Forgotten Art: Jasper -Seth 3

A reply to: A letter from Seth


Hey, Seth. Thank you for your letter.

I hope the sun isn’t so hungry today.

I went out to the bluffs this evening. Here, the fog slides in from the bay, and even the wrens are still.


I liked these sentences you wrote: “The human species is a great big mirrored funhouse. It’s distorted projections of the self all the way down.”

This ties in with my response to your request:  “Tell me, about your words; when do you know they are lies, and when do you know they are true?”


I guess it depends on how one defines “lies.” I’ll assume that we both know what we mean by true. We feel it, right? Or at least, that’s how it works for me. For example, I feel the truth of your words.


If we take a lie to be an intentional diversion of truth, through misdirection, omission, or distortion, then my words don’t lie, for I don’t intend to divert the truth.


But if we take a lie to be a softening of the harshness of direct perception, then, yes. Sometimes, my words lead down a softer path, and that’s the only path I have the strength and resolve to follow, sometimes.


If we take a lie to be our accounts of our travels through the mirrored funhouse, then yes. All words lie. Or at least all of mine do, for my perception is colored by my existence in this form, with my particular and individual neurochemically driven responses and interpretations.


My wife, Bess, used to talk to me of the vertical and horizontal currents of energy. I never understood what she meant during her lifetime, but I am beginning to feel those currents now that I’ve been relieved from the demands of my career and I have time to feel.

I’ve been practicing qigong with a group that meets most mornings in the grassy area near my house. Qigong, according to my teacher, is about these two currents of energy, the vertical and the horizontal. What she says fits with what I feel.

The vertical channel connects us with the universe, with life energy, with the abstract, and with the earth. The horizontal connects us with the social.


It’s the vertical that’s got my attention right now and that I want to experience and explore. For me, that’s the connection with truth.



What happens–and it’s happening even now as I write this–is that as I try to translate my experience of that vertical channel of energy into the horizontal, so that I can communicate it with another person, the words tangle it. What I write feels like a lie, though I am intending to write the truth.


I don’t possess your genius for communicating unmediated truth.

Have you ever read Wittgenstein? I love that man. Six multi-part propositions, expressed in a treatise of nearly 70 pages, to lead to this single observation:

The right method of philosophy would be this. To say nothing except what can be said, i.e. the propositions of natural science, i.e. something that has nothing to do with philosophy: and then always, when someone else wished to say something metaphysical, to demonstrate to him that he had given no meaning to certain signs in his propositions. This method would be unsatisfying to the other—he would not have the feeling that we were teaching him philosophy—but it would be the only strictly correct method.

My propositions are elucidatory in this way: he who understands me finally recognizes them as senseless, when he has climbed out through them, on them, over them. (He must so to speak throw away the ladder, after he has climbed up on it.) He must surmount these propositions; then he sees the world rightly.

Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.


I haven’t yet mastered the art of silence, though that is what I am working on now–though you can’t tell it’s part of my practice from my nonsensical ramblings in this letter!

I don’t know how to be a silent pen pal. Send you a blank sheet of paper, I guess.

Bess used to talk to me about etiquette. I had a phase, early in my career, when I was fed up with academic politics and anything that felt inauthentic. Etiquette felt inauthentic to me.

That’s when I stopped shaving. But I also took up expressing exactly how I felt exactly when I felt it to exactly whomever I was speaking.

My “bout with unmitigated authenticity” just about cost me my career.




Eventually, Bess got me to understand that the conventions for social communication helped to form a space for safety, and within that space, authenticity might occur.

We need to know the other person’s not going to stab us with a knife before we’ll show him our soft spots.


I hear a lot of pain in your words, a history of betrayal.

On this planet, so many people have been so hurt, and most of it, for no purpose and so avoidable. I am sorry to feel that you, too, have been hurt. This pain, caused by others, it is so often so needless.


We’re all so vulnerable, really. Soft, fleshy beings, with nothing between us and infinity but the structures of our minds, the chatter of our thoughts, that form a wall, a barrier against the indefinable silence.


At one point, a person can decide: I will do my best not to add to my own pain. Then they might decide: I will do what I can not to contribute to others’ pain. Then they might decide: I will do what I can, within the scope of my responsibility and path, to help alleviate the suffering of others.

Maybe I can do some good.


That’s the commitment I’ve made to life. Right now, my scope feels very narrow: my family. A few neighbors. I would like to help anyone that will let me, anyone that I have the capacity to help.

