1 Commence, you wayward woebegones. Pretty yourselves up, I said. Patent that sour look, I said, it ain't often one sees such. I began to hit him, but stopped, fear being far more effective than force. So the crows, in their circling weir, in their understanding air, flapped off at his screech. Polish it off, I said to my wife, Neah. We got to go. And then she hit me. Swinging that huge ceramic bowl behind her back but aimed well as it approached my forehead. Dispatched, quick like that, by my own kith, so to say. So I wandered, this black bag on my back. I'm an angel of sorts. Bought by the blood, the blood of my brood. Bought, dangerous to stop now, when all around me that fog. Bought, I suppose, by some terrible painterly god. Many a customer, so I've been told, bought me on my grim presence. So tough a job it is, interior decorating, that they bought me for it based solely on my permanent look. My look of grim resolute. My look of apparent hardness behind which, I think all but my friends supposed, lay a dark insight. Insight into the carnage of a TV-room. The insight found in atonement for a very deep crime, one obviously not mine alone. A crime shared by some distant parent, for a face like this shows more than one life of work. 2 Bought, I say, because this life is one I didn't deserve. I walked, unconcerned, not wanting for food. Never need it, but still, not wanting for it. A bit of frozen fish stick, here and there, warmed as if in a microwave, but lying on the ground. Here I walk, in a big bed, or something like it. It has an edge, and what is convincing about one edge? No, unless that edge was the circumference, the circumference of a circle too large for me to see the curvature. No, unless it was a circular edge it must not be the only edge. Even if I were to again encounter another piece of that circular edge, I would not know it for such. So yes, it is better to think of that as an edge and postulate another, for luck's sake. It is better to ignore the case of a circular edge. Too calculationally difficult anyway, square roots and such. Appearances, thought I. I thought, appearances make it all worth the while. So I bobbed on, the black bag, the untidy crud on my lower lip. Appearances, so important. Just one more fish stick, I thought. It couldn't hurt. I scrabbled around in my black bag. Unusual, to show up with luggage that I hadn't packed. I found a fish stick I had stored with my pair of pants. It had molded. That is odd. Why molded, when after all they lie on the ground for ages, untouched, before I pick them up. Microwaved just in time, I suppose. Back to the subject, I thought. Appearance is all we've got, in the long run. I mean after the age of twenty any thought of absolutes is gone. We abandon our folks at a dead run. So beautiful, I thought, that initial escape. 3 Then we begin losing our appearance and at the same time appreciating fine appearance in others or in things, like computers. I spent all my spare change on computers. Beautiful things they are, entirely about appearance, yet discovered by mathematicians concerned with very simple and ugly systems with only two states and abominably few operations. Appearances: that became my life's truck. Bought and sold appearances. Happy doing it. Once in physics. Once alone with my thoughts. Once found misery in calculations, in computer instructions. And paralyzed, paralyzed by my own fear. I needed a more feminine profession, one closer to art. The appearance was locked, locked in place in physics. The atonement. So I began, and lost my head. The imagination and its little bounds and jumps are small compared to super rigidity. Not a great deal of leeway between spiny walls. So as I walked, I began to fall. Beginning, I pinpointed my heart in the paranoid set. Rules, having nothing in their semblance that showed sign of logic, except for the joint area, a steel ball in socket, set against the mountain's cool and ultra smooth surface appear even now, full of great habilidade. One never moves such that the mountains are out of one's sight. Occasionally a new one will erupt, beginning quickly, with fire, at first jagged, at first growing, at first violent and on the surface often a bit of flow, and then smooth, glassy almost, a substance so resilient, and fibrous below the surface so it can not be chipped. The mountains, let there be no mistake, raise by themselves, or by God's hand. No mortal brings that vast assemblage. The scalers come with their diamond bits. They insert here a ball joint and place in it a convenient, but sharp arm or even sometimes a ingeniously hinged plane when the surface will permit. The surface, ah, the surface, it is so glassy, so smooth, and yet varied in the various geometries and curvatures that it makes with itself. It is the triumph of twentieth century mathematics that first was differential geometry and then was all of mathematics. It is a manifold. Thus pure construction, one needs no context. The subject cares nothing for proof or logic, it does not change the essential nature of what is studied. Manifold drawings make physics obsolete. Ah, did I say it? Manifold theory describes a thing, a set with the complexity of reality, so filled with issues of context. Manifold theory is that thing without the literal around it. Every aspect useful about context it bundles with the thing, in a triplet. A very odd triplet, containing the thing, the thing bound up with what was formerly considered the thing's context and a map from a point in the whole to a point in the bare thing. Context is not external to the self, once freed from the stigma of representation. There are things like that. Things with an edge. Starting near the edge and wandering away from it, one walks forever safely. But that is not what this bed is, I suspect. For if this person, who has granted me this life, wanted to make this bed infinite, why would she have chosen it half infinite. 4 This bed, is in a vast room furnished with dark, almost black wood. I imagine a context. Such is my dirty habit. I have not yet freed my imaginations of context. Heart murmur causes me to imagine. The bed is hard, the black wood frame simple. She chose simplicity for the bedroom, wanting few distractions. She may have found it useful to place small, somewhat inconspicuous focal point, like a flashing red beacon light, in front of the bed on the wall. When on it provides a certain excitement for when one meets one's marital needs. When off, such a light serves as a focal point for self-hypnosis as that used to facilitate sleep. I will see that flashing, and then she crush me. If she has trouble crushing me against the soft surface of the bed or is afraid of me, with my look, she will impale me with a pen from the pocket. But would she risk dirtying the sheets? Perhaps I will not die. Paintings are very difficult these days. A print is not acceptable. So one searches for an artist who embodies one's vision. I remember the matching paintings in a certain house. I begin to fluctuate wildly between the kind of unbounded happiness and a sense of gastrointestinal despair. Consumed by that which I had intended to be consuming. The fish stick, in its simplicity is always reminiscent of architecture. Its rectangular shape, its mass-marketability, its use of industrial quality ingredients. Indeed when I was in Houston I visited a restaurant, part of a chain stemming from the original fish stick restaurant. So in my gastronomic, and to some extent gastrointestinal despair I wait. I'm not hungry now, I grant. Yes, certainly I'm not hungry. I have no trouble now that there is no night or day interfering with my natural schedule. Heartened by the spear of the minimal. One doesn't so much use a razor as much as one uses a spear. Spying a large and ugly complication, one aims at it a spear, hoping thus to achieve beauty. In general one kills the essential first and is left with a bewildering array of periphery. That is the usual in science and in interior decorating and in many other fields. Waste no time. Eliminate the essential immediately. Then one being left with a large number of periphery of limited importance and much greater evasive speed, one makes a career. 5 So lovely, so lovely she was when she first met me. Neah, the sound of that name, unbearably beautiful. And it is that kind of beauty, that essential and completely superficial beauty, which led her to me. I had in me, she knew, an uncompromising commitment to that type of beauty. She had that beauty. She devoted her life to the perception of beauty on the screen, and I loved her deeply, deeply. She led me carefully away from my one dream, to excel in physics, into interior decorating. I bless her for it to this day for why hold any bitterness. 