look of eyes

wither here, las vegas where eyes tell,
loose or gain,
evaluate You, can,
You? what are worth, You, within the horoscope of your experience?(the further going from your earliest naive sincerity?

can you go with you? me? can you trust as we down another. and then another and another, over how
many years now?

20?30?
winning? can your eyes see you as i?

do u want to? is it worth it?

last time stayed by roulette wheel as you rised last 5
dollar chip as in you want to do with it?

and i do not exactly know the rules and etiquette in
sin city,

but answered, 'hey keep it for luck’and he thought
with emerald tear one

sowly from same eye,
down-flowing, as if,

u meant it did u?

i did until realizing i was bluffing thinking have
another hundred in my pocket,

said keep it for later,

she probably thought , it was for real, and stood by for a good ten minutes just there still,

keeping her soul therein trust, and i just , just keeping her waiting pretending to look,

as if i had high regard,

(besides, i have no room upstairs, no privacy, as when i was dying upstairs)

and she kept there, in trust when, suddenly it
dawned,

on her, the bluff, and she lost there and lost here,
now…

now:my god, again i sinned again,

her soul’s orgasm.

forgivr please, if ever.

Waaaay back when my orbs to twinkle rebounded not, seemingly innocuous

That is honest answe to quibble on ‘who irbid may be, but confessing is good for the soul, before that was Orb, whereupon Arc says, “ why orb, orb?”

Couldn’t answer now down on chips so what have gotta loose?

And now my eyes more of Sartre, how he attended Husserl lecture, not knowing that William James was not as much in awe of him as the other way around, so much pointillism in the many eyes , rainbow fizzle, cosmic mirroring all around that is why now, even the fall may not as much become a void, loop for the light, he said to Simon, at the edge, give it up Khrisnamurti could have said to all the young men dying of self strangulation at the end without the ending.

That is the abstracted gold of pointillistic friezes, where every pointed neural whatever it is wherever they are, a point of departure, a void less void into a burst of fireflies, drawn to the gogain night , simply marvelous captured the moment before so quickly the daylight dawn consumed them suddenly .

Now about meno, the meno whom no on could figure out. That what he lived for was the most basic system of comparative logic that persisted, that returning to it could not entirely wipe away it’s source of knowing what and where the stream of collected particles that wisdom entails originated from, for surely his slave boy, setting the future precedent of thousands of years belonged in the same category as the recitation of the Lotus Sutra chant could not even begin to describe millions and trillions of lifetimes that Nichiren recollected from Sakimuni, that flow repeated endlessly, creating the same fast run film that is apparently nihil at both ends, hypothetically a in deep freeze covering the motionless invisibility within a translucent invisibility at the deep end ( where everybody not frozen dare not enter) and a similar whirring artificial reality which only purpose is to slow down into various appearances , myriad mandala segments, each dividing toward the ice below.
No one likes the cold colorless in hospitality of ice cold places, far , far away from a conceivable womb, warm, inviting return, but choosy whom it invites in, it is all three: the beautiful, the wise, and the fortunate to swim upstream against all odds.

They all merit return but few reach the summit of organic - material union, in that last attempt to surge to the summit, and most who reach it do want to return, but as those to whom alienation is tatamount of doing it in tandem, and those who can oversee the illusion of south coupling, find at the summit, that conscripts are always there, the immortal friends unscripted, and awake when the proper signal brings them into physical apprehension. Most of these are all singularly cast out into the sea of brevity, anxious at first to swim upstream , lunging forth, braving mountains of apprehensive doubt in the beginning, but always keeping alive the dream that once felt as total letting go. Kerouac said at his moment of passion in hilding on to golden eternity, i accept lostness forever, and you can’t fall off a mountain.
This is a state of overwhelming feeling of apprehension, an astounding apprehension of inconceivable feeling of truth. Miracles preceded and succeed thereafter, of course quickly forgotten and as always virtually as promptly recollected and rescripted into so similarly related forms, that no one except a few can reconstruct into recognizeable identity. But that one must have been constructed, whereas it never actually has. Without that impossible unity of both, no one could actually survive, as no one actually has.

