Rooftop

People, crawling up out of the chimney, then onto the roof and then sliding down it and off over the edge, disappearing from view. Followed by – a thud? It would make sense, round things off nicely – over the edge, an interval, a thud, a succession of thuds rather, for there’s a constant supply of these people sliding off and over. So a thud, a scream, a moan – possibly but no such noises reach my ears, but my hearing isn’t great and on top of that the wind is howling, and howling the wrong way – not that there’s a wrong way for the wind to howl – but the wind is carrying those sounds, if they exist, away from rather than towards me.

Is it the same people vanishing from view off over the edge who make their way back and crawl out again the chimney a little later? It could be, but I am at too great a distance to make out. They all look too alike from here. But if it isn’t the same people crawling up out of the chimney and sliding off over the edge again where could they be getting them all from? It’s not as if it’s a specially big house. Maybe there’s a queue, a great stream of individuals, coming up from down the street, all in a precise order, or why not an imprecise order: people changing places, jostling for position – to get to the front of the line the quicker, or perhaps to get to the back of the line so as to get to the front of the line the slower, if at all.

So voluntary or involuntary, a queue perhaps – that’s where they’re all coming from, these people spilling out of the chimney, not that I'm in a position to know. All this bloody perhaps stuff again. I apologise, sincerely, but my view is restricted. I inhabit a point of perspective, and that point is up here amongst the rooftops, nestled as I am next to a chimney of my own, whatever the hell I’m supposed to be doing up here…observing I suppose. And unlike the chimney in the distance with all the people crawling up out of and sliding down off the roof there’s smoke spilling out of this one. It’s nice and warm, despite all the cold and the wind. You can see why jackdaws make themselves at home up here.

What kind of chimney is it these people are crawling out of so? Not why are they all crawling up out of it and why sliding off the roof but “What kind of chimney is it?” What a gift for the banal. It’s a chimney big enough to crawl out of, that’s what kind of chimney it is, and other than that, ordinary. Maybe it’s ordinary even including that; it’s not the being able to crawl out of a chimney that’s unusual but the crawling out bit.
That may well be but it’s vague. What of the chimney next to which I am nestled: would one be able to crawl out of this chimney? I’m not going to answer that question. Why? Because I’m in no position to go inferring general conclusions about chimneys based on the solitary one I happen to be nestled up against – whyever I’m nestled up against it - and so rather than invite what may be utterly false inferences about chimneys I think it’s better I stay quiet.
“But what kind of research is this? You go on talking about chimneys while knowing nothing about them, and what’s worse the one you do know something about you refuse to talk about. Where’s your methodology, your zeal?”
Well that’s just the way it is, and if it was research I was interested in why would I be up here amongst the rooftops?

Sackcloth

A sackcloth, and within this sackcloth – darkness. Yes well, darkness, what else, but if we could see into this darkness, what else besides the darkness? - instead of this darkness rather. Most likely, assuming something - and assuming something we must for if we assumed nothing then all we wouldn’t be seeing anything instead of the darkness – we’d see coal. Coal is the object one is most likely in general to see in a sackcloth, besides or instead of darkness. But black coal amidst a background of darkness – would we really be able to see this coal? But it doesn’t have to be all impenterable darkness, does it? But if one could see it - the coal -would it really be worth seeing? But that’s not a question you can go asking yourself. Imagine yourself engaged in ordinary everyday life – if you can imagine such a thing, it shouldn’t be too difficult – and this fool peering over your shoulder, asking whether it’s really worth seeing whatever it is you happen to be seeing at the time; providing a critical overview, an ironic commentary on the worthiness or not of all the seeing. Maybe you don’t find it so hard to imagine.