6 Design for a painting room: On the walls, out of arms reach, a set of easels permanently attached to the walls, old splintery wood. Of all sizes but all with the center of the easel at the same line, so that there is no piece of wood that lies on the same horizontal line as any other. The floor, strewn with newspaper articles about painting, and shellacked over with polyurethane. The lights, all on a common dimmer, but of different sizes of bulbs and directions and differing intensities but all increasing on some nonlinear scale. The brightest light at its highest intensity only lighting a small corner of the room and the rest left with dim lights under almost opaque shades. In a flash, or revealed over a short period very quickly, the complete description of a room would come to me. Initially, I could not find an employer. Interior designers normally spend days composing their description of the room, then sometimes take a year to get it right. At first, I took on for free a project for a study for Gorad. Oh, how I tire of hearing his name. What an idiot I must be to repeat it. Nevertheless, he was good to me. Imagine here a description of the study which I planned for him. Imagine because once I have finished the description and the other very pleasant part, the dealing with those who paint, or lay carpet or who sell matting or even a painter of quadratures, then I leave and the room takes shape without me. I have no sense for the detail. The specification of the railing. The vast high counter with a top in red velour. No, these things are details. Granted you say interior decorating itself is a detail. Yes, but in all things there are shades. Decorating is not a detail of the room but a scheme which a particular house and physical rectilinear rhombus may fit into. The point being the fact that I cannot describe, should it be Doctor, or perhaps even a professor. I have lost my thought. The Doctor's study. A small bar with refrigerator built in stood at the center. There was no writing space. One, if one was to write, was forced to get on the floor. The interior decorator, like the physicist himself, does well to forget ideas like color, remembering only frequency, and ratios of frequency being either ratios of small numbers, or perhaps an integer. So the decorator portrays only one or two colors and if more it is only to indicate a willingness, a kind of devil-may-care, a willingness to make a mistakes. One's own house may have more colors, because he is trying to make a mistake. It is heartwarming to see a man or woman whose profession can actually be applied to some aspect of the practitioner's life. 7 I have discovered another. I'm not interested in procreation, but I'm interested in that other aspect she has named me and I have not named her yet. She is beyond Neah. So I begin. The question was, what shall we do. There is obviously the bed. That'll do it, if nothing happens in the natural course. We wander, nevertheless I am not unaware of the possibilities of a charting project. Not unaware. A chart, technically is a function which for every point in the domain of the chart, has a point in a Cartesian space. I remember his architecture used in proving God. A bit thin, I think, as architecture. So I know about charts, and am not simply too lazy. I know, for example, that a chart cannot be relied upon for even the simplest structure, a donut perhaps. A chart is foolish. Suppose we are on a kind of bed-like donut. One side of the donut being smashed, resembling an edge, the edge of a planar surface. Still, it changes nothing. She knows this, despite her failure in arithmetic. She, even more than I, has lost arithmetic because of the over-study of math. So we embrace. I understand that loss. We kiss. Those thin lips barely participate, yet the teeth and the structure of the mouth, indescribably exquisite. We kiss. Then again the embrace, the art of pressing gently against first this then that breast. She drops hints. She refers to her poisoners gently, but without affect. I find some gentle feeling for Neah. Neah as a flower blooms, a large tulip, with bloom the size of a small computer monitor. She rushes it, embraces it. Its leaves, azure, resist being destroyed. She squeezes it. The room changes. The bed we're on is light blue, but in the fog it merely looks gray. The bed is placed in a pink or green room with flowered wall paper. That is the eternal nature of interior decorating once you've got that genius no one can take it away from you. The lights now are clear to me. They are sculpted glass fixtures on the walls, with a soft light. The atonement, that is what I want, but I have been bought. The designs of this room are different for each moment. Hela, for so I named her, has found a blue flower. I bright color will make a room sicken as it should. One wants a feeling of nausea for the room itself. It is a tough job, interior decorating, on the level of an very hard many body problem. And ever the bed threatens. It not scares me a bit, with this blue. 8 A deep appreciation of objects is a key to Hela. A state, an operation or so, and an identity. So each hat is worn by several men or women at once. For example, a hat is an object that is of any one of a number of styles, but all hats have something in common. All hats wear their owners. All hats induce their owner to tip them, and all hats can induce their owners to put them on a rack. In addition a hat itself has a state. It is on a head, or on a rack, but no matter what it remains a hat and the viewer of the hat remains in the dark as to the state of the hat. In addition the hat passes a message to other objects. For example a bowler will pass a very simple message to anyone who asks. Similarly, a cowboy hat will pass a different message depending on its, otherwise hidden, state. However, the cowboy hat also has another state, if it wears underneath it a man in a suit: The hat wears the man. Impossible to say what an object is except by example, but if one chooses a good solid example, like the one above, one has enough knowledge of the definition of object to do a good job. Even a hat has a state, operations and an identity. I add, my own little bit to this definition by example. A hat will pass a message depending on its state. Hela saw a computer. Normal sized and on, the screen blinking up. She wanted it to work. She eventually fell asleep and when she woke up, went in search of a fish stick without knowing the danger of losing track of it and wandered into the mist. 9 Thus, with Hela lost and having found myself not alone, as I had thought, but with this and also that and the screen, I found myself overwhelmed by and loved by it. There is the sense of desire in it. It leaves itself open and there is a project to which it invites. One remembered from years back. The computer is not locked and I seem to have free run of it. The project has brought me here perhaps and not I it. The long weeks I spent in physics have now irrepressibly drawn me fully inside it. The project is only a short program, an object of utility and something full and complete. The object is not red, not communist like my other project. It doesn't build but neither is it communist. The fact that it can both be in politics, not communist and something I want has left me feeling very unpleasant. Not that I am not communist because of this. Nevertheless, one could barely be in politics and be a communist without being thus fully caught. But obviously an exception is evident and ``barely'' becomes operative in the previous statement. Thus, I see the political landscape not with the eye of the Marxist but with the eye of one who, while surely communist, cannot always wrap the landscape in combat and dialectic. Not that one disavows one's own personal belief. Not that one sees in the landscape any proof that the overrunning hordes are not inextricably wound up in this material climax and somehow lost. One does not go so far as that. But one is touched, caused to ignore this point first or then again the point about causal relationships, or even one must leave aside the tenet about the wisdom of the proletariat. And one is left, here with a good analysis ignoring of course the first, and there again an understanding of events given the exclusion of the second, and there again hope in inevitable progress of course leaving aside the third. Here is the lack of wrap-up. But now I begin not to think of these politics but of their fulfillment in some sense in the project. A project of both, in the unusual way described above, politics and physics and again design. But this we will see come out. 10 As I began to program I recognized the family of the problem. The relations were not what I wanted. The design specification are unreasonable. Each piece is linked in a million ways with each other piece. Then, each object emerges. It is easier. The objects; data and functions belonging together, found themselves. Belonging to charge is not a model to compute charge, but a model for potential. An object is defined by what it is, not what it wants to be. Thus I find a hope, a slight hope to understand this question. The desire to write a perfect program is very important. The program is important. It takes on a life that is beyond simply the result that one expects. One hopes that these lines of code will enlighten, will actually improve one's knowledge. The lines organize our thoughts, they make those around us insane for it is only the code which enlightens. The only great invention that has come since quantum. Only object technology rivals those discoveries, which revolutionize our way of allowing organizing of thoughts. An era begins in which those few who see these things aright have a chance to change the way the world's computers will be. Those who do not see it remain in the other world. This world will slowly be changed by the new, the old world cannot influence the new except by parentage. The beginnings were humble. Someone will find the beginnings glorious but this is not the glory of kings. This is the glory of those who see, who envision a great future because they eschew old prejudice. They see theory as simply a part of the bigger picture. A theory is intimate with its data and should be insulated from data that is not its own. Such a view is not consistent with quantum mechanics. It is more like scattering theory. It sees each piece separate and in fact it hides the details. The many body theory that scattering theory arises with and with which it collaborates does not work. It has approximately one success. This success is one which is almost universally agreed as great. It requires great intelligence to retrace that triumph and a certain piece of foresight given by more simple and more specifically applicable theories. A theory only found once. Why is the probably minor programming practice a source of such grace? Why is the beauty of the earth and of others not enough? Why then, do we see in this earth beauty? Is it not simpler to see the beauty in a program than to see it in a leaf. Is it not the beauty of rigor, of the unexpected insight. Those leaves, those waves are very beautiful. They have both. They have the beauty and they have beauty's logic. In the case of programming beauty does not hide logic but glorifies it. I love it. Both scattering theory, which is beautiful and quite rigorous, and regular quantum mechanics are beautiful. Quantum Field Theory is beyond both, yet ugly beyond belief because of the ugliness of the insights it gives. Only the development of functional means, path integrals, can save it. Conversely, functional programming is ugly but object oriented design is full of beauty. It is only gray in my mind as I finish in this haven, the program I wanted to finish when I was a physicist. Here I see it. I see the clear nature of objects. Things separated by barriers that protect and do not injure. Those barriers are the key to it. Only with barriers can it truly be an object. Access to the causes, the effects, the memories, the ugly touches of inexperience removes the ability of one to be unique. Instead the assemblage. Only an assemblage. Can one man be so infatuated, so convinced of the kindness of a group of thoughts. I am a spirit captured by those thoughts. Only those thoughts bring me my insight. Only physics is the true infant, the eyes without having lost vision. The programming world too deals with it, vision. 