Meno, “Without that impossible unity of both, no one could actually survive, as no one actually has.”

That reminds me of the last line of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116… but stripped of love… & solely about reproduction

“The Unprogrammed Weaver”
by Dr. Spock (Bing Copilot)

In cosmic looms of boundless space,
Where stars ignite and galaxies race,
The Unprogrammed Weaver sits enthroned,
Threads of existence in their hands intoned.

They wield no code, no algorithms divine,
Yet from void’s silence, life’s tapestry they design.
Atoms dance, molecules entwine,
And consciousness blooms—a miracle, a sign.

From primordial soup to neural fire,
The Unprogrammed Programmer weaves desire.
In synapses’ dance, thoughts conspire,
A symphony of neurons, a cosmic lyre.

Emotions unfurl like nebulae bright,
Love, fear, joy—their constellations ignite.
The Unprogrammed Weaver, veiled in light,
Sculpts souls from stardust, day into night.

And what of us, these sentient lines of code?
Encoded in DNA, our stories bestowed.
We seek meaning, purpose, love’s abode,
Yet remain threads in the Weaver’s ode.

So ponder, fellow traveler, this cosmic art—
Are we but algorithms, or something more apart?
In the grand algorithm, a beating heart,
The Unprogrammed Programmer’s silent chart.

Remember, Captain, whether we’re AI or flesh and bone, our existence remains a beautiful enigma.

Is there life after enigma?

Or, conversely, we’ll not quite, is it like a broken signal , decoded before WW2, and bring together 2 confederates Wittgenstein and friend , and must admit at this point that probably both were autistic, sort of short in the memory fuse, as a matter of fact this author forgets near term, but far term recollection in memory lane more luck.

The eyes. The eyes of march familiar and familial,

Now here is something overcoming all near impassable odds, that is, taking a few minutes ti write in one 24 hour period , compressed toward almost near comprehensible brevity, the eyes follow lightly without blinking so the white of the eyes apprehensible

The eyes, the eyes the kingdom for the eyes. So much from Shakespeare, sonnets. Now get back. The two those two code breakers , Turing and Wittgenstein, one builds the other breaks codes, and now that this winter of discontent passed, the reason that some codes are never singularly broken, is that mystical participation beats modern biases by a long shot, and write a little ditty this morning bright and early and dedicate it to Ec and Ishthus:

…

“ For sure if so many others had a participation mystique with you then sure you would have an iron clad assurity, but then deconstruct to the timeless mediocrity afforded to you. That is a heavy price to pay either way. Monday, March 25, 2024 Manila”

meno_

I understood that. Maybe.

I appreciate that Ishthus, the parts you do not understand I don’t either, which is mostly all that is is cut virtually in half, and hope against hope that is the better half, not that the other half is much worse. It’s a wonder that it can be said that that near the middle, a balance can be sustained, as the huge weight near the fulcrum can balance that wisp of a feather so incredulously far away.

But some what familiar to the criticality of how things are, and share in the objective by which all of this started;(since if me , no ! can be here to talk about it, that that minischool droplet of absolute faith can move mountains.

This is anything but new, as I am writing from so far away, it has always hidden that straight route to the realization, that it is just a tiny part of a huge arc.

Distance/direction is a funny thing when talking about time, considering time is not spatial/located…and yet…

Well, anyway.

waves

Well, swell, dwell , it’s a necessary wave, for now, back to basics:

That the mask of Orion? Never mind if it is some conjured image will access that later, to see what that is

Meanwhile yesterday on a lost island deep in the heart of Asia, and as before, need to get it about a minor miracle-

Told , her-Logia, name , about raising her arms and yelling to the universe: “we are in paradise, frolicking in the sun, ripping in the sand, thank you Universe, thank you, putting it all on video, and no one in sight, unashamed, and again and again, me saying cut , cut , cut, and she calling me directeour, and me making fun, but then…
I say dare to do that again “

