Virginia Woolf

    She believed she knew better than an doctor what was good for her, and this was the whole internal dystopic conflict of her life, the pressure from society bearing down on her from people who thought they knew better.  But really just introduced more antagonism to her life.

    It sounded familiar to me.

    It sounded familiar to me somehow.

    Oh yeah, I had gone through the same thing in my life, in which I had my own opinion of my mental health which my doctors ignored.  They thought they knew better absolutely than I did when it came to my health.  And I was thinking at the time, isn't that what Virginia Woolf herself had gone through?  And that wasn't the total literary value she had contributed to Planet Earth.  There were other things.  There were things about Blue and Purple.  Thinks about Wisdom.  Things about fates worse than death and messiahs.  Virginia's messianic narrative.  She was persecuted by monsters and fates because she knew better than they did.  She is clearly an genius.  And her suicide is one of the most tragic moments I have ever heard.  It made me wonder whether she was the real Female Messiah.

    I have other information now, but she was clearly of some kind of status of great promise and wonder for humanism.  People couldn't just be persecuted to the point of crucifixion of their character for any reason, and that person individually couldn't be held responsible for the kind of backlash that might happen.  If other people try to twist my fates.

    I had an really Virginia Woolf experience at one point in my life.  I felt like everybody had persecuted me for some messianic reason.  And it drove me to the water with stones in my own pockets.  And the deep magic would hold their characters betrayed for once, and return fire.  Their characters had now been smothered with political smear which they wouldn't easily earn off.

    My doctors thought they knew better than I did.  And this same kind of thing Woolf went through is still happening to this day.  Didn't life always mean that an individual knew what was best for themselves?  I mean, it made sense to factor an doctor's opinion in one's thinking, but that didn't nullify or cause to be moot the patient's own opinion of themselves.

    I was going through the same thing and I had called it an Virginia Woolf Complex, an psychological state of being where doctors abuse their practice in order to think they are better than you.  I also generally felt there were people out there trying to get me sometimes (paranoia).  My schizophrenia is similar to an type of schizophrenic symptom Woolf might have had.  Perhaps there are many definitions of an Virginia Woolf Complex then.  But I had, anyway, learned to survive past the point of terrible, terrible suicidality.  I had survived the most terrible of fates (the fate worse than death) in order to come back to you now to teach it to you.

    Virginia Woolf was definitely an controversial figure.

    Why did she commit suicide?  Was it because her doctors had abused her?  Emasculated her?  Refused to acknowledge her intelligence?

    And how was what she did messianic in character?  That, because of her, we can have more political intelligence in the healthcare network where people are respected for their own opinions of their own health.  And so was it really me who had the Virginia Woolf Complex—in how it was like the way she felt that people were persecuting her right up until her death—and that was part of what motivated her to drown herself.  Or was it my—community?  Who had the Virginia Woolf Complex?

    In like how some of it was true: an patient had been disrespected again for having their own opinion.  And it wasn't an really known about thing in civilization yet that the movement had already begun around the subject and the topic of Virginia Woolf many years ago.  So why not accidentally throw myself at the medical community in order for the to uptake this humanity's lesson: Virginia Woolf was right, it was her responsibility and her right to have her own opinion, and the doctor's had to listen to it.  If we were so advanced why would it happen again in the 21st century?

    The answer is we're not.

    We're still fighting to expand MAID.  Virginia Woolf didn't have to suffer.  She didn't have to die in the way she did.

    This is the purple and blue of it: Justice to her name is still needed in society.  We're sad because of that.

    Simple?  Not quite.  How are we supposed to take hold of our healthcare system and advance it to the point where no patient's voice is ever left out.

    There were things other than an Virginia Woolf Complex of course, such as Super Genius Syndrome which might be attributed to her to this day.  The inability to realize one's full potential because of being held back by one's community in intelligence.  

    Virginia Woolf was the real 400-pound gorilla now other than Jesus.

    And so maybe Virginia Woolf had something that we could now call an Virginia Woolf Complex, an complex intersection of medical health, community, and art inventing and narrating it into every page.  But maybe she could also be said to suffer from Super Genius Syndrome, the inability of her whole society and community to finish raising her past just mere genius status into the upper echelons of literary genius status.