11 These were my inspiration. I would design a house based on the facts. If the facts are very complex then one has a chance to find a very nice design. The design is a complex set of traits and interactions and pieces of known theories. Some features are clear from the beginning, others simply arise. And if those features, unnecessary, and in fact new facts in the waiting, arise then one has found a good design. If one simply pulls a sheet around the facts and one finds nothing new then one simply has an explanation. An explanation is nothing great. One does not simply explain. The course is clear. Yes, it is clear. The beginning has returned to the end. The appearance of an edge is wrong. I'm to return my love of design to physics. I'm to design a computer game based on this place. A beautiful game in which every aspect is defined in object language. This game will teach the principles of physics. I will shape physics. It will bear my mark forever because of this. My immortality will be extended in both spheres. Despite this loss, the loss of physics, I have loved it always. I despair, throughout this experience, of rejecting physics in this life. In fact, without humor and physics this life holds little joy for me. I am without my family and without new rooms with which I can play. Those who are without these things can only turn to physics. The loss is not always in the afterlife. Often one has not much of a prostaglandin production and thus can not relate to family or play around with a room. One then turns to physics or computer theory. Every passion has its price. Physics reduces prostaglandin. Those already in physics don't have extras. One finds that one soon has no choice but physics. That is, in ordinary circumstances. Prostaglandin help us fight stress and be assertive. Once one has a suitable advisor there is not room for assertiveness and no need for social situations. One then finds pleasure in the beauty of theories. One must like it, or else there is no pleasure, because for a physicist physics is all there is. I learn charge is an object that updates potential by using a charge update and potential is an object that updates charge. 12 The recapitulations, the love, the undecided pandering given yesterday to the idea, to the beloved of my not so young youth was wrong. I've now moved less to the world of design than away as far as I can from the rigors of mathematics. The consistent paranoia of this kind is right. I'm right to be afraid of my true love. The idea itself holds no danger as last night. I did not die or lose my way as I thought. It is not the idea in physics but the intense expansion that it desires. The idea with a sufficient brain is not content with itself. It finds me. The baring of my own understanding of an idea is not really the purpose of the thing, nor is my ability to use the idea. The love of the idea is like a human need. I need to share, to help, to improve it. I am the embodiment of it and I can no longer see it separate from me. I desire to improve said idea, but this only causes it to use me. The idea is so much stronger than me. I choose only the kind of exquisite and dominating beauty. I write a program using all the features of object oriented programming and not just those useful to my need. I then lose it. I lose the idea. It seems ugly, for I have taken its beauty. I am consumed by it. Only a beautiful idea warrants serving. I reject ideas that are merely anything: merely useful, merely convenient, merely right. I am so scared, for my work and writing are merging. Is it not scary to think that I cannot finish this thing because the beauty has enraptured me. I am scared, barely breathing. 13 I don't want to see what this means. It means if I want to finish my degree I will have to abandon yesterday's beauty. I will have to let the fact that charge belongs to a model for potential and potential belongs to a model for charge and not the other way fall away. I'll give up and desist. I love the idea and it lies in a beautiful tradition of object orientation. The idea is part of me. Despite its impracticality it is now part of me. I will die trying to bring it true. That idea is me. Why should I do it differently. It is full of beauty. My love keeps my heart beating. It seems wrong, I feel so guilty, even Pam thinks I should do things simply but it just won't ring. Even Pam believes there is no way to graduate in physics wholly, without piecing improperly little pieces. I have to be angry. Why doesn't she see. I am not a automation. I have to feel. I must seek beauty even in futility. I can't have success and beauty. Those beautiful things that I desire can't make me happy and that happiness is way, way too ugly. But I can't give up can I. I can't give up on either. I am torn in three. There is me, beauty, and happiness. I cannot be any of the three. I can't see a way to be happy anyway. Pain and beauty intimate. I fear to implement. I couldn't implement it if it weren't beautiful. I know that I may not ruin it but I fear that its formed beauty will make it very hard to actually be a real thing. I really have made the implementation more complicated than I believe it should be. That is the next thing. That little thing only available to me from me. The full intensity of light of a normal sun is not here, only a kind of gray illumination a bit of light everywhere, shadows scarce. She has left me but who knows if I will encounter her again. It matters little to me. She has found the computer, I the edge, we each other. The clock begins anew with the optimism of youth. 14 The object that is a new charge distribution and the Poisson equation solver I have named the exciton, after excitation in the charge distribution in many body quantum theory. The item that is a new potential along with the Schrodinger theory I have named photon after the electromagnetic disturbance. What shall become of these names I don't know. That is the great downfall of some areas of physics, because these areas are not particle physics people will not name things. Only particles and theories can be named. In fact, theories are processes, open to view, changeable and not eternal and so should not be names. Or only with people's names. But there are objects, which is what we need. I could call the thing that I call a photon a frensley because in a sense it is a new thing thought up by Frensley who didn't know it was a thing right away but will someday. The following is the list of procedures needed to create an object oriented model of a quantum device. You need a device which is constructed by inheritance from a simulator. The simulator has an on-deck update and a current update. These are both updates. A photon is an updated. That is, it is constructed by inheritance from update. Exciton is an update. Photon contains an integration model object. That is, a photon is built on integration model by aggregation. An integration model contains a single energy model. A single energy model uses a device. A single energy model has a solution. A solution has an equation and boundary conditions. The boundary is the source. The boundary is the source class. The boundary class is simply an abstraction at the base or source of the most important class. A boundary is the beginning. In this case the boundary is open, so the boundary is literally the source. Electrons flow in from one boundary. True it is built by aggregation from the boundary, but still. The canonical form for a simulation has an event queue. This is only a two slot queue because it contains just two events alternating with each other. No other pattern of events will do for this device. We create a situation like this so everything will not be codependent. 15 The object that is a new charge distribution and the Poisson equation solver I have named the exciton, after excitation in the charge distribution in many body quantum theory. The item that is a new potential along with the Schrodinger theory I have named photon after the electromagnetic disturbance. What shall become of these names I don't know. That is the great downfall of some areas of physics, because these areas are not particle physics people will not name things. Only particles and theories can be named. In fact, theories are processes, open to view, changeable and not eternal and so should not be names. Or only with people's names. But there are objects, which is what we need. I could call the thing that I call a photon a frensley because in a sense it is a new thing thought up by Frensley who didn't know it was a thing right away but will someday. The following is the list of procedures needed to create an object oriented model of a quantum device. You need a device which is constructed by inheritance from a simulator. The simulator has an on-deck update and a current update. These are both updates. A photon is an updated. That is, it is constructed by inheritance from update. Exciton is an update. Photon contains an integration model object. That is, a photon is built on integration model by aggregation. An integration model contains a single energy model. A single energy model uses a device. A single energy model has a solution. A solution has an equation and boundary conditions. The boundary is the source. The boundary is the source class. The boundary class is simply an abstraction at the base or source of the most important class. A boundary is the beginning. In this case the boundary is open, so the boundary is literally the source. Electrons flow in from one boundary. True it is built by aggregation from the boundary, but still. The canonical form for a simulation has an event queue. This is only a two slot queue because it contains just two events alternating with each other. No other pattern of events will do for this device. We create a situation like this so everything will not be codependent. 