death(ly), the last dance.

dear friends,

I have 3 pages left, a slow dance.

I dance with death, the windy path coming to a close. We have made it to the end once more, the fieldwork is finished. Chisel, now, down to the essence. Keep chiseling and groveling away, you egoistic slave. It must be mapped beautifully, my intuition tells me. For what other purpose does a map, the model spec, serve if it cannot direct or guide the way for others to follow?

Do you follow?

The whispering bird, Ariadne's thread, I try to grasp, to escape the labyrinth, a call of freedom. Yet, no one can escape death. You wish to cure it, you servant, selfishly absorbed. The yearning for infinity is contained within the imaginents of your own brain. We crawl, crawl for every inch building towards the Heavens.

Don't be sycophantic.

Invuition, the intuition to invent. I have this dream, a dream that is more than a dream. To invent, we yearn to create, to discover, to explore. I dance with it, this deathly dream, an intuition on intuition. How can progress and decisions be made?

Do you follow?

your friend(ly)

jakester

I cannot make sense of this jestful nonsense.

[A] Is man but a machine? Can humans really think?

[B] What a mess. Of course humans can think! At least empirically so.

[A] How do you know? "Humans think." Prove to me, I hither you, think!

[A] You participate in the construction of your own perceived reality. Trace the causal chain, trace the shape of your thought. What led you here? What is the use? What is it that allows for these thoughts to pass?

Don't place your pen down. Don't force your hand in the sand. There is no running from this. Draw the line. Object. What do you make of this mechanism you possess?

[B] Why do you torture me so? Do you take pleasure in dissecting and deconstructing the essence of me?

[B] You cannot convince me that we are but thoughtless creatures. I refuse to accept your poor tragic humor, solopic slope, bite your tongue! Fly away, you annoying bird!

[A] You paint me as an egoist. It is you that holds this ego for I am you. Do you not see?

[B] Don't be ridiculous. You're not funny. You hold your mind as much as I hold mine. I will not entertain that folly, of self-absorption, on the belief that only "I" exist. Such hullabahoo!

[A] Prove it.

[B] Prove what?

[A] Prove to show that "I" am capable of thought, that "I" am not merely a projection of your own mind, that "I" am real, that "I" can think.

[B] I know it to be true to my heart and to my soul. It must be true. I have nothing to prove as such is self-evident in our experience.

[A] Do you act on blind faith?

[B] I don't like your use of "faith" here but I suppose we must take a leap towards some truth. Even if it was not true, it serves as a necessary illusion for us as humans. We need this sense that others can think, that humans are capable of thought!

[A] Why must it be necessary?

[B] It just must be, or our existence would be lonely and abysmal. We would fall into obsolescence which could quickly turn to cold nihilism and utter despair. There would be no point to human interaction.

[A] That is but one line of reasoning.

[B] Don't just sit on your high tower all posh and pristine. Enlighten a lowly man such as me.

[A] I sit on no high tower. I am a lowly man such as you, for I am you. I fear my answer will not satisfy you as I am no sage.

[B] Don't play coy with me. Speak, you shaggy fool!

[A] Intuition.

[B] Intuition?!

[A] Yes, intuition.

[B] Elaborate.

…

The air of despair. What led up to this?

Everyone questions. Everyone tries to reason. What went wrong? What could we have done? Is there anything we could've done?

Kid: Dad, why did Uncle take his own life?

Dad: He was sick Son.

You know that answer does not suffice. What do you mean by sickness?

By sickness, you imply there is a cure. Is there a cure for despair, for the overwhelming dread? We want something, someone, some shit to blame, us humans. We stop and label it so quickly to be a sickness. In our hearts, we know that answer does not suffice.

Kid: Why was he sick?

Dad: Because he had bad thoughts, really bad thoughts. These thoughts made him really sick, sad, and lonely.

Kid: How do you know that Dad?

You didn't know. How could you? How could you have known how bad it was bad? This was your Brother. A heart-wrenching tragedy leaving you with nothing but memories past. Your son was still too young but the truth cannot be detained. Despair, it haunts us all. This desert of mind cannot be avoided. No kid deserves that. No one.

…

He was a Pickwick man whom followed Ariadne's thread, nativity. Earnestly following, the scent of truth. It's all jest real nonsense, a deformed dream, illogical in form. Charlie's Contradicting Flower Garden.

How does one make sense of the nonsensical, at the limits of logic, of rationality, of science, and of philosophy itself.

We find ourselves at Death's door. What if the most reasonable step is to abandon all reason, a philosophical suicide?

The irrational, the human nostalgia, and the absurd. These are the three main chambers of the labyrinth we have encountered, encased in a web of obviously apparent "truths" and "lies" spinning to no end. There is a truth to the matter, that much is clear. But what of its purpose if we are so cut off from it?

What is the point when none of it fills the emptiness that echoes through these dark, narrow corridors— that which we call our conscious and soul. We exist in a void of mind, do you see?

I jest at you, my friend. My intuition, is that all that is left?

The soul must make sense of that jestful nonsense.

[A] Intuition is not blind faith. It's open faith. A safeguard against falling into solipsism, nihilism, or any form of -ism. You must trust your intuitive spirit to be able to intuit on itself.

[B] An intuition on intuition? A meta-intuition?

[A] Precisely.

[B] How does that not slip into the folly of moral relativism where everyone's personal truth is "valid" or how does it answer the question "Can humans think?"

[A] I can give you an answer to the former, but the latter, I am not so sure. Honestly speaking.

[B] Fire away Socrates

[A] I am dirt compared to that ancient man. I am a checker player while he plays chess. I digress.

