theasif.info
plot
page
(Lo-tech
website, text based)
Date:
April, May, June 2009
www.theasif.info
·
Plot
·
Tenant: Rumpledsilkskin (avatar, thinly concealing
terrestrial)
·
Crops and Cultivation (constantly
changing content)
The
philosophy of virtuality: a virtual allotment for the cultivation of virtual
escape.
The
Website of the Philosopher Rumpledsilkskin.
Now and then truth (contingent truth): - no
allocation of infertile space happens except within the medium of the commodity
and all resistance to the commodity is contained within this medium.
Plan
of Crops and Cultivation:
Digging:
all theory and argument will be at least double dug, meaning there will be no
substitute for hard-graft, heart-stimulation, and sound-beds in an old English
style. Modus operandi will be spade striking the old rocks of logic,
objectivity and truth value and barrowing off-site, all post-modernist,
polystyrene packaging.
Weeding: meticulous hoeing, burrowing out, poisoning,
flame gunning of civilised cultivations in their theoretical forms -
dialectical and apocalyptic weeding!
Rank and gross, tap and fibrous rooted, weed-binding possessors of
nature, include: - Morality, Politics, Culture, Religion, Free- Market
Apologia, State, Law, Education, Family. (Marx identified these weeds but was
an inconsistent or lazy weeder.)
Fertilising: scattering images and fictions in the spirit
of virtuality, dressing virtual soil in readiness for main-crop seemings.
Planting:
intercropping, and regular planting throughout four seasons, free from global
warming but contributing to same.
Perennial
Harvesting:
Materialist Virtuality, As Ifness, Modernism (hybrid), Invisible Cells,
Optical Density, Simulacra, Subterraneans,
Indeterminism, Rational Schizophrenia, the Unnoticed. (Irregular allotment
visitors take home emptier baskets, but emptier baskets are easier to carry.
You pays no money and takes your choice.)
Composting:
“Art an Enemy of the People”, “Beyond Art”, “Invisible Cells”, “Mme Rousseau”, Historical Materialism, Fact/Value
distinction, Ideological and Commodity theories of Art. Sartre. Marx. Unamuno.
Richard Jefferies. Jean Seberg. Genet. Patrick White.
David Mercer. Viviane Forrester. Michael Heim. (A virtual future’s past.)
Pest
Control:
Dialectical spraying: - determinism (evolutionary, neurophysiological,
philosophical, A.I. nonsense), non-dialectical conceptual analysis, sluggish Heideggerian and Post Modernist abstraction. Plus days of
reckoning, Rumpledsilkskin confronts his critics.
THIS
TIME ON THE VIRTUAL ALLOTMENT:- 2009 is the new estimate for the completion of
the Virtuality Project. Progress towards this, like last year, takes place
off-line. This means its content will not reappear on theasif.info before 2010 and maybe later. By then it will have
another name. There are no instant fixes here. Moreover, Madame Rousseau’s
resurrection goes off-line, and rehearsals for it planned to take place at New
Venture in Brighton during July in celebration of Bastille Day and the Terror
will not now take place. In 2009 theasif.info
will be devoted to the adventures of Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov. The start of a new
adventure, “Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov Meets Iosif Vissarianovich
Dzhugashvili On Great Blasket Island”, as well as a
very recent adventure, entitled “Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov’s
Mid-Winter Dream”, dreamt, supposedly, at Lapland in the New Forest, appear on
this, the plot page, and previous adventures can now be accessed at Crops and Cultivation. These
adventures are “Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov’s Anatomy of
Melancholia”, “Dark Matter and Noah’s Ark” and “Dirty Postcards from
Bournemouth”. The long promised Beijing adventure will go on-line later this
year, but that is not a promise.
A scan on essays from theasif.info erupted
in Issue 28 of Mute, under
the title “Art is Like Cancer”. A full-length version of this text is available
online at Metamute. The
erupted material then spread to www.tlaxcala.es
and www.rebelion.org . For Spanish
readers.
Very well rotted compost for these essays is now
available in Portuguese bags from the Brazilian publisher Conrad. The bags are labelled “Arte
Inimiga Do Povo”, and
are presented as a virtual defacement of the Guggenheim in New York.
