Weekend Food – Literary Recipe: Ibsen’s Angel-Hair Pasta (with Wild Duck Ragu)

Ibsen’s Angel-Hair Pasta with Wild Duck Ragu

“But good God, people don’t do such things!” Hedda Gabler act 4.


1 Wild Duck (300 grams in bite-sized cubes) 6-8 tomatoes
1 Pomegranate juiced
Salt and pepper
Beef extract
300 grams of angel-hair egg noodles
Olive Oil

Henrik Ibsen, a New York playwright Hedvig, his wife
Pearlman, his producer


Serves 3
The action takes place in Henrik’s kitchen and dining room.


A comfortable kitchen, tastefully furnished with Ikea-type furniture: a table in the center with 6 chairs; along the left side the sink and main cooking area; to the right a door that leads to the dining room. The ingredients are all on the table or main cooking area. A shotgun is leaning on the table underneath, and the two front burners on the stove are already on high when the curtain opens. Henrik, dressed in Dockers, comfortable shoes and a plaid shirt, enters stage right holding and fiddling with what looks like a broken pressure cooker.

Henrik. Damn that Nils! That’s the last time I lend him anything. Ok, let’s see, this thing goes here, and then if I push in here. Good as new. Now, where did Helvig put that recipe book…

Helvig. (dressed in a casual Prada dress, enters hurriedly from the dining room.) My God the traffic! Madison Avenue was a nightmare! (looks at Henrik and stops dead in her tracks) Heini, dear, you’re not seriously thinking about wearing that are you?

Henrik. My gray Armani is at the cleaners and I don’t feel like putting on that old Boss. It looks so 90’s.

Helvig. But you look sexy in the Boss!

Henrik. I look like a pretentious rich snob in the Boss. In case you don’t remember, my last play closed after two weeks.

Helvig. Oh, Heini, everyone has a dry spell. And I’m sure this next one will be a big hit!

Henrik. Yeah, well, if this one doesn’t run we’ll be moving back to Oslo. Just be glad Larry Pearlman is a producer dedicated to real theatre, despite what the public wants now a day. And stop calling me Heini!

Helvig. Ok, Heini dear. (kisses him on the cheek.) I know how you hate to be disturbed when you make your ‘Ibsen’s Famous Pasta.’ I’m going upstairs and changing. (exits stage right.)

Henrik. (looking at the audience.) Never marry a woman named Helvig if you don’t want to end up in the poorhouse. (goes to the cooking area) Ok, the tomatoes, the cognac, the olive oil … All set. Lets get to work. It’s really pretty simple. (demonstrating as he explains) Since most of the fat has already been taken out of the duck breast, you simply take a pan and put them in, like that, along with the thyme and all-spice, only a little now – you want to be able to sense them with your taste buds without actually tasting them, then after the duck pieces have been well seared, first add a little cognac, then add the tomatoes, pepper, pomegranate juice and just the slightest hint of beef extract. Salt, mix them well and then once it’s at the right consistency, pour it all into the pressure cooker and let it rip for, oh, about 8 minutes or so. (As he leans across to grab the cooker he singes his forearm on the open flame) Ouch! Damn, I knew I should have turned that down.


Henrik’s dining room, more elegantly furnished than the kitchen, a Sarinen table and chairs, a portrait of Strindberg hangs on the back wall. To the left a door which leads into the kitchen. The table is set for 3. Henrik is already sitting down. Helvig and Pearlman enter from the right, casually smiling and chatting, she now dressed in an elegant cream-colored Chanel outfit, he a formal blue suit and tie.


Pearlman. Hey, Henry, how are you?
Henrik. Fine, Larry. Good to see you.
Pearlman. (Notices the three place settings, looks at Henrik and Hedvig and frowns) Nils didn’t tell you, did he?
Henrik. Tell us what?
Pearlman. Henry, you better sit down. (sits.) I’ll just tell you straight. Our co-producer balked after reading the script. He thinks that there just isn’t a big enough market for that kind of thing. The production is, well, indefinitely postponed until I can find someone else. Nils was supposed to tell you this morning before he left for the Poconos. I just wanted to stop buy and check up on you.

Hedvig. (evidently shocked) But Larry, what about all the actors and pre-production we’ve done…

Henrik. Hedvig. (Motions for her to leave. She nods her head and exits.) So, Larry. Am I through?

