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I have always been fascinated by The written word. Coding at work.
"Look into My I".
Here is the picture. (Finished rendition)
Inside the picture is a room (Well - not an ACTUAL room) - the IDEA of a room
Inside the room is a picture (Not Really - it's a picture of a picture)
Tearing through the picture of the picture you get to see the paint work on the wall.
And if you break through the underlying layer of plaster.
You can now start to dig into the stonework
Behind the stonework is the silent-running program
And inside the program are still some of the vestiges of the mind of the Programmer.
But that's just your take on it.
For the cat, however, having escaped Schrödinger'd box paradox - it has to figure out how to cross the void of Space to get to the performing mouse.
And it is a real mouse! Not a cartoon rodent like Mickey.
If Reality has "cartoons". Cartoons must have "reality".
Like the Third Law of Thermodynamics applied to the perception of Existence.
Words in language are the Code with which we program one another.
But, Zoom out of these nested realities.
Back out - through the TV set.
Back out across the lounge - and out through the window
And out past the safety of your cast-iron, pallisade fence
Because I Can See You.
I am watching you.
From across the road. . .
BET YOU DID NOT KNOW THAT!
So here is MY Report on Probability 'A'.
That words, composed on a page have the power to transport us to other times and places. And even into other minds. I spent many hours in the local library reading book after book.
Walk down an aisle, pick a book at random and read. I found much to capture my interest.
There were things I had no idea even existed. Words I had never seen. Books and words became my next love, after painting. My soul’s delight.
I even stole books from the local library beyond the three the card allowed.
Always took ‘em back of course. . . had to. Gotta steal more books. . . . such is hunger.
I now know a lot about a few things. A lot more than some people.
And I also know a small fraction about almost everything.
Some even falls into the category OF Slightly Remembered Half-Bakery.
Although these days it is becoming harder and harder to keep up.
I begin to imagine that I know less than I thought I did, but judging by the internet – MORE, and about more things, than some three billion of my fellow citizens.
Ah! The conceit of genius – but then somebody has to be right. Right?
I make up random sentences in Google – I get all there is to know.
Type any word and there it all is. What’s to know?
At the end of the journey is another beginning. That of writing the story. . .
Some people keep a diary. A record of their lives as a datum of events. They even include some small bits of poetry, A few half-remembered dreams and some half-forgotten disappointments.
Some profoundly earth-shattering ideas: sacred wishes and profane desires – and several thoughts about all the above.
A novel in the form of artificial fragments. A novel in diary form, in
epistolary form, in note book form.
In the form of notes with photographic evidence; a novel in the form of miscellaneous documents, a novel in the form of a novel.
The tradition is that no one who believes he is losing his mind – is really losing his mind. In the tradition that people who speak too much of suicide are talking themselves out of suicide, or into committing it none the less. Hmm?
I, am, on the other hand weaving a tapestry of the history of my life as seen through the eyes of a court jester, based on accounts by other people.
My life as viewed by others in vicarious disbelief. Told to me as a jest, with a question marked innocence. . . “is this true?” – is written on their common face. . . like wind on a sand dune.
There. For all to read.
“Comprehension of course, is something else. . . ”
Life in My Father’s House
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