THOUGHTCRIME: Defined as- thinking that is not allowed.
Example: Thinking about others as human beings and engaging in personal communication like this:
Lithien wrote:
THAT'S FOUR! GLOVE HOW ARE YOUR KITTIES? IS IT STILL SUBZERO WEATHER IN THE MIDWEST? IT IS A BALMY TROPICAL NIGHT HERE IN MIAMI, FLORIDA AND I LOVE LOOKING AT THE BRIGHT STARS THAT SHINE ON ME TONIGHT. IN FACT, RIGHT AFTER I BREW THIS MISCHIEF I WILL GO SKINNY DIPPING IN MY WARM POOL. WANT TO JOIN ME?
Gosh, really Lithien..........are you really in Miami?
You know i have spent a lot of time in Florida and
it is my favourite place outside Ireland. I have good
friends in Ormond Beach and spent time in Fort
Lauderdale and South Beach, among others.
I also....wait for it.....bought a Cadillac in St. Pete,
drove it to Miami and shipped it to Ireland via the UK
and drove it here.
I also went doen to Key West a few times. Overall
Florida has been a big part of my life.
You talking of skinny dipping in a warm pool- (while it
is minus two here now in Ireland), reminds me of a swim
I had in the sea off Miami with Paula- an old girlfriend of
mine. We swam just before boarding a flight back to
cold Ireland. Three cheers for the Gulf stream.
I might reproduce an article set in Key west that I wrote
some months ago here in the Squad. Is it against the
rules? Here goes.......
Platt Holden asked>
>Your Metaphysics of Meaning: MoM seems to say that reality
> is composed of Patterns.
>How? And if so, are some better than others?
Best way I could answer was to write what follows. How
many Patterns and Pattern Recognitions can you spot?
Not just the simple ones either. Try to find the hidden ones.
Read it first- maybe print it, then go back over it to uncover the
patterns, and YOU determine which ones are better.
What follows is all about pattern and pattern recognition.
There are inorganic patterns, organic, aesthetic and moral
patterns. There is recognition of these patterns dynamically
and using memory. There are competing judgements of the
Quality of aesthetic and moral patterns too.
Her Silk Print Dress
------------------------------
It rained about an hour ago. Not much rain, mind you; and here
in Key West, the tropical afternoon sun that slants into this
garden at the side of the old colonial house, is already rendering
that rain but a memory. Wisps of steam are curling around the
plastic deck chairs that lie abandoned across the pool from me,
as the wet flagstones yield up their harvest of moisture to the
powerful rays that shine through the old oak tree behind me.
I prefer the softer feel of canvas under my nearly naked
body while I lie there soaking up the atmosphere of lazy calm
that is so characteristic of this southernmost island. Last in the
chain of island stepping stones cast like seeds into the Gulf of
Mexico by the casual hand of God.
The departed rainstorm gives one last flurry of wind that
shakes loose a spattering of raindrops from the leaves of the
tree overhead, and they pitter-patter unexpectedly across my
body. But it doesn't disturb me. And it doesn't disturb the only
other occupant of the pool-garden: the wise old Smokey Bacon-
a brown tabby Hemmingway cat, who shares my enthusiasm
for this Sacrament of the Sun. He lies only feet away- prone
except when he raises his head to lick one of those great paws
with the extra toe characteristic of all Hemmingway cats on this
Cayo Hueso- Island of Bones.
He is given to drinking water in a most curious way, as the
lady of the house warned me when I moved in here. He comes
scratching at the apartment door and you may as well go to the
sink, turn on the tap and let him in. For he will bound up and
balance himself on the sink edge to lap the flowing stream with
his tiny tongue darting in and out until he has had his fill.
I turn my head towards him and smile. His eyes are half-
closed now in the shade of the bushes. My eyes drift closed too.
Now the raucous thump-thump of industrial music disturbs the
calm, as a pick-up full of semi-drunken tourists makes its way
down the potholed track beside the garden that leads to the old
pier. Must be a party this evening. Trying not to let the
intrusive noise bother me I only end up feeling like an old river
criticising a stream.
The potholes bounce the pick-up crazily and the girls in the
rear scream with laughter as they cling on for dear life. One of
the girls?.....that ....laugh?..... Just like Paula's laugh. Suddenly
an image of Paula springs into the view of my mind's eye- as if
she were not long gone, as if she were alive...right...now.
Before me. Like a vision. Ah...for she was indeed a vision.
And that laugh.
It's not the image I would have expected. My conscious
recall is of her walk. No, of her stride- for no one walked like
Paula. Great big strides that stretched her legs fully- stride after
stride, her body bouncing incredibly up and down with the
sheer length of the gait, her brown hair streaming out behind
her in a wind that only Paula in motion could generate. The
walk that turned heads. The stride of a woman of purpose. The
one that turned my head too. Paula J. Rice. The "J" after Joan-
the mother who dropped dead in front of her when Paula was
only five; leaving her father an alcoholic and she and her sisters
effectively rendered orphans.
But that isn't the image that comes. No, it's of her in the
airport in Dublin. That time when she returned after the trip to
England. We were besotted. And that week away was like an
eternity. But Paula knew the effect of her beauty on others, and
on me. And she calculatedly made sure that she looked the
vision she was- before she strode out of the Customs Hall to
stand before me with her arms outstretched and that Look-at-
Me grin.
The blue denim jacket covered the flowery silk print dress
that clung to her as I wrapped my arms around her. I could feel
every nuance of her young body under the flimsy material of
that dress. Later, in the high-roof bedroom of the house
overlooking the park, we made love as a father-figure makes
love to a younger woman. I wrapped my arms protectively
around her as I entered her from behind. Then, my hand
cradling her crotch, we lay there to watch.....the
afternoon......fade into Eve.
And I swear that high ceiling was the ceiling of a Chapel.
It was that same airport to which I brought her to place her
tenderly upon an airplane, and she soared to her freedom like a
bird.
But she left me the dress.
With only the emptiness inside it.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The METAPHYSICS OF MEANING (MoM) says that Pattern Recognition
Algorithm(DQ) is the compliment of Pattern(SQ) and both are the
product of a Quality event. Pattern(Past) evolves in complexity, in exchange
with- but limited by- the available Entropy/Data. PR-Algorithim(Future) evolves
through layers of abstraction, becoming self-referential and ultimately infinitely
dimensional.
The MoM says that "Seed to Tree" is a symbolic metaphor for the NOW
event at ground level- which event is the source of the branching structure
of Mind above ground and of Matter below. PRA(Subject) is in each individual
leaf and Pattern(Objects) is found in the roots. Subjects and Objects are
contextual and interpenetrative. They interchange through operators like
language. This means that Creation took place from within the NOW and
is dimensionally incremental. A new dimension is currenly being constructed.
From: The Metaphysics of Meaning: MoM. Post to Lila Squad 19/Nov98
MoM and the above definitions Copyright (c) Fintan Mary Dunne 1998.
No reproduction execpt within the Lila Squad for research and development.
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