Pearlman. No, Henrik. It’s just… times are tight. You’re going to have to write something that appeals to a wider audience.

Henrik. And if I don’t?
Pearlman. Henry, don’t get sensitive on me. (glances at his watch) Look, I’ve gotta run…
Henrik. What about dinner?
Pearlman. Ah, Nils was supposed to tell you that, to…Henry, I really didn’t think you’d be feeling like my company tonight, so I made other plans. I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble. I’ll call you tomorrow morning, OK?

Henrik. Yeah, sure.

Pearlman. Hey, common’, chin up Henry. Things’ll turn around soon. (an uncomfortable silence.) I’ll show myself out. (exits. Hedvig enters immediately after.)

Hedvig. Oh, Heini, what does this mean?!

Henrik. Nothing, dear. It just means we’ll be eating alone tonight. In fact, I better go check on the pasta. (gets up and goes offstage to the kitchen. We hear his voice.) Ah, shit!

Hedvig. What is it dear?!

Henrik. The pressure cooker is broken! The sauce isn’t anywhere near cooked! And I forgot to salt the pasta! Dammit! Dammit! (We hear a gunshot off-stage.)

Hedvig. Henrik!
Pearlman. (rushing in from stage right.) What happened!?
Hedvig. I don’t know!

(Pearlman exits into the kitchen.)

Pearlman. (Offstage) Oh my God!

Hedvig. What is it, what has happened!?
Pearlman. (coming back onstage, an astonished look on his face.) It’s Ibsen. He’s shot the Pasta!

Hedvig. Ahhh! We’ll have to call and order Papa John’s! (Hedvig faints. The curtain falls.)

The real recipe: (see Henrik, end of Act I)


300 grams of duck in bite-sized cubes)

6-8 tomatoes
1 Pomegranate juiced
Salt and pepper
Beef extract
300 grams of angel-hair egg noodles
Olive Oil

serves 4


Heat and lightly oil a pan, add the cubes of duck meat and sear well. Season, then add the cognac and evaporate. Add a little thyme and a pinch of allspice. After a few minutes, add the peeled, seeded and diced tomatoes, season, and finally add a little pomegranate juice and a bit of beef extract. Reduce heat and cook until the duck is tender. Meanwhile boil the angel-hair egg noodles in salted water, drain well and add to the sauce. Toss once and serve.

for another theatrical recipe: Wedesday Will: The Baked Turbot of King Lear


Friday Music – Piazzolla

Piazzolla, 98-esimo…non e eccellente per certe cose, questa interpretazione, pero… indietro, o sotto, o la’ appena fuori la finestra, o ancora di piu quando ti vedi nei due posti contemporaneamente, il tu che respira, seduto, un po’ perplesso, che guarda l’altro tu che non e li’ ma implicitamente e li’, elaborando qualcosa, e poi sei li, elaborando nella tua assenza, e senti, piu che guardi, quel tu all’altra parte – non stai mai di mezzo ma sempre in tutto e due, eppure se ti guardi …. sei solo in uno di essi, o sarai, come un fotone. C’e una specie di musica che ti lega a te, o qualche aspetto di te a qualche aspetto di te-2, (anche se e sempre ‘te’, non ‘ti’, e senza numeri,) o che vi lega, vi groviglia, per dire, che ti mantica con l’altro ti, che vi porta avanti assieme e lo sai e lo sai e lo sapete ma non lo esprimete e non lo esprimi finche non arriva la fine della frase. Allora puoi sentire e ti accorgi della musica. Che assomiglia un po’ a questa.

Hackers: A Warning — beetleypete

If you look at your full stats page on WordPress, you will see a section on the bottom right marked ‘Clicks’. This shows you what some readers of your site will have clicked on. In most cases, this is a click to enlarge a photograph, to read a link, or perhaps to investigate the blog […]

via Hackers: A Warning — beetleypete

Wednesday Will – The Ides of March….Brutus’ Skewered Parmesan and Bologna with Aged Balsamic Vinegar

Wednesday Will – The Ides of March….Brutus’ Skewered Parmesan and Bologna with Aged Balsamic Vinegar