MUCK
YOU MAY HAVE MISSED:- Fiction, “Terminations
1” (from “Suspect Device” edited by Stewart Home). Fiction, “Enduring Freedom” (loosely based on the adventures of Blair, Bush, Bad
Laden and the rest of us). Fiction,“Adventures
in Cyberspace” (a
conversation about mind with Iris Murdoch on Grassington
Moor). Essay, “Virtual
Reality, Virtuality and Reality”. Essay, “How Art The People’s Enemy Became The People’s Friend”
parts 1 and 2. Essay, “Objections and Replies parts 1 and
2”. Essay, “The Arcady Project, Part 1 the Exposé”and “Part 2 the Convolutes”. Fiction, “Playa
Melanoma and Santa Maria de las Neus”. Essay, “Determinism: the preamble”. These essays and fictions form part of “INVESTIGATIONS OF VIRTUALITY,
REALITY AND UNDERCLASS (a collection of essays, fictions
and analogues)”. They may
reappear in these virtual spaces.
WHERE FLOWERS GROW:- Invisible Cells, a parallel
allotment where an attempt is being made to grow the same philosophical argument
as here, only there as a work of fiction. Check it out. All of part 1 is now
there. Follow the links at the end of each section*. INVISIBLE CELLS is an
assault on the dominance of Marduk over the chaos of Tiamat, where ancient and modern ruins span the history of
the Euphrates. Part 2, concerning the farcical and blasphemous antics of Jean
Jacques Rousseau’s descendants in C21st Euro-Zone, is being re-trialled in new
soil. There is some dispute as to whether you can see green shoots or just
gelatinous mould.
*Alternatively, to scan the content of
INVISIBLE CELLS follow these links:-
FAITH,
WAR, PRESSUREGROUPS,
HOWTOGETTHERE,
FAMILY,
WOMENSHEALTH,
XBOX.
VLADIMIR
ILICH ULYANOV MEETS IOSIF VISSARIONOVICH DZHUGASHVILI ON GREAT BLASKET ISLAND
“How
about Great Blasket Island?” It
hardly counted as an intention. Better it was just an idea which came into his
mind when he was standing around in the cold on the B3037. How he came to have
this idea was something he asked himself but was unable to pin down with any
certainty. It was not something from the glorious past. It was of the limping
present, probably when huddled with other retrogrades and ghastly spooks in a
shelter on the Hove seafront, somewhere between the bleak beach huts and King
Alfred’s rusting pleasure dome, somewhere between hypothermia and cheap
inebriation. A person’s name came to mind (still!), Peig Sayers. Perhaps she
hailed from Great Blasket. He recalled her raspy voice, singing, or was it
rendering, and as a linguist he could do the Gaelic, Réchnoc Mná Duibhe (The Dark Woman’s Smooth Hills). Certainly she
rendered him, pressed against her, bringing to the surface a sliver, just a
sliver, of his stale erotic juice, long passed its insemination date. In one of
those bouts of drunken carousing, the phrase may have squealed out from other
castratos and impotents when attaining a similar state of limp release. “Great Blasket Island!” It sounded like
an obscenity: foul language had its place! Anyhow, he had the name, and some
sense of its westerly extremity, but of course he knew it would be nothing
compared to when reaching his easterly extremity, his red bus ride to Beijing
(still a tale to tell but not unlike disappearing up an oriental backside, and
so something over which one might procrastinate). Even for spooks though,
materialising on Great Blasket in the form of a bagman of the Western World
without any firm intention of being there was not without complication.
Apparently an audition was required. At least one other was competing for the
part.
Now
you may not know this but for the first time things have been stirring in the
heart of post-state capitalist, post-communist Russia. Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov
is, of course, just a flutter for a few old women, those refuseniks who refuse
to let romantic dreams fade, and babushka-like file faithfully, once a year,
through the mausoleum, in October. But Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili is for
young punks and sparks and racing pulses. Those who read Zavtra. And many of them. A circulation of 100,000 copies. And what
do they read there? One, Alexander Sergeyev told them “They say that if you put your ear to the Volga steppe outside
Stalingrad, you can hear his footsteps. Perhaps Stalin is already among us. No
one knows what form he will take in his new incarnation, nor what he is doing
now: whether he is wandering the sacred forests of Vologda, or praying in some
abandoned monastery, or cocking his assault rifle. These are things not granted
to us to know. But that does not render any less palpable the sense that the
leader is near. And again, together with millions of people who await his
advent, we repeat like an incantation: he is at hand, he is near, he will
return.”