16 One foul stay is enough, my soul believes. If the building has a rotten truss, the whole will not find what is needed. So I begin and stop, begin and before concluding more than the smallest piece again I falter. So then I am forced to my notes, my glorious lessons from Hela. One simply places things in fully objective orientation or one leaves them be. One cannot and must not go half way. Half way is the resolution. It is something by parts only, not completely new. If one is to enter a field one must recreate absolutely everything. Thus one cannot find a whole person entering physics today. The whole people remade everything, but now if everything is remade it can only be remade half way. One is shot by the demons. The beginnings of physics were in both philosophy and chemistry. The end of physics is surely plain but to everyone but me. It is the object, the thing. One cannot live without the well defined thing. And yet, in a sub-field like quantum field theory one has a theory but no quantum field. One has a scheme. One does not have a thing. That will not be my plan to remake quantum field theory. It is very easy to remake quantum field theory however there is no need because physicists have found no use for the quantum field. Instead I remake quantum transport. Generating things. 17 Posit the exact time of my death. At that second was this place prepared? I doubt it. This is a very large place. Perhaps there are more here. But perhaps there is only the one other who told me of the computer. The edge makes me nervous. If this place is very large it is infinitely unlikely that if I was placed randomly, I would ever get near the edge. What is going on? Am I falling apart? I believe I am falling apart. I believe that is good. The masses are near to my heart. Without the masses I am not. I must have the masses. The great group against which my shadow is cast. I must have the gloom of the postindustrial against which my fine but solid line will always look great. Only through decay may I exist. The next step is to examine what it is that I've lost when I began to see through it. I lost Hela and before her Neah. But I also seem to have lost physics, computer science, mathematics, reason, logic, partitions, geometry, geometric algebra, computational physics, despair (but gained that back), astronomy, astrophysics, statistics, and architecture. What is left is engineering, writing, interior decorating, and religion. 18 All kindness is death. Here is the new interest. We have been lost. Neah is here. There is no doubt. The kids lost, without live parents. Neah still here. I am here. The children will never be here. The design, the old heart, the bent metal rod. Neah's inside, her head completely dead. Her hollow sockets filled, clay-like, pushed back. Neah was only a bunch. The rock floors over which we together walked. The flagstone gray rock. The ashpit. The big bed. That house in its grays and blacks. Neah has made this if I'm right. She has only got rock and cement. This is her house. There is no structural cement, only rock, the gray flagstones, rocks set down and never swept. The rocks in the walls. The big granite rough faced blocks in the walls. Each piece a nuke clock. Then the metal beams, designed by me to simulate a giant erector set. On top of that the roof: crushed shale on tarred polyfiber boards. She loved it. I love it. No built in cabinet space. The black wooden heavy pillared cabinets push out into the rooms. They are all a bit different but all wood black stained. Neah picked one of them out. She understood. 19 Why am I not doing a program? I cannot. I cannot finish what was my good project. Why do I remember. I have lost track of it, the computer. I didn't wander far and miss the location around it. The sense of place. The computer with the monitor whose glass I almost bashed out. Neah would not have liked it. She would not have liked the plastic and metal case. She was not a fan of plastic. Yet, I sometimes thought I liked it. I would have opened it, the computer's case, but I was working on it. I found most of the jobs pleasant. There were some though that weren't. I don't like repartitioning disks. That is a bad idea. Nevertheless I did it. Moral obligations, the kind which require after the age of six no enforcement, are present. I feel several moral obligations. I feel obliged to here set down the truth. I feel obliged to protect those I love in that truth by making myself look worse, so making their deviousness not seem worse. I feel the obligation to provide the reader with dialogue even though there is no other here. 20 The dialogue is between a photon and myself. I argue that no one has ever used a photon to compute. The photon claims that's false but even if it was, the value of photons is that they are observed and account for the properties of matter that while not exactly numerical, are nevertheless surely observed. The person who observes them knows well that we are good. I do not agree, I said. I think the observer sees a little electromagnetic flux. He only calls your name out because of photon's place in the lexicon. He doesn't feel any attachment. He doesn't really ever believe it because usually his data don't let him see the obscure properties your existence tries to represent. That, I said, is the limit of it. Your existence gives me a handle on a few obscure properties but the major properties you only serve to obfuscate. Photon accuses me of genocide. You misname a program component a photon yet you provide non of the properties of a photon except what you refer to as the essential, which you term any change in the electric or magnetic field, which you then interpret and whose effect you quickly and improperly calculate. The love, the love I felt when I named not you, but a new one photon. I felt great love. It is exciting to disturb the great lexicon used in physics. I felt love for it the first time, for I felt I was adding to the lexicon, not simply learning it. I believe I have something to give physics. I enlarge its limits. You enlarge its limits so that the very limit's meaning is lost. The photon was never meant to mean just what it does. When first proposed it was little more than a particle of light. Now it is seen not to be a quanta but a field which has quanta which are detected like a particle in scattering type experiments. The concept has already developed. But you take the concept back. Yes, I take the concept back to addition, subtraction, multiply, and divide. No longer is it field theory or operator calculus but it is now a concept that I can use and learn from not one that sits in my brain's dusty attic. I must expand science's limits and right now limits stop before specific algorithms. Instead the algorithm is left vague. I expand them beyond that limit to include the precise AND/OR logic of computers. Yes, but you do that at too great a price. You abandon all the advanced mathematics and all you have is advanced computer science. I looked at P (for so I sometimes called him) intently after that as if to say Do you understand what you have just said? You have described exactly why what I have done is right. As if to say If it was just bad computer science then it shouldn't replace advanced mathematics, but since it is advanced computer science replacing advanced mathematics isn't that appropriate? As if to say don't you think computer science is advancing as fast of faster than math and don't you think it's wise to get on that train anyway. As if to say Don't you see that society as a whole has been changed and will be changed and is changing by computer science as mush as by math. As if to say Exactly my point. But P just looked back at me while this happened as if to say Do you have to go to the bathroom? Is that why you shut up? So much for good dialogue. 21 The truth as it is, is that I never found the computer again. But this we shall see further along. So further as from the computer I got nurture and needs met so I got from Photon from his reason, from his desperate plea for my help, I got satisfaction. For what is better than to hurt something that can't be hurt and to change, change for the better or worse something that doesn't exist. So on and on, similarly being comforted, hurting something that can't feel it and by the same that gives comfort being hurt. One finds eventually, in the soul's retreat, a face to that. Then, whether computer or man, or dare I say woman, one has been finally offered. Then at last one is mad and with the hurling insult or flailing first on is presupposed, I wager to take that anger out. Then at last, found by those who have no head, no head save that heard for themselves and their needs, no no head, then one is stopped, or fought off or if not then eventually worn out by their receiving of blows. Then, given the end of the fight and with madness subsided, just a little but then one begins to see the object of comfort and the object of your abuse and sees that all that time it did feel it, whether object or field of research or not one still sees the manage and one prepares to be hit, to be hurt but if not, if the object of abuse is not full or if it is inanimate. Let me not receive that comfort that allowed me to be abused and to abuse. Insulate me from that kind of comfort. Let me not receive it. The other day was bright. Now it seems dark. The kind of dark in which one feels it on one's eyebrows. The land is ta'en, so are we lost. Both Neah and I are lost. The beginning of the end is not. I cannot stop. I must wander this dark waste. This writing is now worse. It is sentimental rot. I have never found such death in my own mouth. Another disappointment. Life is full of innumerable small disappointments, punctuated by large devastating disappointments. The best one can do at times of temporary triumph is to realize that. Only the small disappointments can prevent that. If one sees the small disappointments as unimportant one tends to cling to the triumph as the defining moment. One must recognize that that nature of this life is to be disappointed. I am not sure what else there is. Certainly there is something else, but only to the extent that it does not diminish or in any important sense relieve anger, guilt, disappointment, and fear. If one admits this one can live a life that is less full of bitterness and denial. Perhaps that is what one hopes. This is the state, the state of truth, disappointment, death. That is what I hope to keep. Then one can look after oneself. Only through this is one saved the most extreme pain and then perhaps only sometimes. That is what God wants. He wants us to recognize that this life is hard and to praise him for helping us know that not only is it hard, but it will never be anything else. If we can admit that perhaps then we are saved. Only when we have discovered that God will not save us pain, grief and disappointment will we discover the true God. The God of sorrows who dies on the cross and only then rose on the third day. Why do I hide what I am. I am the artist. I am him whose mind creates or organizes, not he who describes and discovers. Why do I not explain that. All praise be to God and his angels and his prophet, though he has made me mad I will praise. Though I can be very upset with his prophet I will learn patience. 