Artificial World. Artificial Life. Thoughts on the Passing of My Grandmother, Marion, and the Condition of My Grandfather, Ray.
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Victoria "Stokastika"
Nov 11, 2008, 11:07:16 AM11/11/08
to Question Reality
My grandfather, Ray, 96 years old, signed papers saying DNR. Do not
recessitate. Rucessitate. Pardon my spelling. My father said this
morning that he is already living in an artificial world. He has
pneumonia in the lungs and in the blood. He lost his gag reflex. He
lost his ability to swallow. They might be placing tubing in him.
They're keeping him alive, but it's non-sustaining.
I had a bunch of qualms about the artificiality of my grandmother's
existence the last few years. I knew she had Alzheimer's since I was
15 years old. She passed away about a year ago. Early October 2007. I
wrote about her for the day, but I didn't cry. I was pissed off that
it wasn't great timing. Like my father had to call me 930 am in the
morning, and it ruined my entire day. Or maybe I just had plans, and
Life is all about Making Plans but Adapting to Shxt Happening.
I still hold on my plate a bunch of unfinished projects in concern of
my grandmother's existence. Mostly, the situation was that I started
to realize how most of modern medicine was designed to sustain 6 more
months the existence of the inevitable: Death. My grandmother was a
Living Dead for a while. Existing like a "vegetable" as my father
called it. Or perhaps more so a larval tunicate. Just barely moving
and breathing as a vertebrate. Well, hxll, that is WAY more
intelligent than George Bush Jr! I experienced the technological
crutching of Being and Staying Alive. I was angry about the whole
situation. During my Dark Ages at 25, I told a 50-year-old UCR
Administrator, "If it weren't for modern medicine, I would be dead 5
years from now." Yes, those were dark years, eh?
My Papu Ray is the first human in my life I have grieved for (I have
grieved for the passing of Cat Kat). I had a panic attack alone in the
basement of the UC Riverside Extension Center and my sister Jenny had
to psychologically rescue me. It was like I was curled into fetal
position, and I had to control myself by the presence of two random
Asian people, a male and a female, who did an absolutely lame job in
attempting to cheer me up. But they were superb in making me hold back
my internal expression of Chaotic Loss just by there mere presence.
The last time I saw my grandfather was in September. The last time I
talked to him was on the phone a couple of days ago. I told him about
my down day, being overworked. But I also told him a few days before
that about how we skinned rabbits in Evolutionary Vertebrate
Morphology class. Ray said that we were skinning rabbits the
inefficient way, from neck down, but if you do it from the posterior
side, then there is a way you can rip the skin right off the rabbit. A
cakewalk. That was a great conversation. My grandfather used to skin
rabbits when he was a teenager, in the farms around Hemett.
This is the first time in my life I had taken for granted something
that I had. And now I am losing my grandfather? The symbol so cross-
generational loss of love to people and attachment to landscapes?
Look, Ray! You have to stay alive! I have a to-list here: (1) a
timeline of my grandfather's life, what he was doing when, I can get
from my father and Uncle Dwight (2) his sense of understanding of
change from the time he was born to today. He has seen a technological
overhaul of reality, all in his lifetime. (3) his message for the
future. (4). I was supposed to film him and interview him this summer.
But I kept procrastinating. Other life issues. Fxck that. It seems
like females tend to take the blame for everything. The whole "I'm
sorry for my existence." And it's all my fault. I'm not the only one
who thinks that way.
I wrote in a blog about how there was disconnect between me and my
grandfather. He was born and raised on a farm and he was rooted to the
land, by default. And for me, I had to rationalize and theorize about
it because of this technologically-crutched world, my lifestyle,
identity, and existence was far removed from the land. I had to
Question Reality, but my grandfather didn't, because he Lived Reality.
Well, I am dwelling about all the things I don't have. Now I have to
focus on the remains of what I have.
What do I have for my grandfather:
(1). Images of his 96th birthday.
(2). Tons of images in general, which need to be centralized.
(3). Some voice recordings and video of my grandfather, most notably
during my grandmother's memorial. I have voice recordings and video
recordings. My father wrote up what he wrote.
(4). Regional documents of my grandfather. Some people interviewed Ray
in concern of history of Mount Baldy, as well as Ray's recollection of
the 1969 flood as a part of one of Diblee's San Gabriel Mountains
guide.
My grandfather is a book. A living history. A land mine of information
and documents. And it's all in his Long Beach house. What do we do?
What do I do? This needs to be taken care of. Given to a museum or
something. But the museum doesn't care. (I have come to learn that
even though society has all these services fo people, they don't care
or give a shxt about my grandfather. My grandfather ultimatley got
sick from the hospital conditions, not from a pulled muscle in his
back! All the museum would do is throw my grandfather's documents into
some basement and let it collect dust, unprocessed. The only people
who would truly care is family. And then, look? Same with the
Pleistocene fossils excavated in San Diego. They didn't care about
them. They just dumped them, disorganized, unsorted in the San Diego
Museum of Natural History. Such carelessness and recklesness in the
operations of a Mass Society. People don't have the capacity to care,
eh?) What about the cabin? Dxmmit! What about the cabin? My great
friend Lauri went through loss of her mother and it took her a year to
process things. I think my father needs some time off during this
situation. I need some time off too, but....
Perhaps, if our family embodied the Values of Hollywood characters,
who take form of Inheritance Gold Diggers, this would all be a
meaningless, property-grubbing experience. My grandfather alive and
mentally and physically well is a bazillion gajillion infinitely more
important than this property. Turf. Bullshxt! And his property! It is
all the history of California! History of lifestyle and landscape
change in California!
Yesterday, I read in class a poem I wrote in response to Alberto
Urrea's work: through the death of his father, he became a superb
writer: "It takes a great loss / to make a great find / Through your
grievous death / I found my gracious life."
I can see this easily be a narrative book project called "Two
Generations Removed from the Land," a narrative memoir that integrates
concepts of science, ecology, a history of science, a history of
California ecology, and a documenting shift in value systems and
perceptions of a lineage of scientists all within a span of 100 years.
What is personal can be ultimately universal. The book will have
tremendous value such that it documents the spatial and temporal
shifting baseline effect. Personal calling. Universal Truth. It will
be also an advocation and preservation of original value systems of
science: non-overtechnologized, quality over quantity, observation and
empirical evidence over modeling, etcetera.
Taphonomy sucks. The only people who will preserve my grandfather in a
coherent piece of Living Memory are probably me, my father, my sister,
my Uncle Dwight, Jean and Chuck, a few others. That's it.
Gawd, Ray! Please make it to Thanksgiving! My gawd.
I'd Think Dr. Sam Sweet was doing a good job in ripping my mind's
heart open. Tariel was doing a good job--for a little while. And then,
I was just perceived as a "#*# object" and not a "trust object." And
in the end, it was a tragedy to provide the illusion of a Bowerbird.
But this--this here is really ripping my mind's heart.
recessitate. Rucessitate. Pardon my spelling. My father said this
morning that he is already living in an artificial world. He has
pneumonia in the lungs and in the blood. He lost his gag reflex. He
lost his ability to swallow. They might be placing tubing in him.
They're keeping him alive, but it's non-sustaining.
I had a bunch of qualms about the artificiality of my grandmother's
existence the last few years. I knew she had Alzheimer's since I was
15 years old. She passed away about a year ago. Early October 2007. I
wrote about her for the day, but I didn't cry. I was pissed off that
it wasn't great timing. Like my father had to call me 930 am in the
morning, and it ruined my entire day. Or maybe I just had plans, and
Life is all about Making Plans but Adapting to Shxt Happening.
I still hold on my plate a bunch of unfinished projects in concern of
my grandmother's existence. Mostly, the situation was that I started
to realize how most of modern medicine was designed to sustain 6 more
months the existence of the inevitable: Death. My grandmother was a
Living Dead for a while. Existing like a "vegetable" as my father
called it. Or perhaps more so a larval tunicate. Just barely moving
and breathing as a vertebrate. Well, hxll, that is WAY more
intelligent than George Bush Jr! I experienced the technological
crutching of Being and Staying Alive. I was angry about the whole
situation. During my Dark Ages at 25, I told a 50-year-old UCR
Administrator, "If it weren't for modern medicine, I would be dead 5
years from now." Yes, those were dark years, eh?
My Papu Ray is the first human in my life I have grieved for (I have
grieved for the passing of Cat Kat). I had a panic attack alone in the
basement of the UC Riverside Extension Center and my sister Jenny had
to psychologically rescue me. It was like I was curled into fetal
position, and I had to control myself by the presence of two random
Asian people, a male and a female, who did an absolutely lame job in
attempting to cheer me up. But they were superb in making me hold back
my internal expression of Chaotic Loss just by there mere presence.
The last time I saw my grandfather was in September. The last time I
talked to him was on the phone a couple of days ago. I told him about
my down day, being overworked. But I also told him a few days before
that about how we skinned rabbits in Evolutionary Vertebrate
Morphology class. Ray said that we were skinning rabbits the
inefficient way, from neck down, but if you do it from the posterior
side, then there is a way you can rip the skin right off the rabbit. A
cakewalk. That was a great conversation. My grandfather used to skin
rabbits when he was a teenager, in the farms around Hemett.
This is the first time in my life I had taken for granted something
that I had. And now I am losing my grandfather? The symbol so cross-
generational loss of love to people and attachment to landscapes?
Look, Ray! You have to stay alive! I have a to-list here: (1) a
timeline of my grandfather's life, what he was doing when, I can get
from my father and Uncle Dwight (2) his sense of understanding of
change from the time he was born to today. He has seen a technological
overhaul of reality, all in his lifetime. (3) his message for the
future. (4). I was supposed to film him and interview him this summer.
But I kept procrastinating. Other life issues. Fxck that. It seems
like females tend to take the blame for everything. The whole "I'm
sorry for my existence." And it's all my fault. I'm not the only one
who thinks that way.
