Happy Christmas

I haven't posted in a while, so I thought that I would add a poem that I started writing Friday, November 9, and finished the next day. For no fathomable reason, the general idea of the poem came to me as I was shopping at COSTCO for groceries and driving to and from there (Friday, I guess). The poem doesn't make much sense, but it is poetical so I post it. I should say that when I try to find meaning to the pieces of the poem, it not infrequently suggests things to me that I don't believe, actually. I like to consider myself a scrupulously honest person, so this rather bothered me and made me reluctant to post it. However, when the poem came to me and as I was writing it, it to an unusually large degree felt like I wasn't actually writing it, and more like I was writing down what some spiritual influence was telling me. Whether there are such spiritual things from without I don't claim to know, but it felt like there was such a thing at the time, a muse from beyond as it were, and so if you are the skeptical sort who doesn't believe in spiritual muses, instead make whatever inferences you will from the fact that it felt like something was guiding me when I was writing it (though some of the poem writing felt like me). As a general rule for myself, and as something I would suggest as a general rule for others, I take random spiritual influences quite skeptically, basically for the same reasons as I am skeptical of witchcraft and excessively polytheistic religion. However, the poem is beautiful to me, and though the spirits of the void presumably aren't equal on average to the spirits associated with actual people, it's to show a small-minded prejudiced sort of bigotry to not appreciate beauty from external spirit when such beauty is evident. Perhaps the muse knows that I am wrong about some matters, or perhaps the poem is true on levels I haven't had occasion to discover, rather like a prophecy in a Shakespeare play which gets interpreted by a fool one way but then ends up meaning something totally different. Ha, who knows, maybe some of the smoke from the forest fire then on Pilot Mountain (sacred to the Saura Indians and the beautifulest place about near Winston-Salem) had some weird spiritual influence on me notwithstanding I couldn't detect the smoke. Also, I was just beginning to have a terrible sore throat that lasted about a week, the only sickness I have had in a couple years or so; moreover, I was unusually tired from having worked a 14 hour day as an election worker on election day (Tuesday). I couldn't find a good definition for what a lens-piece is, by the way, but the phrase sounds good in the poem.

I don't remember writing a poem with dialogue in it before, which makes for punctuation difficulties. Perhaps in the future after thinking about what schemes are standard or better, I will change the punctuation, since it is rather haphazard and the one thing about the poem that I feel now I might should try to improve.
 

The trip to Dragon Island

''Get in, get in,

the rowboat takes off in two.

I wouldn't tarry...

If I were you.''

The oarsman removes his pocketwatch

from his breast-coat pocket.

That's right, he's wearing a breast-coat.

The second hand ticks around

as he does observe it.

He lifts his hand

slowly.

And then,

Suddenly!

He drops it.

He looks deep into the passenger's eyes,

She is his only passenger.

"We're casting off."

"It is time."

He puts the right oar in the right oarlock.

He strokes one oar two strokes around.

The boat turns.

He puts the left oar in the left oarlock.

He strokes two oar one stroke straight.

The boat is on its course.

The boat man he needs not look back

for he has been there before and remembers it well,

the girl on the cliff begging him back,

because men don't do those sort of things.

Well, he remembers where she was,

and how if he's pointed straight at her

as he is rowing away

he knows full well where he will end up.

Dragon Island.

Many a time he has

made the trip since

Always resolute,

always indifferent.

He tell the girl something.

"We are going to Dragon Island. You know?"

She responds not.

She just smiles.

How convenient, the rowman thinks,

that a girl smiling, almost laughing, at the silly looks so very similar

in every way

to a girl having so much fun.

Were it any other way,

What would her friends think?

He stops the oars and the water of the lake

drips in drops on both sides

from the blades

as they are rested above the water.

He wipes his brow with the back of his hand

very right after

He looks at her again,

"You know, it is very convenient..."

He's so knowing, she thinks.

He looks--

so deep.

What could he be thinking?

She smiles some even more.

He stares deep into her eyes.

He has something to say of great import!

"Because Dragon Island is where the magic gown be."

Slowly and leisurely he places the oar tips upon the sea,

rowing away once again,

so slowly at first,

exactly as before a minute after.

"Yeah. We are going to Dragon Island.

And we are going...unconcernedly.

Oh yeah.

