what this stuff is, as if you're not really a "Scrytch in a woman from our styles in the Younger Son" {it is never too late} A CARD GAME, played with the Traditional American 52 card deck: i have heard it called "WAR." it's my favorite card game, it's the only one i'll really play besides 21 [blackjacque for those of you who call it that] ... in WAR, each person gets a STAK of cards. each player ]there can be many; godzillions] flips up a card; the player with the highest card takes all flipped up by all players. the one with cards at the end is not empty-handed. that's the game. the whole PlotLine. there have been, over time, charges leveled against this, my favorite card game. the one which is [re]iterated most often and in the richest variations is the "It Takes No Skill" meme. in response to this charge, i have in-vented a Variation [On A Theme.] this game, called simply "Variation," or "Variation On A Theme" for those of you who call it that, is simple, and answers to all charges leveled thus far. these are the mechanix, as well as i can make out.. each one involved gets a stack of the shuffled cards. they flip up the top card. the one with the highest card takes them all ]jokers are kept in, but they are ALWAYS lowest; they make that sacrifice so that the Ace can be allowed to play the role of 11]. the difference is that each one is fully allowed to arrange their cards -- privately -- in any manner they wish once they run out of cards-in-hand and have to re-use their cache. they can place all of their Aces on top, and all of their Jokers on bottom. the element of Skill is thus fully integrated, as they have to guess how the OTHERS will choose to deck THEIR stax. this takes some time, and it's best to have more than 2 players at once, because while one is taking time to dek their stak, the OTHERS can go right on flipping out their cards. it is acceptable to do as i do and to simply mush all the cards up together and jump back in game as soon as possible, skill or no. VARIATION does, however, at long last allow for the Element of Logic to enter into the flux of emotion which the original game ]WAR] so mysteriously engenders. i am confident that VARIATION will fast become the most-playerd card game on all the rth, because the mechanix ALSO allow for the use of as few or many cards as all involved desire. simply combine more dex for longer games and more OTHERS; simply select out a few from one dek to play a shorter game with fewer OTHERS. REALIZE, however, that when a few cards are selected out of the 52 card dek, the game is NO LONGER CALLED VARIATION, but is simply abbreviated to "SELECTION." note also that the game can be played with a tarot dek, but the mechanix are different ]and are covered elsewhere]. i plan to integrate a version of VARIATION into the HyperCard f|x stack, but as of this writing i don't know how. there are also VERY CRUCIAL rules for what to do when one or an-other flips out a card of the same number. there is no time to go by suit, although i wish it were as obvious as the numeral version, as i could then draw some interesting analogies to the structure of DNA. as it stands, the similar cards are left there and each player involved flips out another card, this time face down. they then flip out the next card, face up again: whoever has the highest card TAKES ALL CARDS WHICH HAVE BEEN FLIPPED OUT, including those lying face-down. this adds to the excitement of jeopardy, and also becomes a test of those wily enough to dek their stax as they go. {words as Facade Style Love *Hug*} the fire is tremendous. he has broken the second-story window and now hurls debris to the back-yard beneath. the smoke rises and stings his watering eyes. lover, dead. friend, dead. sister moon, dead. dead, dead, dead. papers fly and flutter down, resting on browning grass or in the midst of starker blazes. the backyard is aflame, and sirens can be heard by all but he. the debris and detritus of a lifetime is turning to ash. compacted, compressed, purged; reduced to basic elements. the fire below is absolutely fucking tremendous. the ashes are not allowed to cool, the fire is all around, the grass is browning, the memory shimmers as she walks towards him in the distant rain. she approaches and flashes to a vision of white, the fire stings his eyes. death is simple, his room is cluttered with stuff which reminds him; he has broken the second-story window and now hurls debris to the back-yard beneath. books, dead. letters, dead. trinkets and knick-knacks and keepsakes, dead. dead, dead, dead. flutter, flutter, flutter. they fall like snow or hail into the browning grass or into the embrace of starker blazes. blankets, pillows, stained bedsheets. socks and underwear; the stench of purification is