I wrote in a blog about how there was disconnect between me and my
grandfather. He was born and raised on a farm and he was rooted to the
land, by default. And for me, I had to rationalize and theorize about
it because of this technologically-crutched world, my lifestyle,
identity, and existence was far removed from the land. I had to
Question Reality, but my grandfather didn't, because he Lived Reality.
Well, I am dwelling about all the things I don't have. Now I have to
focus on the remains of what I have.
What do I have for my grandfather:
(1). Images of his 96th birthday.
(2). Tons of images in general, which need to be centralized.
(3). Some voice recordings and video of my grandfather, most notably
during my grandmother's memorial. I have voice recordings and video
recordings. My father wrote up what he wrote.
(4). Regional documents of my grandfather. Some people interviewed Ray
in concern of history of Mount Baldy, as well as Ray's recollection of
the 1969 flood as a part of one of Diblee's San Gabriel Mountains
guide.
My grandfather is a book. A living history. A land mine of information
and documents. And it's all in his Long Beach house. What do we do?
What do I do? This needs to be taken care of. Given to a museum or
something. But the museum doesn't care. (I have come to learn that
even though society has all these services fo people, they don't care
or give a shxt about my grandfather. My grandfather ultimatley got
sick from the hospital conditions, not from a pulled muscle in his
back! All the museum would do is throw my grandfather's documents into
some basement and let it collect dust, unprocessed. The only people
who would truly care is family. And then, look? Same with the
Pleistocene fossils excavated in San Diego. They didn't care about
them. They just dumped them, disorganized, unsorted in the San Diego
Museum of Natural History. Such carelessness and recklesness in the
operations of a Mass Society. People don't have the capacity to care,
eh?) What about the cabin? Dxmmit! What about the cabin? My great
friend Lauri went through loss of her mother and it took her a year to
process things. I think my father needs some time off during this
situation. I need some time off too, but....
Perhaps, if our family embodied the Values of Hollywood characters,
who take form of Inheritance Gold Diggers, this would all be a
meaningless, property-grubbing experience. My grandfather alive and
mentally and physically well is a bazillion gajillion infinitely more
important than this property. Turf. Bullshxt! And his property! It is
all the history of California! History of lifestyle and landscape
change in California!
Yesterday, I read in class a poem I wrote in response to Alberto
Urrea's work: through the death of his father, he became a superb
writer: "It takes a great loss / to make a great find / Through your
grievous death / I found my gracious life."
I can see this easily be a narrative book project called "Two
Generations Removed from the Land," a narrative memoir that integrates
concepts of science, ecology, a history of science, a history of
California ecology, and a documenting shift in value systems and
perceptions of a lineage of scientists all within a span of 100 years.
What is personal can be ultimately universal. The book will have
tremendous value such that it documents the spatial and temporal
shifting baseline effect. Personal calling. Universal Truth. It will
be also an advocation and preservation of original value systems of
science: non-overtechnologized, quality over quantity, observation and
empirical evidence over modeling, etcetera.
Taphonomy sucks. The only people who will preserve my grandfather in a
coherent piece of Living Memory are probably me, my father, my sister,
my Uncle Dwight, Jean and Chuck, a few others. That's it.
Gawd, Ray! Please make it to Thanksgiving! My gawd.
I'd Think Dr. Sam Sweet was doing a good job in ripping my mind's
heart open. Tariel was doing a good job--for a little while. And then,
I was just perceived as a "#*# object" and not a "trust object." And
in the end, it was a tragedy to provide the illusion of a Bowerbird.
But this--this here is really ripping my mind's heart.
Victoria "Stokastika"
Nov 11, 2008, 11:37:00 AM11/11/08
to Question Reality
What sucks about all this is that I am going through the struggling
health of my grandfather during a time of my life of extreme
consciousness. Not only is my father in poor health, but I am
cognitively processing this information in extremely highly resolved
layers.
My sister said that when my grandmother Kiki passed away (I was 16
years old), all I did was register as emotionally blank and hide in my
room for a week. I didn't know how to respond.
And now, look?!
I suppose the two major drivers of writing is Love and Loss (Life and
Death). I have suffered through my own Figurative and Philosophical
Death through my Survival of Anorexia. So the recipe and major drivers
to writing and Mental Healing is Love and Loss. Survival and
Replication. Go figure. A Biologically Driven, Biologically Ingrained
Truth. Loss forces you to write in a state of desperation, not caring
about the consequences. It's good to have a ghost in your life,
because it forces you to dream who he or she was, or what he or she
could have been. Or what he or she wants you to be. Having a ghost in
your life gives you plenty of room for imagination. You have to fill
the void niche space with new ideas. You are force to tap into
yourself and heal your insides. If it weren't for the first dire bout
of health conditions of my grandfather, I wouldn't have written Two
Generations Removed from the Land, the Poem/Song.
I had the privilege of meeting Dr. Dolf Seilacher, a famous
paleontologist and survivor of World War II. I consider him to be my
Intellectual Grandfather. I have several intellectual fathers and
mothers at UCSB. But in terms of intellectual grandfather, in my brief
time with Dolf, he had been annexed. I need one, now that I am facing
the situation with my grandfather.
I am making a list of Psychological Consultants for my current
condition. Top on my list are Tristan Oliver and Lauri Green. They are
both brave survivors of the loss of their parents. And quite recently,
I would assume. I would go definitely to Lauri, and I would also go to
Tristan, and sincerely apologize for my poor contact with him. He was
a really deep guy. Why don't I talk with him more?
I had this friend, T, who had a passing of his own father, but it
seemed like he spent most of his existence resisting his relationships
with his mother and father. I thought both were passed on, but
apparently only figuratively. His reaction was existentialist and zen
buddhist like, but it was too unvalued. His mind can attach and detach
to people and to life *bam* like that, such that it frightens me. He
focuses on ephemerality of life and the situation with his father, but
it was to a point such that it was INHUMANE. So he eventually pushed
me away, like he pushed away the rest of his family and consider them
all figuratively dead, though many of them are not. His treatment of
humans are contrary to his supposed Buddhist purist practices of being
an isolated artist in the mountains. Like an isolated artist living in
a home in a canyon of oak overgrowth that is highly prone to fire.
It's not a matter of it. But more so when or where. But through Loss,
T grew as well. And we bonded--until he shoved me away. So, fxck that,
whatever. I have to train my mind to forget about what happened in
between late July to now, and I have to remember the time between
April and July of 2008.
So, given my current condition of the failing health of my
grandfather, I will most likely not proceed to consult T, since he'll
just lament on ephemerality and lack of attachment to the situation.
He will be the Brave Buddha who will not even FLINCH or LOOK BACK
despite the fact that his arm got cut off. And he lost all his family.
I don't think humans operate that way in general. He has
neurologically severed his mind from dealing with loss or tragedy.
He's hypnotized himself to inhumane processing abilities of life
experiences. If I went through loss, I need a little bit of regrouping
time, reflecting upon the condition, and then move on.
It is funny that losing a family member, losing a very close one,
forces you to explore and reprioritize the hierarchy of human
relationships in your life. Loss alters your perception of all the
things you Have and Have Not.
So, I will go talk to Lauri and Tristan and all other Survivors of
Loss, and consult them upon their Wisdoms.
health of my grandfather during a time of my life of extreme
consciousness. Not only is my father in poor health, but I am
cognitively processing this information in extremely highly resolved
layers.
My sister said that when my grandmother Kiki passed away (I was 16
years old), all I did was register as emotionally blank and hide in my
room for a week. I didn't know how to respond.
And now, look?!
I suppose the two major drivers of writing is Love and Loss (Life and
Death). I have suffered through my own Figurative and Philosophical
Death through my Survival of Anorexia. So the recipe and major drivers
to writing and Mental Healing is Love and Loss. Survival and
Replication. Go figure. A Biologically Driven, Biologically Ingrained
Truth. Loss forces you to write in a state of desperation, not caring
about the consequences. It's good to have a ghost in your life,
because it forces you to dream who he or she was, or what he or she
could have been. Or what he or she wants you to be. Having a ghost in
your life gives you plenty of room for imagination. You have to fill
the void niche space with new ideas. You are force to tap into
yourself and heal your insides. If it weren't for the first dire bout
of health conditions of my grandfather, I wouldn't have written Two
Generations Removed from the Land, the Poem/Song.
I had the privilege of meeting Dr. Dolf Seilacher, a famous
paleontologist and survivor of World War II. I consider him to be my
Intellectual Grandfather. I have several intellectual fathers and
mothers at UCSB. But in terms of intellectual grandfather, in my brief
time with Dolf, he had been annexed. I need one, now that I am facing
the situation with my grandfather.
I am making a list of Psychological Consultants for my current
condition. Top on my list are Tristan Oliver and Lauri Green. They are
both brave survivors of the loss of their parents. And quite recently,
I would assume. I would go definitely to Lauri, and I would also go to
Tristan, and sincerely apologize for my poor contact with him. He was
a really deep guy. Why don't I talk with him more?
I had this friend, T, who had a passing of his own father, but it
seemed like he spent most of his existence resisting his relationships
with his mother and father. I thought both were passed on, but
apparently only figuratively. His reaction was existentialist and zen
buddhist like, but it was too unvalued. His mind can attach and detach
to people and to life *bam* like that, such that it frightens me. He
focuses on ephemerality of life and the situation with his father, but
it was to a point such that it was INHUMANE. So he eventually pushed
me away, like he pushed away the rest of his family and consider them
all figuratively dead, though many of them are not. His treatment of
humans are contrary to his supposed Buddhist purist practices of being
an isolated artist in the mountains. Like an isolated artist living in
a home in a canyon of oak overgrowth that is highly prone to fire.