Un-con-cern-ed-ly"

He laughs, he turns his head,

Har-har-har-aye-arrgh-har-hai-ho!

She looks where he is looking,

Unicorns be frolicking on the lakeshore!

Rubbing their horns together it is a sight.

But not for him.

"Them 'corns, many a time I have a seen 'em"

he says. They are after all but the normalest thing about."

"About!"

he says.

"That reminds me (slurring he does),

This trip is to dragon island.

Did you know?"

archly this time,

"that soon

We will be there?"

She smiles broadly,

"Well, I guess I kind of figured it,

because there is an island not

15 feet from the front of the boat

and you are never one to stop rowing for long."

"Excellent!"

He exclaims.

"Indeed it is really true then.

Soon..,

soon,

and we will be there."

He gives two strokes more.

Puts the oars up

and Holds his right hand up before her,

palm facing,

a gesture to stop.

Obviously it be of great importance

Exactly how this boat is exited

and what precisely be the demeanor of those exiting

at the time that they be a exiting.

He tries to convey this in his glance.

This is the island where there is a place

with an attic

where the magic robe is....

He wants to tell her this

but he doesn't really know how.

All he does is put his hands back on the oar,

pulling their handles up toward the back

to fold the oars in place.

He looks straight down

the small amount of sea

about his feet

He sees eternity there

and doesn't know what to do

So he just stares there

Knowing he wishes more sacred he could be.

But there is nothing else to do at this point but to look up at her

and tell her they must get out even as imperfect though he is,

because this is where the magic gown be.

"We must first survey the island",

he says,

"before setting foot."

Because of the dragons? she suggests,

somewhat expectantly.

No, he says,

as he lifts his right hand not in a stopping gesture

but as if to cut the fog in two.

"This is where the dragon lives,"

He pauses to lift his hand up and down several times as his hand gets higher and higher, then slowly drops it, then raises it up and down a smaller distance and then lets it fall.

"but it's not where the dragon is....

First we must prepare ourselves for whatever contingencies might arise.

Would you be so kind as to open the locker just behind you there on your left (it was on her right) and remove my log book.

Thank you, it's just there, yes, yes."

And so he writes,

LOG.

1stday 6:36 pm 42 seconds.

Arrival at shore of Dragon Island. One passenger. Seas normal. Trip uneventful. Those who may read this know that until sunset I shall the island observe with telescope. Thereupon we shall disembark, heading to the place deemed most boring. We shall return with the magic robe. Expected length of journey: 15 minutes. When we return, having obtained robe, I will explain to passenger what we needed to do to obtain magic robe. She will explain to me all about life as I row us back.

"The theodolite lens-piece, child."

"The foot-locker...in the foot-locker."

He surveys the island, observing carefully the foliage to determine where the most boring trees are.

There, over there, he says, do you see something?

"No, " she says.

"Upon the branch of the magic boring tree.

What do you see?"

He hands the theodolite lens-piece.

"Uh, some sort of bird?"

"Exactly right, the magic bird on the magic boring tree."

"Let me see," she says,

again,

she's strangely spellfast.

He know that look well, too,

he learns more from that than from

the fuzzy bird image.

He reads her face.

He gets out his compass

while writing some calculations in his log book.

Triangulating, he knows just where to go.

He sees something there, a tiny stump

with a rope above,

floating in the air.

"See that rope there?"

He asks.

"That's where we need to go."

The girl is transfixed.

A magic place indeed is this

Dragon Island.

He takes her by the arm as she disembarks,

his ankles wet in the water.

She scrambles right out

more spry than he, actually.

He looks at the shore philosophically,

and rubs his hair back like it's a problem,

she's running right off turning back when almost there.

He slowly plods off toward her

Thinking about his life and all that he has seen.

His distant past,

the girl on the shore,

the bird that's always somewhere else.

Upon closer inspection the cord heading up,

up to the sky,

5.6ft off stump-center be.

He finds a nearby stick.

Would you make an X there please?

She does.

He pulls the cord and the stairs come down.

They climb the stairs,

he's in an attic

and she follows right after.

He's oh-so tired now.

He sits down in a chair,

facing the stairs as she finishes ascending.

His eyes are twisting about, his tongue he stick out,

he dies

for three seconds

and then comes back,

teetering at first, but then,

there has become the magic robe in the box.

And right after,

he's back.

Back to his usual self,

just like he knew he'd be.