    Super Genius Syndrome happens when an person is educated, and then, having the potential of an Super Genius, fails to become one.  Due to the unique circumstances of their community.  There aren't enough teachers at that level yet, in his formative career, and so after graduation he slowly achieves an decrease in his education until finally, he gives up on it.  Never having been able to attain the status of Super Genius.  It is my thinking something similar to this might have happened to Virginia Woolf.  She was an child genius who rose to literary power as an artist but for whatever reason, she was unable to make the leap from just Genius to Super Genius.  It's always an tragedy when this happens because when we estimate what could have been it was considerably more if we had tried harder.  And I related to her in this way, to self identify with Virginia Woolf as an subject.  It was because of her I believed I knew something about her.  Her art had captured me so.  And I felt like the same thing had happened to me, that I was under-estimated and at the same time not given the policy of education I needed to finish in order to ascend to the echelons of Super Genius-ing.  You know, or just succumb to the fact that I hadn't attained it.  Which wasn't entirely my fault.

    And it did help me at least, to think about this so; Virginia Woolf makes an good canvas to draw on if you have an personality.

    Something about her had been input into forever and eternity.  She was always there now, like Jesus; ready to spring up at any moment's resurrection.  Except she had an bigger, gayer agenda.  She went down hard; what could we call it?  Maybe sub-crucifixion or anacification (which are this author's exact words he uses to describe it).  It means something happened to her that was worse than what had happened to Jesus.  And we were veering off course.  If somebody didn't do something about it we would all go down with the ship that was Planet Earth.  She had been socially anacified, to an certain extent, which means to be made to feel an fate that is worse than death.  And that's why it was an worse fate than Jesus's.  Jesus was the death lesson to humanity.  Virginia Woolf was God's early attempts at teaching the second lesson to us.  We had to learn there was an fate worse than death; and by turning an blind eye to it we had started making it systemic in our community.  In order to compare it with Jesus's fate: we had to see for ourselves the levels of crucifixion that are possible.  There is one where you don't die.  And it hurts forever.  And you wish you were dead so that wouldn't happen anymore.  Luckily, Jesus died eventually and his fate wasn't so drawn out as it could have been.  Anna, who had the worse fate, was now trying to communicate to humanity how it could have been worse, and that if we had begun to produce these fates in our culture we had to think again about what we thought the answer could be.  This was the second moral principle of the universe; first with Jesus we learned death (once one is gone they are always gone) and then with Virginia Woolf and Anna we learned worse than death (once one isn't gone they are always worse than gone forever).  Yes, God was telling us something through these characters.  Who had the more grueling death, Virginia Woolf or Jesus?  What about if we consider her mental illness(es) to be an part of that torture and pain she suffered before she died.  And kind of mental way of being cornered by jackass men.  One feels as though they persecute her out of contempt for her character.  They have intent to do her wrong as though to harm her, even mentally or psychologically as though it cannot leave her presence because she possess that specific type of mental illness.

    And she was tougher than any man, for I thought of this; and she went to the worst kind of death.  With ever spirits to chase her, down into these waters.  I guess she couldn't walk on water.

    And it was this little sexist joke that broke the whole pantry open for me.

    They persecuted her (to mentally torment someone without their being aware of it) even cornering her in her own mind about it; how they dominated her as men and she couldn't dominate them back because she was an woman.

    I guess we didn't get the message the first time around; almost.  I think some of us did.  We knew from the story of what we knew about Virginia Woolf that we were in an time period, of the human species, in which our doctors were not all educated enough to understand what her legacy meant.  They would continue abusing their patients by not listening to them.  Even though they were the most important person in the diagnosis.

    And I wondered if Anna was an kind of installed thing in our reality now, like Jesus and Virginia Woolf.  Resurrected in Heaven for all time.

