Logical Unsanity

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ISSN 1836-4535

The tiniest parts of the elements of material reality are called atoms. Although atoms are very small (there are many trillions in a thumbnail) the Scanning Tunnelling Microscope detects individual atoms and their arrangements on the surfaces of substance.

This hand-drawn work celebrates the discovery of silicon’s elemental atomic lattice structure as revealed by the microscope. Dots represent atoms in a flattened perspective.

Most of Earth’s rocky crust, sands and soils are made of silicon-oxides. Functional, aristic and scientific uses of the element silicon’s amazing properties remain the cores of human social and technologic achievements past and present.

You are the seer ~ atoms are the seen. Everything is atomic art. your for atomic peace and love.

ATOMIC ART SURROUND IS Mmmmm ~ NEW DIMENSIONS IN ART

There’s this thing about concrete footpaths in Brisbane. If you start perambulating about on them over an extended period of time, your feet become compasses, each singular heel reading the literature of the streets. You learn rather hastily to avoid trudging in the gutters, where accumulations of silt and stale garbage aggregate, bringing that beauteous perfume of metropolitan sweat right to your kisser. See, people don’t stop to think in this city, not often enough; it’s all feet, feet, feet, like they’re living in a fucking Kerouac novella, or a marathon, or their heads; the bustle of the city coming on in an overwhelming din. It’s getting so that other peoples’ shopping trips, business meetings, dates, drug drop-offs are the soundtrack to my soul.

Read on »

melancholic rag dolls under distant-trenches

days
pass
by

on bittersour benches

crying without onions until infinite forever
untouched significance beneath beloved whatever

used being
jubilant,
waking from ache, the
sunrising method of equal love
of starbursts
through varicous veins of a universal
river system,
obtuse to acute of
equal wetness of
cordate water,
as we overgaze
the trace
of broken glass
of the perfect glass reflecting
fragments of
reality with simultaneous equal
scorn.

friend as strangers-
-as friends

too much fog
to see through the lunacy,
the value,
through the lunacy the crisp
of fancy
, intimacy,
or whatever
found at a single identity
significant among the mute
riot of lies

This essay was published in the Journal of Scientific Exploration, Fall 2005. Please don’t be turned off by the academic language and format… skip the abstract if you want and start on the first paragraph.

Abstract

When students in a university classroom are invited to share anomalous stories, the “skeptical” tactics used to debunk them seem reasonable at first, but eventually reveal a worldview that is cynical, arrogant, dogmatic, and unfalsifiable. Because any new evidence can, with sufficient effort, be made to fit a preexisting paradigm, belief is seen to come down to choice. Moreover, like most belief systems, the worldview of the Skeptic has an emotional component, long ago identified by Bertrand Russell and others as a meaninglessness or despair inherent in classical science. The choice of belief therefore extends beyond a mere intellectual decision, to encompass one’s identity and relationship to the world. This approach conflicts with traditional scientific objectivity, which enjoins that belief be detached from such considerations. The relationship between observation and belief is more subtle than the traditional scientific view that the latter must follow dispassionately from the former. Indeed, the “experimenter effect” in parapsychology, as well as mounting problems with objectivity in mainstream science, suggest a need to reconceive science and the Scientific Method in light of the crumbling of the assumption of objectivity upon which it is based.

For several years I have conducted a rather unusual activity in my classroom at Penn State. I ask my class—approximately 45 students representing a broad cross-section of the student body—to bring in a story that “doesn’t fit into scientific reality.” I tell them it could be anything—a ghost story, something with alternative medicine, a UFO sighting, a dream that came true, an experience with a fortune teller or ouija board. . . anything. “If you’ve never had such an experience,” I say, “ask your friends and relatives.” The justification I give them beforehand is that by considering what our culture categorizes as “unscientific”, we will shed light on what the adjective “scientific” means as well.
Read on »

New geography – no redefinition
We burn the maps and torch the archives
We live for manifest destiny
Dead politicians in Rome, flung in brothels with chastity belts see
Husbands selling wives with no motivation, less compensation, input rivals output
Lovers living lies, rope out of reach but rather handy for
Inticing games, everyone wins
Conquest like new rooms
Like old dogs and old tricks, teach me.
Old corners or old bedposts, just a new chick, a cracked egg.
Old fashioned American explorers, drawing rivers in the mud
Washed up, beached whales
Eyes cry suds with hot scents, does that make you sweat?
Work it out, clean me up, breathe me in,
Scream, declare: I found it, this flag sticks in your skin
Let my new nation pierce your flesh
Have pride in this country
Land of the free, duty free, cheap cigarettes,
Quick vacations and quicker fucks
Declare: do not touch beyond the glass, sanity displayed in the raw
Please keep all limbs inside the vehicle,
Arms and legs and tongues, you speak
A language we don’t understand
Corrections made in Dixie land, allow this revision, embrace it in its permanence,
Feel the heat from the brand
Watch the glass turn to sand.

Bail fin.
Ball fin.
Ball (pint of).
Ball (extract).
Bastard fin.
Bastard fin (extract).
Belgium lint-udder.
Belgium lint-udder (pint of).
Brunt.
Brunt fin.
Brunt fin (slanted).
Brunt fin (pint of).
Under-brunt fin.
Bugler (in a calendar).
Cardboard gusts.
Cardboard gusts fin.
Cardboard Horatio fin (extract). Read on »

Written on the 7th day of my water fast in Hopewood.
The pain in my chest finally had words,
I could not talk to anyone that morning
and when another girl from Hopewood came
to me and asked me how I was, I spoke my truth.
“J have to go to my room and cry these tears
from my chest. Bye”
These words came through as I witnessed
the re-creation of my pain.
Read on »