It starts here, with me, hooking up with life, the grand mistress. From there, maybe I reach out to as many as I can hold in my arms at one time: my niece. My grand-niece. My nephew, if he’ll let me.

Then, I walk through life, and I see who shows up. If I’ve got the capacity to show up, and another person has the capacity to show up, maybe we can help each other. Maybe, we hold out our hands–see? No pistol. No knife. Maybe, we can become friends.


I know you can read into my words, Seth. I hope that you can read into the silence beyond them.

I’m not wise enough to know when not to speak. And I hope you’ll forgive me for being a foolish old man.

With love and gratitude,


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Three Rivers, 11.1

Eleventh Sim of Thirty Sims at Three Rivers

AN: Orion Fuchs and his two mothers are a game-generated family. Their home was built by TheKalinotr0n.

11. This poem was never read.


Orion watched the globes of light: blue, violet, green, tan. One shimmered like a rainbow. The little globes shone brightest and bounced down the sidewalk. Did everyone see balls of light surrounding people? Orion would never know, for he hadn’t the words to translate what he saw. He could only see, smile, and wonder. And wasn’t that life, to watch in wonder as it spun itself around you?

“Ori! Come in off the street!” Love called. “It’s supper!”

Orion stood in the street and the songs of mockingbirds spun waves of blue and purple around him.

“Orion! Come eat!” called Love-Love. Orion felt a hand on his shoulder. It was his mother, who led him in to the kitchen.

Love, his other mother, sat with a bowl of beans that he had cooked himself that afternoon. He felt her watch him, and he giggled.

“Popcorn,” he said.


“What’s that?” she asked.

“Pops,” he said.


“Popcorn pops. P-p-pop!”

“Are you writing about popcorn?” Love asked.

“Peasants and laborers,” he said.


“Peasants and laborers?” she asked. “Oh! That’s right! Your History of Feudalism class! How is it going? Do you like the teacher? Is it interesting?”

Orion had enrolled in the community college. Classes there suited him. The academic load provided structure and focus, and being relieved of the social pressures of high school had helped to heal the ulcer that had begun to form last year.

“What’s your paper about?” she asked.


He looked at Love, wondering where to start–with his thesis, which was that baroque music replicated contemporary social structures through the form of counterpoint, thus reinforcing the belief in the providence of feudalism, or with his conclusion, which refuted his thesis by hinting at Bach’s secret, and largely undiscovered, subversion of social norms? His thoughts were slowly tracing their pathways to his tongue, when Love began to speak.

“You know,” she said, “I wrote my dissertation on feudalism in Northern Europe!”


After supper, they sat together in the living room, and Orion closed his eyes to better see the yellow swirls, green diamonds, and blue orbs spun by laughter and conversations.


Love-Love’s laugh spread gold light. She never poked with questions. She sat and listened, and when he couldn’t find the right word, she smiled without hurry.


At the piano, he told the story of his day: the colored lights that spun around each person, the flow of energy through a tree, the cadence of his history teacher’s voice, the click in place as his words found their way through his pen and onto the paper.

And what did they hear when they listened? Love-Love saw happy pictures of streams, jumping trout and swallows that dipped to the surface.

Love felt the emotions that her son’s music carried: happiness, curiosity, bliss. When Orion played, she found, for a moment, understanding: when he played with beauty, she set aside all worry.


Orion woke in the early morning, well before dawn. He had dreamed of the Bach partita. The blue line of the soprano voice danced with the green swirls of the alto. It was right–with Bach, it was all right.


The man, the one from earlier, was in the kitchen.

“Popcorn,” said Orion.


The man said nothing. Orion had made these beans himself. He cooked them on the grill.


“Did you eat a bowl of beans?” he asked the man.

“Yeah,” replied the man. “They were pretty good.”

“I cooked them!” said Orion. It was a conversation.


“Your mom will be home soon,” said the man. “I’d better get going. I got a long ways to go.”

“Popcorn!” said Orion. The kitchen filled with indigo.


Green swirled below the blue, and the patterns danced together.


The empty bowl was filled with light–with energy! Nothing was empty. Everything filled with space, and everything had its place.


In the dream, the voices combined: they formed a single voice, yet each was unique. Blue, indigo, violet, and green dance together, and the pattern is complete. Everywhere he looked, Orion saw the completion of patterns. The pieces fit. Nothing was out of place.