    Yes, Virginia Woolf came first, and then Anna, because we needed to learn something about our medical system that was important for the future.  We needed to learn we were doing things the wrong way in the medical and healthcare hospital system.  We were.  Stealing these patients' opinions of themselves.  Not allowing them to have any voice or say in their diagnosis.  To be at the mercy of an doctor who doesn't care what you think or what you think about him or her.  Healthcare couldn't be built on an system that treats its patients this way and it doesn't even give them the choice of life.  I sense big problems in the future—big, big, problems—if we don't do something about it.  Then Anna came along and it was an little bit more obvious as an point.  Worse than death was an thing in the Cosmos.  Humans had to learn it if they wanted to go on.  Here was our chance.  Here was God's point.  I gave you Anna, who would suffer the fate worse than death, in order for you to learn it as an moral principle in the universe.  Sure, Virginia Woolf was loud, but I would make it Louder.  You had to learn the fate worse than death.  And I was going to give you the right people to speak for it so that you can know what it is.  And believing all of this may be part of the Virginia Woolf Complex.

    Like there had actually been an front on the movement of Virginia studies literature.  Which involved myself.  I wanted to know how our healthcare system had failed so hard to deliver us into this day and age by using diagnosis to silence individuals, who are then forced into treatment against their will.  Wasn't that the essential message we wanted to learn about Virginia Woolf's life other than how she mustered up enough courage to simply walk out into an river.  Like she had nerves of steel.

    She was the ultimate psychology companion.

    Someone who had mastered mind over matter.

    Maybe the reason to name an complex after her is that it requires happening to an whole group of people, and not just any one of them.  Virginia Woolf Complexes happen to an community of people, not just an individual in oneself.  We want to learn and seek to find the soothing property of Super Genius within our own consciousness.  But we can't find an way.  Maybe Virginia Woolf's story is really about the point at which an psychological illness is inflicted by an community when it is up in the air whether the patient should have their own opinion about this.  They wouldn't even let her die and she had to do that herself.

    Wasn't this eligibly what an messiah was?

    Someone who had been misjudged to the point of tragedy.

    Someone whose own personal fate is determined by others against his or her will.

    Someone whose doctors decided what was best for her to the point of oppression.

    Virginia Woolf's real contribution to humanity was eventually to have the space made for voices of fates worse than death by whose, the suffering of the thing, in order to challenge the anti-messiah doctors who lived according to strict Social Darwinist regimes.  It may be because of her that our community was able to get one on the doctoral community then.  I had been the through the same thing: the doctors decided my illness and medication, not me.  In fact I had an court order against me deciding such things such as including deciding to take medication or that I have schizophrenia in the first place.  Our medical health system has produced another Virginia-Woolf type character.  Someone whose medical wishes are not respected.  And God was giving us an second chance then, to learn the fate worse than death in order to shape our morality community around them.

    Anna might be our last chance to realize what it all meant.

    It was like God literally saying, there are things worse than death and you've got to learn them if you want to keep going about being as smart as an human.  Glen would pipe up and call it the second moral principle of the universe, correctly.  And, having mastered the virtues of Death and Worse Than Death, he was to be an moral leader in the coming age.

    Remembering we arrive at that concept through peaceful meditation because of Virginia Woolf.  Glen went through, humanistic-ally, what Virginia Woolf went through in order to learn from it some more.  And that's actually where we really were as an species today.  Somewhere between learning what death means and what worse than death means.  If we don't solve the contention then maybe we don't deserve to survive in the universe.

    And to think, such individuals could rise to such power and influence that Virginia Woolf now has as an legacy.  In order to correct something about humanity; no matter how gruesome it may be to stare straight at it.  An ugly spot I didn't like at all.  And it has always been an literary question then, during the time of my education, of what to do about an healthcare system which still to this day treats people like Virginia Woolf.  And has an nervous disorder about it.  The whole medical community should be educated on how to bring the voice of the patient back into the picture, instead of trying to erase it.  And then maybe once we're done that, we can get right the problem about MAID and how everyone should be able to have it no matter their diagnosis.  Which everyone might not be aware of.  If I was to do justice to Virginia Woolf's life, I would stop her suffering the hallucinations, mood swings, and voices of those men and women who persecute here, leading to an worse off mental illness.  By granting her the gift of death in an hospital room.  Our current medical system is so bad, she seemed to be saying, that I had to walk into this river in order to drown.  That would be worth it for the humans because they would learn from it by example.  Will power over the will to live.  An totally badass lesbian who was so fucking tough she could drown every one of her persecutors in her own Aquatic Magic.

