I (print name)
hereby affirm that I am not engaged in the development or invention of controls for web pages and have no plans to be so engaged for the duration of this agreement, and that I am therefor at liberty to agree, and do so agree, not to describe to any party, before January 1, 2020, without separate written permission from Mr. Tom Sunderland of 515 West Eleventh Street, Tempe, Arizona, controls which he may describe in a document to be delivered to me describing controls for web pages which he has invented, and is developing, and not to employ, before said date, in web pages or other media constructed by me or by other parties on my behalf, similar controls, with the understanding that I may employ, in web pages or other media, any and all controls which are part of existing web design languages, libraries, or publishing tools, irregardless of whether said controls came into existence during the terms of this agreement, so long as they did not come into existence as a result of my descriptions of descriptions of the controls supplied to me by Mr. Sunderland, which said descriptions I agree not to describe or divulge, so that I may attest, as a witness, by signing a document containing a description of said controls, which Mr. Sunderland will deliver to me, to the existence of said description of controls on a certain date.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Thursday, December 18, 2014
news
I want to read hundreds of news stories on line every day. The way I want it to work is, I just hit the next button and I get the next story. Goodbye headline pages. They'll be back, but first, this.
road
I want this place to build a real road, by which I mean, it's elevated, so the desert flows uninterrupted beneath it, and then it's fun and interesting to drive on (and slow), so, with turnouts, meanders, rises and dips and the like, and attached elevated gardens, and it incorporates a vibrant pedestrian component, and connects to habitat towers along its length.
Arcology, to me, is a kind of apartment tower, or building, but the apartment are distributed in space, with little lanes and alleys between them, and situated on plazas and other kinds of open spaces, and each "floor" includes shopping and dining and promenading and that kind of thing, and the apartments are little outdoor worlds people live in, and you don't necessarily "go down to the street", rather, you live in your neighborhood in the sky, and explore nearby neighborhoods, also in the sky, if you feel like moving around, and streams flow down through the building, and forests, and fields.
It's like you take a standard apartment tower and expand it, like popping corn, so that now it's filled with space, and air, and air, and weather, and light flow and filter through it everywhere.
Buildings need to be planned, or modeled in virtual reality. That's how they get built. And if you want complexity in a building, you need to plan it into it, before it's built, and that's done in virtual reality. The more complexity you want, the more planning, or modeling, you need to do, and then there's "many hands make light work," but existing tools for modeling and planning, including the old ones and the new ones, are very hard to master, so "many hands" is an impossibility. That the old tools are hard to master goes without saying, but that the new ones are hard to master seems like the result of an oversight, not an inescapable reality. What would make the new tools easy to master? If I could describe a building element, using words - words that computers can understand - and then move it about using words. Xml is the relevant language, but that not as obvious as it sounds.
This possibility exists: anyone who wants one has their own virtual planet, in which they can model cities, or whatever they like. It is described something like this: planet, radius. In order to place things on its surface (for example), in defined locations, you need to name a few points. So, planetary axis, north pole, south pole, and Greenwich. Now you can describe an object, such as first beam, first point of first beam, first surface of first beam, first edge of first surface ... this is all jumbled. The point of xml is container theory. First Beam is a container. In it are some named points, named line segments, named plane segments. A plane segment is a container. In it are point references. Planet is a container. In it are some points that establish its internal coordinate system, and, now, First Beam. This isn't a final version. I mean, people are going to accuse me of writing something stupid, but that's because they're biased against me. Basically I'm saying existing CAD is set up wrong. You're supposed to push things around on the screen. Underneath that, the program maintains a model in words, just what I'm describing, but you aren't supposed to need to think about that. Result: you're totally handicapped. Everything becomes incredibly difficult to understand. You need to work with that description of the model in words. Why is existing software set up in this obtuse way, that blocks your access to what you need? I think it's just habit of thought, on the part of the developers. Architecture is an elite craft, and the software is written for an elite class that's accustomed ... Or it might be set up that way purposely to keep out the hoi polloi. (There is information about SketchUp file structure, but I wasn't able to make sense of it.)
Just did look at some of that. http://sketchupplugins.com/about/creating-a-sketchup-plugin/. Still basically have no clue. None.
Sure, you're supposed to go to school for this kind of thing. What if, like me, you aren't going to do that? You're just stuck? I mean, there's a ton of stuff to read for free on the web - I do that - but it's not getting me anywhere. I am not giving up. You can call me stupid all you want. Why should I care?!
Trying again. A model of this earth could consist of a collection of contour lines. Contour lines are loops. https://www.uwgb.edu/dutchs/structge/SL51ContTopo.HTM. http://www.ngdc.noaa.gov/mgg/topo/. http://search.lycos.com/web/?q=topographic+data&keyvol=009d10876f7387d91646. http://serc.carleton.edu/NAGTWorkshops/gis/topographic_data.html. https://apps.admin.ibmcloud.com/manage/trial/watsonanalytics.html?cm_mmc=ppc_google--C24803TW
Arcology, to me, is a kind of apartment tower, or building, but the apartment are distributed in space, with little lanes and alleys between them, and situated on plazas and other kinds of open spaces, and each "floor" includes shopping and dining and promenading and that kind of thing, and the apartments are little outdoor worlds people live in, and you don't necessarily "go down to the street", rather, you live in your neighborhood in the sky, and explore nearby neighborhoods, also in the sky, if you feel like moving around, and streams flow down through the building, and forests, and fields.
It's like you take a standard apartment tower and expand it, like popping corn, so that now it's filled with space, and air, and air, and weather, and light flow and filter through it everywhere.
Buildings need to be planned, or modeled in virtual reality. That's how they get built. And if you want complexity in a building, you need to plan it into it, before it's built, and that's done in virtual reality. The more complexity you want, the more planning, or modeling, you need to do, and then there's "many hands make light work," but existing tools for modeling and planning, including the old ones and the new ones, are very hard to master, so "many hands" is an impossibility. That the old tools are hard to master goes without saying, but that the new ones are hard to master seems like the result of an oversight, not an inescapable reality. What would make the new tools easy to master? If I could describe a building element, using words - words that computers can understand - and then move it about using words. Xml is the relevant language, but that not as obvious as it sounds.
This possibility exists: anyone who wants one has their own virtual planet, in which they can model cities, or whatever they like. It is described something like this: planet, radius. In order to place things on its surface (for example), in defined locations, you need to name a few points. So, planetary axis, north pole, south pole, and Greenwich. Now you can describe an object, such as first beam, first point of first beam, first surface of first beam, first edge of first surface ... this is all jumbled. The point of xml is container theory. First Beam is a container. In it are some named points, named line segments, named plane segments. A plane segment is a container. In it are point references. Planet is a container. In it are some points that establish its internal coordinate system, and, now, First Beam. This isn't a final version. I mean, people are going to accuse me of writing something stupid, but that's because they're biased against me. Basically I'm saying existing CAD is set up wrong. You're supposed to push things around on the screen. Underneath that, the program maintains a model in words, just what I'm describing, but you aren't supposed to need to think about that. Result: you're totally handicapped. Everything becomes incredibly difficult to understand. You need to work with that description of the model in words. Why is existing software set up in this obtuse way, that blocks your access to what you need? I think it's just habit of thought, on the part of the developers. Architecture is an elite craft, and the software is written for an elite class that's accustomed ... Or it might be set up that way purposely to keep out the hoi polloi. (There is information about SketchUp file structure, but I wasn't able to make sense of it.)
Just did look at some of that. http://sketchupplugins.com/about/creating-a-sketchup-plugin/. Still basically have no clue. None.
Sure, you're supposed to go to school for this kind of thing. What if, like me, you aren't going to do that? You're just stuck? I mean, there's a ton of stuff to read for free on the web - I do that - but it's not getting me anywhere. I am not giving up. You can call me stupid all you want. Why should I care?!
Trying again. A model of this earth could consist of a collection of contour lines. Contour lines are loops. https://www.uwgb.edu/dutchs/structge/SL51ContTopo.HTM. http://www.ngdc.noaa.gov/mgg/topo/. http://search.lycos.com/web/?q=topographic+data&keyvol=009d10876f7387d91646. http://serc.carleton.edu/NAGTWorkshops/gis/topographic_data.html. https://apps.admin.ibmcloud.com/manage/trial/watsonanalytics.html?cm_mmc=ppc_google--C24803TW
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
dog
http://inu1dog11.blog86.fc2.com/
It's ten in the morning, so I am drinking. It's sort of cold, but not super cold (I'm working outside, on the gazebo), and it rained all night, so everything's wet, damp, musty. Nice.
https://medium.com/@mackenziechild/how-i-finally-learned-rails-95e9b832675b
http://css-tricks.com/
It's ten in the morning, so I am drinking. It's sort of cold, but not super cold (I'm working outside, on the gazebo), and it rained all night, so everything's wet, damp, musty. Nice.
https://medium.com/@mackenziechild/how-i-finally-learned-rails-95e9b832675b
http://css-tricks.com/
affirming
http://www.salon.com/2014/11/23/%E2%80%9Cthere%E2%80%99s_been_class_warfare_going_on_for_the_last_20_years_and_my_class_has_won_partner/
"85 richest billionaires on the planet, including the likes of Carlos Slim, Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg, have as much money as the 3.5 billion poorest people"
The gist of the editorial seems to be that this is a really bad thing. Little is said to defend that notion. I guess it's just one of those self evident truths. I guess we're supposed to get all upset. Does that sound healthy?
I want the facts! Oh, wait, I've got them. There are roughly 8 billion people. Subtract 85, and then subtract 3.5 billion, and there are 4.5 billion people in, I guess, the middle class. Is being middle class a bad thing? Are we complaining that everybody's not super rich?
I want everyone to be happy. Everyone. Here I am, little tiny me. What am I supposed to do about it?!
We live in a giant surging wave of humanity. Waves are rough, but you can at least try to surf them. If you nail it, it's a blast. If you blow it, you get slammed. If you don't do anything, well, what happens happens.
I got to know some poor middle class Brits. They're a laugh riot. It was really fun. But they're also, I have to say, kind of stupid. They're super aware of their privilege. If they've got a beef, they just stuff it right in your face. They march along, fully expecting everyone to just jump out of the way. (And we do.) Or (this happens a lot, too) we're supposed to (and why not?) go all moon eyed and tag along for the show. Good show! But, OK, all that privilege, and what do they do? They complain and complain! So, OK, money's tough, and health is a constant issue. It's rough. So I'd make suggestions. Try this exercise for the pain in your arm. Interesting? No. It's like I'm suddenly a suspicious person, like I'm attacking you. Or, hey, I'm getting some results in the stock market. It looks to me like, if you work at it, you can have zero money problems that way. Yes, you have to control the risk. Yes, it'll probably take some time. But I'm here. Let's work on it together.
Nah.
Then they're, like, our apartment is so miserable. Well, yeah, you've got this nasty, horrible throw on the sofa. Why not make just a little effort decorating. And then, I mean, just be content.
I mean, I've got it rough myself! My house is a disaster! And I'm incredibly poor. But it's my own damned fault. Anyone will tell you that, and they're right! If I'm going to get out of this hole, I just need to keep digging. And if I don't make it, it's not anybody else's fault. I mean, I get demanding sometimes. I say "I have a right to demand that you do this for me." Then they say "No, you don't." Then I say, yeah, you're right. On the other hand, sometimes they say "OK, I'll give it a shot." Then I say "Wow, thank you, that's really sweet." And I get fringe benefits. They're, like, "Come to my party." So, I have a nice time.
I got to know this other guy, who's totally, incredibly working class. He's kind of sweet, and really charming, but he's the most stuck up asshole you ever met! He thinks because he's working class he's some kind of holy angel. He thinks every stupid random idea he has is the epitome of reason. He thinks his style is just unbelievably awesome, and we should all drop absolutely everything and be just like him. And it's kind of true, his style is kind of awesome. Except when it's kind of nasty, which it also is.
He thinks he absolutely knows everything. He thinks he's a total genius. He is kind of a genius, in fact, quite a genius. But then again, what does he do? He makes hurtful comments, left, right, and everywhere in between. So, even though we all greatly admire him, no one (not just me, the village idiot, but actually the smart people on the block, too) wants anything to do with him. And he complains and complains. He's got a bunch of money in savings accounts. He's like, "I'm smart. No one is going to sucker me into losing my money in the stock market." Then he complains about how poor he is, that he can't spend a penny because he's going to run out of money. So I'm, like, look at the stock market with me.
Nah.
He's like, all admiration, because I'm sort of intellectual. But does he listen to anything I say? Certainly not. And, he's right. If I were so good, I'd be rich, and I'm not. But I'm not saying "I'll tell you what to do." I'm saying, let's work at it.
Nah.
There was this super sweet black guy living across the street for a while. He actually was an angel. But things were getting tougher and tougher for him. He didn't like me all that much, although he was really nice. I mean, I'm not very likable. But we were sort of a group of friends, so one day he's telling me about his problems. His wife was beating on him. It was bad. So I'm like, the answer is meditation. After that, he just stopped talking to me. It's not actually that he's dumb or anything. I'm dumb, that's why. I know stuff, but I don't know how to help. He eventually moved to Colorado, and now he can smoke all the pot he wants, and not get hassled. Among us, he's the winner.
The gang broke up. It's just me again, now. That's good.
Raking the lawn. Turning the compost. Trimming a branch here, another there, just barely making a dent. Sorting through my stuff, getting it a tiny bit more in order. Doing dishes, laundry, cooking a meal. At least it's something. Stumbling in the stock market, but I may get it sorted, one of these days. And, if I make a bunch of money, then what?
So, I write. I'm like, what the hell? What am I supposed to do? I'll write. I write, and then I'm not at all sure I want anyone to read it. After all, I will get trolled. Then I do it again.
I've gotten through all of this health stuff, cancers, heart attacks, headaches, pneumonia, major cat bite, mrsa infection, which doctors say is "untreatable", like a volcano erupting on my arm, wisdom teeth falling apart, impaired vision, obesity, stroke, poverty, mental illness. I got through all of those things without any help from doctors (except fifteen years of counseling), with just my own ideas about things, natural remedies, cooking, yoga (self taught), and meditations. People know this about me. Do they ask me how I did it? Nope. They shy away. "Don't listen to Tom. Go to the doctor." Then they get prescribed horrible medicines, that make them deathly ill, surgeries they'll never recover from. They even just die. Don't listen to Tom. Literally, I'm cursed. Nobody likes me, right? A big fuck you to all of you. Guess what, I've got my people. I'm cursed, and it's a good thing. Still, I want to get out of this hole. Nothing for it but to keep affirming, keep struggling through.
"85 richest billionaires on the planet, including the likes of Carlos Slim, Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg, have as much money as the 3.5 billion poorest people"
The gist of the editorial seems to be that this is a really bad thing. Little is said to defend that notion. I guess it's just one of those self evident truths. I guess we're supposed to get all upset. Does that sound healthy?
I want the facts! Oh, wait, I've got them. There are roughly 8 billion people. Subtract 85, and then subtract 3.5 billion, and there are 4.5 billion people in, I guess, the middle class. Is being middle class a bad thing? Are we complaining that everybody's not super rich?
I want everyone to be happy. Everyone. Here I am, little tiny me. What am I supposed to do about it?!
We live in a giant surging wave of humanity. Waves are rough, but you can at least try to surf them. If you nail it, it's a blast. If you blow it, you get slammed. If you don't do anything, well, what happens happens.