It's not a matter of it. But more so when or where. But through Loss,
T grew as well. And we bonded--until he shoved me away. So, fxck that,
whatever. I have to train my mind to forget about what happened in
between late July to now, and I have to remember the time between
April and July of 2008.
So, given my current condition of the failing health of my
grandfather, I will most likely not proceed to consult T, since he'll
just lament on ephemerality and lack of attachment to the situation.
He will be the Brave Buddha who will not even FLINCH or LOOK BACK
despite the fact that his arm got cut off. And he lost all his family.
I don't think humans operate that way in general. He has
neurologically severed his mind from dealing with loss or tragedy.
He's hypnotized himself to inhumane processing abilities of life
experiences. If I went through loss, I need a little bit of regrouping
time, reflecting upon the condition, and then move on.
It is funny that losing a family member, losing a very close one,
forces you to explore and reprioritize the hierarchy of human
relationships in your life. Loss alters your perception of all the
things you Have and Have Not.
So, I will go talk to Lauri and Tristan and all other Survivors of
Loss, and consult them upon their Wisdoms.
Victoria "Stokastika"
Nov 11, 2008, 12:39:12 PM11/11/08
to Question Reality
One thing I do know is that I know my grandfather does not want to
dwell. My grandfather wants me to move on. He wants me to build and
grow and become the best functional citizen to this society as
possible. He wants me to work hard and live to my principles. And even
though perhaps he was of a different generation in terms of perception
of females in academia, I think he doesn't care whether I am male or
female. He wants me to be the best possible human I could ever
possibly be... in terms of my own self definition.
dwell. My grandfather wants me to move on. He wants me to build and
grow and become the best functional citizen to this society as
possible. He wants me to work hard and live to my principles. And even
though perhaps he was of a different generation in terms of perception
of females in academia, I think he doesn't care whether I am male or
female. He wants me to be the best possible human I could ever
possibly be... in terms of my own self definition.
Victoria "Stokastika"
Nov 11, 2008, 1:38:17 PM11/11/08
to Question Reality
It's 10:30am. I just received another report from my father and my
sister.
There for Ray? There for family? Dxmmit.
They can't feed Ray. He is half conscious.
Ray said he did NOT want a feeding tube to sustain his existence.
That is as artificial as it gets.
It's ironic that in high school I dreamnt of being fed by one of those
tubes as I worked so hard to acquire knowledge.
The older you get, reverted to a child. Simultaneously having the mind
of a 6 or 60 year old. Still makes sense, ironically.
Or what I thought was acquiring knowledge--"getting good grades."
Was it good not to see Kiki in her last week? The radiation fried her
like a pig?
To see her in a worse state than a picture-vague memory of what she
had been?
I had no formal concrete moment of resolution with Kiki, except for
the acknowledgment of a long-distant relationship and the
acknowledgment that my mother was seeing ghosts in the living room of
our house, in her dreams. Ghosts, or mental residuals?
With Marion, I wrote an essay, and that centralized my thoughts to a
great degree.
sister.
There for Ray? There for family? Dxmmit.
They can't feed Ray. He is half conscious.
Ray said he did NOT want a feeding tube to sustain his existence.
That is as artificial as it gets.
It's ironic that in high school I dreamnt of being fed by one of those
tubes as I worked so hard to acquire knowledge.
The older you get, reverted to a child. Simultaneously having the mind
of a 6 or 60 year old. Still makes sense, ironically.
Or what I thought was acquiring knowledge--"getting good grades."
Was it good not to see Kiki in her last week? The radiation fried her
like a pig?
To see her in a worse state than a picture-vague memory of what she
had been?
I had no formal concrete moment of resolution with Kiki, except for
the acknowledgment of a long-distant relationship and the
acknowledgment that my mother was seeing ghosts in the living room of
our house, in her dreams. Ghosts, or mental residuals?
With Marion, I wrote an essay, and that centralized my thoughts to a
great degree.
Victoria "Stokastika"
Nov 11, 2008, 1:48:24 PM11/11/08
to Question Reality
Kyle gave me a hug. I needed it.
I gave Kyle a hug when he turned 30. I am not sure whether he needed
it. I think I MYSELF needed the hug for the notion or concept of
turning 30.
I gave Kyle a hug when he turned 30. I am not sure whether he needed
it. I think I MYSELF needed the hug for the notion or concept of
turning 30.
Victoria "Stokastika"
Nov 11, 2008, 1:48:59 PM11/11/08
to Question Reality
Even though I am not 30 yet.
Victoria "Stokastika"
Nov 11, 2008, 2:31:44 PM11/11/08
to Question Reality
Ray is still oriented. To be oriented, without sign of a stroke is:
(1). Purpose orientation (I need to go off and figure out what I'm
supposed to be doing, drive for survival, drive for water, food) (2).
Place orientation (where am I?) (3). Time orientation (What time is
it? Heck, grad students are NOT time-oriented), and (4). Person-
oriented (I am who I am, and I recognize these people).
Why don't people use this Stroke Diagnosis as the fundamental premises
for Narrative Writing? What the heck?! This world is so
overspecialized, it's ridiculous!
(1). Purpose orientation (I need to go off and figure out what I'm
supposed to be doing, drive for survival, drive for water, food) (2).
Place orientation (where am I?) (3). Time orientation (What time is
it? Heck, grad students are NOT time-oriented), and (4). Person-
oriented (I am who I am, and I recognize these people).
Why don't people use this Stroke Diagnosis as the fundamental premises
for Narrative Writing? What the heck?! This world is so
overspecialized, it's ridiculous!
Victoria "Stokastika"
Nov 12, 2008, 12:38:34 PM11/12/08
to Question Reality
Today is Wednesday, November 12, 2008.
This will be a timed writing of notable scraps. I will have to
elaborate this later.
**A Passing/Tragedy/Disaster of an individual is a Shock Doctrine to
the Family.
**A Disaster to an entire region is a Shock Doctrine to an entire
Nation.
**At small to large scales, we endure the same process of shock, loss,
withdrawal, as a relative is curled into a physical and mental fetal
position, the entire family is being transformed into a collective
mental fetal position, and each member, from indivdual to collective,
has seemed to find a method of coping.
**And the method of coping should not revolve around Denial and Lack
of Processing, but should be a series of cathartic endeavors to accept
and embrace the situation, and go through all desperate measures to
Fill the Void.
**I was traveling from Santa Barbara, and then I went over the hill
right around Mulholland to have my first glimpse of the Los Angeles
Mountain Ranges and the urban sprawl of this City of Angels, or More
so this City of Collective Self-Destruction. City of the Phoenix. City
of births and deaths and reconstructions and risings from ashes. But
the next Collective Death is bound to be massive. Huge. And through
the encounter of this Edge of LA Vista, this is the first time where I
had really come to full-blown tears. The same thing was happening.
Whether it was the loss of a friend, a divorce, an anticipated
passing. It was as if this Mental Spiderweb projected on Landscapes--
one I was previously incognizant of--or desensitized to--started to
unravel and dissassociate. Detach. I first described this process upon
my best friend Talei's return to China. Everywhere I went--the Ranch
99 market, Two Trees, Sugarloaf Mountain, the Epic Geobum House of
Talei, Tom, Karl, Yasmin (whoa dude, that was fun)--every single
location as to where I had some form of intimate experience with Talei
had been heightened and then it was as if a string in my mind detached
Talei from the location of experience. The spider web was curling into
a thick ball of Silky Memories at the core of my mind, that was not
being overlaid with the deposition of new memories. This Caving in of
my Mental Spider Web forces me to reflect and crystallize the essence
of this Ball, this Crystal of Beautiful Experiences of Life, that can
now only be accurately described due to Spatial-temporal distancing,
due to Recency of Loss. I cried a little bit when Talei left, but to
think that this was happening to my mind upon the knowledge of the
passing and Fetal Regeneation of my grandfather
**And to think that the same situation was occurring in my mind with
my grandfather was so overwhelming, because it encompassed this
vastness of space and depth of time that was like almost an attempt to
Reconstruct Greek History or even Geologic History, when
Reconstructing Memories of Talei on a timeline was moreso like an
attempt to Reconstruct the Recency of Americna History.
**I looked at my grandfather in bed, and he looked like how he was
when I saw him last in that horrid Marlora hospital--the starting
point of the source of his sicknesses. But he was thinner and non-
conversive. He opened his eyes to check that I was there, and he
acknowledged my existence, and that was the most important thing to
me.
**Viewing Ray in his medical bed versus viewing Ray as I had known him
all my life was a Pure Dichotomy: It was like a Perceptual Joke. Ray
in Fetal Existence in 1912 and now 2008. Come on. This has to be a
perceptual joke.
**You come to ask when and where and how and why your memory turns on
or off. When your memory becomes pristine-sharp and vivid, when your
memory becomes fuzzy, and when your memory is just little blips. As of
yesterday, that your mind turns on and off (and the degree of it being
turned on and off) depends largely on how the event is dependent upon
Life and Death, and Love. Survival and Replication. I'll be dxmmed. Go
figure. How predictable of us human organisms. For example, the
origins of your first "romance," first kiss and all that shxt that
Hollywood has managed to butcher the topic to the Nth degree that any
form of novel description seems to be ruined by the existing
accumulation of one-million-and-one-ways on how to have a chance-
encounter-developing-compatibility romance between two random humans
among 6 billion on Planet Earth. Aside from that, memory seems to
switch on 100% at the brink of Life and Death, at the brink of loss.
And such was an exprience that I had when I first entered St. Mary's
hospital.
**My sister said that the loss of cognition can be verified by testing
one's awareness of four factors (1) purpose-motive (2) place (3) time
(4) people. Like wow. That is the barebone essence of Literary
Narrative. Is writing literature and constructing stories all that
"mysteriouss"?
**I started to wonder why living things don't live forever. Why living
things can't just sit like rocks for hundreds of thousands of millions
of years. Life would be cool and low stress, you know.