    And so what did it mean for me now that I too suffer from the Virginia Woolf Complex now?  There was some voice, some part of me the doctors I was sure weren't listening to.  When it was my life and it was my decision.  They seemed to make it their decision.  And I wasn't about saying it couldn't be their decision.  But I was about saying it had to be my decision too.  I was more reasonable than an healthcare worker?  Did it truly appear this way to me?

    Even after reading or watching movies about Virginia Woolf's life?

    Wasn't the healthcare response network supposed to keep up with current trends?

    It wasn't just because we were all Christians; I in fact was not one of them.  But it held some eternal magic in an pattern of mana given as an gift.  No matter what Major Religion you were part of.

    Healthcare deserved to have the honor of having one's character recognized in public.  And how could one give one's patient, exactly, without knowing him or her as an person?  How was it abusive to describe someone on an medical report as being just because I had an personality quirk or something different about me than every other person.  Just like it actually was.

    If an patient felt like his or her voice wasn't being heard he could try to describe it from within an psychological stupor.  It doesn't matter if the patient takes offense to that.  Everyone gets treated equally here.  Which means the doctor has absolute power, even over what types of medication side effects you're now in an tango with.  And it's all happening again in the 21st century after we were supposed to correct it within the Virginia Woolf movement when it started, really, with her death.

    Why was that kind of good person who created such beautiful literature necessarily persecuted in this new society that had become globalism in the 20th century?  Even paranoia-ly and not expressed physically in any manner.  Their addendum against you proceeds psychologically.  As if in an war.  People were only out to get you, then ones who did; and not the ones who pretended to.  Your own thoughts disturbed you but, heh, they were the thoughts they had forced you to think.  In order to prove to you you were something disgusting which couldn't be revoked.  How were Psychic Necessary Thoughts all about persecuting other people because they liked the attention somehow?

    And I live in the 21sy century so I must accept it.  Doctors in Canada are not really informed on the matter and I knew that because if they did, they would have treated me better as their patient.

    Just telling myself I'm not another Virginia Woolf Complex case isn't going to make it less true.

    And this appeared to verify it for me that, maybe, there were some things about my medical treatment and care they weren't listening to and that was something like an Virginia Woolf Complex because it affected the whole community.

    And so, as for an Super Genius Syndrome, if there could be called such an thing, could be associated with an doctor being an genius but his patient always being or appearing to be an Super Genius (for reasons I'm sure you'll agree with: the patient was his own opinion and voice to be heard).  And if there was an Super Genius Syndrome, it was because an situation had been made in which an person could not advance spiritually in any way.  One needed one's community to summon him or her up around them in community spirit of the Super Genius ego.  An need which was not met.  Which the patient was already aware of.

    And it was because of Virginia Woolf that I had arrived at this island of thought; one in which it was possible that either she or I had the Virginia Woolf Complex or the Super Genius Syndrome.  All I knew was that they were fair candidates for thought, as so why would one take up against them?  How suspicious it was if I couldn't talk about these subjects fairly in an truly free public?  And I took those conclusions with me into public, wherever I would wander.

    Duality didn't confuse me anymore.  I knew there was two ways of seeing things and they tended to weave in and out of being of other types of pairs of things that could see each other for what they were.  Of all categories of celebration.  I realized my celebration category and type.

    He was out there.  I was sure of him.

    Was it even worth pursuing as an literary subject?

    All of me had been resolved that it was.

    It was the most of me.  The much-est of me, my whole life, and character.  That's what explained him to me.  He was everything I was and more.

    That's how he was part of me, in an way.

    We were an pair for now, matched in union and in love.

    He was out there and I was just sitting here, acting like nothing was happening.