But coal so: that’s what you’d most likely be seeing in a sackcloth - if you could see it; if it was there to see and you weren’t prevented by the darkness. If it wasn’t there to see, it wouldn’t matter about the darkness. And in any case, seeing is enough to be getting on with without worrying about whether it’s worth seeing or not... would it be worth seeing if it could be seen, would be worth seeing even if it couldn't. You could keep yourself going an awful long time with those kind of questions. Thoes kind of questions and more: How am I to know if it’s worth seeing if it isn’t there? Is it even worth knowing if it’s worth seeing? How am I to know it’s worth knowing it’s worth seeing? What a question.

This I see is going nowhere, or worse, it is going somewhere and the somewhere is synonymous with the going; but going isn’t staying still, it’s progressing, and so while it is yes going somewhere, and at any given moment that somewhere is inseparable from the going – that is the somewhere you've been going is precisely where you are – but even so you are still going beyond where you are and deeper into and towards and beyond somewhere else. But if you stop going there, what happens then? You set up camp. “I’m stopping going. I’m happy with here. Yes, if I kept going that somewhere I'd be passing through would certainly be better than here, but still you can’t spend all your life going… or maybe you can, but you have to stop sometime, or if not necessarily stop sometime, you can hardly be blamed for the stopping – out of exhaustion, for a rest. Not everyone - only the very few – can keep going and going.
And so here’s good enough for me - for a while or forever, whatever. I can’t be blamed. I’ve gone far enough. I’ll pace some boundaries, make myself comfortable. If you’re going to stop somewhere, or stop going somewhere, you might as well make yourself comfortable while you’re at it. It would it hardly be better to make yourself uncomfortable, would it, while you're at it?”

I started off with a sackcloth and darkness and I’ve ended up here, however it happened. Would it have been better to have stuck with the sackcloth and the darkness? No, you have to go somewhere and so I got to here. But here is where this, if not me, stops.

Chekhov & Carver

The book of Chekhov short stories I am dipping into contains the high recommendation at the back by Raymond Carver that Chekhov is "the greatest short story writer who has ever lived", thus helpfully distinguishing Chekhov from all the great short story writers who haven't ever lived.

Coin

There was a coin worth a good bit of money - was a good bit of money. But then they changed the currency and it was worthless.

Vantage Point

They spoke of life as though it were something distinct from themselves, something they would observe from a critical distance. And so what could it be, this imaginary vantage point, but the beginning and end of their wisdom.

And You

"And you didn't like it, no?"
"No, I thought it was shit."
"Really, really. In what sense?"
"In the undiluted sense."

Space, Blank, Uninterrupted

Space, blank, uninterrupted, but then a fissure, a crack, a corridor, and down it you’re walking. So a corridor and doors, lots of doors. Open any one you choose. You might be told to get out, you might be asked to come in, you might even be told come in. But just like this – in these clothes? Yes, you’re fine as you are, or if not quite fine as you are, you’ll do. You’ll have to do. So come in as you are, for how else could you come in but as you are? Well, you could try letting on to be not as you are, to be someone else, someone fictitious, an imaginary creation, a composite of other characters, their best traits, unified in this being who walks in the door. And so in you walk; who could fail to be impressed? So we’ll say you’re accepted as you are, this character – that is you’re accepted as you appear to be. You could hardly expect to be accepted as you don’t appear to be.

But how long do you think you could keep this going, this performance? Indefinitely? Noone knows a contrary to the appearance so why not? But mightn’t it be a bit easier, less demanding, if you hadn’t decided to unify the best traits? The only way from such a height is down. Perhaps you could instead unify the worst traits…but who would want to share a room with such a composite except maybe other similar composites? What a room! If someone who wasn’t such a character walked in what would they do to him? I’d advise him to get out quick. Take one look, mutter something about the wrong room, apologise and go.
But the chances of finding yourself in such a room are slim, and anyway, even if such a room with such a set of inmates does possibly lie at the other end of one of the doors, that’s hardly a reason to remain out there forever in the corridor.