 “Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods…” Julius Cesar 2, 1
Shakespeare had a thing for Italian regional cuisine, with many of his most popular dishes having a distinctly Italic flavor. Brutus’ “Skewered Parmesan and Bologna” is one of those, a re-working of the noted international food writer Plutarch’s “Parallel Recipes”. This version, however, adds many anachronistic elements from Anglo-Saxon pop culture. The lovely Top Chef host Padma along with noted British chef Jamie Oliver appear as judges in the 2nd scene; Carlo Petrini, founder of the Slow Food movement, appears as a freaked-out weirdo near the end of the 1st scene; and Shakespeare himself makes a cameo appearance as, well, himself.
   The recipe depicts a conspiracy by Oscar Mayer, a large food multinational represented by Tony Baloney, against traditional, smaller central Italian lunchmeat makers. Its somewhat pessimistic tonality in the first act probably reflects the general global anguish over the uncontrollable distribution of counterfeit Chinese food products present at the time of its writing. The basic recipe itself – cubes of freshly cut Parmigiano Reggiano and high-quality Mortadella topped with a few drops of aged Balsamic vinegar – is instead a classic appetizer not from Rome but the region of Emilia-Romagna.
The Ingredients of the Dish:
Mortadella and other Italian cold cuts*
The Ides of March
An Oscar Mayer sampler basket
Lots of Toothpicks
 *try Cesar and Sons: Best Italian Cold cuts brand
The Chefs of the Recipe:
Brutus – a small, quality lunchmeat maker
Lucius – his helper
Cassius – a broke-back Italian Senator
Tony Baloney– ex-lunchmeat maker, now a spokesperson for Oscar Mayer.
Octavius – his helper. Or vice-versa
Carlo Petrini – a soothsayer
Chefs Shakespeare, Padma, Jamie Oliver – judges
Diners – rich, middle class, plebian, whatever.
Serves all Roman citizens
Act 1, sc.14
Rome. Enter Cassius, reading a magazine, a toothpick in his mouth, and Brutus and Lucius. Some diners are sitting at tables over the stage
Cassius: Good Bru’, did you see this? Oscar Mayer won the people’s choice ‘best baloney’ award. Again.
Brutus: Third time in row. Oscar doth bestride the baloney world like a Colossus.
Cassius: Noble Brutus, not if thundering Jove had spoken from highest, tall Olympus could such a bad concept find better words.
Brutus: Good words are better than bad salami, dear Cassius.
Cassius: Man, this pisses me off. Have people gotten that lazy?
Too much time watching CSI, or chatting in a 2nd life?
Said company would have men in this world’s
First life that are fat, sleek-headed, and high-
Cholesteroled, with unnatural
Flavor in unnaturally stuffed guts.
What is the world coming to? Anyway.
What time is the award ceremony tomorrow?
Brutus: You mean the Slow Food annual March cold cut expo? 12:30. And get this: Tony will be representing Oscar Mayer this year.
Cassius: No way!
Brutus: Way. He sold his operation to them a few months ago.
Cassius: Really? I didn’t know. But my sweet Bru’,
Your long and flavored salami is sure
To again retrieve their bluest, dearest
Ribbon. Yours is the best-aged meat in Rome.
Lucius: Yeah, well, my broken back master, hold ye’ horses. There’s a rumor that Tony’s been bribing the judges. Something to do with Mayer and that WTO international copy write treaty changed. You know, so they can use names like Tuscan Felino Salami and Parma Prosciutto on their own contra-felino and contra-parma-ed stuff. They figure they’ll get less resistance if they can show they make a quality product.
Cassius: Well we’ll just see about that.
Tony’s a Villain.
Lucious:             You are a senator.
Cassius:                                              Touché.
Enter Petrini, the soothsayer, a salami in his hand
Petrini: A good cold cut eases into your stomach but once; a bad one burps up on ya’ a thousand times. Beware the Mayers of March!
Thunder. The sky darkens. Exit Petrini
Brutus: Who was that?
Lucius: Some weirdo. I see him hanging out around here all the time. Always munching on something. But, like, real slow.
Again thunder. All three nod. Exit all
Act 1, sc.15
Enter (at one door) chef Shakespeare, Padma and Jamie Oliver taking their seats behind a table at center stage. Toothpicks in the middle. Flourish. Enter (at another door) Cassius, Brutus, Tony Baloney and then Lucius and Octavius carrying trays of cold cuts, followed by several diners who seat themselves at smaller tables on either side where samples already sit in small mounds. Another flourish
Padma: Welcome salumi makers.
Chef Shakespeare: Welcome all to this blessed gathering,
This hall, this buffet, this well processed pork,
This Italy, this teeming womb of cold cuts.
Jamie: Tha’s wha’ it’s all abou’. Sharin’ the best Italian cold cuts wi’ good peeople who care ‘bout goo’ food. An’ together tryin’ to decide who’s the best ‘o the lot.
Padma: Brutus, Tony, after careful deliberations we have judged your salumi to be the best in the competition. Before we make our final decision we would like each of you to make his case as to why we should choose their lunchmeat.
Lucius and Octavius set their trays on the center table
Diner one: Dear, would you pass the ketchu…
Diner two: Sh-h-h! Good’ol Bru’s giving his speech. I wanna’ hear this.
Brutus: Ladies, gents, gourmets… I’m no Obama when it comes to public speaking. Hell even my dog falls asleep when I talk to him, so I’ll make this short and flavorful. Now don’t get me wrong; I respect Oscar Mayer. I think it’s a fine company. I admire their success. They gainfully employ thousands of people and I’m grateful to them for that. But their cold cuts, let’s face it, taste like something between a dried pickle and wet Kleenex – with a slight bend toward the pickle. You need about a gallon of mustard just to knock’em down your throat. But if they win here, well, could be that a lot of us little guys who really do care about quality get bought out or go out of business. So let’s not say that I don’t appreciate Oscar Mayer, but that I appreciate tasty salami more. Anyway, thank you all and, down the hatch.
Diner three: Man, that Brutus is a real hoot.
Diner six: And he makes the most kick-butt lunch meats.
Padma: Good Brutus, well spoken. Judges, your toothpicks.
Everyone takes a toothpick and skewers a cube of lunchmeat. Silence, then lots of mmms and ahhs and head nodding. Applause
Diner twelve: Fan-freaking-tastic!
Diner sixteen: Blue ribbon, definitely!
Padma: Brutus, well done. Now, representing Oscar Mayer, Tony, make your case.
Tony: Ladies, gentlemen, Romans, (coughs) if you’ll please
Lend me your ears a minute; I come not
To bury noble Brutus’ lunch meat but
To praise it. The plastic-flavored cold cuts
That multinationals with speed create,
Occupy eye-level shelves long after
The due-date of higher moraled produce,
I know, and oft that better is interred
Unsold into supermarket trash bins.
The noble Brutus hath told you Oscar
Is that problem’s part, that they have deep greed,
That Mayer meat’s are flavored without art,
Artificially. And Brutus makes a
Great cold cut. Yet do you all not recall
Those loving Wonder sandwiches we ate,
That dear mom used to make us long ago?
Diner ninety-three: Yeah, I remember when we used to trade sandwiches in elementary school.
Diner one hundred and five: I hated my mom’s baloney sandwiches.
Diner twelve: But there was always an Italian kid that got to eat good stuff?
Diner seven: Vinnie Russo. Vinnie always had the best lunches.
Tony: Did not our boloney have a first name?
Was it not spelled O-S-C-A-R?
Diner two: I remember that tune.
Tony: And does it still not have a second name?
Is it not spelled M-A-Y-E-R?
I still love to eat it, everyday. Why?
Because they do not buy to undue but
With their salami-maker takeovers
Well pay and the better learn to better
Please all of Rome’s citizens’ hungry mouths.
Oscar Mayer, I say, does have a way
With their sweet B-O-L-O-G-N-A.
They are not part of any problem, but
It’s tastiest end, the solution’s hap-
Piest slice. What suspended reason holds
You all then from enjoying this great meat?