I got to know some poor middle class Brits. They're a laugh riot. It was really fun. But they're also, I have to say, kind of stupid. They're super aware of their privilege. If they've got a beef, they just stuff it right in your face. They march along, fully expecting everyone to just jump out of the way. (And we do.) Or (this happens a lot, too) we're supposed to (and why not?) go all moon eyed and tag along for the show. Good show! But, OK, all that privilege, and what do they do? They complain and complain! So, OK, money's tough, and health is a constant issue. It's rough. So I'd make suggestions. Try this exercise for the pain in your arm. Interesting? No. It's like I'm suddenly a suspicious person, like I'm attacking you. Or, hey, I'm getting some results in the stock market. It looks to me like, if you work at it, you can have zero money problems that way. Yes, you have to control the risk. Yes, it'll probably take some time. But I'm here. Let's work on it together.
Nah.
Then they're, like, our apartment is so miserable. Well, yeah, you've got this nasty, horrible throw on the sofa. Why not make just a little effort decorating. And then, I mean, just be content.
I mean, I've got it rough myself! My house is a disaster! And I'm incredibly poor. But it's my own damned fault. Anyone will tell you that, and they're right! If I'm going to get out of this hole, I just need to keep digging. And if I don't make it, it's not anybody else's fault. I mean, I get demanding sometimes. I say "I have a right to demand that you do this for me." Then they say "No, you don't." Then I say, yeah, you're right. On the other hand, sometimes they say "OK, I'll give it a shot." Then I say "Wow, thank you, that's really sweet." And I get fringe benefits. They're, like, "Come to my party." So, I have a nice time.
I got to know this other guy, who's totally, incredibly working class. He's kind of sweet, and really charming, but he's the most stuck up asshole you ever met! He thinks because he's working class he's some kind of holy angel. He thinks every stupid random idea he has is the epitome of reason. He thinks his style is just unbelievably awesome, and we should all drop absolutely everything and be just like him. And it's kind of true, his style is kind of awesome. Except when it's kind of nasty, which it also is.
He thinks he absolutely knows everything. He thinks he's a total genius. He is kind of a genius, in fact, quite a genius. But then again, what does he do? He makes hurtful comments, left, right, and everywhere in between. So, even though we all greatly admire him, no one (not just me, the village idiot, but actually the smart people on the block, too) wants anything to do with him. And he complains and complains. He's got a bunch of money in savings accounts. He's like, "I'm smart. No one is going to sucker me into losing my money in the stock market." Then he complains about how poor he is, that he can't spend a penny because he's going to run out of money. So I'm, like, look at the stock market with me.
Nah.
He's like, all admiration, because I'm sort of intellectual. But does he listen to anything I say? Certainly not. And, he's right. If I were so good, I'd be rich, and I'm not. But I'm not saying "I'll tell you what to do." I'm saying, let's work at it.
Nah.
There was this super sweet black guy living across the street for a while. He actually was an angel. But things were getting tougher and tougher for him. He didn't like me all that much, although he was really nice. I mean, I'm not very likable. But we were sort of a group of friends, so one day he's telling me about his problems. His wife was beating on him. It was bad. So I'm like, the answer is meditation. After that, he just stopped talking to me. It's not actually that he's dumb or anything. I'm dumb, that's why. I know stuff, but I don't know how to help. He eventually moved to Colorado, and now he can smoke all the pot he wants, and not get hassled. Among us, he's the winner.
The gang broke up. It's just me again, now. That's good.
Raking the lawn. Turning the compost. Trimming a branch here, another there, just barely making a dent. Sorting through my stuff, getting it a tiny bit more in order. Doing dishes, laundry, cooking a meal. At least it's something. Stumbling in the stock market, but I may get it sorted, one of these days. And, if I make a bunch of money, then what?
So, I write. I'm like, what the hell? What am I supposed to do? I'll write. I write, and then I'm not at all sure I want anyone to read it. After all, I will get trolled. Then I do it again.
I've gotten through all of this health stuff, cancers, heart attacks, headaches, pneumonia, major cat bite, mrsa infection, which doctors say is "untreatable", like a volcano erupting on my arm, wisdom teeth falling apart, impaired vision, obesity, stroke, poverty, mental illness. I got through all of those things without any help from doctors (except fifteen years of counseling), with just my own ideas about things, natural remedies, cooking, yoga (self taught), and meditations. People know this about me. Do they ask me how I did it? Nope. They shy away. "Don't listen to Tom. Go to the doctor." Then they get prescribed horrible medicines, that make them deathly ill, surgeries they'll never recover from. They even just die. Don't listen to Tom. Literally, I'm cursed. Nobody likes me, right? A big fuck you to all of you. Guess what, I've got my people. I'm cursed, and it's a good thing. Still, I want to get out of this hole. Nothing for it but to keep affirming, keep struggling through.
i actually care
i care a lot
i care a ton
and yet
i can't seem to avoid
producing
volumes
of plastic trash
so many
of the
wonderful
things
i enjoy
so fascinating
in this world
the privileges
and i
dance about
"i am the king of the world!"
are created
by
giant
companies
we
complain
about that
we
may
live
in old houses
in old
neighborhoods
on
principle
but
we drive our cars
we shop at whole foods
and Target
we surf
the web
we fly
to Hawaii
and
we are grateful
one person
a friend, i guess
bitterly complains
about big companies
complains about
billionaires
and
executives
but
he worked
for the
phone
company
and
he's
extremely
proud
of that
go figure
big companies
rule
they
get it done
i want to get it done
i want to create a big company
a giant company
i want to be
the founder
and
ceo
partly
because i want all the perks
i do
even
to be contrary
but
also
partly
to get it done
to make it at least possible for anyone
and everyone
to do all their shopping
and not produce ANY
plastic
waste.
also
my prosperity feels quite limited
and it's not that there isn't massive abundance out there
all around me
or even that
(though i'm, i would say, quite poor)
i don't have access to it
because the little money i have could buy me a lot
all sorts of stuff
it even does
no
it's
it seems to me
because
the systems in place for buying
(and selling)
are incompletely developed
the abundance is out there (soto)
the systems are out there
those are the big things
and the big things aren't the problem
the little things are the problem
the details
like
that i have to use my credit card
to buy stuff - and give away money -
on line
the credit card
with its unlimited ballance
if someone could game that little system
my credit card number
they could run up a huge tab
on me
and then
to correct the problem
i would have to go through
i would have to jump through various hoops
the alternative
(here's my silly dream, my wish)
i would write a check
i guess
to a company
and
by that means
create a little pool of money
on line
that i could spend
by pressing buttons
and when it's used up
it's used up
i even know things like this exist
i care a lot
i care a ton
and yet
i can't seem to avoid
producing
volumes
of plastic trash
so many
of the
wonderful
things
i enjoy
so fascinating
in this world
the privileges
and i
dance about
"i am the king of the world!"
are created
by
giant
companies
we
complain
about that
we
may
live
in old houses
in old
neighborhoods
on
principle
but
we drive our cars
we shop at whole foods
and Target
we surf
the web
we fly
to Hawaii
and
we are grateful
one person
a friend, i guess
bitterly complains
about big companies
complains about
billionaires
and
executives
but
he worked
for the
phone
company
and
he's
extremely
proud
of that
go figure
big companies
rule
they
get it done
i want to get it done
i want to create a big company
a giant company
i want to be
the founder
and
ceo
partly
because i want all the perks
i do
even
to be contrary
but
also
partly
to get it done
to make it at least possible for anyone
and everyone
to do all their shopping
and not produce ANY
plastic
waste.
also
my prosperity feels quite limited
and it's not that there isn't massive abundance out there
all around me
or even that
(though i'm, i would say, quite poor)
i don't have access to it
because the little money i have could buy me a lot
all sorts of stuff
it even does
no
it's
it seems to me
because
the systems in place for buying
(and selling)
are incompletely developed
the abundance is out there (soto)
the systems are out there
those are the big things
and the big things aren't the problem
the little things are the problem
the details
like
that i have to use my credit card
to buy stuff - and give away money -
on line
the credit card
with its unlimited ballance
if someone could game that little system
my credit card number
they could run up a huge tab
on me
and then
to correct the problem
i would have to go through
i would have to jump through various hoops
the alternative
(here's my silly dream, my wish)
i would write a check
i guess
to a company
and
by that means
create a little pool of money
on line
that i could spend
by pressing buttons
and when it's used up
it's used up
i even know things like this exist
affirming
http://www.salon.com/2014/11/23/%E2%80%9Cthere%E2%80%99s_been_class_warfare_going_on_for_the_last_20_years_and_my_class_has_won_partner/
"85 richest billionaires on the planet, including the likes of Carlos Slim, Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg, have as much money as the 3.5 billion poorest people"
The gist of the editorial seems to be that this is a really bad thing. Little is said to defend that notion. I guess it's just one of those self evident truths. I guess we're supposed to get all upset. Does that sound healthy?
I want the facts! Oh, wait, I've got them. There are roughly 8 billion people. Subtract 85, and then subtract 3.5 billion, and there are 4.5 billion people in, I guess, the middle class. Is being middle class a bad thing? Are we complaining that everybody's not super rich?
I want everyone to be happy. Everyone. Here I am, little tiny me. What am I supposed to do about it?!
We live in a giant surging wave of humanity. Waves are rough, but you can at least try to surf them. If you nail it, it's a blast. If you blow it, you get slammed. If you don't do anything, well, what happens happens.
I got to know some poor middle class Brits. They're a laugh riot. It was really fun. But they're also, I have to say, kind of stupid. They're super aware of their privilege. If they've got a beef, they just stuff it right in your face. They march along, fully expecting everyone to just jump out of the way. (And we do.) Or (this happens a lot, too) we're supposed to (and why not?) go all moon eyed and tag along for the show. Good show! But, OK, all that privilege, and what do they do? They complain and complain! So, OK, money's tough, and health is a constant issue. It's rough. So I'd make suggestions. Try this exercise for the pain in your arm. Interesting? No. It's like I'm suddenly a suspicious person, like I'm attacking you. Or, hey, I'm getting some results in the stock market. It looks to me like, if you work at it, you can have zero money problems that way. Yes, you have to control the risk. Yes, it'll probably take some time. But I'm here. Let's work on it together.
Nah.
Then they're, like, our apartment is so miserable. Well, yeah, you've got this nasty, horrible throw on the sofa. Why not make just a little effort decorating. And then, I mean, just be content.
I mean, I've got it rough myself! My house is a disaster! And I'm incredibly poor. But it's my own damned fault. Anyone will tell you that, and they're right! If I'm going to get out of this hole, I just need to keep digging. And if I don't make it, it's not anybody else's fault. I mean, I get demanding sometimes. I say "I have a right to demand that you do this for me." Then they say "No, you don't." Then I say, yeah, you're right. On the other hand, sometimes they say "OK, I'll give it a shot." Then I say "Wow, thank you, that's really sweet." And I get fringe benefits. They're, like, "Come to my party." So, I have a nice time.
I got to know this other guy, who's totally, incredibly working class. He's kind of sweet, and really charming, but he's the most stuck up asshole you ever met! He thinks because he's working class he's some kind of holy angel. He thinks every stupid random idea he has is the epitome of reason. He thinks his style is just unbelievably awesome, and we should all drop absolutely everything and be just like him. And it's kind of true, his style is kind of awesome. Except when it's kind of nasty, which it also is.
He thinks he absolutely knows everything. He thinks he's a total genius. He is kind of a genius, in fact, quite a genius. But then again, what does he do? He makes hurtful comments, left, right, and everywhere in between. So, even though we all greatly admire him, no one (not just me, the village idiot, but actually the smart people on the block, too) wants anything to do with him. And he complains and complains. He's got a bunch of money in savings accounts. He's like, "I'm smart. No one is going to sucker me into losing my money in the stock market." Then he complains about how poor he is, that he can't spend a penny because he's going to run out of money. So I'm, like, look at the stock market with me.
Nah.
He's like, all admiration, because I'm sort of intellectual. But does he listen to anything I say? Certainly not. And, he's right. If I were so good, I'd be rich, and I'm not. But I'm not saying "I'll tell you what to do." I'm saying, let's work at it.
Nah.
There was this super sweet black guy living across the street for a while. He actually was an angel. But things were getting tougher and tougher for him. He didn't like me all that much, although he was really nice. I mean, I'm not very likable. But we were sort of a group of friends, so one day he's telling me about his problems. His wife was beating on him. It was bad. So I'm like, the answer is meditation. After that, he just stopped talking to me. It's not actually that he's dumb or anything. I'm dumb, that's why. I know stuff, but I don't know how to help. He eventually moved to Colorado, and now he can smoke all the pot he wants, and not get hassled. Among us, he's the winner.
The gang broke up. It's just me again, now. That's good.
Raking the lawn. Turning the compost. Trimming a branch here, another there, just barely making a dent. Sorting through my stuff, getting it a tiny bit more in order. Doing dishes, laundry, cooking a meal. At least it's something. Stumbling in the stock market, but I may get it sorted, one of these days. And, if I make a bunch of money, then what?
So, I write. I'm like, what the hell? What am I supposed to do? I'll write. I write, and then I'm not at all sure I want anyone to read it. After all, I will get trolled. Then I do it again.
I've gotten through all of this health stuff, cancers, heart attacks, headaches, pneumonia, major cat bite, mrsa infection, which doctors say is "untreatable", like a volcano erupting on my arm, wisdom teeth falling apart, impaired vision, obesity, stroke, poverty, mental illness. I got through all of those things without any help from doctors (except fifteen years of counseling), with just my own ideas about things, natural remedies, cooking, yoga (self taught), and meditations. People know this about me. Do they ask me how I did it? Nope. They shy away. "Don't listen to Tom. Go to the doctor." Then they get prescribed horrible medicines, that make them deathly ill, surgeries they'll never recover from. They even just die. Don't listen to Tom. Literally, I'm cursed. Nobody likes me, right? A big fuck you to all of you. Guess what, I've got my people. I'm cursed, and it's a good thing. Still, I want to get out of this hole. Nothing for it but to keep affirming, keep struggling through.
"85 richest billionaires on the planet, including the likes of Carlos Slim, Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg, have as much money as the 3.5 billion poorest people"
The gist of the editorial seems to be that this is a really bad thing. Little is said to defend that notion. I guess it's just one of those self evident truths. I guess we're supposed to get all upset. Does that sound healthy?
I want the facts! Oh, wait, I've got them. There are roughly 8 billion people. Subtract 85, and then subtract 3.5 billion, and there are 4.5 billion people in, I guess, the middle class. Is being middle class a bad thing? Are we complaining that everybody's not super rich?
I want everyone to be happy. Everyone. Here I am, little tiny me. What am I supposed to do about it?!
We live in a giant surging wave of humanity. Waves are rough, but you can at least try to surf them. If you nail it, it's a blast. If you blow it, you get slammed. If you don't do anything, well, what happens happens.
I got to know some poor middle class Brits. They're a laugh riot. It was really fun. But they're also, I have to say, kind of stupid. They're super aware of their privilege. If they've got a beef, they just stuff it right in your face. They march along, fully expecting everyone to just jump out of the way. (And we do.) Or (this happens a lot, too) we're supposed to (and why not?) go all moon eyed and tag along for the show. Good show! But, OK, all that privilege, and what do they do? They complain and complain! So, OK, money's tough, and health is a constant issue. It's rough. So I'd make suggestions. Try this exercise for the pain in your arm. Interesting? No. It's like I'm suddenly a suspicious person, like I'm attacking you. Or, hey, I'm getting some results in the stock market. It looks to me like, if you work at it, you can have zero money problems that way. Yes, you have to control the risk. Yes, it'll probably take some time. But I'm here. Let's work on it together.
Nah.
Then they're, like, our apartment is so miserable. Well, yeah, you've got this nasty, horrible throw on the sofa. Why not make just a little effort decorating. And then, I mean, just be content.