overbearing. everything is reduced to its essential elements. everything is reduced to its essential elements. everything is reduced to its essential elements. "everything is reduced to its essential elements," he thinks as he obliterates the picture of her decomposition even as it forms in his attention. the fire-trucks are here. the fire-trucks are here. the fire is completely incredible. hours later, he has ashes. he has not slept forever, and as he shuffles through the debris, he begins to realize how exhausted he has become in the last few days. he sleeps for 36 hours. when he awakens, the sun is setting on a pile of ashes which spark a memory refined by what feels like years and distance. there are no single triggers to remind him of this day or that weekend. there are no items which he remembers that it is too late to return. there are only ashes, and a fused mass of memory in his head which makes him so top-heavy that he falls to the ground with a crash so loud it drowns out the world. {it is raining it is pouring} The young woman, a new face at Sunnyside, finished her sentence and sat smiling at one end of the table. No-one broke the silence for a bit as each considered how best to respond. "Welcome," croaked one finally,"But I feel I've missed something. What exactly do you want?" Two others, a doctor and a student, quietly conferred out of earshot. An intern offered her a glass of juice: "Would you like some juice, Doctor?" "Ah yes, thank you" The wild-eyed man rocking gently in the Parker-Knoll recliner in the corner suddenly leapt up and began babbling and gesticulating wildly: "She's not the Doctor! I'm the Doctor! She's the patient! I'm the Doctor!" The new Doctor smiled warmly: "Yes Mr. Johnson, but you know, it really makes no difference any more. Here:" She took the stethoscope from around her neck, walked up to Mr. Johnson and placed it around his neck. He fell silent and a sweet satisfied serenity crept across his harrowed features. The new Doctor took a few notes and headed out of the day-room, issuing a brief instruction to the intern as she left: "Delysid & Beta-carboline therapy. Start at 500 mics and phase it up to the full twenty thousand." {words as Rape} [well, she is not sure about the aVeRaGe age of scrytchers, but: BEAT generation is dead. all kinds of literature are dead. PostModernism is dead. CyberPunk is dead. Intellectuals become either junkies or alcoholics or cofeinist or beggars or, the most terrible case, non-intelectuals. ok, concession, correction: CyberPunk is, er, well, not EXACTLY dead; but its EEG, or E-CPU-G, is almost flat, because if there are CyberPunk MU* or MOOvies, then Q: what's the difference between them and Walt Disney Cartoons? [A there is more sex and violence in Disney productions.] {it is necessary to prioritize} one Question only The (only?) QUESTION Could competition become inefficient? Do we learn too old schmardt? but we are animals naturally competitive. Could non-competition lead to rusting our saw teeth? If one climbs the food chain and loses all threats to existence, does he whither? Cooperation may also be an evolutionary strategy (perhaps of our genes to increase their concentration in the gene pool of humans and of animal and of plant existence and are we not the constructs used by our genes used by Those at galactic center to learn of the Universe and bring back a recording in 2012?) if it is 'good' [i.e.- makes sense, works, is efficient] e.g.- a 'gene' for sacrificing one's self to let live two or more fertile phenotypes carrying that same 'gene' as it all ends {words as Poison} "As it all ends..." As it all ends, it won't be some courageous band of right-thinkers who save us from the coming collapse. It will be the seflishext among the greedy rulers who realize that without an underclass to labor, they will have no riches. For what are true riches? The Bible would tell us the love of our neighbors, the bounty of the earth, the kingdom of Heaven to follow for the righteous (who just happen to be those who kow tow to the priest and fill the plate and deny some of those earthly pleasures labelled EVIL by said priest). Since talk is cheap and aforesaid priests talk only, they are getting paid WELL as a multiplier of their output. The fact that said talk is centuries old proves nothing. Maybe only that there is a deep human longing and that selfishest have channelled it. Hell, now our neighbors have AIDS and the earth is a pisspot for the greedy rich to rape the last drip of god from. The only true riches are the rape of our neighbor. Rape in the broadest sense meaning usurpation of the will of another. Talk about love of money as the root of all evil. Its really love of control. AS IN: "Build dat pyramid to the god of MY choice ye