**If you're young enough / and lucky enough / you will have a second
chance / you can live a second chance
**but if you're old enough / don't mean to sound so rough / there's no
way out, in the end / no second route as the road bends
**It is funny how the passing of one family member requires the
shifting-and-re-organization of family hierarchy and family structure.
**For example, I suddenly feel a lot closer to my father. A lot, LOT
closer. And also last night, I stayed late and communed with my Grand
Uncle Dwight, who is left-handed. Go figure. You could tell right off
the bat. For the first time in my life I was awed and fascinated by
the woodwork of all these Vertebrates (and Invertebrates) that he
carved out of various surfaces of wood. He described the difficulties
of carving and shimmering each individual piece of woodwork in terms
of the direction of the wood chips, it's best to go with the flow of
the layers of the branch. And then he showed me the Insides of the
Computer: "It looks like a Traffic Congestion Worse than LA!" on one
side and "Your very own city, 5 miles-squared" on the other side.
Uncle Dwight and I not only get along at a rational level, but we get
along so well at an emotional and artistic level and "great
enthusiasm" level. Ray is very logical and linear and Dwight is more
creatively non-linear, and it passed off onto his kids--my aunts Jery
Lyn and Jean. I get along with that side of the family SOOO well.
**So, along these lines, I feel like I have annexed Uncle Dwight as my
new grandfather, as I have mentioned Dolf Seilacher, is like my
symbolic intellectual grandfather. Wish I could hang out with him more
often. I keep thinking perhaps I should go into History of Science,
because Dolf makes me realize the dramatic shifts of scientific
convention, within his own lifespan, change within just 100 years.
**My father said I should feel fortunate that I had years with Ray.
And I took them for granted. My father said that he barely saw or knew
his grandparents at all. Geez. I was complaining how I think there
should be a "break of routine" in terms of Thanksgiving and Christmas.
It's almost like this mind-numbing, highly marketed, derogatory
practice of America... but then... It seems like Life has Broken its
Routine, and that this year, I will need the Routine of Thanksgiving
and Christmas more than ever.
**It's funny how different people cope with the same situation. For my
sister, Jenny, she is the most wonderfulest sister in the whole world.
Through physical therapy training at Cal State Northridge, she has
transformed herself to a medical guru. There is one member of the
family who has learned fresh information from school and can instantly
apply it: chronically question and bully the doctors and nurses about
what is going on. That is just EPIC. Institutions don't care about
you. Only family does, and that my sister has the capacity to "direct"
and chronically keep in check the operations of institutions. She has
such a sense of command and mastery of the situation that perhaps the
rest of the family feels a sense of "distant chaos" in hospital
operations. To think that her education can allow her to maneuver
through the most trying times of life and the family is just one of
those experiences that make me have hope that Education has a Value
and Intimate Tie with Reality.
**My sister has a Puritan ideal rather than a Practical point of view:
Save Life at All Costs, whereas my grandfather chose not to undertake
an Artificial Life
**So My sister and Mother deal with Tragedy through Medical and Health
Nut Approaches.
**My father and I deal with Tragedy through reconstruction of
environmental history, and ecology, through writing, through weaving
science and the personal experience.
**My father and I cope through being environmental gurus.
**Timeline, my grandfather was the first to hit the Big U. He broke
the ice in terms of a Parade of Offspring Going off to College. And
even Graduate School. Inheritance of good habits passed down
generations.
**Artificial Life. Artificial Life. Ecologically. Lifestyle-wise. And
Medically. An Evolution of an Artificial Life. Two Generations Removed
from the Land: An Evolution of a Cognitive Disney's Castle on a Cloud.
**All I can say is that my grandfather, no matter what happens, has
worked hard, and he wants me to work very hard. He doesn't want me to
dwell. He wants me to embrace what he knows and he wants me to grow
upon all that this family has built upon. He doesn't want me to give
up, and he wants me to love everyone and make a family of everyone,
and give kindness to everyone. Free Big Hugs.
Gathering of Documents and History--It Takes a Great Loss / To Make a
Great Find / Through Your Grievous Death / I Found My Gracious Life
**Timeline of Ray's life, through Bub. Later through Uncle Dwight.
**Some form of History of California, history of landscape change,
history of technological overhaul, technological extreme makeover
through one life of 100 years.
**Interviews with Ray Minnich from a lady by the name of Kimberly
Creighton.
**Memorium of Ray
**Photographic Collage of Ray
This will be a timed writing of notable scraps. I will have to
elaborate this later.
**A Passing/Tragedy/Disaster of an individual is a Shock Doctrine to
the Family.
**A Disaster to an entire region is a Shock Doctrine to an entire
Nation.
**At small to large scales, we endure the same process of shock, loss,
withdrawal, as a relative is curled into a physical and mental fetal
position, the entire family is being transformed into a collective
mental fetal position, and each member, from indivdual to collective,
has seemed to find a method of coping.
**And the method of coping should not revolve around Denial and Lack
of Processing, but should be a series of cathartic endeavors to accept
and embrace the situation, and go through all desperate measures to
Fill the Void.
**I was traveling from Santa Barbara, and then I went over the hill
right around Mulholland to have my first glimpse of the Los Angeles
Mountain Ranges and the urban sprawl of this City of Angels, or More
so this City of Collective Self-Destruction. City of the Phoenix. City
of births and deaths and reconstructions and risings from ashes. But
the next Collective Death is bound to be massive. Huge. And through
the encounter of this Edge of LA Vista, this is the first time where I
had really come to full-blown tears. The same thing was happening.
Whether it was the loss of a friend, a divorce, an anticipated
passing. It was as if this Mental Spiderweb projected on Landscapes--
one I was previously incognizant of--or desensitized to--started to
unravel and dissassociate. Detach. I first described this process upon
my best friend Talei's return to China. Everywhere I went--the Ranch
99 market, Two Trees, Sugarloaf Mountain, the Epic Geobum House of
Talei, Tom, Karl, Yasmin (whoa dude, that was fun)--every single
location as to where I had some form of intimate experience with Talei
had been heightened and then it was as if a string in my mind detached
Talei from the location of experience. The spider web was curling into
a thick ball of Silky Memories at the core of my mind, that was not
being overlaid with the deposition of new memories. This Caving in of
my Mental Spider Web forces me to reflect and crystallize the essence
of this Ball, this Crystal of Beautiful Experiences of Life, that can
now only be accurately described due to Spatial-temporal distancing,
due to Recency of Loss. I cried a little bit when Talei left, but to
think that this was happening to my mind upon the knowledge of the
passing and Fetal Regeneation of my grandfather
**And to think that the same situation was occurring in my mind with
my grandfather was so overwhelming, because it encompassed this
vastness of space and depth of time that was like almost an attempt to
Reconstruct Greek History or even Geologic History, when
Reconstructing Memories of Talei on a timeline was moreso like an
attempt to Reconstruct the Recency of Americna History.
**I looked at my grandfather in bed, and he looked like how he was
when I saw him last in that horrid Marlora hospital--the starting
point of the source of his sicknesses. But he was thinner and non-
conversive. He opened his eyes to check that I was there, and he
acknowledged my existence, and that was the most important thing to
me.
**Viewing Ray in his medical bed versus viewing Ray as I had known him
all my life was a Pure Dichotomy: It was like a Perceptual Joke. Ray
in Fetal Existence in 1912 and now 2008. Come on. This has to be a
perceptual joke.
**You come to ask when and where and how and why your memory turns on
or off. When your memory becomes pristine-sharp and vivid, when your
memory becomes fuzzy, and when your memory is just little blips. As of
yesterday, that your mind turns on and off (and the degree of it being
turned on and off) depends largely on how the event is dependent upon
Life and Death, and Love. Survival and Replication. I'll be dxmmed. Go
figure. How predictable of us human organisms. For example, the
origins of your first "romance," first kiss and all that shxt that
Hollywood has managed to butcher the topic to the Nth degree that any
form of novel description seems to be ruined by the existing
accumulation of one-million-and-one-ways on how to have a chance-
encounter-developing-compatibility romance between two random humans
among 6 billion on Planet Earth. Aside from that, memory seems to
switch on 100% at the brink of Life and Death, at the brink of loss.
And such was an exprience that I had when I first entered St. Mary's
hospital.
**My sister said that the loss of cognition can be verified by testing
one's awareness of four factors (1) purpose-motive (2) place (3) time
(4) people. Like wow. That is the barebone essence of Literary
Narrative. Is writing literature and constructing stories all that
"mysteriouss"?
**I started to wonder why living things don't live forever. Why living
things can't just sit like rocks for hundreds of thousands of millions
of years. Life would be cool and low stress, you know.
**If you're young enough / and lucky enough / you will have a second
chance / you can live a second chance
**but if you're old enough / don't mean to sound so rough / there's no
way out, in the end / no second route as the road bends
**It is funny how the passing of one family member requires the
shifting-and-re-organization of family hierarchy and family structure.
**For example, I suddenly feel a lot closer to my father. A lot, LOT
closer. And also last night, I stayed late and communed with my Grand
Uncle Dwight, who is left-handed. Go figure. You could tell right off
the bat. For the first time in my life I was awed and fascinated by
the woodwork of all these Vertebrates (and Invertebrates) that he
carved out of various surfaces of wood. He described the difficulties
of carving and shimmering each individual piece of woodwork in terms
of the direction of the wood chips, it's best to go with the flow of
the layers of the branch. And then he showed me the Insides of the
Computer: "It looks like a Traffic Congestion Worse than LA!" on one
side and "Your very own city, 5 miles-squared" on the other side.
Uncle Dwight and I not only get along at a rational level, but we get
along so well at an emotional and artistic level and "great
enthusiasm" level. Ray is very logical and linear and Dwight is more
creatively non-linear, and it passed off onto his kids--my aunts Jery
Lyn and Jean. I get along with that side of the family SOOO well.