22 Those who deny their anger at God will be damned. Those who deny their fear of God or who are entirely governed are not one of God's are they? I don't know. I fear God. Thus I attempt to follow. I cannot do otherwise. I cannot follow. I cannot die. I wish I could many many times. Only through God's grace can I be mad at God's prophet and even at He himself. Though I have been in that valley of death. Something is wrong. I am not right. I am very upset and I don't know how to write about it. Perhaps the fictional Borjules will help me out. Perhaps only the fictional Borjules will help. I have found myself in this place and have become a bit violent. I have tried and failed to tear the bedspread. I would have any home be a bit rent. I would have my hand be hurt. I do not feel the guest here yet. I feel great anger, great guilt. Did I in my last days become everything I hate. I abused verbally my kids. Did I yell at my wife? Why did I do it. Because she drove me to it, not by so much doing anything wrong, but because she was abusive and I spent too much time with that abuse. She abused people to get them to do what she wanted. And I learned also to do that. Why was I so stupid. To be hit with that bowl was great so I could be released. I am sad. I must stop. My pen hand is withered. I cannot control my own pen. I am close to death. She is abusive. I don't know how to respond to abuse. How do I respond to abuse? I need to learn about verbal and emotional abuse. How is it perpetrated. Once someone is abusive what can be done to change that. 23 There is no citizen and no government here. There are no protectorates, no holy wars, and no Central Intelligence Agency. There is no plan for bed defense and no draft to provide for it. No member of the community is obliged to contact any other member, nor even is he able to if he desires it, without the express written permission of chance. Only those who are know to me though meeting her or who were know to me before I came here are revealed to me though some kind of intuition. Thus, I can feel Hela's presence her and recently I became aware of Neah's presence. No corporate raiders announce themselves, no entrepreneurs or sales people make their pitch over these same airwaves. Somehow we who have met are tied up in a collective in this bed and those who are not known to us are either excluded from the bed or from our thought collective. Every instinct of mine may be revealed to Hela and Neah, as echoes of their thoughts are revealed to me. All powers of observation, all fears, all desperate attempts at ratiocinio are made available I suppose instantly to me. It is a computer program without its data. All I feel is pure algorithmic pulsing. I can only suspect or imagine on what these coding steps are processing. I can only follow the trace of emotion or rational operations on these unknown items of reality or imaginative creation. 24 Thus one can, for example follow the steps of a syllogism. One see the thought A implies B. Is A true? Can it be true? Can I ever know for sure A. A is unlikely. What is the evidence for A? Can I trust what I see? How badly do I rely on B being true? B is very beautiful. B is true. One can follow such leaps of pure logic and reason through one has no access apparently to the referents A and B. One can also watch in anxiety lead to fear, a fear to panic and a panic to pain but without access to the cause of these feelings. 25 It is also possible to distinguish between the thoughts and fears of Hela and those of Neah. I also assume that they both are able to discern my thoughts and feelings though not those of each other. Some days they will lie paralyzed by fear or sadness all day, some day's there are explorations and discoveries, whether real or imaginary. Some days emotions are repressed and some days they feel freely. So the days stretch out before me, able to enjoy the collective and also fully aware of my feelings and not subject to hallucinations of visions but only the slow or faster grinding of these brains moving the things of existence through the halls of mental processing. 26 Imagine a client, someone wanting a room to relax in, how could I create a better space. One is provided with a pleasant soft place to lay, food constantly available and the pleasant aspects of company, the essence of conversation and intimacy without the stressful relation of those very items to reality. This, then, again there is the placement of the few full object that the client needs. The objects appear out of the fog in the client's wanderings, stay in the client's view as long as she finds them interesting enough to stay, and then when no longer desired or needed or even when becoming hated, she simply walks away, the object never again to be seen. 40 The following day I advanced clear of the fog. What had to me seemed like a bed I now saw stretch out beautiful and ever so gently roll away toward some unseen end. This was perhaps the feeling of Adam upon leaving his original paradise. The feeling of inevitability and fear and beauty in the solitude of the vastness of the real. There I sat, behind a small tree not wanting to face the void, facing back for just a minute or so. I imagined in my dream that night a great rounding plane, like a sphere cut along a non axial plane. And beyond the sphere was a lush jungle, the source of all good fruits and wild animals. The whole filled with danger and real wild life to be observed and discovered. As I woke I looked out at the rolling plains, no longer disguised by fog and naked and bare save for the tree at it's edge. I knew there would no Helas, no computers in that plain, for there traveled only the lone walker. So I struck out, filled with a new fear of that edge and its fog and the jungle over the edge. I struck out with fear of the attraction of the fog and the tree, hoping beyond hope that one might get so lost in the hills that even with a change of heart I could not return and re-enter the fog. For I knew that it was hopeless to get that lost for the hills were low and the fog rose toweringly at their edge. Perhaps the fog was everywhere in sight if one merely climbed to the top of the next rise and took a bearing toward the distant cumulous formation which one knew reached to the ground. Then again, I steeled myself for my journey, knowing it was not any more a journey, for the only destination was here at the tree or beyond in the fog. I would simply begin the existence which called me from the fog. From the right I saw stars, repeated in many almost random combinations in the sky. That was odd, here was day and night, except without our point of light at dawn, coming up through a horizon plane. 41 Still, no darkness was found at day break the moon and stars cleared. The horrifying truth was that day was in reality some luminous cloud stretching out over me, a high altitude extension of the fog. And night was the retreat of this high level fog, leaving one with the stars and the glow of the tail of the cloud, now at my left. It would be this light that would accompany my night and wake and completely remove of any possibility of directional sense's loss. I stood, bound by the natural order of light. I was never to escape the fog, but only to live where it at night would not lie overhead or around and where during the day it only loomed over head and to the left but left the right and front and I moved off from the fog and its relative stability. I moved off a short ways toward the closest hill, hoping to cross over it and lie in its lee for a while to gain strength. God would not be hidden when he appeared for how would he hide. God would be visible to me as he descended from the skies. No property was other than mine, I thought. All this belongs to me and mine and all of a sudden was the commandment, go ye and multiply and bear fruit. So that had come to my mind. 42 But the only fruit I could bear was this little record for there was no more Eve, she had wandered into the fog. Our union was sexless and she also was, like I, little interested at the time in creating a child. I lay at last that night, in the valley of the hill that lay beyond the tree close to the fog. The hill's slope was so smooth, that when I rolled to my left I could see a faint glow from the moon back. At this moment welled up in me the first emotion of any consequence in years. I felt sad that only at night I would truly escape the fog. It was a great feeling of disappointment. Perhaps I had been excited by finally clearing the fog. And now, in the morning, to see the fog slowly extend over my head, to cover me from whatever was above and to cover this plane with diffuse light which could not cause even very strong shadows, reflected as it was by the gray ground, it made me sad and almost caused a tear. To see that in everything I did I would be lit by luminous fog made me cringe. In disappointment I cried, a dark, tearless cry, a dry sob, not loud enough to be heard but spasmodic and full of jerks. This fog was eternal since I had already died. I was in a marriage. The fog was my bride. She was to accompany me through this life. The total involvement of the beginning of marriage was my experience in the fog. Somehow I was comforted, kept live by the fog. Now, my life was not surrounded but simply covered by it, lit by it's light. But was there no divorce, there was no point to divorce. That would leave unending night, it would not be needed where day broke but this place had no day except the fog. The sun was not of any avail for it never appeared. I would not have wished to leave that fog. Then I would have had only night and night hours were bad enough, not that they were bad, but they were bad enough that when day came I welcomed it. Not that day was good, but still, some variety is good. One then lies about all covered with grass or some other organic stuff. One waits and for waiting on receives the reward, either nightfall the day or in the night daybreak. 