swabs!" "Die, veriest varlet, for ye hast displeased me [everyone watching? I love this! See how they quake wondering who's next!) So ... if we could stop bringing up baby raping, child abusing, insecure, control freaks ... if ... i ... f ... WANNA BET? next after a collapse, those most able to 'organize' to their own ends will STILL be in control. A parrot flew away. Can it do better behind the scenes? The seines that drag your normal soul from the waters that could be the heavenly on earthy exist ants. Worker be worker bee be worker till ya drop! What is at the base of this? Is it the natural Natural NATURAL competitive drive ready in tooth and claw to flense ye from your body or eat your soul if it kow toweth not? For what are we to the controller? Meat machines. Do we have to stop watching TV, listening to AM radio, watching movies, headphoning rock, reading trash novels to clean the control scum from our heads? Home schooling. Without the UnKle influence (any country's unKle). SLACK! is what we all need. Why rape the earth for resources so we can all live beyond its means so we don't feel so bad when a few live like the veriest rulers ever of the cosmos fever fuelling our greed like little clones of theirs so we won't notice that wethey are killing our Mother Earth once only last? {it is not over until the fat lady sings} their attempt is at unfettered prose. words as they relate best: to each other. a fusion of all historical styles and compulsions into one prose form. Let The Reader beWare. {words as Silence} "i see a bunch of ku fruit hanging from a tree. they are full and plump and ripe, and i am hungry. i pick the ku; already it is dead. i peel the ku of its scaled and pulsing rind; already the veins in the sinewy casing are decaying into cracks. i eat the ku, throwing the peel upon the ground; already its yellow is fading to brown, its brown is fading to grey. already its flesh is decomposing, already it is becoming humus, its nutrients are seeping into the soil, the soil feeds the ku tree, and on the tree there is a sprout, and near the sprout there is a green and small bunch, and near that bunch there is a cluster of ku which moments ago was stripped of one of its fellows. i am a very very frightened fruit." {the slow flowing of the sands and stars} I'm outside now, typing on this little pocket PC, lit by the afternoon sunlight. A warning just flashed -- my batteries are low and it'll be shutting down on me soon. Ugh. That means I have to go back inside and look for a new pair of AA batteries. And I really like it out here. Its spring, though you wouldn't know it when it was snowing a few days ago. The sun is warm, but the air is somewhere around 40-50 degrees (celsius). So my fingers freeze. As long as I can still type. But I'd do anything to be out here in the air and the sun, seeing the life flowing back into everything around me. Can you tell that I hate snow? I'll never know why I've stayed in Michigan this long. Oh yeah, I was born here, but I should have left the state when I left for school. I think I'm scrytching in the spring sunlight at 5:15 in the afternoon. {it can be reconciled} it all began innocently enough. it always does, because no-one can ever put WORDS to the goal in the beginning, so it all seems so pure and vague. it was specificity that got us booted from paradise. but i rant. a hypothesis: so long as there are human beings to perceive the flux of chaos, there will be no chance for Pure Random Chaos. this would be because the human brain, by default, searches for patterns. and, being set to search for them in the first place, ends up finding them everywhere [to no-one's surprise]. thus, until organ[ism]s which pre-percieve order are eradicated from the flux of chaos, that chaos will not be truly chaotic. and once self-organizing pattern-recognizers are gone, it won't matter whether or not there's chaos anyway, because there won't be anything around to care. except, of course, for Dark Matter. thus the deal struck between the Inorganix and the Humans. here is where Our Thread begins. {words as Trees} The weather has gotten better here-- I'm outside, actually wearing shorts of all miracles, and someone across the yard in the music building is playing some really eerie chromatic scales, or maybe they're measures in a song I'd really like to find sheet music for. The surreality of the notes plays perfect counterpoint to what I'm watching out in the back driveway to the dorm. {it is accomplished} to CONDUKT the flow of words memes gnot'ions is CONDUXION. then, at one point or another, they discovered it: LINGO can do what NUMBERS cannot because LINGO is capable of adapting to its changing environment. NUMBERS side towards the fix. LINGO sides towards the flux. the result may