**So, along these lines, I feel like I have annexed Uncle Dwight as my
new grandfather, as I have mentioned Dolf Seilacher, is like my
symbolic intellectual grandfather. Wish I could hang out with him more
often. I keep thinking perhaps I should go into History of Science,
because Dolf makes me realize the dramatic shifts of scientific
convention, within his own lifespan, change within just 100 years.
**My father said I should feel fortunate that I had years with Ray.
And I took them for granted. My father said that he barely saw or knew
his grandparents at all. Geez. I was complaining how I think there
should be a "break of routine" in terms of Thanksgiving and Christmas.
It's almost like this mind-numbing, highly marketed, derogatory
practice of America... but then... It seems like Life has Broken its
Routine, and that this year, I will need the Routine of Thanksgiving
and Christmas more than ever.
**It's funny how different people cope with the same situation. For my
sister, Jenny, she is the most wonderfulest sister in the whole world.
Through physical therapy training at Cal State Northridge, she has
transformed herself to a medical guru. There is one member of the
family who has learned fresh information from school and can instantly
apply it: chronically question and bully the doctors and nurses about
what is going on. That is just EPIC. Institutions don't care about
you. Only family does, and that my sister has the capacity to "direct"
and chronically keep in check the operations of institutions. She has
such a sense of command and mastery of the situation that perhaps the
rest of the family feels a sense of "distant chaos" in hospital
operations. To think that her education can allow her to maneuver
through the most trying times of life and the family is just one of
those experiences that make me have hope that Education has a Value
and Intimate Tie with Reality.
**My sister has a Puritan ideal rather than a Practical point of view:
Save Life at All Costs, whereas my grandfather chose not to undertake
an Artificial Life
**So My sister and Mother deal with Tragedy through Medical and Health
Nut Approaches.
**My father and I deal with Tragedy through reconstruction of
environmental history, and ecology, through writing, through weaving
science and the personal experience.
**My father and I cope through being environmental gurus.
**Timeline, my grandfather was the first to hit the Big U. He broke
the ice in terms of a Parade of Offspring Going off to College. And
even Graduate School. Inheritance of good habits passed down
generations.
**Artificial Life. Artificial Life. Ecologically. Lifestyle-wise. And
Medically. An Evolution of an Artificial Life. Two Generations Removed
from the Land: An Evolution of a Cognitive Disney's Castle on a Cloud.
**All I can say is that my grandfather, no matter what happens, has
worked hard, and he wants me to work very hard. He doesn't want me to
dwell. He wants me to embrace what he knows and he wants me to grow
upon all that this family has built upon. He doesn't want me to give
up, and he wants me to love everyone and make a family of everyone,
and give kindness to everyone. Free Big Hugs.
Gathering of Documents and History--It Takes a Great Loss / To Make a
Great Find / Through Your Grievous Death / I Found My Gracious Life
**Timeline of Ray's life, through Bub. Later through Uncle Dwight.
**Some form of History of California, history of landscape change,
history of technological overhaul, technological extreme makeover
through one life of 100 years.
**Interviews with Ray Minnich from a lady by the name of Kimberly
Creighton.
**Memorium of Ray
**Photographic Collage of Ray
Victoria "Stokastika"
Jan 1, 2009, 12:02:26 PM1/1/09
to Question Reality
I spent New Years alone in my head
With a dialogue, chorused symphony
of Santa Barbara instead.
I received a high-five
and a free coffee
the night before--
but how can Starbucks run out of honey
on New Years Eve?
I spent the Christmas Break going on a deep journey--
a journey in my mind--it's not a bad trip
emptying it out, cleaning and scrubbing,
clearing it to a blank slate--
as much as possible, eh?
I held a grim conversation with my father with my rump over the
toilet. He and my mother are taking frequent trips to my grandfather's
house.
It is undergoing massive transformations and I hadn't even had a
chance to take pictures yet.
5620 Lewis Avenue. My grandfather was the last of the older
neighborhood, a gradual succession, wave of youthful hispanics and
African Americans
overcame the neighborhood. What overturn to witness just in twenty
years of my own life!
All the books are out of the house. They were donated to the local
library. Tolstoy. Brewer. My father was not too selective. He didn't
even consider selling them to Ebay, just distribute to the common
good. My father got rid of 99.5% of all the video tapes.He kept a few
tapes with Marion supposedly recorded on them. He kept the Sound of
Music, but he did not keep Mary Poppins. This bothered me tremendously
because he knew every single time Jenny and I went to Marion and Ray's
house we would watch Mary Poppins. We probably watched that movie 50
times, and we were so excited to watch it every single time. So
dreamy. I remember perhaps age 10 I grew out of it. I started to "know
things" and realize that this whole happy land on television was
illusory.
My father said that the film is in good hands of the local library, so
don't worry about it. You can rent Mary Poppins any time. It's a
Disney Timely classic.
But that was not the point. The first point is (1) my father's
decision-making habits of collecting and throwing away items--he only
thought of himself (keeping books related to early California
vegetation, even early maps) and didn't consider the memories of my
sister and I (but then again, it's a heavy feeling, what do you
expect, so much history in that house dug up, stimulating some VERY
OLD NEURONS in my father's brain), and (2) my father didn't understand
that I wanted "that specific cassette" in my closet with my collection
of experiences. Because it was not just ANY Mary Poppins, but it was
the cassette that Marion kept and stored for us in her brown casing.
That film brainwashed me as a kid. Took LOTS of brain space. Maybe it
exposed me to good lyrics. Maybe listening to Julie Andrews indirectly
helped me have a voice--establish understanding of lyrics...
Memories just fade away like paint. Things are shifting. The tennis
courts at UC Riverside were bulldozed. And now? Ray's house is getting
modified, shifted. Pine tree torn apart. The Redwood stays. So do the
macadamia nuts and fruit trees. The backyard is still in fine shape.
When Ray was well, he shot a squirrel.
Ray was in good shape till the very end. Then the hospital just fxcked
him over till he drowned in his own fluid-filled lungs.
Pardon my language, but it's of appropriate use.
It's very difficult to go to the house. I still see it as alive. Still
there. Still everything maintained, intact. But then, as soon as there
is passing, the construct, the bower of the human just erodes, fades,
so rapidly, to some pre-existing earthly biotic state. Some kind of
World After Man.
With a dialogue, chorused symphony
of Santa Barbara instead.
I received a high-five
and a free coffee
the night before--
but how can Starbucks run out of honey
on New Years Eve?
I spent the Christmas Break going on a deep journey--
a journey in my mind--it's not a bad trip
emptying it out, cleaning and scrubbing,
clearing it to a blank slate--
as much as possible, eh?
I held a grim conversation with my father with my rump over the
toilet. He and my mother are taking frequent trips to my grandfather's
house.
It is undergoing massive transformations and I hadn't even had a
chance to take pictures yet.
5620 Lewis Avenue. My grandfather was the last of the older
neighborhood, a gradual succession, wave of youthful hispanics and
African Americans
overcame the neighborhood. What overturn to witness just in twenty
years of my own life!
All the books are out of the house. They were donated to the local
library. Tolstoy. Brewer. My father was not too selective. He didn't
even consider selling them to Ebay, just distribute to the common
good. My father got rid of 99.5% of all the video tapes.He kept a few
tapes with Marion supposedly recorded on them. He kept the Sound of
Music, but he did not keep Mary Poppins. This bothered me tremendously
because he knew every single time Jenny and I went to Marion and Ray's
house we would watch Mary Poppins. We probably watched that movie 50
times, and we were so excited to watch it every single time. So
dreamy. I remember perhaps age 10 I grew out of it. I started to "know
things" and realize that this whole happy land on television was
illusory.
My father said that the film is in good hands of the local library, so
don't worry about it. You can rent Mary Poppins any time. It's a
Disney Timely classic.
But that was not the point. The first point is (1) my father's
decision-making habits of collecting and throwing away items--he only
thought of himself (keeping books related to early California
vegetation, even early maps) and didn't consider the memories of my
sister and I (but then again, it's a heavy feeling, what do you
expect, so much history in that house dug up, stimulating some VERY
OLD NEURONS in my father's brain), and (2) my father didn't understand
that I wanted "that specific cassette" in my closet with my collection
of experiences. Because it was not just ANY Mary Poppins, but it was
the cassette that Marion kept and stored for us in her brown casing.
That film brainwashed me as a kid. Took LOTS of brain space. Maybe it
exposed me to good lyrics. Maybe listening to Julie Andrews indirectly
helped me have a voice--establish understanding of lyrics...
Memories just fade away like paint. Things are shifting. The tennis
courts at UC Riverside were bulldozed. And now? Ray's house is getting
modified, shifted. Pine tree torn apart. The Redwood stays. So do the
macadamia nuts and fruit trees. The backyard is still in fine shape.
When Ray was well, he shot a squirrel.
Ray was in good shape till the very end. Then the hospital just fxcked
him over till he drowned in his own fluid-filled lungs.
Pardon my language, but it's of appropriate use.
It's very difficult to go to the house. I still see it as alive. Still
there. Still everything maintained, intact. But then, as soon as there
is passing, the construct, the bower of the human just erodes, fades,
so rapidly, to some pre-existing earthly biotic state. Some kind of
World After Man.
Victoria "Stokastika"
Jan 1, 2009, 12:04:53 PM1/1/09
to Question Reality
My father choosing to keep certain things and toss the rest--another
case of cognitive dissonance.
It's impossible to keep everything. "Handling time" of materials, very
swift for my father.
He is managing with the "get over it" mentality of Martin Kennedy.
case of cognitive dissonance.
It's impossible to keep everything. "Handling time" of materials, very
swift for my father.
He is managing with the "get over it" mentality of Martin Kennedy.