Thank you, and let’s eat. Bon appetite.

Padma: Tony, eloquent as always. Judges.
Everyone takes a toothpick and skewers a cube of lunchmeat from their second piles. They chew and then start spitting out. Pfewahs and ewws
Shakespeare: Yeach! It’s like swallowing an old rat.
Jamie: Whoa! Mate, tha’ is truuely, truuely gnarly.
Padma: Miserere! Porcos horribillis ad nauseum.
Tony: Pray, what mischief is this? Octavius, toss me a bite.
Octavius throws him a piece. Tony eats it, makes a strange face and then spits it out
Tony: Oh treachery! Oh foul flavoring! Someone messed with my meat, man, this isn’t fair.
Padma: Tony, you know the rules. Our judgment is final. Pack up your cold cuts and go.
Tony: Man, that just ain’t right. (Begins to leave, pausing next to Brutus) Et tu, Brutè?
Brutus: Don’t look at me. I only sliced the meat.
Exits with Octavius
Padma: Brutus, we have decided. Your lunchmeat
Is the noblest of them all. It contains
Harmonious flavor, and the spices
So well mixed within it that nature might
Stand up proudly and say to all the world:
“Now that is a salami!”
Applause. Exeunt recipe
The real recipe:
Bite-sized cubes of good quality mortadella, 60 grams per person
Thinly sliced Prosciutto di Parma, 30 grams per person
Bite-sized chunks of freshly cut Parmigiano Reggiano from the center of a cheese round, 50 grams per person
Aged Balsamic vinegar
Quality extra-virgin olive oil
Freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano
Finger slices of bread and focaccia