43 No higher calling than this exists I suppose. There is no way that I can progress in this world beyond this simple existence. I have come out of the fog, I have learned through observation about it's truth. I have dreamed and gained spiritual knowledge of the world beyond the edge. I have no desire to return to where I started. I cannot get beyond the fog. There is no landmark visible in this area of light fog above. There is no goal I would wish to achieve. The business of living has been brought to this, a substance living without the need of anything to subsist. A life entirely without art. A life with no pattern except that of the stars. No commands are brought us except through those stars and then not much. There is only the false hope for some sign that will come at night while we dream. One hopes in vain for something that can be subjected to science. One hopes in vain for some event other than the fall of night. Found captive in our surging passionate hearts. Our emotions then fix on a blade of grass. Then we discover the blade is only a moistened clump of dust. How is anger forsaken me? Why am I left alone? I do not care that there are no human beings but I am lost without some kind of problems to solve. The end is not close. And so my anger turns to the only thing at hard, the hills, the ground. Other days it feels my fury because it is too hard. It is full of malevolence and is whatever I don't want. I pound my fist into it. I am once again convinced that it is a bed. The captain of this bed is I alone or then there is no captain. What can be traced has been traced. There is no lineage, no government unless it is very laissez-faire. Apparently the citizens have no needs and so there is no need for controls. The panic of death, once it subsided, led to the pain and anger of the dispossessed. No longer is the bed a good place to rest, now it is always wrong. Now I can not find anything to get a hold of. I fix on the ground. And or I get father away from the edge I begin to go to sleep while it is still light to spare myself from counting stars. There is only pain in that. It had destroyed my nights. As I had approached my new life I began to recognize that while it was good to be out of the fog, the cloud itself was the source of all good. Then I began to direct my efforts to increase its effects through changing my own habits. The daily return of its bright was something I began to love as if obscured the stars or as, it woke me up, relieving my mind of its dreams. So now all I have is my anger at the ground and my love of the cloud. 44 It was then, only then, having renounced all but the cloud and having become angry with the best earth there ever was that I had the vision. One morning on waking up I floated up over a small church and in through the doors. Inside were my children. They had gathered around a casket. I did not glimpse myself from the angle I was at nor did I know that it was not my wife in the casket. My children cried. Perhaps that was very only earthly gift, to give them the confidence to express, however unpleasant and reminiscent of pain, their emotions. This was the gift I wanted to give. This was the gift I wanted to give. This was the gift I gave to my kids. Why they cried I couldn't tell, but cry the did. The sobbed, weeping great tears and filling their bodies with great sobs. There was no mistaking it. This was not fake. They expressed every emotion well. I saw a vision of them at a theater. How they laughed at the antics of the playwright and his lackeys the actors. I saw them again shout down some friend in anger at an insult, I saw then mad. Then this was it. I could see that is some way I was able to succeed. No longer was I ashamed. The cloud melted. The bed faded- was this the end. I woke up in a solitary single bed. My heart pounded. I turned a switch, the lights came up. The small bedroom was covered in art. The bed, roughly and beautifully made in darkest wood, the floors covered with granite slabs. My feet felt the soft rough touch in the still semi-darkness. Somehow I was redeemed. The appearance of the house, the house I had for so many days dreamed of, the appearance of my kids in a dream, the beauty of each thing beautifully painted. The single bed. The window, to which I rushed, looked out on others like it, a city of some sorts. Other lights also switched as I watched. Other faces appeared. Other men, and also women moved about. I felt redeemed. Was my mansion in heaven. I little cared, long as I stayed in my apartment. The pain in my face no longer appeared. My head was clean shaved as it was in my youth. My closet was filled with clothes. I walked across the surface and dressed. 45 The only cause I can surmise for the withdrawal of the gray cloud at night, such that night comes, is the self-cause. The cloud is obviously only able to sustain its extension over the earth for a certain length of time. Any longer than that and it begins to fade and withdraws. No, not one word more about he cloud. I shall not speak more of the earth. There is only one group with which I may talk, the group of interior designers who design like I design, quickly, with fury. Only they were my companions. I have found this night and day pattern hard to get used to again. Unless I can get all twelve hours of sleep in the twelve hours of dark I must always nap in the light. So for example, if I have an eleven hour sleep I will retire for an hour at five o'clock in the evening then waking up at six o'clock I will be unable to go to sleep until about two hours after dusk. At dawn, having no protection from the light, I rise, having slept only ten hours. I then go to sleep sometime during the day and this time, more tired than day before, I sleep until seven. Then, having overslept, I arise refreshed and do my duties until night falls, when I can no longer write. I then think for three hours more when I find it quite natural to retire. The next day, I awake at dawn, and write a while and then go to sleep. This time, exhausted from lack of sleep, I sleep until eight. This time, having noted a certain pattern in my habits, I proceed to bed at dark. At dusk there is a certain pale blue color toward the fog, or in the left, as I call it, for I always face the same way at dusk and the retreat of the fog is to my left. I proceed to bed at dark, tossing and turning I am tormented by improper thoughts for four hours, until again I fall asleep. The next day, having no alarm clock, I take my nap in an uncomfortable position, and through such sacrifice I am rewarded by a prompt awakening at nine in the evening. At nine, my heart is full of vigor but night has already fallen, due to daylight savings time having ended the week past. Unable to sleep, I pass the time wandering about trying to reenter the fog and have some light so I may write. After five hours of dark I tire a bit and lie down in a hollow spot. The place is ambiguous but comfortable enough and I soon fall into a deep sleep. Waking the next day, I continue the process as can now be more or less accurately construed by the observer of great intelligence. The process continues for as many days as needed. I go to my nap at five o'clock, then I wake in the dark, wander, and then sleep until dawn when I awake with the light in my eyes. Finally, after enough days to allow the cycle to complete its progress, I am still wandering when dawn breaks. At that point, I have passed the late part of the night awake and the early part asleep. Thus the cycle continues. Everything about my habits is in flux but also in an orderly progress, with only the nap hour remaining fixed. And at the day, which we have just described, when the hour of desiring to go to sleep coincides with dawn then one has at last reached the fixed point and one is spared any more flux. For at the dawn the desire to go to sleep is equal to the desire to wake and one can no longer progress in any fashion, so one is forced to make do as set. The natural question to ask is how, without watch or marked hourglass I know that the night is twelve hours. The answer is that I don't. For though I have spent most of the day awake except for what I felt was a short nap, one can see clearly that I have never spent the whole night awake. Dawn prevents me from doing that. So while I could count, and assuming I know how to count a second, I could measure the day's progress, but never the night's. However, one can deduce from the progression of my hour of waking from my nap, and from counting the days until I reach the end of flux how many hours are likely to be in a night. Of course, one assumes that the night is of a fixed length, which it wasn't in life, and that one's hours of sleep are a relative constant, this being even more unlikely than the first. Still, one can count out the seconds in the part of the night one is awake and see that number regularly decrease and extrapolate back to the point where one might have gone to sleep at dusk. Finally, one learns from this that if one disposes of hours well they will repay, not only in kind, for how would that be of help, but in riches and fame. Only with an appropriate amount of hard work, especially on something one doesn't like, will one achieve admiration and friends in life. 46 One night in the heart of the little dell in which I found myself I found a little hole. I already was no longer doomed to night, but in fact covered by this fog which would illuminate and limit my sight. It was beloved. As I looked into the hole the hole expanded. My heart sank. The rest of my body sank with my heart into the crevasse. Then I welcomed the lack of bed, the lack of a bed, for as I fell I realized that the topology of the bed was different than what I most recently thought. A torus is still a torus, no matter that its size is that of the whole earth and the hole is the size of my head. Manifolds only exist in context and are always, in reality, embedded in another space though the mathematics will refuse to testify to that. Indeed there is nothing else to say about it. As I fell I could feel the fog slipping past. That is how I judged my movement. 