I mean, I've got it rough myself! My house is a disaster! And I'm incredibly poor. But it's my own damned fault. Anyone will tell you that, and they're right! If I'm going to get out of this hole, I just need to keep digging. And if I don't make it, it's not anybody else's fault. I mean, I get demanding sometimes. I say "I have a right to demand that you do this for me." Then they say "No, you don't." Then I say, yeah, you're right. On the other hand, sometimes they say "OK, I'll give it a shot." Then I say "Wow, thank you, that's really sweet." And I get fringe benefits. They're, like, "Come to my party." So, I have a nice time.
I got to know this other guy, who's totally, incredibly working class. He's kind of sweet, and really charming, but he's the most stuck up asshole you ever met! He thinks because he's working class he's some kind of holy angel. He thinks every stupid random idea he has is the epitome of reason. He thinks his style is just unbelievably awesome, and we should all drop absolutely everything and be just like him. And it's kind of true, his style is kind of awesome. Except when it's kind of nasty, which it also is.
He thinks he absolutely knows everything. He thinks he's a total genius. He is kind of a genius, in fact, quite a genius. But then again, what does he do? He makes hurtful comments, left, right, and everywhere in between. So, even though we all greatly admire him, no one (not just me, the village idiot, but actually the smart people on the block, too) wants anything to do with him. And he complains and complains. He's got a bunch of money in savings accounts. He's like, "I'm smart. No one is going to sucker me into losing my money in the stock market." Then he complains about how poor he is, that he can't spend a penny because he's going to run out of money. So I'm, like, look at the stock market with me.
Nah.
He's like, all admiration, because I'm sort of intellectual. But does he listen to anything I say? Certainly not. And, he's right. If I were so good, I'd be rich, and I'm not. But I'm not saying "I'll tell you what to do." I'm saying, let's work at it.
Nah.
There was this super sweet black guy living across the street for a while. He actually was an angel. But things were getting tougher and tougher for him. He didn't like me all that much, although he was really nice. I mean, I'm not very likable. But we were sort of a group of friends, so one day he's telling me about his problems. His wife was beating on him. It was bad. So I'm like, the answer is meditation. After that, he just stopped talking to me. It's not actually that he's dumb or anything. I'm dumb, that's why. I know stuff, but I don't know how to help. He eventually moved to Colorado, and now he can smoke all the pot he wants, and not get hassled. Among us, he's the winner.
The gang broke up. It's just me again, now. That's good.
Raking the lawn. Turning the compost. Trimming a branch here, another there, just barely making a dent. Sorting through my stuff, getting it a tiny bit more in order. Doing dishes, laundry, cooking a meal. At least it's something. Stumbling in the stock market, but I may get it sorted, one of these days. And, if I make a bunch of money, then what?
So, I write. I'm like, what the hell? What am I supposed to do? I'll write. I write, and then I'm not at all sure I want anyone to read it. After all, I will get trolled. Then I do it again.
I've gotten through all of this health stuff, cancers, heart attacks, headaches, pneumonia, major cat bite, mrsa infection, which doctors say is "untreatable", like a volcano erupting on my arm, wisdom teeth falling apart, impaired vision, obesity, stroke, poverty, mental illness. I got through all of those things without any help from doctors (except fifteen years of counseling), with just my own ideas about things, natural remedies, cooking, yoga (self taught), and meditations. People know this about me. Do they ask me how I did it? Nope. They shy away. "Don't listen to Tom. Go to the doctor." Then they get prescribed horrible medicines, that make them deathly ill, surgeries they'll never recover from. They even just die. Don't listen to Tom. Literally, I'm cursed. Nobody likes me, right? A big fuck you to all of you. Guess what, I've got my people. I'm cursed, and it's a good thing. Still, I want to get out of this hole. Nothing for it but to keep affirming, keep struggling through.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
Monday, December 15, 2014
me and My Mind
Oh My! I have chosen this place, a page on the Web, as a place to be, in this moment.
I am here. That deed is done.
My mind explores ... other places. Naka, here, the center. Soto, there, out there. My mind seems to want to go soto, out there.
Maybe this is a fault in Me. Am I and my mind different things? I can only report what I perceive. I feel as if I and My Mind are not the same things. sddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
Huh?
I feel like I am an observer, and a decision maker, though not entirely in control of the latter faculty ... or of the former. Because I observe, or I perceive. That, I don't need to do anything about. And then, maybe I can decide, and maybe not. I feel like I can decide to look at something. Beyond that, I'm not sure ... what I can decide ... to do. Sometimes I can decide to do something, and sometimes, despite myself, I can't, or so it seems.
I am here. I decided to come here. It was a spontaneous kind of decision, based, maybe, on what felt easiest. "Where can I go and feel comfortable," I thought, and thought the easiest place to go and be that was here, so I came here.
I am comfortable here because it is clean, simple, elegant, beautiful ... and offers, also, the possibility of getting something done. I was asking myself about that. Am I motivated by the possibility of getting things done? Is that some kind of core motivation? Is that life's purpose, perhaps?
What is it I wish to accomplish. I think it's accurate to say this, that I wish to accomplish something. I didn't decide to wish that, or that's how it feels. Maybe I could decide not to wish that, but I just wished it, spontaneously. Maybe My Mind wished it, and maybe My Mind and I are not the same thing. I'm observing My Mind wishing something. I feel like it did it on its own, and I am separate from it, and just observing it doing that. Now maybe I can make a decision, and direct My Mind to do something, one thing or another, but wishing this thing is something My Mind did on its own.
I want something. Now it feels more like me, and not so much this other entity, My Mind, doing the wanting. Very confusing!
I am deeply reluctant to admit that I want something. To write, here, that I want something, is to admit that I want something. I don't mind admitting wanting things, but I'm wary of admitting what they are.
Interesting! It seems I and My Mind have somewhat merged, as a result of this writing!
I am here. That deed is done.
My mind explores ... other places. Naka, here, the center. Soto, there, out there. My mind seems to want to go soto, out there.
Maybe this is a fault in Me. Am I and my mind different things? I can only report what I perceive. I feel as if I and My Mind are not the same things. sddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
Huh?
I feel like I am an observer, and a decision maker, though not entirely in control of the latter faculty ... or of the former. Because I observe, or I perceive. That, I don't need to do anything about. And then, maybe I can decide, and maybe not. I feel like I can decide to look at something. Beyond that, I'm not sure ... what I can decide ... to do. Sometimes I can decide to do something, and sometimes, despite myself, I can't, or so it seems.
I am here. I decided to come here. It was a spontaneous kind of decision, based, maybe, on what felt easiest. "Where can I go and feel comfortable," I thought, and thought the easiest place to go and be that was here, so I came here.
I am comfortable here because it is clean, simple, elegant, beautiful ... and offers, also, the possibility of getting something done. I was asking myself about that. Am I motivated by the possibility of getting things done? Is that some kind of core motivation? Is that life's purpose, perhaps?
What is it I wish to accomplish. I think it's accurate to say this, that I wish to accomplish something. I didn't decide to wish that, or that's how it feels. Maybe I could decide not to wish that, but I just wished it, spontaneously. Maybe My Mind wished it, and maybe My Mind and I are not the same thing. I'm observing My Mind wishing something. I feel like it did it on its own, and I am separate from it, and just observing it doing that. Now maybe I can make a decision, and direct My Mind to do something, one thing or another, but wishing this thing is something My Mind did on its own.
I want something. Now it feels more like me, and not so much this other entity, My Mind, doing the wanting. Very confusing!
I am deeply reluctant to admit that I want something. To write, here, that I want something, is to admit that I want something. I don't mind admitting wanting things, but I'm wary of admitting what they are.
Interesting! It seems I and My Mind have somewhat merged, as a result of this writing!
Thursday, December 11, 2014
yoga
http://www.yogitimes.com/article/meditation-empathy-compassion-emotions
green power standard:
http://www.japanportal.jp/article/432679.html
jicc
http://www.us.emb-japan.go.jp/jicc/index.html
"Table hiragana" by User:Pmx - Based upon Image:Table hiragana.jpg Original autor : Karine WIDMER. ( http://www.escale-japon.com ) From : _ http://www.escale-japon.com/cours/table_katakana.jpg _ http://www.escale-japon.com/cours/table_hiragana.jpg. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hiragana
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hiragana_Times
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katakana
"Table katakana" by User:Pmx - Based upon Image:Table katakana.jpg. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.
j-talk kanji converter!
romanji desu
green power standard:
http://www.japanportal.jp/article/432679.html
jicc
http://www.us.emb-japan.go.jp/jicc/index.html
"Table hiragana" by User:Pmx - Based upon Image:Table hiragana.jpg Original autor : Karine WIDMER. ( http://www.escale-japon.com ) From : _ http://www.escale-japon.com/cours/table_katakana.jpg _ http://www.escale-japon.com/cours/table_hiragana.jpg. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hiragana
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hiragana_Times
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katakana
"Table katakana" by User:Pmx - Based upon Image:Table katakana.jpg. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.
j-talk kanji converter!
romanji desu
Monday, December 8, 2014
aaoi
back in september i thought this was a buy because of a triangular formation
good to study someone's mistakes, don't you think?
at least after it broke down you could have sold it at or near the buy price on the rebound
good to study someone's mistakes, don't you think?
at least after it broke down you could have sold it at or near the buy price on the rebound
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
saja
saja
vsym
View Systems Inc otc
ogng
Bravo Enterprises Ltd OTCQB
aers
Aerius International Inc pink
embr
Embarr Downs Inc OTCQB
npwz
Neah Power Systems Inc otc
gnin
Green Innovations Ltd otc
avxt
AVAX Technologies Inc pink
5
finw
Firstin Wireless Technology Inc pink
6
112014pb.96
kgji
Kingold Jewelry
vsym
View Systems Inc otc
ogng
Bravo Enterprises Ltd OTCQB
aers
Aerius International Inc pink
embr
Embarr Downs Inc OTCQB
npwz
Neah Power Systems Inc otc
gnin
Green Innovations Ltd otc
avxt
AVAX Technologies Inc pink
finw
Firstin Wireless Technology Inc pink
112014pb.96
kgji
Kingold Jewelry
Friday, November 14, 2014
the one thing
The single most powerful thing we can do to help computer users is put video in scalable windows that float on top of the stack.
billionaires
Friday, November 14, 2014, 8:32am
Stood in one spot for a minute or two, turning this way and that, trying to decide whether to set up in the kotatsu - warm and cozy - our outside, where I can smoke. A chilly week, was one of the headlines, on the front page, this morning. Eventually settled on outside. Bundled up, and, reluctantly, started the computer, but it's the only thing to do.
Oh, my God, just wanting this and wanting that. Innertia. Not getting anywhere. Quite terrible. I know what to do, though.
Wandered into the bedroom, looking for my hat, and was surprised to see my bed already made. When did I do that? Then I remembered, I slept on the floor last night, in my clothes. It's all about staying at home until Monday, after my expedition Wednesday. The expedition was exciting, and I should probably do more of that, and less of this, but I keep busy at home, have a lot to do, and settling in here, with no outside obligations, is luxuriant. It's a kind of triumph, luxuriating. How do I defend that?
Much on my mind is Tony, which may be kind of dumb, but I must record the specifics. Taught him a lesson, the other day, that he can't have a friend based on charm alone. Intelligent behaviour is also necessary. To him, intelligent behaviour means capitulation. He should be free to do whatever he wants. Everyone should respect his wit. He is witty. His many years of service to industry should be rewarded. With what? With reverence? With freedom from care? With freedom from criticism?
I have been taught the same lesson myself, over and over. I respond to it differently, I think. I acknowledge my lameness. I believe I can be, what, productive? A success? And, if I fail, I just need to keep working. Tony thinks he shouldn't have to work. He's done his work. (I have barely worked in industry at all, over my whole life.) Tony thinks I'm destined to fail, that I'm on a fool's errand. That I'm being conceited. I'm not the least bit interested in that opinion, but I was pushed to the point where the only thing I could think to do was teach him a lesson, the way I've been taught a lesson, over and over, when people told me "stop bothering us, we have no obligation to you, figure it out yourself."
Lessons are hard, though. They hurt. I think I'm a healer, and that healing means no side effects. I'm not absolutist about that. Lessons hurt. They set you back. But they happen. We need them. I need them. They're beneficial. They're precious. The people who give them are heros. These are contradictions. They are Paradox. I know what to do.
I woke up hearing sounds from the kitchen. She was making breakfast. I sat up in my bed and began releasing. Pushing the energy of desire from my gut up through the crown of my head and out, out, into the world, into the air, into the dark of early morning in the bedroom. My gut was aching, from yesterday's cigarettes. The energy of desire was in the same place as that tenderness. Pushing it up and out made me sit up very straight. It felt powerful, but when she poked her head in and said good morning, I felt embarrassed about my pretentious pose. She made no indication of an opinion, or even a thought about it.
Lester Levinson was a physicist, with a prestigious career, living in New York, and suffering from a diseased heart. He had terrible migraines. After many visits to the doctors, they finally told him there was nothing they could do, and to go home and wait to die. At least they didn't do what I think doctors do, they didn't proceed to kill him themselves, with reckless, mindless procedures. They got it right. He went home, and sat in his apartment, alone, and thought "I'm a physicist, a master of knowledge of matter and energy. I should be able to figure this out." He came up with this: he wanted something. He wanted to live, to be energetic and alive. And, if you want something, that means you don't have it. Wanting is a kind of substance, and if you have it in you, then you don't have what you want. If, then, you release that substance, from yourself, from your body, you will have what you once wanted. You will go from wanting to having. That was his hypothesis, and he devised a method for releasing wanting. He later went on to a career teaching his method, the Release Technique. He established a cult, of sorts - strangely, nobody has ever heard of it. Ask around. But, it exists. A cult, of sorts, or a school. You can take their classes.
I was trapped in my own kind of helplessness, moving slowly from youth toward middle age, helpless, all the while. I couldn't even think about getting a job. I mean, I thought about it, often enough, but I could not - never did - act on the thought. A kind of pride prevented me, together with timidity. I mean, it wasn't so much that I held myself in such high regard. I do hold myself in high regard, but I also have contempt for myself. I'm a laugh riot, kind of a miracle, and also a joke, less than others in some ways, much greater than them in others, just like everybody. It's a balanced way of thinking. I'm proud of it. But I didn't have a job. I was poor as a church mouse. I had a little money. It was a pure miracle. I felt like the richest person in the world. I was a house husband. My wife was a go getter, a powerhouse. I had been thrown into an inescapable prison by my experiences, in my formative years - that expression cannot be taken lightly - but I had also been shown an approach to love, in marriage, and, at a certain point, I seized on that, and made it my own, and so, we lived, for years and years and years, fighting, struggling, loving each other. I can say that. I was in a prison. There was no escaping it. But, it was sweet.
I had some skills. I had a philosophy. I had learned how to cook. I didn't do it as much as I should have, but I did it a lot, and well. I cleaned, I loved to do it, following the same formula. I struggled, but not too much. I struggled, but I also accepted my fate, and even praised it. In a sense, I already knew about releasing. I worked, and worked, writing, and drawing, and reading, and studying, not expecting a reward - clearly, none was forthcoming - I was doing whatever I liked - there is no reward for that - but I did it anyway. The reward was nothing, and that's something very powerful. I was immune - this was proved - from both reward and harm. It was no reward, and all reward. But I was struggling.