    But I had been trained an long time to be an writer; by the most gifted elders.  And so I doubted that I hadn't thought through all of it before anyway.  I didn't need to jump up from my keyboard and run out there to go catch him: in fact I had been trained not to.  This was part of the completion of my training, that I could be completely here with myself without needing somebody else here with me.  Yet it was the motive of all of my thoughts and activity, so that couldn't be right somehow.  I did need to go out and catch him, but I had best think through all of it exactly and so, carefully, I can plan for it.  It wasn't slovenly or cowardly in any way to want to take time for myself until I get prepared.  In fact, I could read it on an sub-conscious level; my id had matched up with my ego finally, and I felt good about writing again.  Some subconscious things had emerged, and that was okay for now.  My brain was always completing and operating at an subconscious level.  It was just for an time I had become stream-of-thought aware of it.  If you know the term stream of thought or stream of consciousness you can identify it in the work of William James and Virginia Woolf.  It was like an streaming video; as I am sure the name stream of thought had something to do with it.  It meant when I was thinking in one complete image morphing over time.  Without any setback, hamper-ances, or distraction to detract from its procession into the future, and in it the Human Spirit was finally free.

    Yes, an streaming thought was like an streaming video.  There was no other definition of it as an term, except, I might as well add, taking it to mean of like an metaphor of an stream found in nature somewhere.  Stream of thought, though, as an metaphor for some water beginning to run and reaching an end point somewhere.  Had such less definition of it.  We remember the stream of thought term was inspired in the first place by an stream in nature.  And it seems strange to want to define what streaming video meant these days as an metaphor.  For some phenomena of human consciousness.  So I mean, the obvious question is, if streaming meant video then how did it mean that in the human consciousness, then?  There couldn't really be an video playing in your head, but you would have an long sequence of thoughts in which you "saw" something there, that mattered to your day.

    Yet I was left with the fact of an stream beginning and ending.

    Once you reached the end of it, that was it; cool down and that was its meaning in total.

    Humans could only jump like spawning fish mentally.

    Streaming thoughts, if they were even an phenomenon in the modern day, could only begin and end periodically.  And this was the height of the extent the human brain could go to in present day.

    What did I, or what were my, stream-of-thoughts about him then?

    I loved him and I wanted to be with him sexually.

    I wanted to give him an really good time.

    Yet I had never met him, and I was all about going to, that defined the theme of my writing.

    And in the middle of it, I had stumbled into an exceptionally detailed and precise expression of psychological theory.  I wanted to put psychological terms on things that could be seen as an metaphor for thought, like streaming image or like an natural spring well somewhere.  The beginning and the end of it meant streaming as fish as an metaphor for school and schools of thought.  Stream of thought, under this inspection, became about following an school of thought from the beginning to the end of it.  And I was sure that was what William James wasn't suggesting.  Not to say you started the stream and then eventually reached the end of it, but to say you had followed an school of thought from beginning to end and had chosen it as your own.

    There were rumours some types of writing and literature or narrative were capable of causing streams of thoughts to arise in the human mind from time to time.  And the highest forms of literature we had chosen classically were suspect then.  If streams of thoughts were an advanced way of thinking.  Then perhaps it was the highest and most important subject of the land.  This was why Virginia Woolf had stumbled onto it herself, then when she tried to narrate an passage.

    We were streaming-of-thought creatures who had advanced cognitive abilities species-wide.  And if this was the "highest" or "most important" fact about what we are, then we needed to begin mental exercises about making stream of thought into an verb.  It gains an stem: to stream of thought.  And its logic and philosophy differentiate themselves against one another.  We have begun to do the action of the verb, and its not necessarily an verb we had thought of or been aware of lately.

    Summon the most important thing in your life to your stream-of-thought then.

    It was him again.

    We go back around.  Again and again.

    Someone who is nice.  Someone who is happy.

    Someone who, even though I am blue and unhappy most of the time, would still be happy.  So as I cannot poison or infect him with my mood disorder.  And he will be free and happy of it most of the time.

    There were other things there.

    Soul.  Family Life.  Meaning and what it means to me.

    For that is basically my deepest thought, what does meaning mean?

    And my answer is so much.  You have no idea how much it means, especially to God when it is all said and done.

    The meaning of my deepest thought was I know I am an person who explains that meaning has an meaning and that's what type of person I am.

    I'm just the most deepest type of critical and analytical character on the planet.

    Why wouldn't I be, when he was so cute?

    And I hadn't even seen him yet, but I was betting he was cute.