Victoria "Stokastika"
Jan 4, 2009, 1:07:50 AM1/4/09
to Question Reality
My sister Jenny was telling me over the phone today that my parents
were "fighting" over the issues of Ray's investments--my mother is
pissed off that money is involved in the stock market when the market
is so volatile and explosive/implosive nowadays. My father doesn't
want to budge in investments: Ray invested in some form of propene (?)
and Shell Chemical (he worked for them during World War II).
Ultimately my father is in charge of those things, but my mother is
being quite "bossy" about things--she can suggest advice, but
ultimately it's my father's decision.
They were apparently fighting yesterday evening (but I just had a
phone call with them and they went to Don Jose--I was raised on that
Mexican Food!) and my sister had to walk into the conversation, "Why
don't you guys actually talk civily and solve problems like adults!"
because both Mama and Baba were acting like combative babies. My
sister should be in dispute resolution over environmental problems, ha
ha! Wow, a kid telling her parents to "act like adults"! What an
oxymoron! It kind of reminded me when Dr. Milton Love asked his kids
whether he could get a couple of tattos with fish on them--one a
boccacio, the other fish has a parasitic male on the side--I'll get
back to you--it's in my blog.
Jenny finally told me that THE UNDERLYING MOTIVE OF MY MOTHER--which
she has NOT expressed to Baba--is the level of security and trust in
buying a flat, a place in Greece, and she would feel A LOT BETTER
about the decision if Ray's money were "secure"--as a back up. And
right now, as I said, the stock market has Severe Bipolar Disorder and
right now it's on a major downer. Go Bush! Bush's unruly behavior
transformed the country to socialist! Ha ha! Thanks, man! Now you have
the country where I would have originally liked it to be in the first
place! He he.
The problem overall is that there is miscommunication between Mama and
Baba. Lack of complete information. Plus the Uncertainty Principle in
the stock market. How can you make a decision based on information of
an Unknown Future? Whatever, it's NONE OF MY BUSINESS. Like I said,
the world goes through the black hole, I am in Santa Barbara, and I am
going to eat rabbits, squirrels, and fish--most likely fish. I am
going to be friends with all the local fishermen and life will be
good. I'll eat lots of avocados too. So, owning money in the bank is
an artificial construct of a massive interdependent human leaf cutter
ant colony. Moving on.
It's very hard on my sister to see my parents fight over my
grandfather's belongings. That's such bullshxt, and that is the LAST
THING Ray would have ever wanted.
were "fighting" over the issues of Ray's investments--my mother is
pissed off that money is involved in the stock market when the market
is so volatile and explosive/implosive nowadays. My father doesn't
want to budge in investments: Ray invested in some form of propene (?)
and Shell Chemical (he worked for them during World War II).
Ultimately my father is in charge of those things, but my mother is
being quite "bossy" about things--she can suggest advice, but
ultimately it's my father's decision.
They were apparently fighting yesterday evening (but I just had a
phone call with them and they went to Don Jose--I was raised on that
Mexican Food!) and my sister had to walk into the conversation, "Why
don't you guys actually talk civily and solve problems like adults!"
because both Mama and Baba were acting like combative babies. My
sister should be in dispute resolution over environmental problems, ha
ha! Wow, a kid telling her parents to "act like adults"! What an
oxymoron! It kind of reminded me when Dr. Milton Love asked his kids
whether he could get a couple of tattos with fish on them--one a
boccacio, the other fish has a parasitic male on the side--I'll get
back to you--it's in my blog.
Jenny finally told me that THE UNDERLYING MOTIVE OF MY MOTHER--which
she has NOT expressed to Baba--is the level of security and trust in
buying a flat, a place in Greece, and she would feel A LOT BETTER
about the decision if Ray's money were "secure"--as a back up. And
right now, as I said, the stock market has Severe Bipolar Disorder and
right now it's on a major downer. Go Bush! Bush's unruly behavior
transformed the country to socialist! Ha ha! Thanks, man! Now you have
the country where I would have originally liked it to be in the first
place! He he.
The problem overall is that there is miscommunication between Mama and
Baba. Lack of complete information. Plus the Uncertainty Principle in
the stock market. How can you make a decision based on information of
an Unknown Future? Whatever, it's NONE OF MY BUSINESS. Like I said,
the world goes through the black hole, I am in Santa Barbara, and I am
going to eat rabbits, squirrels, and fish--most likely fish. I am
going to be friends with all the local fishermen and life will be
good. I'll eat lots of avocados too. So, owning money in the bank is
an artificial construct of a massive interdependent human leaf cutter
ant colony. Moving on.
It's very hard on my sister to see my parents fight over my
grandfather's belongings. That's such bullshxt, and that is the LAST
THING Ray would have ever wanted.
Victoria "Stokastika"
Jan 4, 2009, 2:24:45 AM1/4/09
to Question Reality
I just had a Fuzzy Father Appreciation Moment. Today is January 3,
2008. In an ideal world, it would be around June 15--"father's day." I
do not completely understand why my "emotions" and "gratitude moments"
are always out of sync with the respective holidays.
The Psychology of Collecting.
What do people collect, organize? What do people throw out?
What do people accumulate, but do not sort and organize?
Why is there flow of materials and thought processes? Why is there
chaos and REPRESSION?
For my grandfather Ray, there were lots of elements of Repression.
First of all, Ray was very smart. He was the first of the family to
break into the college circuit, but in an extreme way, going from
Pomona-LaVerne to Stanford chemistry (messing around with bigshots
like the Bandinis and Granelles)--and he was one year short of getting
a Ph.D. He was Nobel Laureate material. Did research Shell Chemical.
Then he settled down and had a family. Shxt. That's why you have
career first, then family--as what my father says. Then you will go
through Repression all your life and wonder "what life would have been
like" if you dared to remain "single-serving" (Fight Club
terminology)?
So that is "Sphere of Repression #1." Settling down with a family is
like putting your head in a box. You are constructing your own prison.
Forced to settle down and have a 20-year-to-life-sentence raising
kids.
Sphere of Repression #2 is the passing of Ray's parents Otto and Della
a couple of weeks before the birth of John (my dad's Asburger's
brother--retroactive diagnosis 10 years post death--need to make a
Memento Movie out of this!), Ray does not and chooses not to think
about those times. Off limits in his brain. Neurological severage--
shock.
Sphere of Repression #3 is the passing of John in 1987. Ray doesn't
talk about it. Ray put Marion on Valium for quite a while to deal with
the emotions of loss--she became addicted and it was hard to get her
off. The Marion had to deal with arthritis--then 15 years before her
passing, the symptoms of Alzheimers were creeping all over. So I wrote
a report age 15. Ray never took Valium apparently, but he's good at
neurological severaging. Repression.
So, I am talking about this because my father is sorting and
organizing and throwing out lots of "accumulated useless crxp"
"natural accumulation" in Ray's house. Very disorganized, Bub said. I
told Bub that Ray--since his mind is in a state of locked-fixation-
repression in several spheres--he had no ability to organize and clean
up the household. But Bub does, and is doing that right now. Throwing
lots of things out. Keeping other things. My father is throwing out
all these pictures of his ex wife--this blank slate of information--I
don't even know how she looks--apparently she works in recycling in
the Thousand Oaks area--discussion of the cat dying and the dog dying,
but that’s as far as communication went. Apparently, her parents
stopped by
I remember my father discussing her—last name of Green?—in great
detail in the last trip to Hawaii. Seven years married, during his
masters and Ph.D. times, and about a year before his graduate school
was over, my father was fed up. He called up Ray, who picked him up
and my father lived in the cabin for quite a few months. I think is a
good time to sort out your head. The cabin is an optimal place to be
in close proximity to society (a half-hour drive down a windy road in
the mountains) but still quite cut off and isolated from society.
That’s how I feel about Santa Barbara’s relationship to the rest of
southern California. My father said that his first wife was really
clumsy and forgetful—well, my dad can be that way as well, but my
father does not lose his keys all the time. He rarely loses his keys!
Ray was a “dictator” of a “German father,” (or should I say
“overbearing Polish father”? I know TWO of those) though Jeri Lyn does
not remember it to be that way. In the pictures, Ray always had a
hugging hand around one or a few of his kids—Bub and John, Jean and
Jeri Lyn. Ray was heavily involved in family gatherings. My father
claimed that Ray was a dictator—whether John was an autistic/
Asburger’s (non-diagnosed) or not.
My father claimed that he had “intellectual role models” through his
brother “who flaunted that he knew all the names of trees and bugs,
and then he would just rattle them off, BAM like that.” My father also
had help from Ray. For example, Bub became interested in weather
because one day he walked home from school, and he saw a cloud. And it
was the first time he “saw” the cloud, and my father became instantly
“scared of a cloud.” He ran home and cried to his dad, and then Ray
got Bub a little field guide to weather. And my dad started observing
the weather ever since. My dad played with Ray’s topo maps (that were
apparently forbidden in the closet) and he clipped out and collected
daily weather forecastings from the newspaper. I mean, talk about
“born geek.” The cabin was the playhouse of my father and John, and it
is tragic to compare the cabin playground to the modern child’s
playground—infested with being indoors and playing video games.
Children are so saturated with toys that they are removed from the
landscape. They just become big balls of fat who have become addicted
to screens. Imagine if my dad were born around Super Mario Brothers!
Would he have become a weather nut? I don’t know. It’s like asking
whether Einstein would have become Einstein if he were born in an
African Tribe instead. Not sure. It’s the interaction between the
brain and the brain’s environment. You need the right combination of
ingredients and synergisms to construct something juicy—and
potentially brilliant. As I learned from doing a biography of John
Muir, people and their ideas are greatly by products of their immersed
environments.