There was a theme, in my youth, in my environment, rationalism, the primacy of science. It wasn't drilled into me, or anything. No one was arguing for it categorically, it was just there. When I graduated from the family, and began drifting through the world, I tended to drift among rationalists. They argued for it categorically, at times, dismissing anything else as poppycock. But my early immersion was more balanced. It was more a lack of opinion, skepticism with regard to the other thing, but no sense of insisting or even knowing. I ended up with an open mind. If I had been brought up dogmatically religious, I might have rebelled and become, in fact, a rationalist, but I was brought up more neutral, sort of thoughtful, almost wondering, and, later, as it turned out, I rebelled against the rationalists, almost, or quite, to be provocative. I dismissed them, and explored the thoughts of the other side with an amused openness. I was elevated above them all.
Meditations. Theories of yin and yang, and ki, of the healing power of food, stories of the magical possibilities of martial disciplines from ancient Asia, sweet shamanic mumbo jumbo. I wasn't religious, but I was a Christian - and also, a Jew. The religions in fact are nonsensical, absurd (that's the good part), tyrannical, stupid, but they are real. They are seeing something, and whatever you see - this is what I extrapolated from Freud, the philosopher - is real. It's what you do with your perception that determines the outcome. I can observe, and that's a form of participation, and then I can participate, in what I like, and that's a form of observation. At a certain point I discovered, and this was a shock, that I was deeply interested in magic, that is, wizardry. I found myself wanting to get a book on the subject. I was terribly afraid - this really happened - but, as if buying pornography, steeled myself, and bought a book on numerology. It was prominently displayed in the the elite local book store, which, as it turned out, was a friendly, if arch, place, that sold me the book without batting an eye, and then I saw - don't know why it was so amazing - that they had a whole wall, a whole gallery, on the subject. All sorts of gentle, happy ideas, pictures of pretty things, like dancing fairies, angels, bangles, stars, sometimes comically leering devils. Why not be delighted? And it seemed this was, at least grudgingly, allowed, even in abundance.
From the numerologist, Louise Hay, I began to learn seeing affirmatively. To learn it anew, because I already did, and that was my miracle already. But, to learn it. To learn to see ... and that seeing alone, is all that is required. Seeing, for instance, in one's mind, an image of the forbidden: prosperity, and then that seeing it, alone, just that, seeing, seeing it ... because, Tony, your rational "reality" is, in fact, an illusion. It is the hard way, that can never be traversed. You advocate for hopelessness, for wrongness, based on your own most supreme sense of principles, but so what? Praising, praising gold and diamonds, servants, and masters, and derelicts, holding them in your gaze, and praising, and praising them, is the wormhole, that transports you across the impossible wilderness. If you get it, you get it, and if you don't, you don't.
I just remembered something. I remembered how I heard about The Release Technique. It was because I had ordered books on the stock market. I'm sure of that.
Levinson passed his business on to a student, who's name I can't any longer remember, but, he's a marketing genius, and he found me, and offered me his product, through the mail. I'm all admiration. I am all admiration.
It was, in fact, at the same time, that I sought out the book on Magic, that I ... it was really like a realization ... decided the stock market was for me. I saw it all, and already knew it. It was like OK, the next thing is this. Serenity. No doubts of any kind, Tony. When you like something, it's easy to do it, and you do it, and do it a lot, and don't even want to stop. My reasons were manifold, for one thing, and, a poke in the eye, for you, it's common sense, and for another, it's arcane, and not easy, and for a third, it's glamorous. I worship Glamour. I'm a naughty boy, and there's nothing, you, fucking, contemptible Roman, can do about it. What are you going to do? Today, we Jews are armed. You, and your threats. Oh, no! I'm just beligerent. I threaten to defend myself.
I saw it all. I saw that the way for me was the charts. No one told me that. I know I'd heard something about it, something silly sounding, that I immediately, carefully, secured away, knowing, right then, because of how it sounded, that it was the truth. I also knew vaguely ... vaguely is not the right word, but I'll use it ... there is this thing called ... I must have heard it called that ... the fundamentals ... that is very, very important, but that felt very far away, an essoteric art I knew nothing of, whereas in the charts I could see ... something ... vigorously ... going on. I threw myself at it.
I could see EVERYTHING. I knew, right then, in that one moment, when I knew it, that it was going to take a long, long, long, long time for me to make money, from the charts, and that I would not know if I would even ever do it unless, at some time, I did, and that, even knowing this, I would never stop, and never be even in the slightest disuaded, and that this would be an endless delight to me, the outcomes be damned, even though it was partly not by choice, and if it's partly not by choice, it's wholly not by choice, because, it was my solitary, and I mean that, only recourse. Poking in the eye. Poking in the eye of the "world". Choosing my only recourse, my recourse reduced to one, because of my imprisonment - that is imprisonment - in the prison of my pride, and timidity. Or is it my fortress? Choosing my one recourse of, or in, foolish, improbable Pure Delight, with Complete Faith. Relying On Myself. These are the names of Gods. You can call it foolish, but I have chosen To Be Fooish, and I will show you, that I can make it Pay, nor will I speak with you until I have.
I had ... I had, since boyhood ... an affection for psychology. So, that: when my mother, thinking I was insane, or, incorrigible, or perhaps retarded, getting the idea from a friend, asked if I would like to see a psychologist - funny enough, she was polite about it - and I was delighted. To a certain extent, it was fun, that Mom, or anyone, thought I was defective, fun to see them as amusing fools, and then, it was a gift, a real gift, from the heart, straight to my heart: two gifts in one. It was a delight to sneak up the mossy path, to the side door, into the offices of my psychologist, 8 times, and, when I immediately began to ask him endless questions, he was amused.
And then I started my drifting, from one elite esoteric academy to another, not kidding, that is what I did, a bumbling, arrogant, imperious fool, all this is the way, from my Princely Lineage. Oh, you successful artists. I am not talking about the Masters, who are truly great, but you successes, doing mediocre work. Compromising, in the interest of practicality, and priding yourselves, and avoiding me. At your party, you welcome me, calmly, with a look of hatred. Because I don't like your work. It's not that you are bad, you're just mediocre. That's the worst! But it is something. And you discount me as a nobody, a fool, who has impudently inserted himself into your circle without any justification for it. A fake, just a pretender. Pretending to know it, to know it all. All that you have striven for, so diligently, with such alacrity, and agility, and smoothness. You are accomplished, to give me that look. You are the expert, the one who works. You, and you, you deployed your tricks and showed me the extent of my over-reaching, showed me how easily, how effortlessly, how instantaneously you could defeat me. Not the Roshi. With him it was not tricks, it was humor, it was mischievousness. And Sokai was, in the end, elevated, not because of the depth of his understanding, which only went deep, and did go deep, because of its simplicity, but because of the Temple, at night. The way the monks, in the brilliant light, seen through the window from the dark lawn, surrounded by its beautifully twisted hedges, and Doan's fake, but, weathered and purposeful fences, ugly, horrible, but, in context, maybe also in intent, extremely good, standing at such rigid attention that I did think it was amazing, it must be I am mad, the one who cannot see, but, I cannot. I can only see it around the edges. You are on your own with just that.
From time to to time, writing, knowing I need it, drifting just a little into the present: reality. I was raised by cats, and now I live among them. Ezekiel, and either Hanzo, or Sasuke, following each other out of sight around the orange tree, in the thicket.
First, we lived among college friends, in these dreamy old houses, like it was paradise, but then, by the hand of Inevitability, we were cast out, and still, we were given, as a guide, Modernism, in Mexico, where we found a pure rectangular apartment, with one big window, on the second floor of an Aesthetic Castle, and grew a pomegranate tree, for 9nine years. I, at least, was determined to stay forever. But my counselor suggested maybe I should find a house. He said he wanted me to. And She, maybe, thought it might be an idea, or even the thing to do. And I had been affirming, this way, that way, and all the way, Surprise Money, and, completely out of the blue, as if Elisabeth had heard me, it arrived. And, also, I had been taking afternoon walks - otherwise, I stayed at home - and I had passed, a few times, the most delightful house, and actually said to myself, on those occasions, the people who live there will never sell it, and when She called and said "I found a house for sale," I knew immediately which one. The modern one, with the slender columns, the one set back in a garden of Mulberries, and Vinca, with the big Privets, and the Saint Augustine, and the old tarmac. The one where, across the street, so that I knew it was the Crazy Street, the car had a bumper sticker reading "I spent my kids's inheritance". The actual Frank Lloyd Wright, by his very true student, the one that was built like a high tech brick, 50 years ago (now, 70), and as delicate as ... as delicate as ... a butterfly ... complete with subtle columns. The one with the wooly neighbor, who was at first delighted - and, in his way, delightful - and then, became irate, and actually plotted against me, my final test, an actual assault, that I just had to deal with. I immediately called the cops, and then went out there with them, a trick I got from Doris, from her Dad. But I couldn't keep myself from looking out the window. The wooly one, in the end, flexed his muscles, and that, did teach me something. I'm laughing. The benefits of adversity. I turn your attacks, Tony, into Inspiration. Into actual action. I actually did that. And you, wooly one, you without the malice, but with the plotting, with less of the laughing, I salute you.
And that was when the silly, silly flyer arrived from Lester Levinson. Achieve anything you want, with ease! Jewels, Finery, A Million Dollars, you can have it all Tomorrow, for $295. It wasn't the most outrageous sum, and it was the most outrageous promise yet, the most completely, comprehensively silly. I made my decision immediately, and then I waited, very impatiently, for my package. When it arrived, I tore it open, and plunged my hands into it, feeling for something to grasp immediately, throwing the book open, and reading, and then following the directions, and I was finally able to not look out the window.
With your mind - this is The Release Technique - this is exactly right: with your mind alone, the most ridiculous thing - feel your wanting in your wanting area, your chest and torso, and insert a tube through the top of your head, and allow the wanting to flow out.
Although I am contemplative, I am not, as I say, a religious person. I never went to any of their meeting (which are forthrightly priced, so, at least, honest), but I did listen to all the tapes, in that first set (from Levinson's successor), and practiced the exercises, quite whole heartedly - I rarely give anything away, but I did give the course to Sokai, for the Temple Library. They sent me beseaching letters for years and years, and I did order a CD of Lester talking. Then, fully informed, I kind of drifted away, to some extent. Years and years and years. Writing, and writing, and writing, and writing, without any success. Surviving, and then, the other day, finding myself in trouble, suddenly, I wanted to go beyond what I had been doing, beyond counting the Jade Beads and repeating the name of Mother God, and Lord Jesus Christ, once, beyond visualization, even, and even beyond the Charts, which had, also recently, started to pay dividends, and I found myself wanting to practice Releasing. Oh, Lovely!
The Attraction-Aversion Exercise ... What the hell is it I want? You have read my book - impressive, you say - but you won't practice what I preach. It would go against your principles, which are, first, not to take suggestions, but that's superficial, and then, Knowledge. The Nonsensical God. You fail to see that the more fundamental principle, the principle of Power, is Reason, which is not constrained by any predisposition to anything. You take what presents itself, because that is what is Real, and find the reason, within it. It's a mental exercise, and it conveys Power, the power to be ambitious. To be ambitious is Essential. Ambitious to do whatever. Ambitious to just enjoy yourself. Ambitious to be kind, and to mind your own business, through releasing, to - this was the first wisdom, I was ever given, as a little boy - to entertain yourself: a clever child can entertain himself, I was told. What the hell is it, I want?
The Warblers came through, just passing. We have whole flocks, and they visit, from time to time. My garden has grown into a forest, into The Forest, and they like the scene a lot. Tony said, because of all my dead branches, I have "special birds". Tony, Tony.
1:11. This, too, is true. 1:11!
I was once asked for the name of my favorite author, and, though I simply love all the great ones, and even many of the the good ones, and bad ones, I thought, well, OK, Alicia Errian. And, then, later, having completely forgotten about it, I was asked the same question again, and I said "Hmm, it must be Alicia Errian," very proudly, and he said, somewhat bemused, "OK, you may enter."
(I look up - this is after 5five hours - and the one pomegranite is swinging about wildly, for no apparent reason. I was completely shocked. But, of course, it was finches, who have discovered its ripeness. Now I hear them chatting, and motors, and shouting, and singing, and, The Thing is here.)
(I am drink the beer. It is kind of scary.)
I want ... it's security. Brad: "Sorry 'bout that man." You put the tube in, and release wanting security.
You take a sip of tea. Beer. Tea. Beer. Tea.
Beer. Tea! Tea! Beer! At least, a cookie - home made, fairly nice - let's be sensible. Must make more coffee. Ten, twenty, sixty, one hundred and sixty ... Kettle. Holding on. Cream. Cream. Cream. Finding myself still wearing my hat. A little warmth, and just a little. Cloudy. Quiet. Charlie. Again, Switzerland.
My Very Dear Sir,
I was so delighted by your TED talk. But I also think you have slightly missed the point. It is not - oh, so good to hear you talk about authentic food - the age of the roasted beans that affects their goodness, it's plastic! Stored as I store them, in a paper sack, in a cupboard, they retain, if not all their potency, certainly all their goodness, for ... as long as I want. But, I drink them fast, and have to return to the corner store, where I buy them, really, just roasted, and fill my paper bad quite to bursting, with another fragrant, earthy batch. Even Herman Aihara agreed, reluctantly, that coffee is a healthful food. I grind my beans (but ground coffee in a tin is really OK, or, at least, it was) in an old hand grinder that I bought new, when I was younger, for $24, at Charlie's, made of wood, with a big brass dome, counting, 100 turns, 200 turns, and brew it from an equally ancient kettle, also of Arab design, the simple, square kind, heating the water on an old, old electric stove, that doesn't work properly, but is beautiful, brewing the grounds in brown paper, in a clay funnel that I got at a health food store in Japan, into a white glazed Ikea pitcher. Later in the day, I brew a second pot, using the same filter, leaving the first batch of grounds right in it. I drink it in my most delightful cups, with cream from Trader Joes that, miraculously, comes in a paper container, paper, nothing but just paper. And that is good. Cream, in a paper box, lined with wax, is one of the healthiest foods there is. It's a complex melange of herbal vitamins, air, and light, doe eyes and a short coat that might be bristly, but is, in fact, soft. I have no fear of any name, like coffee, or fearful beer, or tobacco. Here is a bit of real irony: at starbucks, a picture of coffee roasting in a primal clay furnace, over a wood fire. But Starbucks gets a pass. It's Industrial Magic. Though when, the other day, I had a cup, even though I thought "my coffee is actually 100 times better than this," still, it was good, in a clay cup, impressed with a corny motto, with the lady offering to carry it to my table, which was a real table. Timbers. Waxy finish, a cute stool. So, I can't argue. I can't argue with the guy, Schultz, whose book I'm reading, for fun, and comfort, and outrageousness. Then, hopping in my car, my rocket, rocketting all the way across the city, taking it very easy, from one glass pyramid to another, with all the other citizens, in the desert ... of modernity.
But, I am interested, for what it's worth, in wood stoves, for cooking, made of clay, I would think, I think, like, modules, that assemble, and you fill them with kindling. It's more like a system, with multiple, um, stations, so, fairly complex. A school on the Island of Java! Most intriguing.
Mr. Kamprad, - I am writing on the back of a photograph - this is extremely beautiful. The photo is of a clay urn, a flower pot, with a glossy black finish, and an out of this world shape, wrapped in one layer of a plastic mesh, the essence of minimalism.