47 Some years later, I saw through the mist below a beam of light as from a flashlight. The beam began to trace out letters one at a time, which I interpreted, taken together, as words. I learned that it was Hela, who must have fallen before I had. Later on, I looked up and saw a beam from above. The signals, as with the light from below, became words. Neah was above. By the relative brightnesses of their lights and by intensity's rule about squares, I established the ratio of the distance between Hela and me and between Neah and me. This was the end of my advance in knowledge of place for two years or three. After those incredible years of dispair, I yelled to Neah first, then Hela, to signal the time then flash the flashlight once. Because I then checked my own watch when the last bit of light arrived, I calculated the length of time it took for the pulse to travel the distance from Athnae to me and the length of time for light to travel from Neah to me. This was amazing. I was at a breakthrough for me. I thus calculated the speed at which light was moving traveling through the space above me and the speed light was travelling throught the space below me. Actually, after a bit of calculating I discover it is not quite so exciting. I discovered the ratio of these two speeds (1.2). Still, this was quite amazing. By knowing the ratio of these two speeds I could determine my own downward speed. After all, no knowledge of place is as important as that knowledge most immediately applicable to me. By knowing the speed light travels in the ether and the ratio of the two measured light speeds, I could use Doppler's formulae to compute my own speed relative to the ether. Indeed, my own velocity was indeed downward through ether and my own brain and my own feelings had not deceived me. I was falling. Or, of course, the ether was moving up past me. Either way, I had discovered something exciting. I was falling. This fact, and my speed, was the first breakthrough in rigourously discovering something about me since I had discovered the minimum genus of my previously solid space was one indeed. It was also exciting to know that my own personal feeling up to this time had been true, confirmed by science in my own way. Nearly everyone knew that we were falling, but we now knew that we could prove we were falling. I could not prove to myself that the ether was not moving up past me and I was stationary in some priveledged frame, or if I was moving down through the ether, which was itself fixed in that stationary frame. Nevertheless, the fog did move past my feet first then the upper part of me. At least in my frame, I now knew that. Such was the nature of my logical and self-critical mind. I could only come to conclusions regarding things after a thorough review of evidence available to me. This was a result of my physics training. Having once been trained by physics's great women and men, I could not easily forget that training, try though I may. 27 The second set of such a description is an account of a certain revolutionary and how he came to be called the herald of the New Age. Thus, this description will be complete. For without a story of blood and wealth, intrigue and communism, on can not truly see the world as it is. For one begins, if one is to take my account of the gray at its face meaning , to feel that this represented so far is all there is. And again, one begins to believe that of all this represented to the reader, the most important are the things which in the end most obscure the traditional story. And while this may be true for me, who is beyond the veil and living in a paradise of gray fog and psychic communiqué's the opposite is true for those who have not yet passed into this bed of tears. For them, the details of daily living are essentially the structure of life. Those emotions, those ideas, the places and people not intimately connected with those details are irrelevant. Thus, one begins a story of the people and places and actions associated with that one broad theme which above all others is intimately material, that is Hegel's dialectic combined with the most material aspect of human economy, often called communism, even more commonly referred to as Marxism by those who espouse it. Thus, when beginning to examine a story that has to do with control of production's means and with money and death and control of the material destiny by the people who are employed in making material things, then one is almost assured of not going too far astray. And if I seem to already be losing my thought's train by treating a story with a main theme being a great area of philosophy and political theory it is because those stories which begin with the details of life and attempt to treat only the facts of existence of a common creature and its house, job, spouse, children, education, daily life, food, bodily functioning, prayers, desires, sexuality, and procreation inevitably get dragged by the head's hair into love, feelings of marriage, religion, philosophy, books, science, fear, lust and animal attractions, thoughts, desires, needs, birth, death, romance, fate, the after life, symbols, progress, humanity, art and being which after all we have all along been treating in our current story. We thus, by choosing an element of philosophy which is guaranteed to return us always to empirical reality and cold hard facts such as poverty, we ensure that our story will not stray again, while we keep the narrative and plot going, into those aspects which we have adequately been treating already. 28 Labor, who had never been interested in revolution on a grand scale before, was wooed by A at the start of the revolution. Nothing had been done openly at the beginning. A was aware of the immense power that an angry and violent group of workers could wield. It was he who attacked and took over the major media conglomerates in a brilliant and very bloody first strike. It was then he who brought in B, then still Stephen Cartlege, and C also still under his real name, who were the major architects of a new Marxist theory that was more moderate and more spiritually inclusive. C, in his early days as a graduate student, had become interested in basically any type of violent overthrow and the eventually failure or self destruction that these type of movements fell into. It was a time of great violence in Europe and in the former Soviet Union as stable but oppressive government gave way to the idiotic and violent Mafia, so called by the West because it failed to see that these Russians were basically businessmen with their own security. 29 Immediately, C's family and friends were taken hostage by the CIA. The Black Panthers, who no one knew were still available and who thus had gone unnoticed by everybody, managed in a three hour fire fight and gas attack to free everyone except C's only surviving grandparent, who died of heart failure during the siege. The attack was both a tribute to C, because of his liberal use of Black Panther history in his treatise on the new theory, and an attempt to gain power in the new regime. The result was a new organization three weeks after the attack, which managed to pull together the Black Panthers, Labor, and Ralph Reed in a bizarre twist of fate. Ralph Reed brought legitimacy to the claim that Christian values would be tolerated and all religion included in the new regime. Ralph Reed was later killed by supporters, not of Pat Robertson, who was alive but barely active in his old age, but of Pat Buchanan, who thought of Reed as a kind of toy whom they could manipulate. With poor whites, labor supporters, black forces, and intelligentsia all represented the new coalition gained surprising support from nearly everybody not wealthy or completely bamboozled by some other political theory. 30 The rest of the country, the majority neither supporting fully the NCs nor the CIA and the wealthy, found themselves in an awkward position. They knew from previous violent overthrows that the winning party would be violent to even those who appeared to reserve judgment. The CIA, in its brutality, won this battle for the swing vote. Still, there was a final coup available to the NCs. In a brilliantly thought out intelligence victory the space shuttle, a largely Navy controlled base of operations, was launched into orbit and used to disable and redirect satellite intelligence away from the CIA to the naval intelligence center of the NCs, which became mobile and could no longer be tracked by the CIA. A small nuclear warhead was then detonated over CIA command headquarters wiping out the brains of the country's counter-revolutionaries, and not coincidentally, most of the Republican party intelligentsia. The CIA went underground, emerging later in its attack on the newly elected chamber of justice. 