Polish Health Ministry on swine flu vaccines

Here. Polish Health Ministry Mrs Ewa Kopacz gives speech in Polish Parliament on serious issues with swine flu vaccines safety and why the Polish government are rejecting the vaccines.

And Austrian journalist Jane Burgermeister here.
She talks of how it was revealed to Austrian parliament that 72 kilos of vaccine material was found to be contaminated with avian flu, after a Czech laboratory found all ferrets they tested these vaccines on died as a result. If the vaccines had been accepted in good faith, these lethal "vaccines" would have been released to the general public. How these vaccines could be "accidentally" contaminated with avian flu and made lethal to their subjects is extremely difficult to conceive. This appalling degree of negligence - malign or accidental - has since been since more or less been completely ignored by the authorities and mainstream media.

A Drop Dropped

A drop dropped – no surprise there. But what if it didn’t drop? If it merely hung there on the end of whatever it hung from enacting an infinitude of not dropping. Could we then in truth really call it a drop? Is the noun so intimate as to be inseparable from the verb? Must a drop drop? A question for linguists, philosophers, physicists? All three? We might form a new academic discipline to put an end to the matter. But such wheels in motion we’d probably find ourselves closer rather to a beginning than an end; arguments and counter-arguments, treatises and counter-treatises, discussion spilling out into all kinds of wild and unexpected forms. I'm sure in time all involved would arrange themselves into two broad schools – that’s how such things generally seem to proceed. One argues that a drop drops, necessarily; the other that a drop doesn’t necessarily drop. You’d probably even end up with some lunatics arguing that a drop necessarily doesn’t drop - by whatever route they’d arrive at the conclusion.

Tangents would surface, sprout wings. Is a drop solely a drop in the act of dropping? And if so what do we call such a drop prior to its dropping? And what of subsequent to the dropping? And then there’s the issue of likelihood of dropping, establishing laws of probability as to the dropping, and what to call the individual drop in its various states of potential dropping.
"It is not as yet nearly a drop."
"It is now nearly a drop."
"It is no longer a drop."
People would lose sleep, fortunes would be made, reputations soar and flounder. At times one side apparently triumphant, then unexpected resurgences, of unfashionable and languishing positions re-examined, placed in the ascendancy; longstanding orthodoxies criticised, scorned, laughed at. Around and around spins the wheel of fortune.

Grand Tome

Here’s another grand tome produced, presented, placed proudly but sternly on the publisher's desk. It creaks under the weight. Another vital part of the oeuvre. I present it to the world, all fifty million fucking words of it. May the world prove itself worthy.
Fifty million - an exaggeration. Perhaps only half a million, or even less again. But anyway, either way, such credible characters, such distillations. But are we really so lacking in credible characters that another few microscopically examined bores are some invaluable addition to our lives? Perhaps if one reads enough credible characters one might become one oneself. That might be what it's all about. Either that or the sheer volume of words has a beneficial effect.
“Ah but it’s not just the sheer volume of words. It’s the order he places them in.”
Yes, there is that. But imagine if someone was to lift up this book, a manuscript rather, the spine held in the hand, and the hand gives it a good shake and down tumble all the words, shaken loose from the hundreds of pages. Imagine the effort re-assembling them.
“My God, what’s happened to my manuscript?!”
“Don’t worry about your manuscript. Your manuscript’s fine. It’s the words that were in it that’s the problem. They’re all over the place. Can you remember what order they were in?”
The author, the great man- accept that it’s a man - is dumbfounded. “The order…the order…” he mumbles. “No, no…I could never remember the precise order. At least I think not. Some sections are embedded, yes here,” pointing to the heart. “No here,” - the head. “But this was the final draft. The only one.”
Final draft? It seems all these words have been whittled down. Revised and refined. Again and again. He’s written out this whole thing several times – without killing himself! It’s amazing what man can endure.