Here is a map I drew of the island area, fairly reflecting how I visualized it:

I know my drawing is quite bad. Handwriting is the one subject I could never get an outstanding grade at during elementary school. I am not nearly so good at art as I am at poetry. I have done better, though. Here are the three best things I've ever drawn, to demonstrate that I am (or at least have been) not totally as bad a drawer as when I drew the map.

I drew this dog with the owl not long after starting high school. I remember the dog I sketched from a photo of a dog in the World Book Encyclopedia. I don't know why the owl looks like he has a mustache.

I drew my left hand when I was a freshman at UNC, in 1984. I was simultaneously taking Art History, I think the class which grade-wise I did worst in as an undergraduate.

I drew this sketch of Joseph Conrad, apparently on August 3, 1997, when I was 31. I guess it would look okay, except carelessly I chopped off the top of his head like I was the Queen of Hearts but couldn't aim right. It was taken from this photo, which was on the cover of one his books that I had.


I have had intimations at various times that it would be very important to draw better, but it is terribly exhausting to me, I don't know why. I don't know if exhaustion is the best way of putting it, though. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that doing art feels terribly formidable or daunting. In many ways I don't actually have a good memory for faces, though I can remember the emotional impression people make in me extremely well; doubtless art would improve my ability to remember faces and their expressions, probably mainly why it would be advantageous for me to be a better artist. I think the importance of fashion is underrated as well, which may be another reason it would be well if I were better at art (but I'm not), since it is hard for me to imagine myself really appreciating fashion while not having drawing skills.

 

Baseball to me way back when

It's the fourth again. This being that time of year, I suppose a post on baseball would be deemed appropriate and less surprise.

This post/poem really fails rather badly at explaining its main point—why the appreciation males have for sports and baseball in particular can somehow cause a sane clarity in people about sadism and males controlling girls that could possibly avoid some sort of evil apocalypse. I'm not looking at things exactly the right way, I guess, or, yeah, there's something a little crazy in there. I mean, my explanations might be valid in explaining a slight such association, but I seem to be trying to want to make a more important and fundamental point that I suppose just eludes me. Anyway, on an intellectual level, baseball still seems to me kind of stupid mostly, as I've mostly thought true since 11^th grade, and even emotionally, I kind of think it largely is. Still, there's something sort of to it I guess, and vaguely I feel whenever one has confused feelings into such matters possibly involving apocalypse, it does seem best to hurl up high from a distance such meagre inspiration as one has out into the open for public inspection (or, as the case may be, the few sufficiently interested in examining the matter further) by those who come across the landed missive—the public too may help in figuring out what I am getting at. I suppose avoiding apocalypse ideally a democratic open process should be, and anyways, it's not the absolutely safest sort of thing to keep secrets about, I guess because people will yeah think you're secretly plotting to take over the world or something when you have something to say about it but don't do so and they see you thinking.

For a good while, I have had quite ambivalent attitudes toward sports, and spectator sports in particular. But about a week ago, I sort of relived my childhood feelings toward that in a poem (at end of this post). I suppose it still mostly seems to me that as a kid I liked sports too much. Sports can be what insanity tends to like too much. But in a way, this being the case gives sports its value. A large part of success in athletics arises from playing very sane. Take baseball. Play like the ball is a beast to be obliterated, and you'll swing with power—more precisely, with a swing such that if it encountered an object that offered much resistance, much force would be applied for a good while during the swing after the object offered the resistance—, because such power is helpful in knocking the beast down. But what determines the energy a baseball receives is determined mainly just by the energy transferred during the transient impact, determined basically just by bat speed upon impact and where the ball is hit on the bat. Even bat speed should be sacrificed (especially by hitters not so much seeking home runs as a higher batting average) for the sake of a smoother shorter swing more capable of being changed (or withheld) quickly and accurately according to the trajectory of the baseball. Such precision is not necessary for beast bashing. And the enthusiasm and determination, so appropriate for desperate struggles with nastiness, as it can keep one fighting after having been compromised, really gets in the way of the calm boringness and artistic sameness of checking whether the pitch is likely in the strike zone. Similarly with other sports. Play defensive line like a savage and the screen pass will ruin you. Play football like you're up against a bunch of forcible sodomizers and you not only will incur too many penalties, but also you won't play with the vaguely gay-like artistic feeling so necessary because football is a fast game where (except in practice) reactions should mostly led by feeling. But there is a continuum of sports. Football, from its high level of physicality, is better at eliciting the insane emotions, but for most people the physicality of it is much greater than anything real world that might require a very sane response. It's easier to be sane about baseball, but such insanities that exist about it perhaps are more similar to the real world ones that need to be understood. Golf is way out there beyond baseball. What golf is concerned about is so different from anything that would cause unsheltered people to be insane about, it would seem to lie way out on the continuum and not serve much purpose by way of training people to be sane. I do not like golf—it is too dull—but it is good in the sense that it is a sport that rich people care about, and perhaps rich people, having an elitism that denies any significance to anti-abuse emotions, most are in need of sports. Baseball I think was the best sport when I was a kid. But in the period after that, football probably became better, I guess because football tested for hormone use much before baseball did, and wide-spread steroid, etc., use in baseball for a while at least made the game stupid brutish. Basketball, hockey, and other sports like soccer are presumably fine, too, but our neighborhood was unsuitable for basketball—not being sufficiently paved with long stretches between baskets suitable for running—and even more hockey wasn't possible because only once did the lake ever freeze enough to skate on it (skating, which I've learned just in past few years at a rink during a few sessions, is great fun, but oh well), and soccer, well, that just wasn't played in our neighborhood. And sports tends to be more interesting if one has played them at least slightly.

