Remembered what I wanted to add to the abyss of lies and how the indexing of human consciousness and memory will destroy reputations and legacies. It had to do with sarcasm, and the things people think you say in seriousness when you know it to be funny or sarcastic. But people don’t always get that. I think it goes deeper than just misinterpretations [just excised the word “though” and will endeavor not to use that weakling word any more when it is preceded by a comma and used to needlessly soften a sentence that needs no softening… or at least not use it so crutchfully as now].

I think the matter of misinterpreting humor or sarcasm cuts to a deeper habit people have of constructing fantasies about people in their lives, fantasies which populate discussions of and among those people. Maybe “fantasy” is too derisive or dismissive a term, used as it is to describe unicorns and presidential tax returns.

But we compromise and compartmentalize in our assessments and expectations of people in our lives (hah, almost said “lies”, which seems to be the word of the year around here). We hear what we want to hear, read truths and fictions as their polar opposites, see what I think is black when you think it is white. There are no facts in the realm of understanding other human creatures and the complex of mysteries therein. This distinct lack of facts is what stands to populate the last frontier of human knowledge.

The fantasies we have about other people, do they get indexed the same as the truth we know them to be hiding? Can an algorithm distinguish between the two? What of the inevitable admixture of both? I think it all washes up in the same primordial backwash.

…

At the BakewayNYC, not really wanting to be but here I am. Felt a tugging toward home today, just to stay home and do other things, like collate and edit these writings of the last few weeks. I feel the writing muscle strengthening. My hours at the keyboard gradually increase each day. This not out of goal-setting or the like, just the memory of muscle flexing itself. I used to write and play at the piano for countless hours every single day.

It has taken a long time to break out of my murdered heart.

Now I feel that playing piano is something of a waste of time. I am only re-creating the works of others, and doing so for the enrichment of none other than myself. O, how the hours disappear when I am at the piano. Nevertheless, going home now to play Bamboula, a Gottschalk piece I heard earlier at the LIBARRY. It’s like a suite of pieces but all in one movement, or so it seems. I tried playing it a few times but was unimpressed with the opening belches. Cecile Licad may have changed my mind about that.

Had an idea earlier of printing up zillions of postings from the old “What Are You Doing?” board and distributing them in the manner described in the previous posting here. Stuff them in library books and stick them to the bottoms of chairs. Got me thinking that I’ve never used white ink in a laser printer. Would want to keep the spirit of the old WAYD board by using the same white Comic Sans font on black background. Could just print it using a shit ton of black ink but that seems wasteful, and would probably curl the paper.