Simply place the cubes of Mortadella on one serving dish and the Parmigiano on another. Dribble lightly over both with aged balsamic vinegar. Place the olives in smaller bowls around the table. Take the Prosciutto and wrap it around the grissini, one slice for each stick of dried bread. Leave the bottom half of each grissini uncovered. Finally in one small, shallow bowl place equal parts of grated Parmigiano and e.v. olive oil. In another shallow bowl place 5-6 parts of e.v. olive oil and 1 part of aged balsamic vinegar. Guests can use these last two bowls as dipping sauces for the bread and focaccia slices. Serve with an unstructured red, maybe Lambrusco, or a good Prosecco. Best served in March.


link for unwanted Tony’s or other dinner guests: That flesh may look bloody and full of Worms, and so be rejected – from Magia Naturalis:  http://www.godecookery.com/incrd/incrd.htm#013


link – a guide to Italian cold cuts: https://www.thespruce.com/italian-salami-charcuterie-and-cold-cuts-guide-2018492


The Complete Recipes of Shakespeare, Abridged. From physshe to meat. As contemporary food critic Harold Bloom described in his Shakespeare: The Invention of Food, ‘Shakespeare’s historic culinary importance cannot be contained. In time, he has become a spirit or ‘chef’ of light almost too vast to apprehend.’

old notes – I Always Loose My Way 4 –

I Always Loose My Way 4 –

– the day… you let go of days

…Slow, without the moments attached. I watched a movie yesterday eve, one seen a few times before but with a long enough lapse since the last that I’d forgotten many details and even about some of the scenes. Cinema Paradiso. A famous director receives news of the death of the man who had accepted the mantle of his father figure decades earlier. The call throws him into memory, almost a nostalgic saudade, as the audience enters into the internal film of his childhood, all those events and emotions and people that fundamentally made both much of what he’d become and influenced those early decisions that determined a lot of what would happen in his life later. It’s an old film, lovely the lingering and normal colors, nothing hyper-real via digitalization, no 5-second rule shifting the camera shot (from a few not-so-well interpreted studies of how our gaze – not all our vision but our gaze – shifts, never lingering in its turn for more than 5 seconds at one object or subject. The removal of depth, like buying and wearing poorly fabric-ed clothes. The absence of quality, of fabric that retains itself through time.) Linger. Let the stuff come to meaning by itself, the image, the language (visual and musical). Something I didn’t do at all well in the last ‘Always’ post.
Quite forced it was, pushing through to the decided point, squeezing chronology into minimal meaning to get to the post’s ‘n’- form, (Mark Twain’s 2nd most important day, the day you find out why you were born,) instead of letting the words meander and find their own way. Story forgone, the very minor history left aside. Anyway.

An odd confirmation of the film this morning, stopping on a bridge over a small river to observe an egret – lovely and long, so much elegance in movement and form. Solitary though – the only one that appears on most days there as you look down from on the northern side of the small bridge, the bird either perched on top the low cement wall dividing the river in two or in the water stepping carefully as it, I don’t know, hunts or looks for a kind of food to eat. Stare. After a few minutes of looking the giddy strange sensation of allowing what you think you see change, the water moving in the river detaching itself from its own ‘n’ and becoming a…dancing, vibrating move of lights, the egret remaining perched on the wall, unchanged, as the white malleat-ing pieces of river now jiggling fixed, like another dimension beneath the water itself but still part of the river, emerge. Gestalt, we call it but that, I think, leads in the wrong direction. As if it’s always one or the other or part of an ongoing narrative and not, instead, something…. different entirely. Elements of a narrative moving to meaning, maybe but it’s different parts of an observer, human or other, that form the story. Not the change itself – which isn’t formed, not really, at all. You only internally see a different created expression. Inferences are plural as most things, even if their expression into or onto… the inference of you…. has to be, always, singular. Only one ‘n’, not n, o or p +. (But that’s not exactly gestalt, and certainly not at all the often used horrible translation of ‘the whole being greater – instead of ‘other’ – than the sum of its parts’.)