It
is not an isolated fantasy then that an old materialist like Vladimir Ilich
Ulyanov might still meander amongst us. Although, unlike this Iosif in Zavtra, with Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov
there is no desire to satisfy expectations, no desire to be back as they say,
and as Ali sometimes threatens. Perhaps for Iosif the same is true but not so
for those who are sustained by this fantasy. They spare no thought for an
immaterial Vladimir, whether he endlessly wanders or not, but Iosif they yearn
for: it is Iosif who is needed to put Russia back on the track. “The high speed train of Russian history has
stirred a little after its agonising over-night stop: slowly, as if
unwillingly, it has begun its quiet motion. The springs screech and the train
speeds up, faster and faster with every passing minute, cutting itself a path
through the gloom, tearing into the thick blizzard of the Future. At the
controls is a mysterious engine driver. His silhouette, uniform and cap are so
familiar it hurts, so familiar we all want to cry. Can it really be him? Yes.
Stalin is back.” ( Zavtra, Andrei Fefelov.)
It
is amazing then at such a critical juncture in Russian history and
coincidentally at the same time as an unprecedented crisis in one of the many
cycles of global capitalism, that these two spectres from the revolutionary
past should have so far removed themselves from the centre of expectation as to
be auditioning for seasonal work in the boat-ticket shed on Great Blasket
Island. Unsurprisingly, for alleged communists, they offered to job share as
well as share the wage. As this collective spirit completely undermined any
concept of a maximum standard of poverty all requirements of a minimal wage
were set aside and they were given the job. Moreover, as bagmen there was the
added advantage to an employer that their appearance was of itself, and without
the additional expense of fancy dress, the more convincing to tourists of
cultural heritage than that of the out of work, young hoodies from the nearby
Dingle, who also applied. For both these spectres of the Western World their
spirits lifted as they left Dingle Marina to make the 35minute crossing to
Great Blasket, especially so, Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov when he saw that their
boat, for a maximum of twelve passengers, was called “The Peig Sayers”.
Moreover he recalled that Iosif was not so bad a companion and had once been
nice enough and skilled enough to give him an excellent shave. Great Blasket
might well prove an opportune moment to wait out what was being called the
Great Credit Crunch, if not do more and bring it into perspective. Another chance to save the world.
(To be continued.)
VLADIMIR
ILICH ULYANOV’S MID-WINTER DREAM.
His
afterlife in Beijing still is to be told and may yet prove to be his greatest
adventure. Meanwhile, in our bleak, mid-winter, mid-capitalist, credit freeze,
Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov, this past December, took himself off to a snowy
wonderland, “where dreams come true”: a sort of Lapland in cold, damp
Hampshire. Even when he went by another name he had tried to enjoy December:
even in the last year of his life. That final December on the Gorki estate, Nadya and he would take a horse drawn sleigh out across the
snow covered fields and on through the endless miles of birch trees. Robert
Service wrote, while “creating a
Lenin who is believably human”, “in the bright low sun of the early afternoon
there was no more wonderful vista in Russia”. And Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov was
not above playing at Father Christmas, well, “Grandad
Lenin”; ordering a fir tree to be brought into the Big House and holding a
children’s party. So when the opportunity presented itself, of playing Father
Christmas for money, in a warm and cosy grotto amidst fake snow and forest,
reindeer and huskies, a tunnel of winter light and an ice rink, mince pies and
mulled wine, and elves, Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov’s
ghostly presence, concealed its bottled Sibelius, and joined the queue of illegals and out of work dwarves and actors for the
Brighton auditions. He had expected to be asked to render something authentic
like a Lapp folksong, one of which he could still recall and was known to give
voice to when, as he was frequently, on the verge of alcoholic coma, but
instead the authenticity of his presence, ancient and philosophical, which no
one else could match, proved sufficient. Before he could reconsider he was on
the minibus heading out along the M27, happily sharing his Finlandia
at the prospect of cash in hand and no questions asked.