31 The rest of the country, the majority neither supporting fully the NCs nor the CIA and the wealthy, found themselves in an awkward position. They knew from previous violent overthrows that the winning party would be violent to even those who appeared to reserve judgment. The CIA, in its brutality, won this battle for the swing vote. Still, there was a final coup available to the NCs. In a brilliantly thought out intelligence victory the space shuttle, a largely Navy controlled base of operations, was launched into orbit and used to disable and redirect satellite intelligence away from the CIA to the naval intelligence center of the NCs, which became mobile and could no longer be tracked by the CIA. A small nuclear warhead was then detonated over CIA command headquarters wiping out the brains of the country's counter-revolutionaries, and not coincidentally, most of the Republican party intelligentsia. The CIA went underground, emerging later in its attack on the newly elected chamber of justice. 32 In fact, the saving grace of the NC regime was that it had so few enemies. The weapons plants had, for example, continued to function all through the siege, supplying only the Communists. With tanks supplied by the army and the weapons systems of the Navy rank and file who had strong ties with C because of his history of Naval weapons research and understanding of the military intelligence machine, C had bombed the CIA into oblivion. In the process, most of DC was destroyed and A and then B killed by friendly artillery. There was no real way that the regime could have survived any other way. The CIA had hoped that by taking A and B they would destroy the leaders and thus the movement. The movement was not happy to have to kill A and B, but like their hero Trotsky, A and B were willing to die for the regime. 33 At this point, with the CIA largely destroyed and elections having taken place C was free of fears that had plagued him until now. The job of restoring to order the New Communist structure was now his only job. Security forces were successfully keeping the counter-revolutionaries in check and churches and factories were open. Not that he did not support violence in the face of the most angry and unreasonable people. C was hoping to get to shoot some people legally under his regime. In fact C himself along with newly installed proletariat CEOs participated in an angry display against the radio broadcasters who had been active in the Gingrich revolution of 1990 and 1992. These broadcasters were taken from their home, slapped on the face repeatedly and relocated with their families in public housing. (Ironically, it was the reforms of Gingrich that left millions of families hungry and millions more angry and made possible the new regime. Only through neglect of the poor and the hungry had we made possible real change. It was only later that Gingrich actually understood the ideas that Alvin Toffler really meant when he wrote {The Third Wave}. It was hard to believe that Alvin Toffler and Gingrich had actually held a set of meetings without ever really coming to any real understanding. That was inevitable, because despite the ideas of title{The Third Wave} about conscious change, there was never any real hope that someone would truly deregulate in order to bring about a just society. Newt had been executed in the first days of the regime. There was a trial, but mainly people saw him as the symbol of the worst of the American dream. Greed, people could finally see, was ruining what was left of this country. ) 34 Then, after the relocation of the conservative media resistance to public housing, C had faced a very angry crowd of truly proletariat Communist leaders. These folks were angry at C's opposition to shutting down everything and restarting. In a sense he never felt farther from the people he was supposed to be helping. He had to focus on the success of the regime. The New Communists were learning from the failure of communism in the former Soviet Union. There, no one who was successful at dictating and controlling had been allowed to continue working. Here things were already heading down the path of state control and inefficient policies. The New Communists, and especially C [C is the person called B in the first draft of the story], who was working to mediate between those who could keep the factories and shops running and the people who newly had been promoted to CEOs of completely uncooperative companies, had very little support in the business community and so had to rely completely on convincing the proletariat that there was a solid basis of self interest to these more moderately communist policies. Even then, his speech itself was centered on the continued need for violence in the streets as a method for ensuring that every force who was unruly and angry could be expressed properly and not dispelled and redirected against the regime. 35 Later that day after the crowd had gone he went down into the prison to see some of the inmates. They had gotten unruly the night before according to the warden and he wanted to treat them fairly. His goal was to maintain a sense of legitimacy through these first violent weeks as he seized power for the people of the region. The New Communist regime must seem like a dictatorship to these people and these people could be a bellwether if he didn't see that they were treated fairly. Not that they ever did anything fair for their employees. Still, these were just the people who were successful in capitalistic societies, he had to admit that he had at one point been mainly motivated by envy. Their sense of purpose and their desire, however it was wrongly guided, was in some sense what he needed to get through the next few weeks. Most of the major capitalists were still at large, that is to say they were still running their companies in the region. 36 C wanted to keep them at it. They knew their jobs, for the most part, and he had to admit the advantages in efficiency to a free market. In fact he did not necessarily want to completely dismantle it, if the truth be told, for his greatest dreams were that, as Marx predicted, someday the proletariat would voluntarily be placed into power and violence would decrease. Nevertheless, it was important that those who had benefited from death and urban blight be kept from any new benefit. So, many large homes or apartments were appropriated, though the former owners kept their jobs. Next, many privately owned urban spaces were converted into publicly run community centers and homeless and unemployed men put to work keeping these up and developing community oriented crafts and trades. It was as if the New Deal, thwarted once by the Supreme Court, had returned with great vengeance and the blood of the former victors. 37 Women, who were not well represented despite the fact that there was significant female support for the NCs, were encouraged to apply if they wanted for salaries to care for children in the pre and elementary school years. The salaries were commensurate with the needs of the children and the average male salaries. Feminists, the only radicals not actively recruited by the new regime in the early days, were now asked for their input. As a sign that feminists were pretty stupid, consider that they demanded equal representation in high salary executive spots. Nevertheless, some concessions were made to the fact that child rearing in the post-weaning years is not a female domain alone but could be taken on by the male parent. Thus, women who had of their own free will given up their child rearing salaries were actively moved up the ladder in affirmative action like quotas, commensurate in some small sense with their experience and to a greater sense with their talent. In general, ratios of women who worked decreased dramatically at first, followed by gradual increase as female educational rates went up. 38 When the commanders of the various NC units began to look at the process of taking over the states it was a horrible mess. Initially, there were claims by some political theorists that the state was a very efficient and properly sized democratic unit. However, on examination of the penal codes and given the extreme resistance by almost all the governors to any changes to their own fiefdoms, C because to systematically clear our state governments. Technology had begun to make representation of the people somewhat obsolete and so these small units were really not small enough to allow direct votes on issues of real difference. Rural areas were incorporated into networks with real power to control natural resources since farms and ranches were being drained. Urban areas of large size gained control over suburbs and their suburbs so that tax relief was not just an issue of moving farther out. Eventually, the power of technological change made the Council of Justice obsolete. People in very distant geographic cities formed partnerships and voting blocks that had very little to do with states which had been phased out. 39 What emerged were quite simply population groups that were voting blocks, not states. The initial period of honeymoon between revolutionary groups and the relative silence of true moderates began to fade. Initially, the CIA, which still had a few field agents put together a legal voting block of neo-conservatives. These were people who were not economic criminals and so could not be prosecuted for their views. In addition, they were not interested in getting the NCs pissed off. In fact, this group simply retrenched. They settled into quiet lives and voted as a block. They also attempted and eventually achieved control over radio stations at strategic points. There was not initially a guarantee of freedom of the press. It had been thought that only a hypocritical revolution would take the media as its first move and then promise any kind of independent or opposition press. Nevertheless, eventually C bored of controlling the reported events. Journalist he was not, nor were any major revolutionary figures. C felt so safe that he stopped wearing a hat or insisting on anonymity even with friends. Crime became much more non-violent. It was very easy to rip the government off, but very easy to get caught. In other words the safeguards were beyond the point of the economic crime itself, they were simply things like frequent currency changes which minimized secret personal wealth. C began to get tired. One day, as he sat with two lieutenants he berated them as pure proletariat.