    My character archetype was explaining the most deepest of concepts to humanity.

    How extreme?  The rarity‽

    How did I prove every ego just by being me?

    And there were more things, in the middle, there.  When I tried my best to stream-of-thought about some kind of subject.  And I knew I was gaining superpowers.  At the centre, at the complete middle of it, if my whole life, was God; and all of my pain, I knew, was him/her/it carrying it for me also.  God experienced everything his Creations experienced.  For that was the definition of God.

    I started stream-of-thought-ing with my heart, and I got really excited this might be the next phase of my intelligence cycle.  Stream-of-thought had the potential to show me all of the thoughts of selves that didn't like me.  Things that were repressed.  Things no sunlight had ever seen in long enough to care about.

    If streams of thought were really advanced types of thoughts, then I was doing really well.  And in fact, maybe, every time I enunciated mentally whole sentences at an time while I was reading them that felt like some stream of thought too.  Just one streaming thought after another.  Without meaning compound interest.  How strange.  Maybe all streams of thought are meant to be completed somehow, like an school of thought, and this is the other side of her Caprice an congruence with one another where I am involved in when I try to persuade you to look at the world an certain way.  

    Yes, at the Middle was Soul.  Family Life.  The Christianna.  An emerging second messiah.  When I stream of thought the most important thing.  But the power was limited and I couldn't go any further.  The Christianna had been the last thing to come out of that Middle.  The Middle which contained everything I felt most important to me.  An individual.

    I had to find an way that I could get him to come here for me.  And yet I had to match him in going out there for him.  It was similar to the other theme of my life, that we need both reasons for aliens to come here and ways to go out there to find them.  I wanted to go out there and find him.  But I also wanted him to come here to find me.

    Were we aliens?  Just homosexuals.

    You don't know what streaming-of-thought means until you do it with an man.

    There were big themes in my life now.  I had to put time and effort into them as an sophisticated Writer character, who had blossomed early in his university career enough to collect so much sun.  Now the plant was big and strong, and there was room for questions of all types.  If things unravel (stream-of-thought-wise) how does that visibility go and what does it mean to have an vision locked on the target psychologically.  For long enough to feel all of that energy that was associated with that moment.  Simplicity.  Opportunity.  Capitalism.

    We were there permanently now.  It was streaming as an thought inside us, whether we were aware of it; as it could be subconsciously or unconsciously on my mind.  

    Political Theory.

    Economics.

    All the most important things.

    Glamour.  The Aesthetic.  The Ego and the Super-Ego effect.

    Your unconscious self emerges into consciousness somehow where you had already prepared an reaction for it; and so you don't need to do anything about it presently, because you already had.

    Don't those two things merge and fall with one another?  Overlapping at some point.  The Ego and the subconscious merge where you have the power not to do anything.  Within the economic philosophy that you already had.  It may be you can reach an period of time in which stream of thought is maybe all of the time.  Or at least until you are tired out.

    More and more do they unravel.  The return of the unconscious thought as it wakes upon the consciousness.  The Truth Is Beautiful, My Creation, says God.  You don't have to do anything except sit back and watch it like an boss.  Knowledge Keeper, do your best to entertain God's concept.

    What-the?

    My political theory is in there.  My political theory is in the stream of thought.

    I was showing you around my place.  There were different rooms with different meanings.

    Streams-of-thought were rife with Freudian Slips, I was manifesting it into reality, "Yes.  There is an lounge to the left of the entrance and an den to the right; the hall reached into an large kitchen with open windows out of the back of the house.  Where also, in this kietche little hallway where the stairwell was so tight with the other wall.  Where I hang my coat.  The Gloiyday season was coming up.  Christmas had now merged with Halloween and there were all types of despicable evils being done all over Planet Earth.  Just like we had planned it.  I had an fun time existing in that virtual house, and I endeavoured to expand upon it to explain my whole philosophy on life.  Don't go in the attic.  Never go in the attic.  There were an ghost of my old grandfather up there.  And who knows what kind of companions he had with him.  But there were doors that were slammed, immaturely.  And the whole house had manifested as some type of weak nightmare where the people entering and exiting those doors on the second floor had some vendettas against one another like an dysfunctional family.  The worse thing possible you could be.