As I've gotten older, sports became less enjoyable. Neighborhood football becomes less fun and more painful as speeds and weights increase simultaneously. And after elementary school, baseball (the only organized sport I did, which I only played in elementary school) and the other sports I knew of I figured more-or-less required to a certain degree guys showering near each other and wearing athletic supporters, i.e, a type of underwear with a hole in the butt (and being practiced in remaining sane while walking around in public wearing underwear with a hole in the butt seems of limited utility and not much of a fun accomplishment). As someone with natural anti-sodomy sensibilities who was underweight, who only once before college went to the bathroom during school (in the fourth-grade, I think, during a stomach ache, I suppose I had eaten too much food), no, uh-uh, that was not for me (and besides I was not very skilled in sports). Even watching sports very gradually became less fun, until now it is only moderately fun, and not something I do much. (Though it is easy to spend much time playing computer games.) I'll still watch a Vikings game occasionally, and girls' gymnastics and ice skating are cool, but the latter for obviously totally different reasons than what I am talking about. (I was weird growing up because, though living in Maryland and having nothing to do with Minnesota, I only liked Minnesota sports teams, at least before Carew left the Twins.) I suppose as one gets older and more familiar with the emotions concomitant with sports, one gets more practiced with dealing with all the insane emotions about them, which makes sports less useful (and also less likely to cause you to like them for insane reasons).

Anyway, I've more or less held the view of the preceding two paragraphs for a while. But lately I've been beginning to see another good thing about sports. When girls are captivated by love, they often get this weird tendency to make sure they can hate other males, because if they couldn't hate bad males as normal, that would be a sign their love is fake, caused for example by being under the influence of sodomy chemicals that work merely by making it much easier to feel love and much harder to feel hate. The more controlling the male is, the more likely the girl is to enjoy whatever hate she feels towards others, because, after all, it's when girls are being controlled that sodomy is most relevant, the whole purpose of sodomy being control or even enslavement, and naturally, like any other testing, testing for sodomy is most relevant when there is an appreciable possibility of the existence of what is being tested for. The same sort of characteristics of sports that make insanity mostly incompatible with effective play should I imagine make this sadistic cruelty (which also can be somewhat insane) mostly incompatible.