link – gestalt quick wiki: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gestalt_psychology

So…I flew over the juicier parts, in the last post, not allowing the water to dissolve away from itself, so to speak, to demonstrate the dancing reflected light beneath or within. Understandable. This is a medium-sized exercise in 11 parts covering 51 years (52 if I don’t get a bit of a move on), and there I was at the end of post 3 still shy of 17 years… a Moby-wailing pace for a story that isn’t at all so…whal-ish. But the approach to those questions that ended the post 3, and their effects – the ‘why is’, ‘is there’, ‘what is’ and ‘what-how’, were actually rather— rich, for me. And have to do, quite a bit, with the repeating themes of developing motivation and systemic dialog here. So before leading into another Twain-ish day,  call it ‘the day you didn’t know’, I’ll dwell on that other passed autobiographical bridge, try to put the letters (a then b then c then d) in some sort of recognizable order.
Sum of things. The family thing, (‘tension-isolation-war-silence-care’); the social thing (discomfort-confliction-detachment-curiousity’); the development thing (maternal cortisol response-hysterical hpa axis-rapid development- relatively scarce vta-up dopa roads); other things, had mostly opened up whatever affect, the fabulated river of my inferred doing me, to everything else, spaces where a sort of visibility, light, could penetrate into or beneath and reflect. Pieces. Of… something else.

Usually adolescence is the space where you integrate, your place within a hierarchy. Ie, male income as adults positively corresponds (rather well actually, at least in 2005 it did,) not to height as an adult but at age 14, (the taller the more, though primarily the idea is above-below the mean, correspondence, higher than average more earned income, lower than lower than.) Likely you’d get similar for any socially useful attribute going back to adolescence; athleticism, appearance, sense of humor, interaction… displayed then. Not so infrequently you get a fall-off in other type of measurements during the same age, ie iq, likely co-related. Because…. the sum of things, developing motivation below awareness, finds a lot of space for schematic changes within your CNS (mind). Some roads are opened up with more lanes, some fall into relative disuse, and the… blobs, modules, co-related then also get… less or more traffic or a different kind of traffic, an alteration of specialization. The wiring – which is never completely set – is still more than a little open to adaptation.

In a suburban high school, midwest, in well-lit, closed rectangular spaces, constant temperature…. the place you are at that age… the rapport with others within that place is of course, well, what you mostly learn. More than any math or subject or even your self, with of course exceptions and differences. You’re developing a useful affect in the culture you’re in. The sum of things, the outline of an combined expressed n’s. I was example of one of those who aren’t really there in the same way. Anyway. Sometimes later it works out as you expect, basically, sometimes not so much: the contrast between that ‘n’ and the rest of the world sometimes isn’t quite so easy. Which can be hard, almost always unexpected, such experiences from the outside-in that violate inferred belief so completely that they result in a day – you didn’t know.
It would happen to me as well, a bit sooner than usual I suppose. But not yet. Once detached from all that and after what could be described as an adjustment phase, well… some motivation of interaction remains. Not peer pressure as it were, but whatever deeper motivations might be extant. So that meant…watching. Observing. There’s so much information in any moment, so many languages. Living is, after all, a hugely wonderful affair. Anyway again.

