Tangled feedback loops of the complex systems.

Write something on addicted: he writes.

Rates of consumption.

Knee jerk response to what we have known for ages.

Paracelsus.

sola dosis facit venenum.

I drink a case of you and find myself barely on my feet.

But, still

I am on my feet.

A pH balance. All of us. Welcome to yourself and kindly

say hello.

A near death experience is well documented as being præter-natural.

There is no reason to fear.

Change.

Chemical composition.

There are people addicted:

to remaining married.

to eating sugar.

to hearing the sound of their own name.

to gossiping.

to risking their joys due to lack of control.

to fitting in.

to not making waves.

to positive feedback.

to attention.

There are people addicted to the subtle repression

of the ones they love the most.

There are those addicted to never abiding in the

heart of one for too long.

There are those addicted to the vanity of not

being vain.

A rabbit hole of exploration.

What is your resultant self harm to harm of others ratio?

But, harm is harm.

And harm is subjective.

Sometimes enjoyable to the harmed.

Tangled feedback loops of complex systems.

to Port Townsend

They make parking garages into boats.

The cars below do not feel the apparent-wind like us walk-ons do.

A pair passes by me. I hear: “How did those stickers get put on there?”

Orcas, while rarely seen, do swim here in the Sound.

A family passes by me.

“How did those stickers get put on there?” I hear again.

{~}

On the bench to my right, a fellow in a cowboy hat is photographed by a slight and pixie-like gal.

She has a camera. A proper, right aperature. She does not repurpose her cell phone for the task. Perhaps it speaks to the value she places upon her subject and the tools required to properly achieve her artistic desired ends.

On the other side of the water is a Townsend of a port. It is filled with salty sea dogs of the best kind. One of the last bastions in the world of expertise and experience re: wooden sailboats.

It was built in a decidedly Victorian style during the late 1800’s. Elaborate stone buildings that would seem more at home in the UK.

It maintains four independent bookstores, all on the main [sic. high] street.

Always a positive sign. Yet, one that I seldom see.

The song of a pied piper.

The voice of reluctant troubadour.

An outburst from a seagull sounded like a car alarm.

Investments were made here with the intent to create a massive, international shipping port. This place was supposed to be what Seattle became, but the railroads did not lay track here as anticipated. They routed through Seattle.

A hazy cover of clouds lingers. There are immense mountains so close by, yet abiding unseen.

I pass two places that I recall having seen in dreams. Deja v/u/iew.

And, it smells like the Gulf of Mexico does. Destin, AL, just next to the Florida’s panhandle.

Salt. Seaweed. It reeks of things always being wet and never drying out.

It is a town of artisans, artifacts, and craftsmen. As it was explained to me: It is a sailor’s paradise because there are only 24 days of “good” sailing weather here.

I consider that type of sailor. Yup, they are the same sea dogs that still build their vessel from wood and not fiberglass.

There are rigger shops every other block. Schooners, sloops, cutters, ketches: the number of sails and the number of masts varies, but they all require a great deal of properly positioned and tightened rope. It becomes a specialty, like navigational skill.

It sings of waves falling down. It hints at waters ceaselessly lapping rocky shores like relentless thoughts and worries carving canyons in the contents of your confidence.

Seagull shit stained rocks and buildings made of stone. Barnacle blooms come into view on the hulls and the buoys during this time of low tide.

I feel the demands of a restless mind clicking out thought and notion like an antique stock ticker. I cipher telegrams regarding the health of your economy.

Waveform and flows rising and ebbing. Coming like crimson tides in the waters of words flooding my mind’s. Aye.

A hum escapes and vibrates from my throat. A quirk. A noise I make unconsciously when roaming in my mind.

Have you ever surprised yourself by hearing your own voice?

I speak mostly through unspoken scrawls. My loudest voice comes from silence when speech is expected. Fishermen hooking attention.

The vocal manifestation of the underlying punctuation is realized through the intervals.

Rests between notes.

How many beats per minute in the measures of the sentences comprising your composition? Moving as do canvas and a pallete knife conjure acrylics into patterns.

All boats must be houseboats when afloat. They are the sustainable sanctums stopping you from dropping into the briney depths.

While it may keep you from taking the plunge immediately, it does grant you access to the deeper and deeper waters, where both stillness and churning are ever present.

Path-carving the sloshing surface.

There are seagulls cackling out “ha-ha-ha” from all around. It sounds much like the blahyadablah of the “hi. how are ya’s,” or like all adults to Charlie Brown.

There are no speed boats here.

No yachts.

Fast and flashy find no quarter.

How am I?

The shopkeep asks.

Good question.

I know that I am, but how it is that I am, I do not know.

Do you know how you are?

I make. I do, that much I also know to be true.

I smile and say “Oh you know, I’m covering the spread.”

I stop by the independent record shop.

They sell vinyl with a smattering of cassette tapes and other obsolete formats.

They do not sell CD’s. Great curation.

I got the cassettes below for four dollars U.S.