Before
the punters came and on the first night he was there it was not too bad. The
huskies were friendly, he had patted a reindeer and the snow blowers had
concealed that the site was a dilapidated, race circuit for old bangers and a
winter holding station for fairground rides, and further concealed that it was
not the forests around Inarijärvi. Later he reflected
on how a sound business idea, like a sound revolutionary idea, required more
than ambition and tinsel, more than razzmatazz. Instead what was
required was meticulous organisation, thorough planning and unremitting effort,
without this, theatrical appearance was just transparent charade and its
perpetrators liable to be accused of charlatanism, if not chavism. You also
needed cognizance of the various territorial and competitive interests involved
and have ways of being able to balance these off. Two competing seaside mafias,
Brighton and Bournemouth, could not just invade each others territory without
seeking an accommodation The razzmatazz
though, which included a little on-line virtual reality, worked ridiculously
well, with thousands right across the country buying tickets at £25 per head
regardless of age. Well, it was cheaper than a trip to a real Lapland, of which
there may be several!
It
goes without saying that Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov was not the only Father
Christmas, and long before his first 5 p.m. shift, on the first day that the
site was open, he was free to take in the unfolding mayhem. It was a bleak
Saturday, cold, but not at all snowy, instead there was rain and a biting wind,
which washed and blew away all the fake snow. Immediately he saw it as symbolic
of the reality of capitalism, just at the time when this reality of capitalism
was revealed for all to see and not at all in need of symbols, in fact the
media faced with the economic blizzard had been driven to rediscover that there
was a thinker called Karl Marx who had spoken of these things, such as the
inevitable cyclical collapse of capitalism and the bourgeoisie producing above
all its products its own gravediggers. Compounding the miserable weather was
the abundance of demand and the scarcity and paucity of supply. The snow
blowers could not keep up with the material reality of rain and wind and
thousands of feet and the muddy state of the site. The Portaloos
were insufficient to contain the raw sewage of capitalism’s multitudinous,
endlessly repeated family life as it swarmed towards the promise of a white
Christmas and a holy family, a.k.a. Disney and A Wonderful Life. Vladimir Ilich
Ulyanov was these days, as is well known, not too fussy about where he shat,
and his stomach was not at all delicate, but even he, along with others caught
out by the cold shock to bladder and bowels, took to the fields on approaching
the queues of those waiting to relieve themselves over the already waiting
mounds of steaming excrement and piddling swill. The list of deficiency was
endless. The mince pies and mulled wine came in plastic, at least white but
with no hint of a sprig of holly, and served from a rusting burger van. The
electrics to the ice rink failed, at least avoiding the health and safety
issues surrounding skating for beginners, which would have been compounded by a
lack of first-aiders, apart, that is, from a Polish, qualified plumber. The
Christmas market looked like a car boot sale at the end of a day of trading
when all the professional and motivated traders had left. From the quagmire
where all the mums, dads, with their rapacious little angels and disabled,
demented grandparents, had parked the four wheel drives and universal people
carriers, it was an hour long queue to hand over the entry tickets, and then a
two hour queue, which was the only thing to do other than collectively and
angrily stomp the mud and maybe fall over, which many did, as though attempting
a reprise of the gold miner’s dance from Paint Your Wagon, to gain entry to
Santa’s Grotto. Inside the Grotto, it
has to be said not really grotty, there was a chance of a chat with Santa
(Santa’s target was 60 per hour, so a little more productive than a NHS
doctor), receive a present supplied by one of the wholesalers for the Poundshop group, and for an extra £10, which did have the
beneficial affect of raising temperatures, a photo of the family’s visit to the
grotto. Of course, although every family carried the means of the latest
digital photography, photography was prohibited within the grotto. It was this
that led to violence on Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov’s
shift. Not that this was for him a culture shock, nor was he personally,
physically assaulted, nor was the violence much more than a bit of middleclass
rugby, quickly exterminated by the one professional bouncer who had been
employed in case those sporting a petty-Mafiosi manqué style had been
reinforced by Bournemouth’s real mafia. Had this materialised it would have
been another example of how seriously the venture was under-resourced and
under-managed. In fact the management’s good intentions and dreams of making a
seasonal killing had been brought low by a bout of influenza, leaving
organization to a bunch of unmotivated, untrained, limpid illegals,
casuals and ghosts, and when the skirmishes eventually brought about an
inevitable festive visit by the police many of the misplaced evaporated like so
many pipedreams across adjacent seedy fields.