That girls naturally are most sadistic when being controlled by a male might lead people to think that somehow there be something natural or fundamental about males forcing girls into being cruel to others. But girls' imaginings tend to be quite fantastical rather than real. Boys just plain like their model trains real-looking, but girls are less that way about their toys, I mostly think. Girls' sadism mainly lives in their fantasy world, as it should. Admittedly, there is this much to be said about girls being sadistic—if a girl enjoys being cruel toward others in a seemingly loving sexual context while being controlled, she isn't probably being sodomized. If human sacrifice were something common and appropriate in our culture, something could be said for girls performing the sacrifices while acting on their sadistic fantasies according to their desires, because then the sodomizers or their mates wouldn't be doing the killing, but rather sex partners of males who give sexual pleasure without sodomy (because females feeling love on account of sodomy can't hardly feel or enjoy hate toward others, sodomy being a kind of love potion). Semen contains chemicals like PGE2 that increase sensitivity to pain making torture more terrifying—sodomy is fundamentally about torture and physical violence, and accordingly perhaps the most disastrous thing (though it is all too typical in history) that can happen to a society is for a bunch of nasty sodomizers to satisfy their desire to torture, rape, and kill upon it. But we do not live in a society where there is human sacrifice or where there is any appropriate possibility of it any time soon (certainly when there is much inter-breeding between genetically diverse people, such human sacrifice seems unusually inappropriate, and that is very much what the world has now on account of the many recent advances in travel; and it is dangerously apocalyptic for attitudes toward human sacrifice to change abruptly toward more sacrifice, and most of the world hasn't practiced human sacrifice, well, any time lately), so girls turning their clean sadistic fantasies into reality would appear to be amaaaayzingly fucking stupid and not something a reasonable male would want to force a girl to do. But that is beside my main point. Even if human sacrifice were reasonable, it would be very wrong for males to force girls into harming, because even sodomizers can force girls into killing and torturing (even if they can't force them into enjoying it for its own sake), and so one would lose the main moral justification for girls killing out of a sexual sadism that is enjoyable to them, namely, that at least they almost certainly aren't killing and torturing because they are controlled by likely rapacious sodomizers who have turned them into zombies acting not from natural brain predilections but from terror caused by PGE2 up their butt or down their throat.

Anyway, it is very good for girls to not want to be forced by males into cruelties. Indeed, because girls do tend to feel more clean sadism when being controlled, there be much conflation in the minds of people between girls being forced by controlling sodomizers into accepting or encouraging torture or killing and girls who are captivated by love fantasizing about being cruel just because they enjoy that they can. Now, girls probably mostly don't mind being controlled when having sadistic fantasies; in fact, since they have sadistic fantasies largely to test the cleanliness and appropriateness of such control the male has over them, one could say they might even appropriately more enjoy being controlled then. But the control should be largely beauty-based (or so it feels) and definitely not be control for the purposes of encouraging actual killing or harming; nor would the latter sort of control be expected to be enjoyable to the female, since that is the sort of thing even sodomizers could do. Sodomizers are forever trying to make people think the evil tortures they inflict and demand girls and others accept are somehow analogous to the mostly innocuous sadistic fantasies girls use as a test when they are being controlled. Actually, Hitler and Stalin types can and do use this confusion to their evil advantage; the danger is real and girls should be admired for taking it seriously. That said, I sort of wonder whether girls might be a little more discriminating there. I guess in the so-called romance novels that females tend to read there tends to be the dashing controlling hero who darkly forces the female into a mishmash of sketchy and merely rewarding behaviors using a mishmash of nasty and clean sexual behaviors. That's not how it is. If a guy is decent and not nasty, then if he controls a female (by only having especially loving feelings toward her when she behaves as desired) otherwise than by sodomy, it's hard to see why he would use this control to force her to harm others, since she wouldn't need to be forced into doing something she enjoys thinking about if somehow it were safe and reasonable for her. Anyway, the poem below is about how wanting to force girls to harm others may well be akin to the crazy dumb emotions that can get in the way of winning baseball games, and how girls for that reason might like guys somewhat for enjoying sports and might come to appreciate that a girl enjoying being controlled when fantasizing about being cruel is totally different from a guy forcing her to be cruel. The poem is also (more poetically, actually) about how I felt toward baseball cards, which I suppose overlaps somehow, but I don't understand that. Looking back, I look back more fondly on the time I spent tinkering with baseball cards than I look back on the other amusement I received from sports, but I don't really know why.

Minnesota Twins 1977

We dream all of our past amusements

Before I became a serious person

I wasn't.

I should not have changed.

Dealing out baseball cards for no reason

Stacking them according to different schemes

Imagining how that would win.

I remember in second grade

before joining my first team

I was told there might be a trying out

registration day.

Somehow, before showing up I imagined myself

in the all-purpose room (the cafeteria)

with wiffle bat

and the coach pitching the wiffle ball to me

and BAM the wiffle ball went

faster and farther than had been ever seen

I ran around the cafeteria—home run!—with a sense of deserved gleeful joyous dignified abandon

near the giant paper-mache dinosaur perhaps—we made it in kindergarten

standing a testament to past glory—

as all the onlookers gaped in awe.