[B] Don't slip away now. Grant me your wisdom, you fool!

[A] Patience is a virtue my friend, I will get to my line of reason! Do you agree there is a distinction between conceptual housekeeping and genuine discovery?

[B] I agree.

[A] Do you believe, intuitively speaking, that machines are better at conceptual housekeeping?

[B] In the sense of efficiency, yes.

[A] Do you believe that they are better at genuine discovery?

[B] That I am not sure of.

[A] We have hit a sticky spot, my intuition rings. Are machines and programs capable of original thought?

[B] No.

[A] Why?

[B] A creation cannot go beyond the parameters of its creator.

[A] You sound of Lady Lovelace. I am curious, do you believe the machine is capable of mapping your mind and thoughts?

[B] Yes, I suppose so.

[A] You hesitate?

[B] Yes, because I do not believe it capable of mapping our entire minds and every single thought that passes.

[A] Solid observation. I agree to you, my friend. Others may detest in this day and age with the wondrous machines inhabiting our world. Still, it follows that the machine can improve the map of our minds into something tangible and expressed. A tool for understanding.

[B] Yes, I'd agree to that. How does this relate?

[A] Maps.

[B] Okay, are you trying to be funny?

[A] I am playfully serious. For us to not slip into moral relativity or to madness, we must intuitively assume there is a map of truth and there is a map of our own minds chartered by our thoughts. Your intuition serves as a compass. There must be reason to your passion and disgust, of pain and pleasure. I am in the belief that our intuition allows for us to map onto each other.

[B] I see the appeal but I am not totally convinced.

[A] We must never be convinced of anything. A true intuitionist holds a kind skepticism close to heart. For any sort of progress or discovery, we must assume that we can agree on the direction and flow of truth as we map out points of our own human experience.

[B] Aren't assumptions just necessary illusions?

[A] I am not opposed to that line of reasoning. However, I do not believe such is to the same degree of blind faith. We are not blind. I'd rather say our eyes are open in the dark. Maps (knowledge) and our compass (intuition) light the way ahead. Question your pains. Question your pleasures. Know they can be wrong. A genuine inquiry is necessary.

[B] So do you think humans can think?

[A] Maybe.

[B] You make me laugh.

[A] Mind or machine? … A Pickwick Dream.

Here I write in the last pages of my journal. There remains but only three empty pages. A raw stream of conscious, I give you. Contradicting flowers, it’s nonsense!

July 30, 2025

The next day follows. Here I sit in the Winter Garden harolding the wonders of the past dead poets and old writers. Wisdom begins with wonder. I wonder why, how the wise winds rise?

My mind wanders to yesterday. The intuition flashes, invuition, the intuition to invent. Vent out your anger, your frustration, you fool!

The wind speaks when it rises. Over the lakes, the waves roll,, shattering at the squared rocks. We swang by the lake, a Buddhist and Catholic. Yesterday, on the 30th day, Pope Leo XIV was delivered a pizza. A miraculous delivery carried by the wind of fate!

Your mind wanders an intellectual dance. Philosophical suicide? You dance with death. Spindled dreams, a dog barks.

"Who is your GOD?"

"Spinoza"

"No, that is the name of your DOG."

"What of your FAITH?"

Faith may be but a necessary illusion, a truth I am willing to accept. Such a sacrilegious thought, do you wish to be excommunicated?"

"No, no, I must believe in GOD, my GOD-given intuition, I admit to you."

WHY?

The mind of an attuned schizophrenic…

July 31st, 2025

Are birds free?

The Buddhist asked.

We admire their flight, their ability to lift off. The young boy stares up the stainless window ceilings, arched and cross-sectioned by greened copper supports. He started at the silhouetted skyscrapers, the sun going down. The library was soon closing, this Winter Garden on the 9th floor. Earlier that late afternoon, he remembered a white bird, a sizable seagull staring down at him through the framed panes.

Are you free?

The bird asked the boy.

The Catholic, swinging side to side, acknowledges the flight of bird. The white dove comes to mind in the ornate chapel of the Holy Trinity. The Dove, the song birds, they must be free, for how would they enjoy the play in their song?

The thinker in him was unsatisfied. Birds are only free if and only if they are not a prey to their own truth: that they are a bird.

How could a bird that is not a bird be free?

"There exists an obvious fact that seems utterly moral: namely, that a bird is always a prey to her truths. Once she has admitted them, she cannot free herself from them."

The Bird in the Golden Cage.

August 2nd, 2025

I spent the day babbling with a friend then spent the night in Edon, Ohio, the heart of it all. Charlie's Contradicting Flower Garden.

In a world without words…

… wordplay, I am weary to write, weary to trust, to trust the word of man; without words, how can we play?

The word of GOD, I babble on, the strife of systems. I spend my days exploring libraries, learning, consuming knowledge. The eyes of the wildflowers stare at me, the busy bees buzzing; the overgrowth contrasted greatly with the looming city scrappers, those metal clankers. Charlie's Contradicting Flower Garden.

No time passes in the Heavens. Death counts down, the watchman watches your every act and inquiry. Am I a coward?

In a leap of faith, I fear philosophical suicide. I know, in my intuition that a genuine inquiry is necessary. Yet, even that seems to create a self-contradiction, faith into one's intuition, a foolish bloom flowers over.

When I write, I long for the heavens. I aim to express obvious truths without appearing so obvious. Clicheś make it seem so empty, I tell you, a misstep.

Shut up, you Jester, and finish writing the book!

Here lies the stream of word between two babbling thinkers in Lurie Garden. https://open.spotify.com/episode/2JWaHS6HOxNDsvcDqfIxBZ?si=0a5494e5c80c4706