The main issue though is my father had “no social role models.” Marion
was “instinctive,” but “not intelligent.” My father said that he
passed his mother’s know-how by age 7. My dad was a walking calculator
(besides a living GPS unit). Marion would ask him all the time math
questions for accounting purposes. I think perhaps Marion had a lot
of capacity to be intelligent, it was just not fully expressed or
blossomed out of her. Otherwise, how did my sister and I get to go so
far—in higher education—you would think Marion’s genes would have
rubbed off in a “negative way,” but Jenny and I are “solid brains plus
work ethics.” It makes you wonder whether there is a “smart gene” or
whether it’s more of an environmental propensity.
Off topic. My father had NO SOCIAL ROLE MODELS. He learned from
whoever he could—bits and pieces—just not from anyone in the family,
maybe Uncle Dwight? (It was wonderful to see the two most inspiring
family members sit right next to each other this Christmas—my father
and aunt Jeri Lyn—science and art in two people. What inspiration!)
Jonathon Sauer was a huge influence on my father. My dad mourned quite
a bit when he found out he passed away. He was going blind—in his
nineties. I met him once, I think I was 11 years old.
Given that, I told Bub that “you didn’t match any mold, but you
invented yourself to who you are.” And that is when I had a Fuzzy
Father Appreciation Moment. I told my father whenever I talk about
family issues to people, I describe Mama as the “obsessive dictator”
and my father as the “gentle guider.” “We would go to the mountains
and my dad would tell us to look out the window rather than play with
toys in the car. My dad would be talking about trees and fire and
clouds. And I have been spending all my life trying to figure out what
the hxll my dad kept rambling about on all these car rides.” My father
never told me and Jenny what to do, but he was there, and whenever he
had time with us, we would go to the hills in his research sites. We
would also play spelling and math games in the car while Mama was
going grocery shopping. He made these games really fun. We also played
“ghost”—spelling game started with Kuba and Bolek. And then my dad
would listen to classical music and let me and Jenny listen—like the
Rite of Spring, Bach’s requiem came quite frequently. My first full-
blown piece of music was actually a requieum, great start! Nope. Not a
“lovey dubby” Hollywood song. This mystery writer by the name of Barry
(OC Writers) really loved my music. His girlfriend was ailing and
everyone was totally touched by what I had written. My dad also read
to me and Jenny Mark Twain short stories. Like General Stormfield’s
Visit to Heaven and the Notorious Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.
Whatever it was, my father was a self-made character. He is a
scientist but he tries to cut himself off as much as possible from the
bureaucracy of science. He truly tries to be an independent scientist—
which can also be bad especially when his research has HUGE policy/
management implications. My father is a role-model as a scientist for
me. My father’s methods of research is a “baseline” of comparing all
other scientists’ research strategies. I came to realize how
“anomalous” my father was, even in his methods of science.
My father “brainwashed” me into scientific writing ever since I wrote
my first essay in first grade. He edited all my papers. It was
unintentional brainwashing, but I love him for doing that. I also love
my mother for not buying any video games for me or my sister, though
we kicked and screamed back then because my friend Agatka had Super
Mario Brothers and Zelda (we went to her house to play those games!)
Whatever it was, my father was a Gentle Guider. I was essentially my
father’s graduate student ever since I gained some level of
consciousness—let’s say age 3 or 4. People say I have to serve society
(academia at least) 25 more years before I can open my mouth and say
that I want. Let’s just say I had a head start. I am 27 years old, and
I am opening my mouth NOW.
I was asked to fill out a form by “yahoo” who asked “Who is my
favorite author?” I was going through all the issues in my head, and I
was like, “Wait a second! That’s my father!”
Okay, enough Fuzzy Father Appreciation Day. I wasn’t expecting this to
belch out, but I am glad it did. Who would have known that my father
had given birth to a child who would one day become a collaborator of
scientific research. What a beautiful thought. I made it this far!
The most tragic part about Ray’s passing is that I am most conscious
of it. More conscious than my grandmother. More conscious than both of
my grandmothers.
SNIPIT INFORMATION
**1987 John’s death, Marion had to take Valium to deal with the
emotions of the death of John, some letter saying that Marthiea killed
him, some kind of affair going on, additional stress, no medicine and
no one around to help deal with an asthma attack
**took a while for Marion to ween off the Valium, then took Arthritis
medicine, which could have led to the condition of Alzheimers and
plaque build-up
**there was never much discussion about John’s passing, he was hard to
defend, my father had no use for him, high functioning autistic with
the Ego the size of Katmandu, Ray never brought up John to my father,
it was a struggling childhood, abandoned him in the desert, off
chasing butterflies, there was no “older protective brother” / Dr.
Spock, don’t hug and love your newborn baby, dogma, something about a
knife, John bruised up my dad quite a bit… bub played baseball, lost
interest in high school…
**all my father did was call him once a year and wish John happy
birthday and then he would have to listen for an hour to him and all
the amazing things he had done… one-way streeth monologue
**John’s circle of “intellectual buddies”—Ken Nagy included (my UCLA
prof in physiology, I owe him a book in return), UC Riverside,
something about mistreatment of tortoises, found out that John did
research ecophysiology of desert lizards or something, John and my dad
went to the same schools—UC Riverside, Wisconsin—John’s academic
circuit knew there was something socially weird about him
**being Asburger’s is perhaps a BENEFIT in academia
**John and my father were TWO EXTREMES of BRAINS—my father was
extremely left handed and right brains, and John was extremely RIGHT
HANDED and LEFT BRAINED, he was Walking Jeopardy
**Ray and Marion one-sided marriage, bossing around, dictator, Marion
kind of suppressed, but still allowed to do dancing and community arts
stuff, it became more of a two way street, Ray took care of Marion
till the end (expense of his own health), 1960s Republican family, Ray
was a “big gestalt” person in terms of politics, very intellectual,
converted democrat post Johnson? Ray was in favor of civil rights (for
African Americans), I think my father and Ray are still not open about
gay-lesbian, though I did mention to them that my friends Lauri and
Talei are “bi” leaning toward the female-side, I am so astounded by
Harvey Milk, one day I would love to be like him, loved by everyone,
ground-up politics
**my father felt very LOST first year in college, UC Riverside,
flunked Calculus, on probation, but his geography profs realized how
good he was, hired him, my father created the METHODOLOGIES for aerial
photo interpretation!
**my grandfather never “processed” anything in the house because the
processing would have “huge knots and tangles” to untangle, that would
release HUGE EMOTIONAL ENERGY, repression, Ray passed, but who’s
alive? Dwight, Chuck—Charles gone, Judy, Bob, Judy’s kids, me, Jenny,
Mike, Laura, Jery Lyn, Steve’s side of the family, Laura’s and Mike’s
families and kids, Chuck’s side of the family—like I said, we still
have “huge thanksgivings” Ray left a LOT of legacy… NO, Ray is still
here, he is inside me, “you never passed away if you’re remembered”
Jenny and my father saw him “pass” I am so glad I didn’t see that…. My
grandfather was “good to the last drop” of life and the hospitals
fxcked him over and drove him to the ground, Fxck the Medical System!
Fxcking mass production operation. Now I understand why my mother
doesn’t want to go to the doctor, I am adaptive. I will go, but use
precaution. Tiny thing leads to a tumbling down. What a tipping point
to the end. Same thing happened to Meg’s grandmother, who passed away
a year ago. What would matter I tell T this? He lost his father. He
will just say life is ephemeral and nothing matters in the end. Don’t
get attached to anything, not even your own self.
2008. In an ideal world, it would be around June 15--"father's day." I
do not completely understand why my "emotions" and "gratitude moments"
are always out of sync with the respective holidays.
The Psychology of Collecting.
What do people collect, organize? What do people throw out?
What do people accumulate, but do not sort and organize?
Why is there flow of materials and thought processes? Why is there
chaos and REPRESSION?
For my grandfather Ray, there were lots of elements of Repression.
First of all, Ray was very smart. He was the first of the family to
break into the college circuit, but in an extreme way, going from
Pomona-LaVerne to Stanford chemistry (messing around with bigshots
like the Bandinis and Granelles)--and he was one year short of getting
a Ph.D. He was Nobel Laureate material. Did research Shell Chemical.
Then he settled down and had a family. Shxt. That's why you have
career first, then family--as what my father says. Then you will go
through Repression all your life and wonder "what life would have been
like" if you dared to remain "single-serving" (Fight Club
terminology)?
So that is "Sphere of Repression #1." Settling down with a family is
like putting your head in a box. You are constructing your own prison.
Forced to settle down and have a 20-year-to-life-sentence raising
kids.
Sphere of Repression #2 is the passing of Ray's parents Otto and Della
a couple of weeks before the birth of John (my dad's Asburger's
brother--retroactive diagnosis 10 years post death--need to make a
Memento Movie out of this!), Ray does not and chooses not to think
about those times. Off limits in his brain. Neurological severage--
shock.
Sphere of Repression #3 is the passing of John in 1987. Ray doesn't
talk about it. Ray put Marion on Valium for quite a while to deal with
the emotions of loss--she became addicted and it was hard to get her
off. The Marion had to deal with arthritis--then 15 years before her
passing, the symptoms of Alzheimers were creeping all over. So I wrote
a report age 15. Ray never took Valium apparently, but he's good at
neurological severaging. Repression.
So, I am talking about this because my father is sorting and
organizing and throwing out lots of "accumulated useless crxp"
"natural accumulation" in Ray's house. Very disorganized, Bub said. I
told Bub that Ray--since his mind is in a state of locked-fixation-
repression in several spheres--he had no ability to organize and clean
up the household. But Bub does, and is doing that right now. Throwing
lots of things out. Keeping other things. My father is throwing out
all these pictures of his ex wife--this blank slate of information--I
don't even know how she looks--apparently she works in recycling in
the Thousand Oaks area--discussion of the cat dying and the dog dying,
but that’s as far as communication went. Apparently, her parents
stopped by
I remember my father discussing her—last name of Green?—in great
detail in the last trip to Hawaii. Seven years married, during his
masters and Ph.D. times, and about a year before his graduate school
was over, my father was fed up. He called up Ray, who picked him up
and my father lived in the cabin for quite a few months. I think is a
good time to sort out your head. The cabin is an optimal place to be
in close proximity to society (a half-hour drive down a windy road in
the mountains) but still quite cut off and isolated from society.