After asking the owner what the price is, I am informed the MD is a mix made years ago by an employee, to be played in the shop. It was given to me for free. The shopkeeper was highly amused at my interest in it.

I mention that seeing three albums by Mott the Hoople made my day.

The shop owner says: started my day with them.

He reaches under the counter and produces the album sleeve for The Hoople.

A sea of faces in hair.

Evidenced.

A child eyeballs me on the ferry ride home. Sliding closer and closer to me.

I say: I’m Casey.

S/he says: I didn’t ask you.

I say: I just thought I’d tell you.

Macy then tells me many things very quickly.

S/he worries deeply about the dangers of sharks when s/he takes the ferry, for instance.

S/he stops speaking briefly and stares at me and says: I think my eyelashes are like yours. We have the same eyelashes.

68 Coffeecake/86 Crab. tuesday

If you comment: it’s not exactly rocket science, you sound like you think you are a rocket scientist.

The silver couple arrives. She forgets my name but gives me a new one each day. Curly Sue. Dimples.

Today, I am Goldilocks.

She asks the bartender my name when she thinks I cannot hear. She suggests I read the poem Casey at the Bat. Hum, huh.

The village beach preservation busy body society has two tables held for them. One for the men and one for the women. Twelve seats total. Only three women come. They talk the politics of healthcare and about the addicts in their lives.

Our speakers play almost decent, easy listening blues. If you can imagine such a thing. Almost-Stevie Ray Vaughan comes on.

Nearly-Suite: Judy Blue Eyes plays.

We are slow enough that I actually noticemusic is playing.

And, time moves slowly now.

The reservation for six at noon became 4 at fifteen ’til

.All named Pat.

“You are pulling my leg, right?”

“No! It’s Pat’s Day. Okay, now I am kidding you about that. We are all named Pat.”

He and the other Pat (only two have arrived) laugh uproariously.

Mike comes by to make a reservation.

He shows me his Book of Answers.

“My wife found this in 2000. Ask a question and flip to any page.”

He carries a green street sign in a plastic sleeve under his left arm, hugged against his ribs.

He adds:”You don’t have to tell me the question.”

I silently ask the question on my mind.

Tolle Lege.

The page I flip to, it reads:

it is not guaranteed.

That figures: I think.

The thing about which I framed my inquiry is not guaranteable.

He and Tony will return for lunch tomorrow.

A regular left me this.

Cartesian-ism

I’ll see it when I believe it : I think therefore I am.

I’ll believe when I see it : I’m seen therefore I am.

_____________________________________________

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” say the lesser apes.

“You’ll see it when you believe it,” you said.

Cogito, ergo sum.

What René Descartes is remembered as saying.

Je pense, donc je suis.

How Descartes first wrote it.

I think therefore I am.

(tautological?)

“Whatever I have up until now accepted as most true I have acquired either from the senses or through the senses.” (7:18 Principles)

But Descartes feared a deceptive God or an evil eternal deceiver.

Could he trust the apprehensions of his physical senses?

He could not disprove that his sensations were not the result of deception; so he dove into doubt. How is sensation different from perception?

“We have a true or genuine perception of something if, when we consider it, we cannot doubt it…In the face of genuine clear and distinct perception, our affirmation of it is so firm that it cannot be shaken, even by a concerted effort to call those observed things into doubt. (7:145 Meditations)

Descartes tried to free us from “I’ll believe it when I see it.” He tried to disavow the authority and immediacy of knowing the world through sense and sensations. He did not believe that his five senses could apprehend truth in a way that overcame his doubt.

He found doubt and did not believe.

His belief was not dependent on sensual stimulation.

I’ll see it when I believe it.

I think therefore I am.

Perceptions that I cannot find a scrap of a reason to doubt, may be genuine.

So, we doubt the hell out of everything; and, if we exhaust every doubt of which we may conceive, we firm up our grasp of reality. Through dint of doubt, all doubt is removed. This is intellect.

“I think.” He couldn’t find a doubt about it, so he allowed his capacity for thought and doubt to validate his existence- that he “is.”

His sensations could be virtual reality, so he doubted what he saw.

When he had no doubt that he “thought”, he then believed he truly “was.”

—————————————————-

Empiricism resists and refuses the subjective realm, and is founded on a principle of obtaining information via senses and standardized measurements.

Science, empiricism, and Western culture say, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

I got a (dumb) cell phone in 2002.

My family got dial up internet in our home around 1998.

Before the mid-1990’s, we could not be in two places at once (physical, say, a restaurant, and cyberspace).

The advent of Facebook, Instagram, selfies, social media and internet culture creates a condition for, “I’m seen therefore I am.” I validate myself and reality by reproducing images of myself digitally which I post to get views online. I act the role of myself in a construction that I calculate. I show what I want when I want to in the hopes others will come to know me as I have shown myself to be.

My sister’s generation operates on “I’m seen therefore I am.”

Little digitally savvy savages.

Groups eating together and everyone has a screen. Silicon is always in hand. Take it away and they sweat.