Put To Bed

Don't see a whole lot of point in writing more stuff here so this may be the last post, not to say however that this will necessarily be the case, which is also not to say that there will be necessarily be anyone to read the announcement in the first place, in which case this could be said to be an exercise in superfluity.

Some Were Crossing

Some were crossing the bridge. They were scattered all over it, like a scene from, I don't know, something or other. One progressing satisfactorily at first would suddenly drop to his hands and knees and crawl back the way he came; another, a much rarer but not entirely unique instance, would stop and stare over the sides of the bridge, then rush and jump screaming into the great void below. Did any manage to traverse the bridge? Lets not get ahead of ourselves - which in our rush to get on with things I see we already have .
Those crossing over or attempting to do so were outnumbered, generally, greatly by onlookers stationed in a huddled mass just before the bridge's beginning - that is the side from which those crossing over commenced. No such mass or even huddle was stationed at the far side. They looked on, these onlookers, in what appeared to be an unusual state of excitement, an intermingling of fear and awe; and could it be that within each was a terrible longing to rush forward and begin to cross over also? More than likely there could, and it was from this huddled mass that those individuals who were crossing over emerged.

One might step forward, even with an air of calmness and confidence, and proceed some little way, but then at more or less the very initials of the bridge's perimeters stop almost mid-stride and then remain there, rigid, stuck. A couple of officials then step forward and matter-of-factly but not unkindly steer him slowly back to the crowd. He would come to to find himself sat on a firm but comfortable chair, holding, wherever it had come from, a hot cup of tea.
At other times you might get from the larger body three or four to spring forward together all but telepathically in one tight mass, moving like some crab or insect, straight lines all at the same hurried speed, abrupt stops and then off at a bit of an angle till the next halt and re-alignment. Such groups never progressed far however. One of the group would break apart suddenly - everything was suddenly with them - and come frantically running back - again in straight lines, adjusted where necessary - whereupon the cohesion of the remainder would instantly fall apart and all would return, now scattered, fragmented, but despite perhaps appearances, still unified in purpose - but in reverse so to speak.

One who had set off across the bridge might make good initial progress, but then momentum would slow and cease; he sits down on the bridge and remains there a great length, unmoving. He looks confused, doesn't seem to know why he is atop this bridge; perhaps no longer even realises he is atop a bridge. Such occasions generally resolved themselves with the person raising himself, turning around and finding his way slowly and perhaps even unconsciously back towards the beginning of the bridge, momentum gaining as he approaches the crowd of onlookers. Are they exercising some gravitational pull, these onlookers, their greater human mass attracting his lesser? The mood on his return is welcoming but not untouched by some awkwardness or embarrassment, though it's doubtful whether he notices this, still dazed as he seems, as if from some stunning blow.

But it would be wrong to imply this was the invariable resolution in such cases. One returning from his aborted journey could suddenly stop and seem to grow uncertain, looking about him, backwards and forwards, over the edges of the bridge as if trying to remember something, and finally begin to move off in the original direction again towards the far end of the bridge, away from the onlookers, who observed such instances with much restrained excitement. A sensitive soul might, if in their midst, have felt himself to be amongst a swarming field of attractions and repulsions, of yearning for him to keep going away, mixed even in the same individual human source with a contrary desire for him to return.
Generally though such about-turns turned out to be merely momentary respites in the journey back to and beyond the start of the bridge; the typical journey consisting of a series of such movements and counter-movements, but with each movement back roughly twice the distance as the movement away, and thus until he finds himself back with the group again.

But not necessarily always. The journey of some, for now at least, never finds a final resolution. What might have appeared to an ignorant observer to be a random succession of stops and starts, backwards and forwards, and sometimes sideways, was the playing out of a grand drama, of wakefulness and sleep, courage and cowardice, overwhelming surges of consciousness and unconsciousness, but without any final victory to either side of the bridge, not without though countless intimations of victory to either side.