At least, I though, I can try to look at some of the fundamentals. Reading, here and there, something about Value Investing, about buying stocks with a P/E under 15, or something. Why 15? Is that just some arbitrary number? Not really reading, but seeing, here and there, an annual report, or prospectus, an income statement or a ballance sheet. What about Warren Buffett? At least - and it took me the longest time - I could try to learn something about his method. Maybe if I could learn something about him. In the bargain bin - the old store had moved, brilliantly, to a completely new location - among the cookbooks, a big biography, marked down, to some very low price. And, after that, reading excerpts from Uncle Warren's letters, and then Phil Fisher, and now it was getting serious (earlier still, the Investment Genius, with his spinoff strategy), and then something about the method from Buffett's daughter in law - in a golden dust jacket. And then, back to the charts. All that was coming up was companies with no revenues, and no income, only lossess, only growing obligations, and management, and its dreams. Even, only, my dreams, of fluctuating lines, and immense differentials. And buying, just a little of this, a tiny bit of that - I had already learned something from my earlier big losses - and then, maybe too much of this one thing, going for it a little, a complete winger, that went down, and down. I felt sad. But the thing was, they were still working, after all these years, on their project. Why, it contradicted the very fundamentals of lack of faith in humanity! They still, apparently, had their humble - but, you know, sleek - offices, and their very, very small staff was still payed, and they had built some retaining wall, and cleared this field, and they still had their masses and masses of paperwork, which they were constantly re-doing, re-negotiating, even, with their plans in them, for a factory, to the tune of $250 million dollars, and their dreamy, dreamy product, a fuel. They had their patents, they said, the first among them, something literally, if you live, as I do, in a fantasy, out of the future. And, though I only half noticed, only sort of noticed, their shares were still trading ... I sort of noticed ... by the million, every day. Trading down from my ten cents, to two, and then to under 1, in fact, to one half. And then, a year later, still trading at one half ... cent, actively.
My cash was all in stocks that were taking their dear old time, one way or another, so I a made a hesitating request of Her, that She put at least a little money into this stock, a stock I had already put a fair amount of money into at a higher price. Effortlessly, she bought 20,000 shares at .47 cents for one hundred dollars.
After a time, it seemed Be Free was up a little. Maybe it was trending up. I was only vaguely aware of it. It was way down on my list among the biggest loosers. Then, one day, Be Free was dramatically up. She said so. She was so emphatic that I wondered if it might have returned to my earlier horrible buy price. Would I, perhaps, get my money back? What were those numbers. Neither of us was quite sure. And when had she bought hers, and and what price? There had been, I knew, a signal. I remembered thinking, we should buy it here, we really should, but I didn't remember that we had done it. I thought we had missed it. I was so sad. Well, Dear, what did we pay. What did you pay. I payed, let's see, over here, .0047. You did? You payed .0047. And where's it at today? It closed at .08. .08? .08?
And when did you buy it? I bought it in September. September? That's one month ago. You bought the bottom!
Another story. Reading up on how to do startups, "how to make money on line," with my usual disregard for the absurdity of anything, hearing about Tim Sykes. Seeing him, first, one place, then the other, and saying, love that guy, Tim Sykes, the outrageous scam artist, going on, at a mile a minute, about how he is a scam artist, how he models them on them, the very ones he outrageously indights, and how he want, so much, to teach us how to do it too, and how he will, and does, for $500, here, and $1000 there, his carnival of humorous mockery, and all his facts, too, and watching the market throughout the day, every day, and making half day trades, or overnighters, for a 30% gain ... a completely improbable thing ... but it was Christmas, and he was running a fabulous special that would end in just days, and I asked her, Honey, let me go for it.
And I did get - Pennystocking Silver - an avalanche of entertainment, lots and lots and lots of charts, flitting by, in the blink of an eye, Little twenty minute fluctuations, and two or three hour trends, and diving in and out, like a frenetic puppy, and Level 2, and, shorting pumps and cracks, and all his stylish students, kids, slackers, laid backs, working people, and lots and lots of pictures of Lambourghinis, and pools, and girls, and beaches, and endless, mindless jabber, and exhortations to us, his students, to BE RICH. And, penny stocks, my own realm, but, what? Was I buying too early? But, that didn't make sense. Sure, he is doing 30% in one hour, twice a day, but I did 1600%, in one month, with one end of day trade ... or, I guesse, if you count them, it was three. 30 times 30. He beats me. But I still win.
And then, the other thing, Be Free is now up, big, on the day, which is a sell signal. But, it's hard to be completely sure. In fact, it's a major sell signal, and I know that, from hard experience, but it, actually, impossible to be sure. Tim Sykes is screaming, sell, sell, you've got to sell. Do it, Tom, you've got to sell it! I'm watching the intraday chart. It closed right at the high, after going up all day. You've got to sell it! But, no, I don't. I know I don't. I didn't, and the next day, it was down ... a bit. And the day after that - you see, I knew it - it was up a bit. Then I said, Honey, we should sell it. Now, we should sell it. But I'm still not completely possitive, and I know it's going higher - the news had been amazing. But, short term, I mean, it just jumped 16 times. We should sell it, and buy it back at a lower price. But I'm not completely sure. And she said, I'll sell half of it. So she did. And then she said, Dear, you now have a bunch of cash. Impressive.
I had also sold all of my shares, which numbered seven thousand five hundred, for a perfect break-even.
And then, the day after that ... But I have to go back a day, when She and I had a nasty fight. I fought, and she was completely furious, and said "take care of yourself" and "how do you like that". I just did it. I did it all day, and then Be Free came in, my ship, and she had to admit, it was kind of funny.
So, the day after that ... Be Free was down, 70%, and that day she said "you're like a genius. How did you know?"
I just worked it all out. I invested, in the agregate, $500 for about two years, and got back all my money, after taxes, and ended with, essentially, a dividend, payed in shares, of Be Free, thirty thousand of them. I bought 20,000 back, when it went to 3 cents. Not bad, if I do say so myself. I'm like a financier. But, in these speculative plays, where even the company isn't saying they will succeed, or, in fact, accomplish anything, where the product is, literally, a dream (even though, in the case of Be Free, I say it is a sure thing), if you don't sell, you will watch your shares go up, tremendously, and then most of the way back down again - or even heavily into loosing territory, if you misplayed it. And then there is the 10,000 hour rule, so, if you have looked at stock charts, sometimes desperately, for 10,000 hours, you will, in fact, start to sort of "know". The top in October had a shape to it that I thought signalled, after a retracement, an even higher top, without much delay. There has been, in fact, another level, at .11 ... that would sort of make sense. And Phil Fisher said that when a company gets financing, the share price goes up, but then the company has to build the factory, and then it has to work out the kinks, and the share price tends to go down. And I'm not worried. I mean, it's a little scary, getting in at a higher price than that .0047 point - six times higher, and so soon after selling, but ... there's room for error. It's a fundamentals play, and Be Free just got that $250 million dollars, from, of all places (unprecedented, someone called it) China, a Chinese bank. (And that means, Warren Buffett says, the Chinese government.) The plant is going to be in Tenessee, or maybe it was Louisiana. Oh, it's a dream! So dreamy!
Masterful personability. There, you have me. Not you, them. Where you are masterfully personable, I am a Creep. I am settling for nothing but pure exquisite beauty. One reason I didn't join the Releaser is, they operate a cult of ugliness, and I worship Beauty. I thought briefly about releasing for beauty, but, Oh, you beautiful Sisters, you Olsen twins, and you, Paris, you have your own Goddess, and she is also the Goddess of Releasing, and of Everything Else. God's Goddess, and isn't he handsome, too.
Mr. Buffett, Uncle Warren,
This is probably actually too over the top, but as a letter to you, and maybe certain other people, it might make sense. Won't you have a look at Be Free, BlueFire Energy. I feel like it's a fit for Berkshire. I just finally read your 2013 letter, and I was possitively in heaven.
Jacqueline,
First, you draw a rectangular solid, with a square profile, I'm gonna say, 1/8 th of an inch on a side, and twelve times that in length. Hmm. And it's resting on its side on the horizontal plane. And then, from the midpoint of one of its bottom edges, you draw a perpendicular guide line, also on the horizontal plane, and mark a point on it, at a distance of 12/8 ... but you are going across the first element, do you get what I'm saying, so the outside of the first element becomes the base, of the base. And then, I just realized, you place two copies of the base, one at either end, perpendicular, and fully overlapping, and then you rotate them, and adjust their length, so that ... here, I'll show you.
Naturally, Tony, you take the humour out of the funny fact that that the wooly one works at dusk. I am adopting the practice. Why should I be punished? But you, having taken the humor out of it, have made it impossible to laugh that he, pinche, is mowing the lawn on a Friday evening, which is both a sad thing, and a happy thing, a pinche thing, and a funny thing. We are being punished, Tony, and until we atone, we will be punished. You won't even read your own book, Tony, The Inferno. But, you have the very best taste.
You can't make the world a less bad place. You will end up with nothing. If you can't make the world a more good place, at least fucking relax. It's a good place. What's all the fuss about? I can say that with bombs falling all around me - they always miss.
She's home. Dinner. Conversation.
And so, releasing triumphs again. After 8 hours of doing nothing - of writing - I turned on Sketchup, and started work.
I'm thinking, these little investments are the devil, they're frustrating. But I don't have the certitude to go in big. And I'm not willing to wait months and months for something to happen. Be Free came down to 3 cents, and I bought my shares back, and then it went to 2 and a half, or less, and then it's worked its way back up to 4, 4 cents, and made a beautiful, ten day triangle, with a ceiling, like something from Greek architecture, and two rising bottoms. There's a clearly marked or signalled low price for the next rising bottom, but there's this other thing, first, that triangle like this sometime end in sharp dips, below the triangle low. It's even, one of those places you might be able to influence the market, by offering to buy at a lower price. You might be able to create that dip. And then, there's the breakout price, which is something like 1.5, .015. Good God.
It's like I'm the specialist on this stock.
We're discussing it. We're debating the details. What's our whole account done this year? We'll have to pay taxes on the early exits from Be Free, and from Lee, and the long awaited exit from Tribby, and this other stock that did fantastic, and what about last year's two five x gains? Was that last year? And 1-800-Flowers. Those early exits will kill you with taxes. But she says Lee is down, since I sold it. I bought some back, but now it's down. It is? Oh, wow. I can buy it all back. But then, she says, there are your loosers. You lost about a thousand dollars, but you still made money. I lost a thousand dollar? Well, oh, yeah, there was Crumbs, and, she says, this women's something something, oh, yeah, well that might be gone, but Tandy Brands, that's a hundred million dollar company. You wrote that off? You can't do that. We still own it. No, we don't want to sell it. We wouldn't get any of our money back. Yes, they're in bankruptcy. They're liquidating certain assets. They're closing one of their three plants. Its to strengthen their financial position. Are they still in business. Yes. Very much so. Truly a great company. A little whacky. A little essoteric. But down home. What? No, we don't want to sell our shares. We still have them, right? I think we do. That means we're still in business and we're gonna make money. What Uncle Warren says is, when he buys a stock, if it subsequently doesn't trade for ten years, he doesn't care. That's a Tandy Brands style trade. It's kind of all my trades, right now. I'm making progress. Not that they're all great trades. I watch the market every day.
Fun, fun. I looked at all a long long movie of Sasuke today, she said, and I said, you know, I embeded one of my You-Tubes in a Blogger post, a while ago, and something went wrong, and it it turned into a play list that plays all my movies. I started looking at my old posts, from September. This and that, and this and that, the possitions post, which, apparently, I started then, a couple of funny videos, and a long post about all of this with a video that read "deleted, due to multiple complaints of copyright infringement", this and that, silly nonsense, and an auful lot of it, some maps ... was I getting closer, but, now, next was a chart, AI, with a comment, "fantastic fundamentals." But, thinking it over, it's a slow moving thing, that, actually, not quite ready. There's loads of cash in the account, though. I have to keep thinking what to do with it.
AGEN. ACTS. ADEP. AEG. ACY. September. Events. AEGR. AAOI.
MarketWatch today predicted ten years of low commodity prices and stock market churn.
Dinner.
Over dinner, she suddenly says, what about this stock, that you bought, something or other pharmaceutical. It went down, but now it's suddenly up. She shows me the chart on her i-Phone. Wow! Nice! At the bottom it was even nicer. Today I have watch lists, and don't have this problem. But I thought you added these to a watch list. Oh, you know what, you're right. Hmm. Strong chart. But it's headed for 13 - my double, and a little more, and there it, it has to pause. Will it come back to 6 again? It kind of makes sense. I wonder what I saw in the fundamentals. I took a photo of the phone, with my Kodak, which was on my pillow, and it came out really beautiful, as a note.
I want to completely unpack my closet, and inspect everything in it, maybe Tuesday. A thought flashes by. What about Sunday?
I want to set up the new watch list, all those primo stocks from the September research, Tribby, and especially, MGN.
I want to ... not be awkward, any more. I'm done with that. I want to create a jewel for Ashley ... I already made one for Kate, and there's one for Paris. I want to send a bunch of letters.
I want ... a carpenter to make me a stand for ... a length of chain. I want another visit from James. I want to set up the server in the Annex, and make it into the offices, and hangout, the co-working space. I want Jun to stay there, and I want Tarek back, and the Brits. I want to buy the new bakery, with its staff of Bedouins, the whole family operation RIGHT NOW. I want my model of Structural Matrix, printed, at Local Motors. I want to zap Tony's mind with an internet connection, and a course on Programming.
Not wanting to stop, Not wanting to stop at all, but Wishing there was more Action. But then this morning, I was thinking somewhat desperately how to get all these thoughts onto a web page, the thoughts I start having, first thing in the morning, and that flow and parade by all through breakfast, and washing the dishes. If I could spread them out across some kind of calendar, in colorful blocks, and with pictures, all the pictures ... but, it's not workable. Thinking and thinking, and then I saw it, the only option, just writing, describing it, describing all the pictures, one after another. My zooming photo page, achieved!
Wanting very much to go back to CAD, but also, who's on Facebook ... wanting to have conversations. Still, it's back to CAD.
8:35pm Saturday
The Indians sure can do crafts. Can money be made setting up very sleek boutiques, galleries, really, filled with hand crafted stuff. The best stuff comes straight from the artists, and it's often just practical, and, then, simply magical. And there's all sorts of stuff in Japan, too. It doesn't even have to be ... I mean, it can also, just as well, at the same time be industrial products, simple, non-motorized tools that are beautiful, eternal, and get the job done. They get the job done right. There are certain pots and pans that are just ... right ... and you quite simply have to look for them, but, we've got 'em - and they're as fancy as it ever gets, but ... not expensive. When people need this kind of stuff - tiny little plates and dishes for storing stuff in the refrigerator, and endless other things, the most esoteric plates and bowls ever made in shimmering colors, tea cups, tea pots, coffee pots, pantry tins, pantry boxes, wine glasses, a little bamboo whisk, with a hard shellac finish, crafted to utter perfection, mixing bowls, off the ranch, and the finest wooden spoons, for mixing batters, and the wooden spatula ... and the iron pan.
For more traffic, add a grocery. Divide the long room into two squares, and one is the gallery and the other is the grocery. A grocery can be treated the same way: filled with gems. The secret (which I made up) is, you don't have to have tons of variety, but you do want to have everything someone could need. Little boxes, freshly packed, of nuts, and raisins, hand packed pasta in paper boxes, a small jar of peanut butter, flour, eggs in cartons of four, heavy cream, in a paper pack, and whole milk, too, and powdered milk ... the elements of backpacking, dried meats and vegetables, everything, always, hand packed in paper boxes. Veggies, and sheets of paper to wrap them in. Loose leaf tea. Coffee beans. Freshly made tofu. Loofahs. Dish soap flakes. Fresh baked bread. Cheeses wrapped in wax paper. Sea salt. Black pepper. Twelve year old balsamic vinegar. Olive oil in a can. Cookies. Cinnamon buns. Hamburgers.