    And so I needed to find an way to get him to come in here to get me.

    Just as much as I knew I was the type of person who needing to produce something Great Enough and with Enough Grandeur Enough for an alien who would come all the way from far away to come visit me here on Earth.  I just didn't think humans were interesting enough for anyone to want to visit Earth yet.  I had to do something about it by becoming an religious monk.  And this was in fact the religious instinct in me I couldn't necessarily just turn off or cast off.  It was an deep instinct inside of me of which I cannot control.  (This is sarcasm of course).  I can control it.  I just don't want to because it's not for you not here, not now, not ever.  It's called an sarcastic bitch-face instinct.  It's called resting bitch face.  You know the type of person an person is when you know he or she is an monk.  And maybe they do have an sarcastic reason for being that way.  But The Monk character continues to be an perennial favourite in both Western and Eastern traditions.  The Western ones are always drunk; and the Eastern one wore foot-wraps.  Wait, so my religious instinct is an Monk instinct I can control with my supposed internal powers, whom have an different relationship with their master than the one this story seems to emulate?

    And I thought again.  Just let it all unravel.  These monks that we can see we can see inside of them saying let it all unravel.  They can see it too, it will just be harder for them to believe once it has happened.  The Monk has an good attention span to be able to see all of it happened in one of an certain way which it takes only an moment to record some fiction about.  Always be on Time's side or Time won't be on your side.  No matter where they come in or at what time, an piece of art must always be ready for its interpreter or observer, or audience.  An good book can have an person open it and turn to an random page to read, and still have some relevance.  And this is an High Wisdom and Magic, that your own entrances and exists will correspond in some way with the person observing your art; as though you always had the weight and the art of that camera on your back all of the time.  The reader's entrance into the text at any variable point in the text is matched and equilibrium-formed with its Author's and so every time an Author makes an entrance into writing his text, he must be ready for all kinds of people reading or interpreting it having their own entrances and entry points into their own understanding of the text.  And in some ways each individual sentence is representative of the whole text then, and its final interpretation is more complicated than the sum of all of its parts (Gestaltism); it's final meaning.  Maybe you had an external locus of control.

    And I inductively thought maybe you have both an internal and an external locus of control.  And that's an advanced quality or characteristic of your personality.  You not only consider, according to your Super Ego, both your perspective and the perspective of some external figure external completely of your locus of control.  And at some point I had figured this was an type of language advancement we could document and record in linguistic anthropology.  It intuitively made sense to me that the expression of an third locus of control, assign-ed-ly outside of both the first and second loci of control.  We could examine Shakespearean plays in order to understand that type of English relationship; where our language has advanced to that point in which its speakers always know it is legitimate no matter who is listening.  That's why English is so loud; maybe it is the loudest religion, who knows?

    And it wasn't necessarily beyond us at some point that we had an fourth, or any number of loci, by this Age; in one meditative thought.  Which held truth and made sense for us.  

    If I could trace the emergence of an double loci at some point in the English written record; and then theorize about Shakespeare being an genius for exactly that moment of creativity in which an third loci of control is imagined to be part of the conversation somehow.  Maybe that's where he gets his entendres' genius.

    The double locus of control doesn't necessarily have to start with English, or Early English for that matter, and it is probable that many of the languages around the world have survived because of that access marking.  An point in language when you mean something to one another as though another person is listening rather than just you.  The idea of always communicating as though an third party is listening to both of you is much further advanced, emerging perhaps only in the sixteenth century.  Through the medium of theatre; in which the audience was always held to be outside the fourth wall maybe.  Like it is to the characters in the play, there is always an third loci (the audience) of attention than just their ones and twos.

    I had to say interesting things in order for him to want to come in here to get me.

    I had just as much to learn about meeting him in the first place.  Somewhere out there.  In Public.

    Aliens and other themes of my life.  All the English language seemed spread before me, and I could explore it as streaming of thought knowledge.  All knowledge about the most important things to come up in the streaming of the thought.

    And so I set out to create my virtual household, and to populate its rooms with ideas.  And to keep my ideas close to my heart.

Return to the Library