But did any cross over so? Yes. One might, after an age of such movement as just described, stride forward certainly, with no more signs of tension, and cross over, perhaps turning to wave back, or was it to beckon, before disappearing from view. You might even get someone making the journey from beginning to end without stops or starts, all without trauma, but whether hypothetically or in actuality I'm not sure. Following any victorious crossing great surges would occur, the bridge thronged with optimistic souls making greater or lesser headway; it tending to take quite a length before such activity dying down and movement returning to normal.

There were some by the way who hated the bridge and those crossing or looking to cross it. They spoke in whispers amongst themselves of what might be done, and from their lips would emerge the innocent suggestion that mightn’t it be a good idea to close down the bridge, to block it off. It was dangerous. Think of those poor souls who leapt to their deaths, and yes such instances were most rare but still, such people needed to be protected.
And where were they going anyway with their bridge? Wasn’t this wish to cross over an insult to life over here? If we sealed it off then everyone could gather together and help with the ordering of this world; and there was incidentally much excellent work being done in this area already. There were great advancements being made. And so, never mind just closing off the bridge, why not blow it up altogether? What need had we of it?

Rain Again

"Rain."
"In the form of?"
"In the form of rain. What else could rain be in the form of?"
"It could be in the form of snow."
"But then it would be snow in the form of snow, not rain in the form of snow."
"Well what about hailstones? It could be rain in the form of hailstones."
"No it couldn't."

Resemblance

The world bore no resemblance to itself. That is the resemblance taken to be the world bore no resemblance to anything but itself, while the world proceeded very much as itself, unresembled. So what did those inhabiting the resemblance think they inhabited? They imagined they inhabited a world that was not a resemblance of the world but the world itself, but as said this resemblance was merely a resemblance that resembled nothing but itself.
So what did the world itself resemble? It didn't resemble anything but itself, which is to say it didn't resemble itself, for to resemble itself it would have had to be distinct from itself which it wasn't.

This It

"Is this it?"
"This what?"
"This it. Is this it?"
"Depends what you mean by this and it. If by it you mean this, then yes, this is it. But if by it you mean something other than this, then no, this isn't it. Sort out what you mean by it and this and you should be well on your way."

Hanging

Hanging was back and thriving - twice a week at half seven in the evening. There had been complaints about the initial six o clock times - this was too early, some people had to work you know, there were families to be fed, and so on; and so it was graciously admitted by the relevant authorities that this was a bit unfair, and after much analysis and debate, debate of analysis and analysis of debate, it was decided that seven thirty was the time most acceptable to the greatest number, and so seven thirty it became.

First there had been only the one performance per week, but it became quickly clear that the great success of this evening warranted a second evening's entertainment, and the Thursday evenings were added to by a Monday night showing. The Monday showings eased the start of the working week, gave everyone a boost with the evening to look forward to, while Thursday's seemed to extend the boundaries of the weekend, while of course both evenings giving people something to talk about on the following morning.

It was soon apparent that demand exceeded supply in more ways that one; that the number of people who could reasonably be called for hanging were far from sufficient, the worst criminals were quickly being drained, and so qualification for the rope were made more lenient, more representative of the population as a whole - not to infer that any but those deserving would receive such a sentence. To this end the most successful if inevitable stroke of law was to permit entrance to the roll-call to all those incarcerated under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.

To provide a little background information for those ignorant enough to require such information, naturally, for reasons of state security, the State need not produce any precise evidence against any such insane ingrates as became terrorists, since such evidence could jeopardise future counter-terrorist procedures. Any qualms anyone may have had about potential miscarriages of justice by the use of such legal methods were vanquished by the State's Infallibility Decree regarding its operations in precisely such matters of state, according to which, guided by the clear thinking of Hegel amongst others, the machinery of State was incapable of producing error in matters integral to the absolute integrity of the State, for error in such matters would contradict the State's innate perfection, and so the notion of the possibility of such error a contradiction in logic.