I live, as it turns out, in Arabia. Think about it. Palm trees. Lexi. Arabian buildings. Heat. Dryness. Arabian Men, and Mothers. We were invited to, well, a get together, and Dallas suggested we all meet at The Persian Room, in North Scottsdale. Two stories, beautiful columns, plants, ornaments, gold, white linen, sparkling glasses, Spacious tables packed with Persian families. Mark and Dallas talked the whole hour about Arabian history, and manners, and I ordered the best thing on the entire menu, and listened while I ate my immense plate of braised lamb, and then ordered baklava, please, and it came, huge, meltingly soft, and saturated in a pool of fragrant syrup. What an indulgence! And then, next door, there's this wonderful grocery. Twenty kinds of Turkish Delight, buns, crackers, rices, the loveliest vegetables and completely amazing meats. And, meanwhile, behind the counter, they're baking giant disks of bread in a huge brick oven, with orange flames licking from its gaping maw. Wow!
There's Otto, and he's been in the little store for, gosh, the better part of 30 years, feeding local punks the best stuff ever. But now - for a long time, too - there's Tessio's, in their gritty little strip mall spot, cranking out the more sumptuous pizzas - and lasagna - and wings. Tessio's. It doesn't get more real than that, the freaky crew, the utter lack of decor, but then, everything's incredibly beautiful. Everything.
And then my One says, there's a new Middle Eastern place on Broadway. It's in this complete architectural gem, a strip mall, sort of in the middle of nowhere and tiny, but packed with interesting stores. Oh, I've read about it. There's a counter with all sorts of trimmings and they make up a bowl for you. Yeah, and it's really nice, and really cool. She starts coming home with big platters, and we counted the ingredients today, all succulently roasted and steamed and marinaded, and chopped, and mashed, and spiced, and there were 100. It's like a carnival of food. It's like an explosion of food.
There's Tops, like a museum filled with wine. The bottles are so dusty, so incredibly numerous, so luminous, you get lost in them. And it's so old, so old, you can't believe it. Need CO2? It's down this narrow aisle, with the Ritz Crackers. And then there's the corner store, which is just a miracle. The Punks run it, and it's also called the Farmer's Market, which it is, and it has almost everything, and then some more, more and more, and, what style!
This is just the beginning. Tempe is a culinary Mecca. But then my One says, you know, there's a new bakery on Mill Avenue. They serve breakfast. Let's give a try this Sunday. In the mornings we've been walking to the lake, and it's been absolutely dreamy, and there's an event in the park, and mobs of people, and then we walk down and down Mill, and she's looking at the i-Phone, and saying "where is the place?" We have to track it down. It's in a really cool spot, but it's like there's trash and stuff, and you're not sure ... You find the door, which is not easy either, but then, it's tidy inside, sort of like ... a cafeteria ... cafeteria ... You're trying to figure this out. Where do I go. For some reason it's quite confusing. There a case over here, kind of jutting out, and another over here ... and in the one case ... it's so incongruous ... an incredible assortment of chocolates, very sleek ones ... and, I mean, is this really true? In the other case are pastries, like you're having a dream, just sort of, well, waiting there, for who knows who. There are all sorts of white jacketed Chefs behind the counter, and in the kitchens. There's the menu, and there's the girl who greets us, from somewhere behind the register, she's very friendly, but somehow, it's like, we surprised her, by coming in. And, there's supposed to be ... omelets ... or Crepes. Where are they back here. But what is this - everything is ... kind of pretty ... - what is this case ... It's the pastries. Oh my Goodness. And there's also, in a little nook, loaves of bread. Syrians, in Paris, except it's here. A smattering of customers. A rather sumptuous, delightful, crepe, and omelet. Coffee in a paper cup. And the chocolates. Calling to us.
All made in house, the girl said. We just stood there, aghast. And when, on another occasion, we bought some, and, not quite sure - they are so elegant, and yet, so simple - a hard chocolate, almost waxy ... I'll try this white one. Biting into the bar, just, a wisp, of orange ... and something ... crunchy. Yes dear (my One is speaking), there's something lovely in each one.
So, it's not just chocolates, it's Jewels of the Orient. But I see these things, these kinds of things, here, or there, this place, or that, and they could be a mirage. They have that look. They sometimes need management support, and they might not have a long term plan for growth. Other times, it's just that they're fantastic, and I want, oh, I don't know ... takeout. I want to build a business just around that whole, broad theme. It's not something you do when you're feeling lazy, it's a way you get food, really, really good food. But, picture this: if you had a takeout place that served paper boxes, with paper dishes in them, filled with the most delectable goodies, like curries, and dal, and rotti, and chutney, all in little paper dishes, each with a little paper cover, and the the whole box gets a nice paper cover, you know, a top, with a few holes in it.
Here and there - this is just a fantasy - in American cities, there are places with enough foot traffic to support a kind of food carnival, all sorts of different takeout options just for FUN, (I saw this in a dream, actually), and all using the same system of paper boxes. It could be efficient. Your fresh tortillas in a little box, your chicken and waffles and your abondinga soup in a big box, in boxes, your orchata in a wax paper cup with a wax paper lid and a straw straw in the corner.
Fleets of drivers heading out with stacks of boxes. Each driver is a trained takeout order compiler. I mean, at least I'm being systematic.
You need to bring people into the mentality of something like this.
Stood in one spot for a minute or two, turning this way and that, trying to decide whether to set up in the kotatsu - warm and cozy - our outside, where I can smoke. A chilly week, was one of the headlines, on the front page, this morning. Eventually settled on outside. Bundled up, and, reluctantly, started the computer, but it's the only thing to do.
Oh, my God, just wanting this and wanting that. Innertia. Not getting anywhere. Quite terrible. I know what to do, though.
Wandered into the bedroom, looking for my hat, and was surprised to see my bed already made. When did I do that? Then I remembered, I slept on the floor last night, in my clothes. It's all about staying at home until Monday, after my expedition Wednesday. The expedition was exciting, and I should probably do more of that, and less of this, but I keep busy at home, have a lot to do, and settling in here, with no outside obligations, is luxuriant. It's a kind of triumph, luxuriating. How do I defend that?
Much on my mind is Tony, which may be kind of dumb, but I must record the specifics. Taught him a lesson, the other day, that he can't have a friend based on charm alone. Intelligent behaviour is also necessary. To him, intelligent behaviour means capitulation. He should be free to do whatever he wants. Everyone should respect his wit. He is witty. His many years of service to industry should be rewarded. With what? With reverence? With freedom from care? With freedom from criticism?
I have been taught the same lesson myself, over and over. I respond to it differently, I think. I acknowledge my lameness. I believe I can be, what, productive? A success? And, if I fail, I just need to keep working. Tony thinks he shouldn't have to work. He's done his work. (I have barely worked in industry at all, over my whole life.) Tony thinks I'm destined to fail, that I'm on a fool's errand. That I'm being conceited. I'm not the least bit interested in that opinion, but I was pushed to the point where the only thing I could think to do was teach him a lesson, the way I've been taught a lesson, over and over, when people told me "stop bothering us, we have no obligation to you, figure it out yourself."
Lessons are hard, though. They hurt. I think I'm a healer, and that healing means no side effects. I'm not absolutist about that. Lessons hurt. They set you back. But they happen. We need them. I need them. They're beneficial. They're precious. The people who give them are heros. These are contradictions. They are Paradox. I know what to do.
I woke up hearing sounds from the kitchen. She was making breakfast. I sat up in my bed and began releasing. Pushing the energy of desire from my gut up through the crown of my head and out, out, into the world, into the air, into the dark of early morning in the bedroom. My gut was aching, from yesterday's cigarettes. The energy of desire was in the same place as that tenderness. Pushing it up and out made me sit up very straight. It felt powerful, but when she poked her head in and said good morning, I felt embarrassed about my pretentious pose. She made no indication of an opinion, or even a thought about it.
Lester Levinson was a physicist, with a prestigious career, living in New York, and suffering from a diseased heart. He had terrible migraines. After many visits to the doctors, they finally told him there was nothing they could do, and to go home and wait to die. At least they didn't do what I think doctors do, they didn't proceed to kill him themselves, with reckless, mindless procedures. They got it right. He went home, and sat in his apartment, alone, and thought "I'm a physicist, a master of knowledge of matter and energy. I should be able to figure this out." He came up with this: he wanted something. He wanted to live, to be energetic and alive. And, if you want something, that means you don't have it. Wanting is a kind of substance, and if you have it in you, then you don't have what you want. If, then, you release that substance, from yourself, from your body, you will have what you once wanted. You will go from wanting to having. That was his hypothesis, and he devised a method for releasing wanting. He later went on to a career teaching his method, the Release Technique. He established a cult, of sorts - strangely, nobody has ever heard of it. Ask around. But, it exists. A cult, of sorts, or a school. You can take their classes.
I was trapped in my own kind of helplessness, moving slowly from youth toward middle age, helpless, all the while. I couldn't even think about getting a job. I mean, I thought about it, often enough, but I could not - never did - act on the thought. A kind of pride prevented me, together with timidity. I mean, it wasn't so much that I held myself in such high regard. I do hold myself in high regard, but I also have contempt for myself. I'm a laugh riot, kind of a miracle, and also a joke, less than others in some ways, much greater than them in others, just like everybody. It's a balanced way of thinking. I'm proud of it. But I didn't have a job. I was poor as a church mouse. I had a little money. It was a pure miracle. I felt like the richest person in the world. I was a house husband. My wife was a go getter, a powerhouse. I had been thrown into an inescapable prison by my experiences, in my formative years - that expression cannot be taken lightly - but I had also been shown an approach to love, in marriage, and, at a certain point, I seized on that, and made it my own, and so, we lived, for years and years and years, fighting, struggling, loving each other. I can say that. I was in a prison. There was no escaping it. But, it was sweet.
I had some skills. I had a philosophy. I had learned how to cook. I didn't do it as much as I should have, but I did it a lot, and well. I cleaned, I loved to do it, following the same formula. I struggled, but not too much. I struggled, but I also accepted my fate, and even praised it. In a sense, I already knew about releasing. I worked, and worked, writing, and drawing, and reading, and studying, not expecting a reward - clearly, none was forthcoming - I was doing whatever I liked - there is no reward for that - but I did it anyway. The reward was nothing, and that's something very powerful. I was immune - this was proved - from both reward and harm. It was no reward, and all reward. But I was struggling.
There was a theme, in my youth, in my environment, rationalism, the primacy of science. It wasn't drilled into me, or anything. No one was arguing for it categorically, it was just there. When I graduated from the family, and began drifting through the world, I tended to drift among rationalists. They argued for it categorically, at times, dismissing anything else as poppycock. But my early immersion was more balanced. It was more a lack of opinion, skepticism with regard to the other thing, but no sense of insisting or even knowing. I ended up with an open mind. If I had been brought up dogmatically religious, I might have rebelled and become, in fact, a rationalist, but I was brought up more neutral, sort of thoughtful, almost wondering, and, later, as it turned out, I rebelled against the rationalists, almost, or quite, to be provocative. I dismissed them, and explored the thoughts of the other side with an amused openness. I was elevated above them all.
Meditations. Theories of yin and yang, and ki, of the healing power of food, stories of the magical possibilities of martial disciplines from ancient Asia, sweet shamanic mumbo jumbo. I wasn't religious, but I was a Christian - and also, a Jew. The religions in fact are nonsensical, absurd (that's the good part), tyrannical, stupid, but they are real. They are seeing something, and whatever you see - this is what I extrapolated from Freud, the philosopher - is real. It's what you do with your perception that determines the outcome. I can observe, and that's a form of participation, and then I can participate, in what I like, and that's a form of observation. At a certain point I discovered, and this was a shock, that I was deeply interested in magic, that is, wizardry. I found myself wanting to get a book on the subject. I was terribly afraid - this really happened - but, as if buying pornography, steeled myself, and bought a book on numerology. It was prominently displayed in the the elite local book store, which, as it turned out, was a friendly, if arch, place, that sold me the book without batting an eye, and then I saw - don't know why it was so amazing - that they had a whole wall, a whole gallery, on the subject. All sorts of gentle, happy ideas, pictures of pretty things, like dancing fairies, angels, bangles, stars, sometimes comically leering devils. Why not be delighted? And it seemed this was, at least grudgingly, allowed, even in abundance.
From the numerologist, Louise Hay, I began to learn seeing affirmatively. To learn it anew, because I already did, and that was my miracle already. But, to learn it. To learn to see ... and that seeing alone, is all that is required. Seeing, for instance, in one's mind, an image of the forbidden: prosperity, and then that seeing it, alone, just that, seeing, seeing it ... because, Tony, your rational "reality" is, in fact, an illusion. It is the hard way, that can never be traversed. You advocate for hopelessness, for wrongness, based on your own most supreme sense of principles, but so what? Praising, praising gold and diamonds, servants, and masters, and derelicts, holding them in your gaze, and praising, and praising them, is the wormhole, that transports you across the impossible wilderness. If you get it, you get it, and if you don't, you don't.
I just remembered something. I remembered how I heard about The Release Technique. It was because I had ordered books on the stock market. I'm sure of that.
Levinson passed his business on to a student, who's name I can't any longer remember, but, he's a marketing genius, and he found me, and offered me his product, through the mail. I'm all admiration. I am all admiration.
It was, in fact, at the same time, that I sought out the book on Magic, that I ... it was really like a realization ... decided the stock market was for me. I saw it all, and already knew it. It was like OK, the next thing is this. Serenity. No doubts of any kind, Tony. When you like something, it's easy to do it, and you do it, and do it a lot, and don't even want to stop. My reasons were manifold, for one thing, and, a poke in the eye, for you, it's common sense, and for another, it's arcane, and not easy, and for a third, it's glamorous. I worship Glamour. I'm a naughty boy, and there's nothing, you, fucking, contemptible Roman, can do about it. What are you going to do? Today, we Jews are armed. You, and your threats. Oh, no! I'm just beligerent. I threaten to defend myself.
I saw it all. I saw that the way for me was the charts. No one told me that. I know I'd heard something about it, something silly sounding, that I immediately, carefully, secured away, knowing, right then, because of how it sounded, that it was the truth. I also knew vaguely ... vaguely is not the right word, but I'll use it ... there is this thing called ... I must have heard it called that ... the fundamentals ... that is very, very important, but that felt very far away, an essoteric art I knew nothing of, whereas in the charts I could see ... something ... vigorously ... going on. I threw myself at it.
I could see EVERYTHING. I knew, right then, in that one moment, when I knew it, that it was going to take a long, long, long, long time for me to make money, from the charts, and that I would not know if I would even ever do it unless, at some time, I did, and that, even knowing this, I would never stop, and never be even in the slightest disuaded, and that this would be an endless delight to me, the outcomes be damned, even though it was partly not by choice, and if it's partly not by choice, it's wholly not by choice, because, it was my solitary, and I mean that, only recourse. Poking in the eye. Poking in the eye of the "world". Choosing my only recourse, my recourse reduced to one, because of my imprisonment - that is imprisonment - in the prison of my pride, and timidity. Or is it my fortress? Choosing my one recourse of, or in, foolish, improbable Pure Delight, with Complete Faith. Relying On Myself. These are the names of Gods. You can call it foolish, but I have chosen To Be Fooish, and I will show you, that I can make it Pay, nor will I speak with you until I have.
I had ... I had, since boyhood ... an affection for psychology. So, that: when my mother, thinking I was insane, or, incorrigible, or perhaps retarded, getting the idea from a friend, asked if I would like to see a psychologist - funny enough, she was polite about it - and I was delighted. To a certain extent, it was fun, that Mom, or anyone, thought I was defective, fun to see them as amusing fools, and then, it was a gift, a real gift, from the heart, straight to my heart: two gifts in one. It was a delight to sneak up the mossy path, to the side door, into the offices of my psychologist, 8 times, and, when I immediately began to ask him endless questions, he was amused.