Deserved because I hit it.

So conformist I was

in fifth-grade

waiting for the pitch

I put my tongue in my cheek

to look like Rod Carew.

Knew nothing of chewing tobacco.

Make weird face and it disconcerts the pitcher.

Embarrassing.

I really wanted Carew to hit .400

and would check the box score each morning.

It seems a better thing to have wished for than

ingratiating myself with the scary nasty boys

passing so-called girly germs

right before they changed

overnight into claiming to already have fully adult sex desires.

Much better.

When I got serious I sold the baseball cards.

Baseball cards is not mathematics nor even useful knowledge,

an improper consideration for the serious mathematician.

It seemed . . . entirely appropriate to sell them,

that part of my life all done,

I'd profit and wash the commodity farther away.

I saw excess drunkenness at college.

I look back at rejecting the drunkenness fondly,

only,

I wish I had been a more discriminating.

I remember going to the dentist a few days before graduating from high school.

A kindly old man, well, recently-retired-looking at least, asked whether I wanted the Sports Illustrated.

I told him thanks, I used to like sports,

but I gave them up

because I no longer cared about them.

He told me he knew why,

"Girls!"

I gave an off-hand gruff "Ehhh" in response.

I'd say about the same thing today as my reason then.

I cared about other things,

though it might have had something to do with it,

it largely wasn't true

as he said it.

But this all one.

Why girls?

What does girls has to do with sports?

Mostly it was the boys who liked sports.

One can be . . . not favorably disposed to boys.

Boys play games well,

that's all they're apparently good for.

Could make me better disposed toward them and my past

if I look back at the distant amusements of men

behaving like boys

or boys?

Could be,

but it's the conformity that interests me.

I hate it.

But my fear of it leads me astray at times.

Universes that don't allow for semisets so wrong,

and yet using them to justify why we can add arbitrary function extensions in separation and replacement axioms, a normalcy I should not have feared to the point of not seeing it to mild gloom.

Sadistic girls and controlling them go hand-in-hand,

because,

after all,

the more she is being controlled, the more useful and fun it is for her to test out whether she can still hate,

different opinions about which can lead to fatalistic gloom in one girl and smiling unwillingness to cede control in her other almost erstwhile girlfriend.

Dark fear bravely carried from love vs. prudent rejection of apocalyptic danger.

But normalishness could perhaps carry the day.

All a guy has to do is love girls imagining themselves cruel in proportion to how beautiful they are being.

Almost, but not quite, like normal guys only having loving feelings toward the extremely special.

Only, love must change from moment to moment, in proportion to how beautiful she be at that particular moment.

Girls behaving fucking stupid crazy cruel not so pretty is outside their imaginings.

Torture and human sacrifice are frowned upon.

Loving girls rightly like resurrecting the fun of the long-ago past.

This like a bee landing on a pretty flower.

Only,

it is not just the fun of my distant ancestors,

but the amusements such as they were from my childhood.

Dealing out the baseball cards on the floor in a newly-sorted order.

So careful and yet so forgetting of what be around me.

While at the same time closer to what fun in former ages used to be,

my childhood, fundamentally past.

Rod Carew wasn't like other players.

He dozed off between innings—that cool.

Or carefully numb to forget each witnessed horror of locker-room jock bravado....

I can imagine myself years hence, old and alone,

finishing up details on my work in logic and moral philosophy,

throwing it out there in a final wistful try

just because it be better than doing nothing.

It's not a bad or unsacred imagining.

I wonder what the girl who loves baseball would think,

yes, yes, I had an imagining half a poem ago.

Baseball is wild to her.

A wild game just maybe of reconciling past friends.

Horrors in the real world can be some fun when only sang about,

and sometimes rightish be normal.

I'm just against sodomy, not same-sex attraction

I love her

More than anyone else.

But I don't think she loves me.

And I feel really silly writing this.

I love other girls

a lot.

I guess,

she is full of lust for them.

Yeah, that's about right.

That's what happens.

You know how it is.

Girl A

loves him.

He loves her most.

He doesn't mind girls B-Z, either, though.

I'm sure it would reassure them,

her being full of lust for them,

unless.

They think it's something I put her up to faking.

Wahh, she's a bird--I have no control over that, not possible--

An argument for marriage, I suppose.