The viewpoint of this age group: I am capable of being observed by others, this validates that I “am.”

The desire to be seen, get friended, followed, liked, hits is the want of confirming and calculable feedback that digital you has been observed and accepted by others. The cyber persona may be chosen moment to moment, so to speak. Day to day personas are less so chosen.

They’ll believe it when they see it.

Yeah, we’ll cure cancer,

And pigs can fly,

God exists,

Well, that is, I’ll believe it when I see it’s already been done.

The more individuals who say likewise, then the less individuals we have working to solve these problems. Presumably, the people waiting to see it will not be trying to manifest it. Why would they?

To them it is impossible until somebody else says, “I’m going to believe it is a possibility to cure cancer, and then I will find out if I can realize that possibility, perceive it.”

There is a lovely lack of cynicism in “I’ll see when I believe it.” There is a proper dash of humility regarding our own self-awareness.

————————————————————–

“I’ll believe when I see.”

This, however, indicates an inherent incredulity and it absolves the self of accountability.

That which cannot be seen or sensed stands on unbelievable ground.

“I’m seen therefore I am.” I see myself and receive systematic, calculable feedback that others have seen me. This validates that I am. I can show it you, point at it.

Alternatively, “I think so I am” puts the onus of doubt back on any given individual. She talks of what can or cannot be seen/perceived at this time. She does not have to state a belief position. This frees the mind in the sense that here belief follows one’s own perceptions, and, perceptions may be addressed through the process of doubt. I do not choose my beliefs as much as I become aware of them. I do not choose to believe based on what I have or have not perceived.

My beliefs are revealed to me by the things I perceive and then I am unable to doubt them. What I see allows me to come to know my beliefs and tweak them. My belief in the possibility of things does not necessitate their appearance.

I’ll see less things on earth than things I will see in this lifetime. Shall I really constrain myself to such a small set of experiential data?

I’ll see it when I believe it : I think therefore I am.

I’ll believe when I see it : I’m seen therefore I am.

Monday’s Hostess

It is nearly sunny over Puget sound by eight a.m.

My feet pound pavement. Walking to work.

A simple luxury of the highest order.

A man hugs three people outside the osteria,

one at a time,

ring around the roses style.

Lighting a cigar, he and his bulldog walk away and across the street to

my side of the road.

They precede me by about six feet as we walk.

I inhale deeply the spirals of smoke that follow him.

I feel less sheepish about the plumes of vapor I emit.

He stops to let me pass.

“Don’t want you breathing my fumes.”

“I was enjoying it.”

I was enjoying it, too.

“Showbiz Kids” comes through my cans.

Steely Dan’s Countdown to Ecstasy.

Five minutes later, I arrive at the cozy, little bistro located on Main Street. Two blocks from the water. I see the beach town’s Monday morning is already in full swing. Live and bumping with mostly silverhairs, at this hour.

The exception being a thirty-something couple that I wager is still out from last night.

They drink a lot of water.

(No one likes ice in their water here.)

I hum my hellos to the front of house crew.

I get mumbles back. It is early.

I announce my hellos to the back of house who are singing a song in Spanish that I have never heard. They wave enthusiastically. They have been here three hours longer than front of house.

Their coffee already kicked in.

11:05 a.m.

and, the sun finally asserts itself, breaking free from behind clouds.

This thrills and disappoints.

I am already sweating. The A/C unit has not worked since I started.

I am used to the heat from my former life.

I hear garbled voices rise:

“[Something, something, something] Moroccan immigrants!”

Followed by:

“[Something, something, something] So what?! People look at you funny? Big deal.”

I doubt he knows what that feels like, but

what do I know?

As he leaves, I smile and offer the obligatory: “Thanks for coming in. Have a good day.”
He halts.

“No!” he says, then approaches me.

Stepping in close.

“I had a friend and when people told him to have a good day, he’d say, “Don’t you ever tell me what to do.” “

I laugh and I mean it.

“Well, in that case, I sure hope you have an awful day,” I say with nonchalance.

He looks confused then smiles.

“This one, huh?” he says to no-one, indicating me with a finger.

“Didn’t you learn pointing at people is impolite?”

Clutter

She was clumsy.

She forgot other people could not

tell right away.

And, so, she had raced in and embarrassed herself with a bit too much gusto.

Or, so she assumed.

She wanted him to take her dancing where real players made analogue music in a room where people were still allowed to smoke. It would be loud. It would be crowded. And, their lungs would hurt the next day.

“Sing into my mouth.”

That’s what she didn’t say. But, she thought it.

“Did you really just ask that of me?” asks the voice of consternation. Her version of Jimney Crickett.

“How would you know ferocious?”

“Perhaps you have not prompted the ferocity in my nature.”

“Hum. It is there. Abiding patiently with a kind smile. To imagine requires a capacity for imagination.”

“Provocateur.”

“Hago lo que puedo.”

“You can’t always say what you mean!”

Matter is the matières of the matieres.

The contents of the materials.