And then I started my drifting, from one elite esoteric academy to another, not kidding, that is what I did, a bumbling, arrogant, imperious fool, all this is the way, from my Princely Lineage. Oh, you successful artists. I am not talking about the Masters, who are truly great, but you successes, doing mediocre work. Compromising, in the interest of practicality, and priding yourselves, and avoiding me. At your party, you welcome me, calmly, with a look of hatred. Because I don't like your work. It's not that you are bad, you're just mediocre. That's the worst! But it is something. And you discount me as a nobody, a fool, who has impudently inserted himself into your circle without any justification for it. A fake, just a pretender. Pretending to know it, to know it all. All that you have striven for, so diligently, with such alacrity, and agility, and smoothness. You are accomplished, to give me that look. You are the expert, the one who works. You, and you, you deployed your tricks and showed me the extent of my over-reaching, showed me how easily, how effortlessly, how instantaneously you could defeat me. Not the Roshi. With him it was not tricks, it was humor, it was mischievousness. And Sokai was, in the end, elevated, not because of the depth of his understanding, which only went deep, and did go deep, because of its simplicity, but because of the Temple, at night. The way the monks, in the brilliant light, seen through the window from the dark lawn, surrounded by its beautifully twisted hedges, and Doan's fake, but, weathered and purposeful fences, ugly, horrible, but, in context, maybe also in intent, extremely good, standing at such rigid attention that I did think it was amazing, it must be I am mad, the one who cannot see, but, I cannot. I can only see it around the edges. You are on your own with just that.
From time to to time, writing, knowing I need it, drifting just a little into the present: reality. I was raised by cats, and now I live among them. Ezekiel, and either Hanzo, or Sasuke, following each other out of sight around the orange tree, in the thicket.
First, we lived among college friends, in these dreamy old houses, like it was paradise, but then, by the hand of Inevitability, we were cast out, and still, we were given, as a guide, Modernism, in Mexico, where we found a pure rectangular apartment, with one big window, on the second floor of an Aesthetic Castle, and grew a pomegranate tree, for 9nine years. I, at least, was determined to stay forever. But my counselor suggested maybe I should find a house. He said he wanted me to. And She, maybe, thought it might be an idea, or even the thing to do. And I had been affirming, this way, that way, and all the way, Surprise Money, and, completely out of the blue, as if Elisabeth had heard me, it arrived. And, also, I had been taking afternoon walks - otherwise, I stayed at home - and I had passed, a few times, the most delightful house, and actually said to myself, on those occasions, the people who live there will never sell it, and when She called and said "I found a house for sale," I knew immediately which one. The modern one, with the slender columns, the one set back in a garden of Mulberries, and Vinca, with the big Privets, and the Saint Augustine, and the old tarmac. The one where, across the street, so that I knew it was the Crazy Street, the car had a bumper sticker reading "I spent my kids's inheritance". The actual Frank Lloyd Wright, by his very true student, the one that was built like a high tech brick, 50 years ago (now, 70), and as delicate as ... as delicate as ... a butterfly ... complete with subtle columns. The one with the wooly neighbor, who was at first delighted - and, in his way, delightful - and then, became irate, and actually plotted against me, my final test, an actual assault, that I just had to deal with. I immediately called the cops, and then went out there with them, a trick I got from Doris, from her Dad. But I couldn't keep myself from looking out the window. The wooly one, in the end, flexed his muscles, and that, did teach me something. I'm laughing. The benefits of adversity. I turn your attacks, Tony, into Inspiration. Into actual action. I actually did that. And you, wooly one, you without the malice, but with the plotting, with less of the laughing, I salute you.
And that was when the silly, silly flyer arrived from Lester Levinson. Achieve anything you want, with ease! Jewels, Finery, A Million Dollars, you can have it all Tomorrow, for $295. It wasn't the most outrageous sum, and it was the most outrageous promise yet, the most completely, comprehensively silly. I made my decision immediately, and then I waited, very impatiently, for my package. When it arrived, I tore it open, and plunged my hands into it, feeling for something to grasp immediately, throwing the book open, and reading, and then following the directions, and I was finally able to not look out the window.
With your mind - this is The Release Technique - this is exactly right: with your mind alone, the most ridiculous thing - feel your wanting in your wanting area, your chest and torso, and insert a tube through the top of your head, and allow the wanting to flow out.
Although I am contemplative, I am not, as I say, a religious person. I never went to any of their meeting (which are forthrightly priced, so, at least, honest), but I did listen to all the tapes, in that first set (from Levinson's successor), and practiced the exercises, quite whole heartedly - I rarely give anything away, but I did give the course to Sokai, for the Temple Library. They sent me beseaching letters for years and years, and I did order a CD of Lester talking. Then, fully informed, I kind of drifted away, to some extent. Years and years and years. Writing, and writing, and writing, and writing, without any success. Surviving, and then, the other day, finding myself in trouble, suddenly, I wanted to go beyond what I had been doing, beyond counting the Jade Beads and repeating the name of Mother God, and Lord Jesus Christ, once, beyond visualization, even, and even beyond the Charts, which had, also recently, started to pay dividends, and I found myself wanting to practice Releasing. Oh, Lovely!
The Attraction-Aversion Exercise ... What the hell is it I want? You have read my book - impressive, you say - but you won't practice what I preach. It would go against your principles, which are, first, not to take suggestions, but that's superficial, and then, Knowledge. The Nonsensical God. You fail to see that the more fundamental principle, the principle of Power, is Reason, which is not constrained by any predisposition to anything. You take what presents itself, because that is what is Real, and find the reason, within it. It's a mental exercise, and it conveys Power, the power to be ambitious. To be ambitious is Essential. Ambitious to do whatever. Ambitious to just enjoy yourself. Ambitious to be kind, and to mind your own business, through releasing, to - this was the first wisdom, I was ever given, as a little boy - to entertain yourself: a clever child can entertain himself, I was told. What the hell is it, I want?
The Warblers came through, just passing. We have whole flocks, and they visit, from time to time. My garden has grown into a forest, into The Forest, and they like the scene a lot. Tony said, because of all my dead branches, I have "special birds". Tony, Tony.
1:11. This, too, is true. 1:11!
I was once asked for the name of my favorite author, and, though I simply love all the great ones, and even many of the the good ones, and bad ones, I thought, well, OK, Alicia Errian. And, then, later, having completely forgotten about it, I was asked the same question again, and I said "Hmm, it must be Alicia Errian," very proudly, and he said, somewhat bemused, "OK, you may enter."
(I look up - this is after 5five hours - and the one pomegranite is swinging about wildly, for no apparent reason. I was completely shocked. But, of course, it was finches, who have discovered its ripeness. Now I hear them chatting, and motors, and shouting, and singing, and, The Thing is here.)
(I am drink the beer. It is kind of scary.)
I want ... it's security. Brad: "Sorry 'bout that man." You put the tube in, and release wanting security.
You take a sip of tea. Beer. Tea. Beer. Tea.
Beer. Tea! Tea! Beer! At least, a cookie - home made, fairly nice - let's be sensible. Must make more coffee. Ten, twenty, sixty, one hundred and sixty ... Kettle. Holding on. Cream. Cream. Cream. Finding myself still wearing my hat. A little warmth, and just a little. Cloudy. Quiet. Charlie. Again, Switzerland.
My Very Dear Sir,
I was so delighted by your TED talk. But I also think you have slightly missed the point. It is not - oh, so good to hear you talk about authentic food - the age of the roasted beans that affects their goodness, it's plastic! Stored as I store them, in a paper sack, in a cupboard, they retain, if not all their potency, certainly all their goodness, for ... as long as I want. But, I drink them fast, and have to return to the corner store, where I buy them, really, just roasted, and fill my paper bad quite to bursting, with another fragrant, earthy batch. Even Herman Aihara agreed, reluctantly, that coffee is a healthful food. I grind my beans (but ground coffee in a tin is really OK, or, at least, it was) in an old hand grinder that I bought new, when I was younger, for $24, at Charlie's, made of wood, with a big brass dome, counting, 100 turns, 200 turns, and brew it from an equally ancient kettle, also of Arab design, the simple, square kind, heating the water on an old, old electric stove, that doesn't work properly, but is beautiful, brewing the grounds in brown paper, in a clay funnel that I got at a health food store in Japan, into a white glazed Ikea pitcher. Later in the day, I brew a second pot, using the same filter, leaving the first batch of grounds right in it. I drink it in my most delightful cups, with cream from Trader Joes that, miraculously, comes in a paper container, paper, nothing but just paper. And that is good. Cream, in a paper box, lined with wax, is one of the healthiest foods there is. It's a complex melange of herbal vitamins, air, and light, doe eyes and a short coat that might be bristly, but is, in fact, soft. I have no fear of any name, like coffee, or fearful beer, or tobacco. Here is a bit of real irony: at starbucks, a picture of coffee roasting in a primal clay furnace, over a wood fire. But Starbucks gets a pass. It's Industrial Magic. Though when, the other day, I had a cup, even though I thought "my coffee is actually 100 times better than this," still, it was good, in a clay cup, impressed with a corny motto, with the lady offering to carry it to my table, which was a real table. Timbers. Waxy finish, a cute stool. So, I can't argue. I can't argue with the guy, Schultz, whose book I'm reading, for fun, and comfort, and outrageousness. Then, hopping in my car, my rocket, rocketting all the way across the city, taking it very easy, from one glass pyramid to another, with all the other citizens, in the desert ... of modernity.
But, I am interested, for what it's worth, in wood stoves, for cooking, made of clay, I would think, I think, like, modules, that assemble, and you fill them with kindling. It's more like a system, with multiple, um, stations, so, fairly complex. A school on the Island of Java! Most intriguing.
Mr. Kamprad, - I am writing on the back of a photograph - this is extremely beautiful. The photo is of a clay urn, a flower pot, with a glossy black finish, and an out of this world shape, wrapped in one layer of a plastic mesh, the essence of minimalism.
At least, I though, I can try to look at some of the fundamentals. Reading, here and there, something about Value Investing, about buying stocks with a P/E under 15, or something. Why 15? Is that just some arbitrary number? Not really reading, but seeing, here and there, an annual report, or prospectus, an income statement or a ballance sheet. What about Warren Buffett? At least - and it took me the longest time - I could try to learn something about his method. Maybe if I could learn something about him. In the bargain bin - the old store had moved, brilliantly, to a completely new location - among the cookbooks, a big biography, marked down, to some very low price. And, after that, reading excerpts from Uncle Warren's letters, and then Phil Fisher, and now it was getting serious (earlier still, the Investment Genius, with his spinoff strategy), and then something about the method from Buffett's daughter in law - in a golden dust jacket. And then, back to the charts. All that was coming up was companies with no revenues, and no income, only lossess, only growing obligations, and management, and its dreams. Even, only, my dreams, of fluctuating lines, and immense differentials. And buying, just a little of this, a tiny bit of that - I had already learned something from my earlier big losses - and then, maybe too much of this one thing, going for it a little, a complete winger, that went down, and down. I felt sad. But the thing was, they were still working, after all these years, on their project. Why, it contradicted the very fundamentals of lack of faith in humanity! They still, apparently, had their humble - but, you know, sleek - offices, and their very, very small staff was still payed, and they had built some retaining wall, and cleared this field, and they still had their masses and masses of paperwork, which they were constantly re-doing, re-negotiating, even, with their plans in them, for a factory, to the tune of $250 million dollars, and their dreamy, dreamy product, a fuel. They had their patents, they said, the first among them, something literally, if you live, as I do, in a fantasy, out of the future. And, though I only half noticed, only sort of noticed, their shares were still trading ... I sort of noticed ... by the million, every day. Trading down from my ten cents, to two, and then to under 1, in fact, to one half. And then, a year later, still trading at one half ... cent, actively.
My cash was all in stocks that were taking their dear old time, one way or another, so I a made a hesitating request of Her, that She put at least a little money into this stock, a stock I had already put a fair amount of money into at a higher price. Effortlessly, she bought 20,000 shares at .47 cents for one hundred dollars.
After a time, it seemed Be Free was up a little. Maybe it was trending up. I was only vaguely aware of it. It was way down on my list among the biggest loosers. Then, one day, Be Free was dramatically up. She said so. She was so emphatic that I wondered if it might have returned to my earlier horrible buy price. Would I, perhaps, get my money back? What were those numbers. Neither of us was quite sure. And when had she bought hers, and and what price? There had been, I knew, a signal. I remembered thinking, we should buy it here, we really should, but I didn't remember that we had done it. I thought we had missed it. I was so sad. Well, Dear, what did we pay. What did you pay. I payed, let's see, over here, .0047. You did? You payed .0047. And where's it at today? It closed at .08. .08? .08?
And when did you buy it? I bought it in September. September? That's one month ago. You bought the bottom!
Another story. Reading up on how to do startups, "how to make money on line," with my usual disregard for the absurdity of anything, hearing about Tim Sykes. Seeing him, first, one place, then the other, and saying, love that guy, Tim Sykes, the outrageous scam artist, going on, at a mile a minute, about how he is a scam artist, how he models them on them, the very ones he outrageously indights, and how he want, so much, to teach us how to do it too, and how he will, and does, for $500, here, and $1000 there, his carnival of humorous mockery, and all his facts, too, and watching the market throughout the day, every day, and making half day trades, or overnighters, for a 30% gain ... a completely improbable thing ... but it was Christmas, and he was running a fabulous special that would end in just days, and I asked her, Honey, let me go for it.
And I did get - Pennystocking Silver - an avalanche of entertainment, lots and lots and lots of charts, flitting by, in the blink of an eye, Little twenty minute fluctuations, and two or three hour trends, and diving in and out, like a frenetic puppy, and Level 2, and, shorting pumps and cracks, and all his stylish students, kids, slackers, laid backs, working people, and lots and lots of pictures of Lambourghinis, and pools, and girls, and beaches, and endless, mindless jabber, and exhortations to us, his students, to BE RICH. And, penny stocks, my own realm, but, what? Was I buying too early? But, that didn't make sense. Sure, he is doing 30% in one hour, twice a day, but I did 1600%, in one month, with one end of day trade ... or, I guesse, if you count them, it was three. 30 times 30. He beats me. But I still win.
And then, the other thing, Be Free is now up, big, on the day, which is a sell signal. But, it's hard to be completely sure. In fact, it's a major sell signal, and I know that, from hard experience, but it, actually, impossible to be sure. Tim Sykes is screaming, sell, sell, you've got to sell. Do it, Tom, you've got to sell it! I'm watching the intraday chart. It closed right at the high, after going up all day. You've got to sell it! But, no, I don't. I know I don't. I didn't, and the next day, it was down ... a bit. And the day after that - you see, I knew it - it was up a bit. Then I said, Honey, we should sell it. Now, we should sell it. But I'm still not completely possitive, and I know it's going higher - the news had been amazing. But, short term, I mean, it just jumped 16 times. We should sell it, and buy it back at a lower price. But I'm not completely sure. And she said, I'll sell half of it. So she did. And then she said, Dear, you now have a bunch of cash. Impressive.
I had also sold all of my shares, which numbered seven thousand five hundred, for a perfect break-even.
And then, the day after that ... But I have to go back a day, when She and I had a nasty fight. I fought, and she was completely furious, and said "take care of yourself" and "how do you like that". I just did it. I did it all day, and then Be Free came in, my ship, and she had to admit, it was kind of funny.
So, the day after that ... Be Free was down, 70%, and that day she said "you're like a genius. How did you know?"