That’s how I feel about Santa Barbara’s relationship to the rest of
southern California. My father said that his first wife was really
clumsy and forgetful—well, my dad can be that way as well, but my
father does not lose his keys all the time. He rarely loses his keys!
Ray was a “dictator” of a “German father,” (or should I say
“overbearing Polish father”? I know TWO of those) though Jeri Lyn does
not remember it to be that way. In the pictures, Ray always had a
hugging hand around one or a few of his kids—Bub and John, Jean and
Jeri Lyn. Ray was heavily involved in family gatherings. My father
claimed that Ray was a dictator—whether John was an autistic/
Asburger’s (non-diagnosed) or not.
My father claimed that he had “intellectual role models” through his
brother “who flaunted that he knew all the names of trees and bugs,
and then he would just rattle them off, BAM like that.” My father also
had help from Ray. For example, Bub became interested in weather
because one day he walked home from school, and he saw a cloud. And it
was the first time he “saw” the cloud, and my father became instantly
“scared of a cloud.” He ran home and cried to his dad, and then Ray
got Bub a little field guide to weather. And my dad started observing
the weather ever since. My dad played with Ray’s topo maps (that were
apparently forbidden in the closet) and he clipped out and collected
daily weather forecastings from the newspaper. I mean, talk about
“born geek.” The cabin was the playhouse of my father and John, and it
is tragic to compare the cabin playground to the modern child’s
playground—infested with being indoors and playing video games.
Children are so saturated with toys that they are removed from the
landscape. They just become big balls of fat who have become addicted
to screens. Imagine if my dad were born around Super Mario Brothers!
Would he have become a weather nut? I don’t know. It’s like asking
whether Einstein would have become Einstein if he were born in an
African Tribe instead. Not sure. It’s the interaction between the
brain and the brain’s environment. You need the right combination of
ingredients and synergisms to construct something juicy—and
potentially brilliant. As I learned from doing a biography of John
Muir, people and their ideas are greatly by products of their immersed
environments.
The main issue though is my father had “no social role models.” Marion
was “instinctive,” but “not intelligent.” My father said that he
passed his mother’s know-how by age 7. My dad was a walking calculator
(besides a living GPS unit). Marion would ask him all the time math
questions for accounting purposes. I think perhaps Marion had a lot
of capacity to be intelligent, it was just not fully expressed or
blossomed out of her. Otherwise, how did my sister and I get to go so
far—in higher education—you would think Marion’s genes would have
rubbed off in a “negative way,” but Jenny and I are “solid brains plus
work ethics.” It makes you wonder whether there is a “smart gene” or
whether it’s more of an environmental propensity.
Off topic. My father had NO SOCIAL ROLE MODELS. He learned from
whoever he could—bits and pieces—just not from anyone in the family,
maybe Uncle Dwight? (It was wonderful to see the two most inspiring
family members sit right next to each other this Christmas—my father
and aunt Jeri Lyn—science and art in two people. What inspiration!)
Jonathon Sauer was a huge influence on my father. My dad mourned quite
a bit when he found out he passed away. He was going blind—in his
nineties. I met him once, I think I was 11 years old.
Given that, I told Bub that “you didn’t match any mold, but you
invented yourself to who you are.” And that is when I had a Fuzzy
Father Appreciation Moment. I told my father whenever I talk about
family issues to people, I describe Mama as the “obsessive dictator”
and my father as the “gentle guider.” “We would go to the mountains
and my dad would tell us to look out the window rather than play with
toys in the car. My dad would be talking about trees and fire and
clouds. And I have been spending all my life trying to figure out what
the hxll my dad kept rambling about on all these car rides.” My father
never told me and Jenny what to do, but he was there, and whenever he
had time with us, we would go to the hills in his research sites. We
would also play spelling and math games in the car while Mama was
going grocery shopping. He made these games really fun. We also played
“ghost”—spelling game started with Kuba and Bolek. And then my dad
would listen to classical music and let me and Jenny listen—like the
Rite of Spring, Bach’s requiem came quite frequently. My first full-
blown piece of music was actually a requieum, great start! Nope. Not a
“lovey dubby” Hollywood song. This mystery writer by the name of Barry
(OC Writers) really loved my music. His girlfriend was ailing and
everyone was totally touched by what I had written. My dad also read
to me and Jenny Mark Twain short stories. Like General Stormfield’s
Visit to Heaven and the Notorious Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.
Whatever it was, my father was a self-made character. He is a
scientist but he tries to cut himself off as much as possible from the
bureaucracy of science. He truly tries to be an independent scientist—
which can also be bad especially when his research has HUGE policy/
management implications. My father is a role-model as a scientist for
me. My father’s methods of research is a “baseline” of comparing all
other scientists’ research strategies. I came to realize how
“anomalous” my father was, even in his methods of science.
My father “brainwashed” me into scientific writing ever since I wrote
my first essay in first grade. He edited all my papers. It was
unintentional brainwashing, but I love him for doing that. I also love
my mother for not buying any video games for me or my sister, though
we kicked and screamed back then because my friend Agatka had Super
Mario Brothers and Zelda (we went to her house to play those games!)
Whatever it was, my father was a Gentle Guider. I was essentially my
father’s graduate student ever since I gained some level of
consciousness—let’s say age 3 or 4. People say I have to serve society
(academia at least) 25 more years before I can open my mouth and say
that I want. Let’s just say I had a head start. I am 27 years old, and
I am opening my mouth NOW.
I was asked to fill out a form by “yahoo” who asked “Who is my
favorite author?” I was going through all the issues in my head, and I
was like, “Wait a second! That’s my father!”
Okay, enough Fuzzy Father Appreciation Day. I wasn’t expecting this to
belch out, but I am glad it did. Who would have known that my father
had given birth to a child who would one day become a collaborator of
scientific research. What a beautiful thought. I made it this far!
The most tragic part about Ray’s passing is that I am most conscious
of it. More conscious than my grandmother. More conscious than both of
my grandmothers.
SNIPIT INFORMATION
**1987 John’s death, Marion had to take Valium to deal with the
emotions of the death of John, some letter saying that Marthiea killed
him, some kind of affair going on, additional stress, no medicine and
no one around to help deal with an asthma attack
**took a while for Marion to ween off the Valium, then took Arthritis
medicine, which could have led to the condition of Alzheimers and
plaque build-up
**there was never much discussion about John’s passing, he was hard to
defend, my father had no use for him, high functioning autistic with
the Ego the size of Katmandu, Ray never brought up John to my father,
it was a struggling childhood, abandoned him in the desert, off
chasing butterflies, there was no “older protective brother” / Dr.
Spock, don’t hug and love your newborn baby, dogma, something about a
knife, John bruised up my dad quite a bit… bub played baseball, lost
interest in high school…
**all my father did was call him once a year and wish John happy
birthday and then he would have to listen for an hour to him and all
the amazing things he had done… one-way streeth monologue
**John’s circle of “intellectual buddies”—Ken Nagy included (my UCLA
prof in physiology, I owe him a book in return), UC Riverside,
something about mistreatment of tortoises, found out that John did
research ecophysiology of desert lizards or something, John and my dad
went to the same schools—UC Riverside, Wisconsin—John’s academic
circuit knew there was something socially weird about him
**being Asburger’s is perhaps a BENEFIT in academia
**John and my father were TWO EXTREMES of BRAINS—my father was
extremely left handed and right brains, and John was extremely RIGHT
HANDED and LEFT BRAINED, he was Walking Jeopardy
**Ray and Marion one-sided marriage, bossing around, dictator, Marion
kind of suppressed, but still allowed to do dancing and community arts
stuff, it became more of a two way street, Ray took care of Marion
till the end (expense of his own health), 1960s Republican family, Ray
was a “big gestalt” person in terms of politics, very intellectual,
converted democrat post Johnson? Ray was in favor of civil rights (for
African Americans), I think my father and Ray are still not open about
gay-lesbian, though I did mention to them that my friends Lauri and
Talei are “bi” leaning toward the female-side, I am so astounded by
Harvey Milk, one day I would love to be like him, loved by everyone,
ground-up politics
**my father felt very LOST first year in college, UC Riverside,
flunked Calculus, on probation, but his geography profs realized how
good he was, hired him, my father created the METHODOLOGIES for aerial
photo interpretation!
**my grandfather never “processed” anything in the house because the
processing would have “huge knots and tangles” to untangle, that would
release HUGE EMOTIONAL ENERGY, repression, Ray passed, but who’s
alive? Dwight, Chuck—Charles gone, Judy, Bob, Judy’s kids, me, Jenny,
Mike, Laura, Jery Lyn, Steve’s side of the family, Laura’s and Mike’s
families and kids, Chuck’s side of the family—like I said, we still
have “huge thanksgivings” Ray left a LOT of legacy… NO, Ray is still
here, he is inside me, “you never passed away if you’re remembered”
Jenny and my father saw him “pass” I am so glad I didn’t see that…. My
grandfather was “good to the last drop” of life and the hospitals
fxcked him over and drove him to the ground, Fxck the Medical System!
Fxcking mass production operation. Now I understand why my mother
doesn’t want to go to the doctor, I am adaptive. I will go, but use
precaution. Tiny thing leads to a tumbling down. What a tipping point
to the end. Same thing happened to Meg’s grandmother, who passed away
a year ago. What would matter I tell T this? He lost his father. He
will just say life is ephemeral and nothing matters in the end. Don’t
get attached to anything, not even your own self.
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