As
we know Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov had accidentally, like everyone else really,
been caught up in the tsunami, now he found himself, just as accidentally,
caught up in a national scandal. Stirred by local petty bourgeois hostility, or
at least this was the claim from his sick bed of Lapland’s entrepreneurial
dreamer (the Christmas market despite its reality was advertised as rivalling
the much better show in Bournemouth’s town centre), a media bush fire took hold
melting away for good even the few remaining fake flakes that had been lurking
in the branches of the few deciduous trees. Fuelled by unprecedented consumer
blogging, for several days the story was everywhere, from the Bournemouth Echo
to BBC national news. The media took up residence just outside the site and
police and consumer protection forced their way in. The promise of a winter
wonderland just melted away and soon the site was deserted apart from the few
remaining staff, including Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov, hanging on in case there was
some pay, and because at least there was food and drink, well, left over mince
pies and cheap mulled wine, and some shelter, a few B&Q huts (advertised as
log cabins) and of course the grotto. Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov was rather pleased
at this unexpected prospect of free time, any of which he had been converted in
recent years to regard as the industrial reserve army’s hidden weapon of mass
enlightenment.
As
the one remaining Father Christmas he took up residence in the grotto and was
joined there by a dwarf called Lucky, who for the most of time said very
little, but who did break out, infrequently and unpredictably, with a stream of
consciousness about religiosity, relativity and Bishop Berkeley. Lucky was a
pipe smoker and soon the air in the grotto was a heady mix of spicy wine
warming on a small camping stove, and Lucky’s
smouldering black shag and opiate mixture. Strangely the mix of smells carried
Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov back to his youth and his love of cigarettes, before,
that is, maternal deference persuaded him to renounce the pleasure because of
the expense when his family was still supporting him. One memory led to
another, interspersed though with uncontrollable bouts of dream-filled sleep.
One minute he would be remembering his loneliness and depression when his
Brother Alexander was in prison, and the next, quite without warning, he would
be asleep and dreaming, but then would be dragged from both by Lucky’s sudden verbal flatulence about a Fartov and a Belcher. The grotto’s inhabitants lost all
sense of time. They could have been there days, weeks, years
even, metamorphosing a temporary grotto into a permanent ghetto.
It
was metamorphosis and transcendence that took over Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov’s dreams within Santa’s ghetto. This of course was
natural for a Marxist, especially one who thought he had overcome the
deficiencies of Kautsky’s Marxism by means of his
deep reading in Hegel’s Logic and History of Philosophy. Things were not
what they seemed. There were forces, unseen, outside what seemed that explained
what seemed and revealed that things were not as they seemed. His dreams were
dreams of language, sometimes fractured and incoherent and other times together
and lucid, or seeming so. And language was a problem of the dreams, because
transcendence pinned down language, made it an object of thinking, although the
dreams did not pursue the metaphysical question of the linguistic,
representational nature of thought. Marxism took one up a level, from talking
in the world to talking about talking in the world, or rather identifying talk
as a product not of the representation of how things are but a product of
social causation, which was, in part, but not exclusively a matter of social
control, and certainly one of human practice. Abstractly this was the concrete
metamorphosis Marxism imposed, changing one living thing into another thing,
which the first really was: the illumination that genus brought to species.
Marxism could ask how to replace the capitalist vehicle with a vehicle
conceptually different, whereas bourgeois economists, even when equipped with
fantastical, speculative, mathematical instruments, laboured, like Fartov and Belcher, to drive the existing vehicle,
digestively, round and round in circles. All of this was conventional Marxist
wisdom and led to a sleep on soft clouds drifting comfortably above global,
economic downturn. And then as dreams have a habit of doing Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov
sensed another level, a level above the social causation within the world’s
existing material disorder. At first he thought it might be the idea of “God”. Lucky’s drone of “God quaquaquaqua
with white beard quaquaquaqua outside time without
extension” might have proved a subliminal infiltration. But the intrusion was
more of a classificatory nature. It was the thought that Marxism might only be
what species brought to individuals and that there might be beyond this the
unseen possibility of understanding species through an unfathomed genus. This
might mean that not everything was revealed by the sunshine of human practice
and material reality, that humanism was not the ultimate transcendence. An
image of what he took to be the Gaia hypothesis, about which he had read in the
Jubilee Library, came into his dreams. The life of society was transcended by
the Earth as alive, brilliantly lit by no less than the sunshine of the sun: as
though the Earth was a huge eye, pulsating with thought and feeling. This led
to the startling thought that material reality became alive, living material
reality, not mind and matter but living matter. This could recast the whole
understanding of perception. Instead of virtual reality attached to
epistemological riders, the Earth could see
everything, directly, contacting the universe through perception, not
convoluted registering through a one way causation.