I just worked it all out. I invested, in the agregate, $500 for about two years, and got back all my money, after taxes, and ended with, essentially, a dividend, payed in shares, of Be Free, thirty thousand of them. I bought 20,000 back, when it went to 3 cents. Not bad, if I do say so myself. I'm like a financier. But, in these speculative plays, where even the company isn't saying they will succeed, or, in fact, accomplish anything, where the product is, literally, a dream (even though, in the case of Be Free, I say it is a sure thing), if you don't sell, you will watch your shares go up, tremendously, and then most of the way back down again - or even heavily into loosing territory, if you misplayed it. And then there is the 10,000 hour rule, so, if you have looked at stock charts, sometimes desperately, for 10,000 hours, you will, in fact, start to sort of "know". The top in October had a shape to it that I thought signalled, after a retracement, an even higher top, without much delay. There has been, in fact, another level, at .11 ... that would sort of make sense. And Phil Fisher said that when a company gets financing, the share price goes up, but then the company has to build the factory, and then it has to work out the kinks, and the share price tends to go down. And I'm not worried. I mean, it's a little scary, getting in at a higher price than that .0047 point - six times higher, and so soon after selling, but ... there's room for error. It's a fundamentals play, and Be Free just got that $250 million dollars, from, of all places (unprecedented, someone called it) China, a Chinese bank. (And that means, Warren Buffett says, the Chinese government.) The plant is going to be in Tenessee, or maybe it was Louisiana. Oh, it's a dream! So dreamy!
Masterful personability. There, you have me. Not you, them. Where you are masterfully personable, I am a Creep. I am settling for nothing but pure exquisite beauty. One reason I didn't join the Releaser is, they operate a cult of ugliness, and I worship Beauty. I thought briefly about releasing for beauty, but, Oh, you beautiful Sisters, you Olsen twins, and you, Paris, you have your own Goddess, and she is also the Goddess of Releasing, and of Everything Else. God's Goddess, and isn't he handsome, too.
Mr. Buffett, Uncle Warren,
This is probably actually too over the top, but as a letter to you, and maybe certain other people, it might make sense. Won't you have a look at Be Free, BlueFire Energy. I feel like it's a fit for Berkshire. I just finally read your 2013 letter, and I was possitively in heaven.
Jacqueline,
First, you draw a rectangular solid, with a square profile, I'm gonna say, 1/8 th of an inch on a side, and twelve times that in length. Hmm. And it's resting on its side on the horizontal plane. And then, from the midpoint of one of its bottom edges, you draw a perpendicular guide line, also on the horizontal plane, and mark a point on it, at a distance of 12/8 ... but you are going across the first element, do you get what I'm saying, so the outside of the first element becomes the base, of the base. And then, I just realized, you place two copies of the base, one at either end, perpendicular, and fully overlapping, and then you rotate them, and adjust their length, so that ... here, I'll show you.
Naturally, Tony, you take the humour out of the funny fact that that the wooly one works at dusk. I am adopting the practice. Why should I be punished? But you, having taken the humor out of it, have made it impossible to laugh that he, pinche, is mowing the lawn on a Friday evening, which is both a sad thing, and a happy thing, a pinche thing, and a funny thing. We are being punished, Tony, and until we atone, we will be punished. You won't even read your own book, Tony, The Inferno. But, you have the very best taste.
You can't make the world a less bad place. You will end up with nothing. If you can't make the world a more good place, at least fucking relax. It's a good place. What's all the fuss about? I can say that with bombs falling all around me - they always miss.
She's home. Dinner. Conversation.
And so, releasing triumphs again. After 8 hours of doing nothing - of writing - I turned on Sketchup, and started work.
I'm thinking, these little investments are the devil, they're frustrating. But I don't have the certitude to go in big. And I'm not willing to wait months and months for something to happen. Be Free came down to 3 cents, and I bought my shares back, and then it went to 2 and a half, or less, and then it's worked its way back up to 4, 4 cents, and made a beautiful, ten day triangle, with a ceiling, like something from Greek architecture, and two rising bottoms. There's a clearly marked or signalled low price for the next rising bottom, but there's this other thing, first, that triangle like this sometime end in sharp dips, below the triangle low. It's even, one of those places you might be able to influence the market, by offering to buy at a lower price. You might be able to create that dip. And then, there's the breakout price, which is something like 1.5, .015. Good God.
It's like I'm the specialist on this stock.
We're discussing it. We're debating the details. What's our whole account done this year? We'll have to pay taxes on the early exits from Be Free, and from Lee, and the long awaited exit from Tribby, and this other stock that did fantastic, and what about last year's two five x gains? Was that last year? And 1-800-Flowers. Those early exits will kill you with taxes. But she says Lee is down, since I sold it. I bought some back, but now it's down. It is? Oh, wow. I can buy it all back. But then, she says, there are your loosers. You lost about a thousand dollars, but you still made money. I lost a thousand dollar? Well, oh, yeah, there was Crumbs, and, she says, this women's something something, oh, yeah, well that might be gone, but Tandy Brands, that's a hundred million dollar company. You wrote that off? You can't do that. We still own it. No, we don't want to sell it. We wouldn't get any of our money back. Yes, they're in bankruptcy. They're liquidating certain assets. They're closing one of their three plants. Its to strengthen their financial position. Are they still in business. Yes. Very much so. Truly a great company. A little whacky. A little essoteric. But down home. What? No, we don't want to sell our shares. We still have them, right? I think we do. That means we're still in business and we're gonna make money. What Uncle Warren says is, when he buys a stock, if it subsequently doesn't trade for ten years, he doesn't care. That's a Tandy Brands style trade. It's kind of all my trades, right now. I'm making progress. Not that they're all great trades. I watch the market every day.
Fun, fun. I looked at all a long long movie of Sasuke today, she said, and I said, you know, I embeded one of my You-Tubes in a Blogger post, a while ago, and something went wrong, and it it turned into a play list that plays all my movies. I started looking at my old posts, from September. This and that, and this and that, the possitions post, which, apparently, I started then, a couple of funny videos, and a long post about all of this with a video that read "deleted, due to multiple complaints of copyright infringement", this and that, silly nonsense, and an auful lot of it, some maps ... was I getting closer, but, now, next was a chart, AI, with a comment, "fantastic fundamentals." But, thinking it over, it's a slow moving thing, that, actually, not quite ready. There's loads of cash in the account, though. I have to keep thinking what to do with it.
AGEN. ACTS. ADEP. AEG. ACY. September. Events. AEGR. AAOI.
MarketWatch today predicted ten years of low commodity prices and stock market churn.
Dinner.
Over dinner, she suddenly says, what about this stock, that you bought, something or other pharmaceutical. It went down, but now it's suddenly up. She shows me the chart on her i-Phone. Wow! Nice! At the bottom it was even nicer. Today I have watch lists, and don't have this problem. But I thought you added these to a watch list. Oh, you know what, you're right. Hmm. Strong chart. But it's headed for 13 - my double, and a little more, and there it, it has to pause. Will it come back to 6 again? It kind of makes sense. I wonder what I saw in the fundamentals. I took a photo of the phone, with my Kodak, which was on my pillow, and it came out really beautiful, as a note.
I want to completely unpack my closet, and inspect everything in it, maybe Tuesday. A thought flashes by. What about Sunday?
I want to set up the new watch list, all those primo stocks from the September research, Tribby, and especially, MGN.
I want to ... not be awkward, any more. I'm done with that. I want to create a jewel for Ashley ... I already made one for Kate, and there's one for Paris. I want to send a bunch of letters.
I want ... a carpenter to make me a stand for ... a length of chain. I want another visit from James. I want to set up the server in the Annex, and make it into the offices, and hangout, the co-working space. I want Jun to stay there, and I want Tarek back, and the Brits. I want to buy the new bakery, with its staff of Bedouins, the whole family operation RIGHT NOW. I want my model of Structural Matrix, printed, at Local Motors. I want to zap Tony's mind with an internet connection, and a course on Programming.
Not wanting to stop, Not wanting to stop at all, but Wishing there was more Action. But then this morning, I was thinking somewhat desperately how to get all these thoughts onto a web page, the thoughts I start having, first thing in the morning, and that flow and parade by all through breakfast, and washing the dishes. If I could spread them out across some kind of calendar, in colorful blocks, and with pictures, all the pictures ... but, it's not workable. Thinking and thinking, and then I saw it, the only option, just writing, describing it, describing all the pictures, one after another. My zooming photo page, achieved!
Wanting very much to go back to CAD, but also, who's on Facebook ... wanting to have conversations. Still, it's back to CAD.
8:35pm Saturday
The Indians sure can do crafts. Can money be made setting up very sleek boutiques, galleries, really, filled with hand crafted stuff. The best stuff comes straight from the artists, and it's often just practical, and, then, simply magical. And there's all sorts of stuff in Japan, too. It doesn't even have to be ... I mean, it can also, just as well, at the same time be industrial products, simple, non-motorized tools that are beautiful, eternal, and get the job done. They get the job done right. There are certain pots and pans that are just ... right ... and you quite simply have to look for them, but, we've got 'em - and they're as fancy as it ever gets, but ... not expensive. When people need this kind of stuff - tiny little plates and dishes for storing stuff in the refrigerator, and endless other things, the most esoteric plates and bowls ever made in shimmering colors, tea cups, tea pots, coffee pots, pantry tins, pantry boxes, wine glasses, a little bamboo whisk, with a hard shellac finish, crafted to utter perfection, mixing bowls, off the ranch, and the finest wooden spoons, for mixing batters, and the wooden spatula ... and the iron pan.
For more traffic, add a grocery. Divide the long room into two squares, and one is the gallery and the other is the grocery. A grocery can be treated the same way: filled with gems. The secret (which I made up) is, you don't have to have tons of variety, but you do want to have everything someone could need. Little boxes, freshly packed, of nuts, and raisins, hand packed pasta in paper boxes, a small jar of peanut butter, flour, eggs in cartons of four, heavy cream, in a paper pack, and whole milk, too, and powdered milk ... the elements of backpacking, dried meats and vegetables, everything, always, hand packed in paper boxes. Veggies, and sheets of paper to wrap them in. Loose leaf tea. Coffee beans. Freshly made tofu. Loofahs. Dish soap flakes. Fresh baked bread. Cheeses wrapped in wax paper. Sea salt. Black pepper. Twelve year old balsamic vinegar. Olive oil in a can. Cookies. Cinnamon buns. Hamburgers.
I live, as it turns out, in Arabia. Think about it. Palm trees. Lexi. Arabian buildings. Heat. Dryness. Arabian Men, and Mothers. We were invited to, well, a get together, and Dallas suggested we all meet at The Persian Room, in North Scottsdale. Two stories, beautiful columns, plants, ornaments, gold, white linen, sparkling glasses, Spacious tables packed with Persian families. Mark and Dallas talked the whole hour about Arabian history, and manners, and I ordered the best thing on the entire menu, and listened while I ate my immense plate of braised lamb, and then ordered baklava, please, and it came, huge, meltingly soft, and saturated in a pool of fragrant syrup. What an indulgence! And then, next door, there's this wonderful grocery. Twenty kinds of Turkish Delight, buns, crackers, rices, the loveliest vegetables and completely amazing meats. And, meanwhile, behind the counter, they're baking giant disks of bread in a huge brick oven, with orange flames licking from its gaping maw. Wow!
There's Otto, and he's been in the little store for, gosh, the better part of 30 years, feeding local punks the best stuff ever. But now - for a long time, too - there's Tessio's, in their gritty little strip mall spot, cranking out the more sumptuous pizzas - and lasagna - and wings. Tessio's. It doesn't get more real than that, the freaky crew, the utter lack of decor, but then, everything's incredibly beautiful. Everything.
And then my One says, there's a new Middle Eastern place on Broadway. It's in this complete architectural gem, a strip mall, sort of in the middle of nowhere and tiny, but packed with interesting stores. Oh, I've read about it. There's a counter with all sorts of trimmings and they make up a bowl for you. Yeah, and it's really nice, and really cool. She starts coming home with big platters, and we counted the ingredients today, all succulently roasted and steamed and marinaded, and chopped, and mashed, and spiced, and there were 100. It's like a carnival of food. It's like an explosion of food.
There's Tops, like a museum filled with wine. The bottles are so dusty, so incredibly numerous, so luminous, you get lost in them. And it's so old, so old, you can't believe it. Need CO2? It's down this narrow aisle, with the Ritz Crackers. And then there's the corner store, which is just a miracle. The Punks run it, and it's also called the Farmer's Market, which it is, and it has almost everything, and then some more, more and more, and, what style!
This is just the beginning. Tempe is a culinary Mecca. But then my One says, you know, there's a new bakery on Mill Avenue. They serve breakfast. Let's give a try this Sunday. In the mornings we've been walking to the lake, and it's been absolutely dreamy, and there's an event in the park, and mobs of people, and then we walk down and down Mill, and she's looking at the i-Phone, and saying "where is the place?" We have to track it down. It's in a really cool spot, but it's like there's trash and stuff, and you're not sure ... You find the door, which is not easy either, but then, it's tidy inside, sort of like ... a cafeteria ... cafeteria ... You're trying to figure this out. Where do I go. For some reason it's quite confusing. There a case over here, kind of jutting out, and another over here ... and in the one case ... it's so incongruous ... an incredible assortment of chocolates, very sleek ones ... and, I mean, is this really true? In the other case are pastries, like you're having a dream, just sort of, well, waiting there, for who knows who. There are all sorts of white jacketed Chefs behind the counter, and in the kitchens. There's the menu, and there's the girl who greets us, from somewhere behind the register, she's very friendly, but somehow, it's like, we surprised her, by coming in. And, there's supposed to be ... omelets ... or Crepes. Where are they back here. But what is this - everything is ... kind of pretty ... - what is this case ... It's the pastries. Oh my Goodness. And there's also, in a little nook, loaves of bread. Syrians, in Paris, except it's here. A smattering of customers. A rather sumptuous, delightful, crepe, and omelet. Coffee in a paper cup. And the chocolates. Calling to us.
All made in house, the girl said. We just stood there, aghast. And when, on another occasion, we bought some, and, not quite sure - they are so elegant, and yet, so simple - a hard chocolate, almost waxy ... I'll try this white one. Biting into the bar, just, a wisp, of orange ... and something ... crunchy. Yes dear (my One is speaking), there's something lovely in each one.
So, it's not just chocolates, it's Jewels of the Orient. But I see these things, these kinds of things, here, or there, this place, or that, and they could be a mirage. They have that look. They sometimes need management support, and they might not have a long term plan for growth. Other times, it's just that they're fantastic, and I want, oh, I don't know ... takeout. I want to build a business just around that whole, broad theme. It's not something you do when you're feeling lazy, it's a way you get food, really, really good food. But, picture this: if you had a takeout place that served paper boxes, with paper dishes in them, filled with the most delectable goodies, like curries, and dal, and rotti, and chutney, all in little paper dishes, each with a little paper cover, and the the whole box gets a nice paper cover, you know, a top, with a few holes in it.
Here and there - this is just a fantasy - in American cities, there are places with enough foot traffic to support a kind of food carnival, all sorts of different takeout options just for FUN, (I saw this in a dream, actually), and all using the same system of paper boxes. It could be efficient. Your fresh tortillas in a little box, your chicken and waffles and your abondinga soup in a big box, in boxes, your orchata in a wax paper cup with a wax paper lid and a straw straw in the corner.
Fleets of drivers heading out with stacks of boxes. Each driver is a trained takeout order compiler. I mean, at least I'm being systematic.
You need to bring people into the mentality of something like this.
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