So you watch. Experiment. Play. Sitting back in the ‘commons’ room next to the cafeteria after lunch how 1 person alone changes when another is added, lanague, gesture, tilt of your head, then again if a third comes, a fourth even more – something then begins to be lost, something else emerging. Synchrony. And the purposeful play like any other mammal, when you mix genders, when you change composition. At the same time each conveying a bit of their history, posture, head and eyes are important, what they hold, do you look inward much or all you more present, outward looking in a social way. Then the music… girls there in melody, song, combining spontaneuosly frequently into make-shift choral groups, ‘i am the eye in the sky’, different quite from the guys all into relatively forceful body gesture, ‘lots more da-da, dada’s, fewer words unless identifying with the shrill of a voice, its pitch, the lack of under-deep, so to speak, chord sequences. Everything then, all those languages, come in without the weight of knowledge. (Everything is fiction, or at least equivocation. It’s where the dialogs take place that makes the difference.)
Interaction then came in the form of small experiments, presenting a thing to one person at a time and note their reactions. (A bit funny the contrast within avoidance. Ask someone if they did a thing at one moment that socially was asked for but against what they believe or thought they should have done and you almost always get the backward, eyes-opened to brow and ‘no I didn’t’. Different from the relatively few who are conscious of manipulation, fast head turn left or direct, light shift down and change the subject, try to put the asker into defense, change the subject,ecc.) Meanwhile instead of – and later I would be a bit ashamed of it – diving into school subjects as such I dived into those questions that corresponded with my own motivations. The usual, as mentioned in the last post. Why is there any thing when no thing seemed so much more intuitively correct? Is there actually anything? If so, what distinguishes it from inexistence? What are we, how does our behavior emerge? Dreams.
Or perhaps sleep as a function, ongoing. I’ve never slept much though if active 6-6 and half hours at night plus a short nap in the afternoon is an oddly consistent cycle of sleep. (If less active physically then a little more sleep is often needed. That might have to do with the way the ‘new’ , rather relevance of it, is cleaned away or integrated. And again how even outside of consiousness motivation determines how and what is imoprtant to keep. Here words are used as concepts but the corresponding systems, biological, are likely fairly direct.)

A new study reveals a dramatic landscape of gene expression changes across all cell types in the mouse visual cortex after a sensory experience, https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2018/02/180208120831.htm

A digression… one of the themes I’m trying to convey….  information might be represented temporally, that is the slices you might consider if examining it don’t stop within one system, say, you or your brain, but extend beyond them. The evolution however of those representing systems is instead entropic and contained. But they are two very different things. We exist in the tango between the two, the complexity of emergence, of which the vast majority is far larger than us. Another notion is that time, as we call it, isn’t. All we have, all the universe has, is the present eternal, and if there is purpose to why things are, a reason you could call it, it is the evolution of dialoging systems to remain here, in this present. Which implies a sort of synchrony. Time is local, its creation, perception and expression as well, an aspect of the information in systems. And one last notion… the question, what is entropy, how do topologies form, what’s their relation to information and expression?

link – We Were Wrong About Consciousness Disappearing in Dreamless Sleep, Say Scientists: http://www.sciencealert.com/your-consciousness-does-not-switch-off-during-a-dreamless-sleep-say-scientists


Back to the sleep thing. And those existential adolescent questions. You do the usual, try mind experiment-meditation stuff, not knowing you’re doing such of course, try cleaning away everything from your head, removing, there was motion, a sensation of it in any case, colorlessness, a granular sound in the quiet – that sort of granularity is relevant somewhere. As the sense of motion, of you moving through something or seeing it move in its own time. It’s impossible feel or imagine, create, nothing or infinity, of course. Maybe all infinities are discrete. But you go anyway in that direction, try to remove yourself and ‘feel’ through a sort of internal vision. Alongside those sorts of things… the night.
Then, before top-down inhibition would mature, dreams were frequently recalled, and identifying the moments was also frequent – those delicious minutes within when you can determine your own dream. (Flying was fun, or more of a directed floating.) From there came dreaming in series, repeating the scene with a bit of will. Sometimes I even simply identified myself as sleeping though not entirely in a dream – I assumed I was. At that point sometimes I refused and returned to sleep, others I woke myself up. Then for awhile I tried to both. Identify myself as sleeping, then try to bring myself into wakefulness while maintaining that sort of dreaming state. Which, of course, never happened. Not merely or only, I think, because of the regional flooding up top, some… canals open up while others close down. But I think because the way expression works… you can only have one at a time, a hierarchy toward even if below the dialogues continue, plurality and complexity.

So, if anyone is left here (including me) by this point… the ‘floating’, identifying self, movement, body, dreaming, granularity… everything sort of seemed and still to me seems connected – and repeats, even in sleeping states. The way of viewing internally when trying to move up from sleep into wakefulness were very similar, though the granularity, still present, was much less. It would become pervasive a few years later though, during the deepest or worst of first onset depression. That, to, might be relevant.
But I’ve already reached 2,000 words on this 3-b post, a sort of filler add-on to the lacking in the former 3, this one without whales or much twain. And…I want to move to the next one. At least some more comedy, and least simpler. Something more about connections, love and sex…. Valentines Day is coming up. So I’ll end this here – the day I let go of days.

All those days…