Some part of this was Platonism, the bit that saw how identity was compounded
from individuals, the life that metamorphosed life. But then another shift!
Life faded from the Earth as “where dreams come true” had faded from his
Lapland. A fog covered the Earth, putting out its sight, everything dull,
leaden, chemical. Lucky’s
“God”, the one with the white beard, came into view carrying a scythe and a
spade and a bag full of seed. He sat down upon the Earth. But this was just a
dream and the dreamer knew this. In reality this had never been observed. In
reality there was no difference between there not being a gardener and there being
an invisible gardener. A gardener who could never be seen did not exist, that
is what it was to talk of outside of time and extension. Before his dreaming
eyes “God” then metamorphosed into Einstein, who made a funny face and wagged a
relativist finger at him. Depending upon one’s point of view the duration of
the Earth might be a very short time. Man, as he once had been able to say, had
arrived at the view that man’s duration was a very short time measured against
the duration of the Earth, which was vast. But this was homocentric. To other
forms of life, like say gods, where a materialist would have to insist that
they would have to be living material reality, the Earth’s duration might be no
time at all, and so if “God” had not visited to tend the garden this might only
be so because it was not time yet, and did not mean that “God” had abandoned
the Earth or worse, that “God” did not exist or had died. What though was this
long lived gardener growing? What would be the harvest? Einstein, now jumping up
and down upon the Earth, ventured a view. “The
great power possessed by the general principle of relativity lies in the
comprehensive limitation which is imposed on the laws of nature in consequence
the ascent of man which is assumed to be a natural right to endless freedom to
progress is now being questioned on the evidence of the global consequence of
this ascent, but from another viewpoint, say that of your material god who
gardens, the descent of man becomes natural law, as the harvest is revealed. Relatively,
some life takes in oxygen and lets out carbon dioxide and some other life takes
in carbon dioxide and lets out oxygen, and yet other life interacts in other
ways. Some stylistically aspirational forms of life
require carbon dioxide for the making of dry ice and achieving the status of
cool. The concept of a material god makes my hypothesis thinkable, whereas
immateriality stops thought, because everything that can be known, which is not
much in a religious scheme of things, is revealed at the outset, and never
changes apart from reinterpretations of the same. So a material god who
gardens, let us say, planted the Earth, long, long, long ago. This may have
been done remotely, by means of a probe, or a capsule brought by a spaceship,
descending gently, with a little red shift, to earth and winnowing some alien
seed so as to settle just like mistletoe seed dropped by birds onto apple
trees. And the harvest? All that we call geological, natural and human history
brings us to this, the true meaning of human existence, what it all has been
for, the production of carbon dioxide.”
Vladimir
Ilich Ulyanov saw the space-tankers coming in across the vast distances of
space, huge cylinders dangling tubes, coming to take up positions like obese
air-balloons above the asthmatic, coughing Earth. The whole, theoretical
endeavour of human life was a delusion, like the stories told by the Nazis in
the camps to the Jews so as to keep them working, only worse because it was a
delusion that was all of human history. Instead the Earth was just one large
gas chamber for material gods, well, aliens. This dream turned out to be
Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov’s nightmare. But perhaps when
all the gas had been extracted it could all begin all over again: sustainable
gardening.
So
he was glad when at last the security guards came to turf them out.
Surprisingly there was a little money to see the survivors on their way, which
was a good thing because the press by now had lost interest so there was
nothing to be made from selling one’s story, even if one had, like Vladimir
Ilich Ulyanov, a good story to tell, although one no one would be interested
in. Standing beside the B3073, he changed his mind, he would not thumb
eastwards back to Brighton but instead westwards for a change, to where the air
might be a little cleaner and to where they spelt whisky with an e. How about
Great Blasket Island!?
(Scroll up for
continuation.)
Go to Rumpledsilkskin
for philosophy, a kind of life, and Crops and Cultivation for
changing content.
Links: and see links above.
Virtuality
(the philosophy of) (where invisible
cells are just visible)
www.theasif.info
© 2009 theasif.info