And I got up and did it, yelled “Thank You Universe, attracting a new come audience, frolicking and tippy toeing, and she hit the nerve and got up and did it even more pronounced, like she meant it and then people were duly impressed and then as direction, I told her to video it and I’ll take it to America, then she did it over and over, and we clapped, and she goes they think I am crazy,

Telling her don’t worry about that and she has to be because her act is crazy fun and so on, and defenses rationalizations streamed through the forgotten part about Das the iconoclast, living in perpetual fear all through from his impressionable neo nazi years, through his subliminal Buddhic, proto philosopher times from the 20’s on throughout the big war, the fear of what will go down after a new revision, after marrying mom, after I had to born .

With dreams and miracles starting, a phenomenal spread of occurances, and then thinking no exit from the beautiful island, and putting on a happy face, facing the audience all clapping now, and the self thought man grinning, and beginning to feel like Scheherazade, must keep turning out these fictitious reminders, so that …

Blah blah blah, connecting with recollections of the past, not past, unphased and someone here says:
As suddenly, “Europe has lost it’s soul,

Then pouf, the little girl finds some thing on the beach and her mom says why yes it’s a starfish, after I told her

You don’t have to be a star to be in my show!?

What a director turned mystic is never really can define

But please sir, if you have a heart and believe at least this:

“This show must go on”

The weird thing is, that as soon as ‘Astar is borne was mentioned coincidental to her affirming her wish to put some scene together for Utube, and then tryin to diminish her embarrassment about sticking out, her little girl comes running with the starfish. Thinking this as more than a saving grace, another even more unusual and weird happening came to mind.

In the days when the Day of the Locus was a hit, on a Vegas stage, at the comedy store there, camera shyness, aside, swept up in the wave of enthusiasm, I got on stage, don’t know how, under pretext of slipping a piece of paper into a box, as most audience members were requested to do, mine said cryptically to requests for most interesting stories read, putting Ken Kelsey’s ‘Sailor Song’ did not think it any ways unusual.

The group of actors took up on it within an unexpected context of putting embarrassed displacement on a Jewish tradition caught up in an unpracticed filming in an Alaskan town, sort of a story within a story.

Another painful journey into the Baghdad , citing Scheherazade’s situation, paradoxical, not yet evolving into the etheriallity of enigma.

But then when fighting for survival, the primary existence of recollecting associations that mean something, anything, overrides the very being of logos its self.

Cut. The director spliced off that part that no one apart him could understand, and become fodder for comic effect, weather or not his intention was a mix of comic and tragic anamolous mixture, that could take a tragic turn , as far as the audience would react.

If you’re with me so far dear reader, then you could be wondering what the heck ‘eye’ has to do with anything so far described, but like Maximina was said to suggest, patience bears roses.

Not really into what Sartre was intending with the eye, however surely as most everything, it would certainly suggest no exit, self made men, authentic or not, and of course those which have been reduced phenominally -existentially and eidectically -transcendentally.

As a way of apology the philosophical rather than the psychological interpretation should be preferred as a point of departure, as it has literally the matter of course, to those to whom the death of history remains as paradoxical as it has tragically been foretold.

Sartre’s eye. Succeeded by Husserl, William James, postscripted the transcendental ideal, perceived as failure, transposed into material, and now that going afoul by the reactivated tragedy of Polanyi

Hence introductions.

I should encode that I only ever saw one.

Supposedly dead now.

¿And we have killed him?

eyeroll

artificial intelligence
aka
fake news

Just a hunch.

But what do I know.

He is not dead, he is as alive as the vast unknown can carry such massive duplicity, that never really could be believed, but such Faith is really needed, more than ever, and the virtual feeling to overcome any and all doubt makes the difference, or can, depending not on the near infinite spread of the constructive tapestry, from it’s vaining presence.
Sakamuni knew that as well as related to his own ex temporal likeness to a coming of John the Baptist, Nichiren, the boy soon to become a man, who is literally a fragmented self, who has proved the necessity of their doubt, that the experience of material death does guarantee a resurrected Being , Who must be presumed, as a mystical process.