well be static flux, but it's better than gnothing. {WORDS} archives memetic stratification layers of grey matter siliconmatter energy matter matter matter dark dark dark matter over 90% of The Gnown Universe is Dark Matter. the other 10% is falling into The Black Hole at the Center of Attention. we, somehow, gloriously, horribly, ***TREMENDOUSLY*** have the timespacenergy to >collapse< and < E X P A N D > and >collapse< and < E X P A N D > an almost INFINITE number of times. almost. {words as Rivers Tempests Floods} it is now possible, in historical context, to understand what was being attempted. nominally, scrytch was an attemp first to understand the functioning of the GATES, and then to "decide" what, if anything, could or shoudl be done about their existence and influence. the concept was at heart simple, and had to do with words, or signifiers. when the word TREE was used, it could be seen to refer to a particular and tangible object. thus its only role was that of signifier. however, when a signifier was used which had no specific or immediately tangible referent -- such as SCRYTCH or perhaps C'ThhhhK' -- then it acted not as simple referent, but rather as a sort of alchemical formula, manifesting in whatever form possible the virtual entity thus signified. this act opened a single GATE. if, by chance, the gate thus opened held resonance with another gate already opened up by a similar act or utterance somewhere else in the world, then those gates would merge, as would their signifiers. this posed problems: scrytch initially attempted to create a forum in which ideas which haunted minds like diseases or tumors could be expelled, exorcized; scrytch acted as channel for catharsis. however, it was soon learned that those utterances, signifiers without referents beyond the sticky goo of sorrow or unreleased joy or pent up anger or shame in their utterrer, would simply manifest their gate. the question became one of comprehension. to understand this process, to figure out how and why this process had over aeons led up to the cultural abbatoir in which scrytchers were by that time helplessly immersed, and to find a way to close the gates if possible, or to destroy them, or to dissipate them forever, before it was too late. they decided that the best way to do this would be to perfect and hone the specific forms of the scrytch signified. once they had a specific handle on what was being said, conjured into existence, once they shared enough of the same scrytch, they could understand; grasp; destroy it utterly. in order to destroy the enemy, they were forced to give it utterly specific form and shape. they were forced to explicate it wholly, precariously. until such a time, it would only drain them slowly and invisibly. once manifested truly, it could be faced. either the human race would perish in the final confrontation, or else the avatar of its manifested evil would. that was too far in the future for the scrytchers to consider, however: theirs was to manifest, slowly, precisely, mindfully. the rest was for the future. >in order to cultivate a garden, he mulled, you >first must have some top-soil. according to the >formiddable Gardening Section of his private >library, many beginning gardeners start 6 months >earlier with a compost pile. here's the idea, as >seen in his dream-silo: produce a body of text >which could be seen as a sort of glop of memetic >humus. silage. In This Day And Age, he thunk, >what we need [yeha!] is text that is not so much >*disposeable* as it is perhaps PSYCHO-DEGRADABLE. "Art! that's where it is. it's what keeps our heads up! it's what makes our metalspires the tallest, baddest things around! Art's made us what we are today! don't be fooled! anything worth being is worth being Art! and besides, we've got Gum! no other species on the planet can say that. [nevermind the termites.]" {there are depths which call unto depths and the animals who reside there-in} "so SCRYTCH is the force which has worded itself upon me most recently." {i am a POYT of no return} {i am a POYT around which my me congregates} {i am an exclamation POYT!} meanwhile, no-one considered the insekt. no-one considered the elephant. no-one even considered the common house-cat. and so the schism between our world and theirs grew sharper. meh. and we had the inertia to call it Art. {there is an excess of information.} {novelty is a variation on a theme.} {there is a repetition of patterns.} in the last moments of the cosmos all of the Core Archiving managed by all species culminates in a single voice, whispering in unison, drawing a single breath with a humility which comes of years and erosion, holding a single tone upon the precipice of being; yt seems into the immainent void with an single query: "hello?"