Five "pariahs" as they were known were hanged each evening, and the means of selection was a lottery: the prior evening during the nine o clock news five balls drawn from a transparent drum by some blindfolded celebrity, blessed with the much lusted for task, and who would have the further pleasure of seeing his or her face with the five numbered balls on, if not the front pages of the next days newspapers, certainly on some other page, depending a little on how bright that particular celebrity's star was shining at that moment in time. Naturally much jostling and pleading went on behind the scenes in pursuit of this task in the not unfounded belief that such exposure could but intensify or sustain one's career, or even help resuscitate a flagging flightpath; but if one's career had flagged a bit too much then it was highly unlikely one would be called forth. However insistent the begging, the producers loathe to tarnish the glitter of the occasion by association with yesterdays faces. And as a general rule the best the forgotten could do was to remain forgotten. The present was more than enough to be getting on with without embers of the past flaring up and complicating matters.

Initially the balls were merely numbered and that was an end to it; the next evening a face and name would come to accompany the number, but this it was quickly seen was a lapse. How were the viewers to get excited by an anonymous ball and number? Firstly the method was upgraded to a photograph of the selected participants being shown on the night of selection, but this rather lame improvement was soon superseded - some bright spark having done himself and his future the favour of suggesting - blindingly obvious in hindsight - that the fifteen nominees be gathered live in the studio to be direct witnesses to the drawing of the five balls, with the cameras and producer naturally able to extract television gold from the accumulated tensions; the faces most expressive of dismay or relief providing much hilarity on various programmes over the following few days. Prior to this change the amount of balls in the drum had been thirty, but it wasn't feasible to have such numbers all gathered in the studio, and anyway thirty faces starts to veer on anonymity again - a crime against entertainment.

The idea of a quiz format of some sort was also hit on, with the selection process having a full programme to itself. Make it a full hour with phone a friend devices and so on, but to the astonishment of those involved this sure-fire winner was rejected from on high. The producer, flushed I suppose from a run of other successes, in his anger and frustration tried to argue his case, couldn't they see how successful it would be; but he was informed coldly that such a format would inevitably favour the intellectually inclined, and since these were the very people the State was most pleased to send on their way, then he could forget about any such show. There was the icy implication that one who needed this spelled out might not deserve the exalted position in television attained by said person.

However the role of such a producer, even when working within the bounds of 'news', perhaps even particularly so, needs to entertain, to keep the viewer dazzled, and so the producer, nervously and obsequiously, asked for qualification on some other points. What about short interviews with those selected for hanging? "How are you feeling now/as your ball was drawn?" However the naivety of the question again demonstrated how pure a citizen this producer really was: entertainment was simply the first and last principle of his mind, and subtleties of sensitive political matters involved access to regions of the mind alien to his knowing. And so, no, but this time even with a touch of amusement, it was explained that no such interviews could be permitted. If it were a mere matter of entertainment ( a mere matter of entertainment!), then yes of course it would be mad to deny oneself such interviews, but the world being alas what it was, these people were dissidents, perverts of thought, and so given the opportunity, now their fates absolutely decreed, one more day to live, what might such madmen say given such an opportunity? The producer, absolute in his faith in the State - so absolute it was altogether unconscious - couldn't imagine what a dissident might say, but it was all a subject of such confusion he elected, rather than find himself in even more strange waters, to remain silent.

But hanging, some exclaimed, while others merely wondered, unsure as to the wisdom of voicing their wondering; hanging, in this day and age! Surely that's uncouth, barbaric, a throwback, an insult to the present, to progress, to all we stand for - something of a composite utterance of the theme. Why not, rather than all this lynching, some method reflecting where we are now? - some use of technology of the modern kind.
But they had failed to discern that the reason behind hanging lay precisely in its very barbarism, its rawness. Man was animal after all - if one delved deep enough, though it would have been shocking to have come out and said it just like that - but animal he and she was, and the idea that the State should restrict its playing on the keys of this animal nature more or less just to that of sexual themes would have been stupidly self-restrictive when there were other such bountiful resources to be exploited, and if these lower regions were not exploited and harnessed who knows might happen the precious equilibrium of existence - strange subterranean dissatisfactions might in time begin to set in, and the delicate human eco-system begin if not to break down, to show warning signs of it.