Girls pondering a male find an older respectable female (wife?) wanting their backsides for lustful purposes reassuring,

but not if the older female's lust for the younger females is male-forced fakery.

Girls getting it in their minds they want to sodomize each other.

Like that is possible!

Errrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Somewhere, sometime.

Maybe just in her dreamland, maybe not,

It's not as important which as whether--

and mostly I do think whether,

and maybe perhaps that didn't matter much either,

(compared to that it rang a bell I hadn't heard)

a girl did want me most.

Congratulations,

but not really,

because yeah I did like that girl lower in the alphabet, too.

And if that made girl A want me most, yay!

But not really, because how can a girl love a male most and awful well without wanting his backside

when she considers girls-lower-in-alphabet?

How dare, she grinched, you pretend to try to make me jealous.

YOU KNOW THAT WILL NOT WORK AND THAT IS NOT WHAT I WOULD EVER ALLOW MYSELF TO DO. DO NOT DARE EVER, EVER TRY.

That's what she said, as I see it casually in this poem, in so many words with her grinchy growly face.

Well, I just chalked it all up as a strange inexplicable phenomenon, to be filed away for future investigation.

But then there was more.

I do believe after further investigation indeed she did theorize it not at all unlikely her first impressions were erroneous.

She had decided, yep, other girl made her want to violate me so she could get all my lust, etc., for herself, never having to share it with girl lower-in-the-alphabet. She could and would not accept that level of selfishness in herself. She indeed saw the appropriateness of an application of her willpower to avoid sodomizing me in order to get any sodomy from me all to herself.

So, so, sad. So, so, erroneous.

But gradually she came to think maybe that wasn't right either. After all, not that she would mind particularly girl-lower-in-the-alphabet being on her backside. Who would mind the respectable older female? Certainly not her. Yeah, I do believe she came to think of girl-lower-in-the-alphabet as being something of the great diaper-changerer-goddess of backside protection. Great. And that made her think, yeah, that maybe her own desire for me was just to protect my backside and maybe she herself was something of a lesser but still great diaper-changerer.

It is not reassuring to consider that a girl thinks you might be gay. It can be a sign that a boy or boys around her might be telling her lies, presumably because they want to SODOMIZE you and in their excess bold stupid effrontery (at least when dealing with me) thereby make you gay. But by the time you realize she was thinking at a certain time that she just wanted to improve your hindquarters like a mother changing diapers, the usefulness of any fears that a girl having such a strange notion would generate would, well, be mostly be well past their expiration date.

That wasn't really important, though.

What was important is what girl-lower-in-the-alphabet thought.

Girl-lower-in-the-alphabet was worried. Worried she wanted on my account to sodomize the girl I loved more. And that just was not acceptable to her no way no how. Survivor's guilt. Having been the one who escaped unharmed. Children are never to blame for protecting other children—they're all terrible at it, but still, they get blamed because after all if they had been perfect.... I should have been more perfect. Perhaps if I had been more clear to myself that holiness was a more generally applicable phenomenon. Perhaps if I had been a little clearer, too, about the extent and manner in which I presumably wanted to control girls-lower-in-the alphabet. In retrospect, my thoughts were not unclean toward anyone (though greater grace is always possible), but there were little doubts, then. Girl-lower-in-the-alphabet feared those doubts making me fear her, feared too, the idea of her corrupting something as pure and innocent as what was between me and the girl I loved most then. It's no harm for girl lust to defeat male holiness 179-5. The more lopsided the score the better as long as the male internally in his brain holiness is ever trying to be as holy as possible—as long as he tries everybody's a winner.