And so to satisfy these immense ancient naked elements of being, so apparently unrestrainedly and so trustingly - trusting that is in the ability to unleash these tremendous forces and yet keep them within certain bounds, not to be overwhelmed by them - well it took great skill and knowledge, but the State hadn't declared itself infallible for nothing, knew its business; on top of all the other virtues of hanging, the great subconscious gratitude of the citizens for this raw spectacle, coupled with pride in being entrusted with such undistilled pleasures - all this bubbled away silently in the depths. It was a stroke of genius, if only the genius of limitations, not really genius in the proper sense but in the Hitlerian sense - an incredibly refined intuiting and knowing of the basest potentialities of nature, and all this precious knowledge gained through intimate familiarity with these very regions. These people were masters for good reason. They had capitalised on themselves, put every drop to good use, were draining the cup dry.

Rain

"Rain falling."
"Superluous."
"Superfluous rain?"
"Superfluous falling. Rain falls. You don't get the rain without the falling. The mere mention of rain establishes its falling, apart that is perhaps from the rarest climactic conditions - hurricanes and the like. And we'd never get anywhere if we had to keep taking account of the rarest of cirumstances. The most banal of sentences would become interminable."
"So I should have just said rain?"
"Yes."

First Step

Everything was held in reserve. That is to say, the first step was untaken, for once that step was taken all would be determined. Though perhaps not exactly determined, but one would have moved in a certain direction. The final destination might be uncertain but the direction of the first step could not but be certain, which is not to imply that any second and subsequent steps need be duty bound to continue on in the direction of the first. Instead the vista of movement is open, if not quite the full 360 degrees, though the taker of the steps could proceed backwards at strange angles I suppose if desired, however unlikely and awkward such movement would be.

So anyway, man is not a taut piece of string, a movement between a set beginning and end; though if you were to quibble, you could say, yes, in a certain sense he is a movement between a set beginning and end, but only in the general sense; the precise end can hardly be looked on as a direct consequence to the precise beginning; and as regards movement of the man between the two points, this could hardly be likened to the monotonous journey along a taut piece of string. Perhaps the longer one proceeded in the same direction as the preceding movement the more likely a next step could be said to follow on in the same vein, but regardless of the number of these steps likelihood is about as much as one could say, for at each step the way lies open. One can veer off if one wishes. This, that which is moving, to say it again or an approximate of it, is not a clockwork mechanism we are dealing with but something else altogether, potentially in any case. If this mover, this person, does chain himself to some kind of a clockwork mechanism, then he may indeed give the impression of being one himself, or a component of such - such a mechanism - but you can't go always trusting appearances.

So it's likely, as an hypothesis anyway, that such was the fear of the first step: a horror of an absolute fate irrevocable once set in motion; but if this were the case - that this remorseless, unswerving road must ensue, deviation impossible - then surely this could only be so because it appears to be so, is believed to be so. Man lays down his rights convinced they aren't his rights, are merely his own imaginings; but it is the lack of his rights that are really his imaginings.

And so the lack of a first step out of fear of its implications - of enslavement to all necessary subsequent steps. What was that law again? - that without some contrary force something set in motion in a certain direction would continue infinitely along that direction if not for some other force working contrary to that movement - gravity or density of air being the contrary force presumably. Something like that. But it takes more, or less, than mere gravity or air to stop a man in motion. Maybe there's even a definition in there. Man: a contrary force to his own motion. Mind: that which impedes the free movement of matter, or is it unfree movement, for what's so free about infinite movement along a straight line? I suppose someone else might claim that it is matter which impedes the free movement of mind, and someone else again that matter is merely a word used by mind, as is mind.