Any way, life is in many ways a joke. A girl can want you so much she totally wants to share you with other girls to the point of wanting to be all over your backside to reassure you. And other females can want to share in the fun so much that they want to be all over her hindside when you make love to her, egging her on to greater lust. But none of that matters if... a girl lower-in-the-alphabet feels too guilty to do anything that her lust is telling her to do. True there might be hope yet if the girl you love most could jolt the girls lower-in-the-alphabet into complacency by temporarily evincing a reduced reluctance to being controlled. Look, well-loved girl might say, "I actually already don't mind at all being controlled." Actually, this sort of thing presumably has happened so often in our ancestral history that whenever a girl senses that some other desired girl who wants sharing is not sharing because she is too afraid that a desire to share might be a desire to corrupt a sacred relationship with sodomy, her natural tendency is probably to adopt behaviors seductive of the other girl. If a girl senses she needs to get some other girl to feel okay with being lustfully against her backside, probably her natural tendency is just to temporarily not mind her male lover controlling her in the clean way virtuous males control mistresses, so that way the other girl will less feel that what the male feels towards her, and more importantly the subservience and beyond she is willing to give in response, is somehow contrary and opposed to what he feels for the better-loved girl. Lot of good her seduction will do anybody, though, if she takes her innocently seductive temporary alacrity to be controlled as just further evidence that when around girls lower-in-the-alphabet she wants to be controlled and therefore sodomized by the male like some everyday sophisticate skank jealous of other girls because she wants all the sodomy to herself. She was so beautiful when she thought about her love for girl-lower-in-the-alphabet. Maybe just in some dreamland, but to my thinking she'd have let me love her if that other girl would have felt less guilty about wanting to "sodomize" her—AS IF THAT IS POSSIBLE.

The world is a joke. It is possible for one girl to want another girl's backside so much that, confused, the former just can't deal with the guilt, and possible too for the latter to just not feel right about what, in an effort to seduce the former into feeling okay with her backside, she will let her lover to do her unless the former is taking turns with her on him. Presumptuous of me to think? Nah, I have seen hints of this sort of thing in girls other places, in situations not involving me at all. The particular way it evinces itself in altering behavior differs from situation to situation (relevant variables: which female is older, how much self-confidence is there and which girl has it, and whether each girl has before been in relation with another male similarly or like the other girl), but the root cause is always the same. Next to sodomy itself, females fearing some always non-existent tendency in themselves to sodomize or malevolently control or defile with their own lust (lust from females is basically always unselfish if it is real) may well be greatest cause of particular female error in relationships.

Anyways, it's a strange reflection. Maybe the girl I loved best did love me best, only she so much wanted to reduce the other girl's fear of sodomizing her that she couldn't imagine herself feeling free around me unless imagining herself sharing me with the other girl--the better-loved girl just didn't feel right about having intimacy with me unless the other girl was involved. And maybe the other girl really wanted by nature precisely what the better-loved girl by nature wanted, but because she mistook it for a desire to sodomize, she felt too guilty to do it. And maybe all three of us by nature are among the most antisodomy people on Earth. Life is in so many ways a joke, but that is actually reassuring. Tragedy largely is just people getting confused about things that actually are just synonymous (but different), no malevolence or selfishness being involved except in the distant people originating the conflations. Particular examples may be girls not differentiating between wicked males' sodomizing and benevolent females'-lustful-sharing, and not differentiating between subservience to a male that shows inappropriate lack of self-respect and subservience to a male that is appropriate because it is moral or temporarily serves as seductive jolt to excessively guilty females wanting to share a male with her. It is worth pointing out that, at least in the situation I wonder whether might have happened, if the girls had been open with one another, it probably would have cleared up the problem. There's something preposterous about one girl viewing the other's feelings towards her backside as those of some sort of sacred maternal diaper-changerer rear end protector, while the other views her own feelings for the former's backside as perhaps being equivalent to a desperate desire to corrupt a relationship into unholy lust via sodomizing; it's hard for me to imagine they each could have known what the other felt about the matter without each recognizing that each must be looking at things in quite the wrong way. I mean, if one of the girls were right, the other would have had to be a total idiot to view things the way she did, and they each presumably knew that they were both quite intelligent—they certainly seemed intelligent to me.

I know I haven't posted much in my blog lately. Unexpectedly this afternoon, I felt like posting something. I had wanted to post something more carefully along these lines for a good while by now, and though I couldn't manage it to my satisfaction, for some reason, though I mostly think it best to view all days the same, I just up and did it.

Lately, compared to what I have been doing, I have been working much on my logic paper, and am also working on mathematically defined definitions of beauty, goodness and morality more thoroughly thought-out than what I have hitherto made. I have been thinking that maybe I will someday post a series of self-produced lectures on youtube starting with my definitions of the important moral concepts and proceeding from there. If my history is a guide, I can be very slow about things, though.

That's all I have to say for present. There is family stuff I need to attend to for next few days, so in the case someone comments, I may be delayed in responding. Hoping no one be offended, I am, Stephen.