Pedestrians and Non-Pedestrians

"A pedestrian bridge, that is a bridge, below which water, atop which, generally, pedestrians; pedestrians in motion from one end to the other, and at each end or beginning, depending on one's visual line of attack, a person seated on the ground."
"So pedestrians traversing a pedestrian bridge bracketed by two non-pedestrians. Are they the guardians of the bridge, these non-pedestrians?"
"No, down-and-outs. Or if not down-and-outs, people giving the impression of being down-and-outs."
"Why would people want to give the impression of being down-and-out? Humility?"
"No, for money."
"What money?"
"Pedestrians might give them money if they believe them to be really down-and-outs."
"That's hardly an achievement, is it? 'I've successfully attained the status of being a down-and-out. Now reward me.' I don't see the logic there. And people really give them money?"
"Sometimes yes. Otherwise they wouldn't do it."
"And you're sure they weren't performing tricks or something?"
"No, just sitting down with a maybe a cap in front."
"And what does the cap do?"
"The cap doesn't do anything. Pedestrians might put money into it."
"Maybe the money was for the quality of the impression."
"What impression?"
"The impression of being a down-and-out."
"No, they only give money if they're convinced it isn't an impression. That he really is down-and-out."
"And they're happy with that then? 'You've convinced me. Here have some money.' I still don't get it."

Kant's Antinomies

Back to The History of Western Philosophy again, and within is written of Immanuel Kant's antinomies, of which Kant alleges four principal ones, which are imagined to be examples of mutually contradictory statements being simultaneously true; and this being known by the method of thesis, antithesis, synthesis, which is apparently of prime importance for the thought of Hegel also, and onwards to Karl Marx amongst others. What Kant's particular antinomies are is irrelevant; it is the principal or notion of mutually contradictory statements being true that is the essence of the matter. So to look at what this involves.

Two plus two equals four.
Two plus two does not equal four.

The first statement we describe as true, because meaningful language rests upon a foundation of being true, a foundation which does not even need formulating since it is the necessary and natural faith inescapably bound up with the use of language. And so the second statement is false. The two statements cannot both exist as truths. However Kant and his successors claim otherwise; that statements can contradict each other. How is this possible? Upon what would this idea of language rest?

It rests upon language and truth not being inseparable, and so the "contradictions" are not in fact contradictions but equally valid, since there is no truth which they contradict. It is to treat words as lumps of matter which can be placed in whatever order one wishes and the results are equally valid, all equally senseless. This would imply and necessitate the demolition of the entire notion of language as meaningful, since something and its contrary are alleged to both be capable of meaningful co-existence. But this meaningful co-existence is dependent on language not being meaningful but meaningless, since if it is meaningful then one cannot have coherent contradictions within that language. Language cannot be used in a self-contradictory manner and remain an instrument of truth. Such contradictions are violations of the nature of language, and will be found to be merely an erroneous use of that language. Also Kant's whole notion of the antinomy is entirely self-contradictory: an attempt to be a true statement of language, while the very statement inescapably implies that language is not true. If the antinomy is true then language is not true, and so the antinomy is not true. It is a perfectly senseless, and so unreal, use of language.

The notion of building a philosophy of truth upon the notion of the non-existence of truth is clearly ludicrous, where according to the implied logic of any sequence of words being as good or bad as any other, one could build this entire philosophy and then with a final flourish claim that the contrary to all this is also true, i.e. that it is not true - gibberish having been sanctified. However for this notion of language's meaninglessness to be sensibly be formulated in the first place requires the acceptance that language is meaningful; one is trying to use language meaningfully. So all in all Kant and his successors are trying to build an edifice upon completely self-contradictory and delusional grounds. How one could use the truth tool of language all one's life while remaining ignorant as to its essence is particularly lamentable for a philosopher.