George, don't make no full moves. Please make it quick, fast and furious. Please. Fast and furious. You get ahead with the dot dash system. Oh, oh—dog biscuits! And when he is happy he doesn't get happy. No hobo and pobo I think he means the same thing. I am a pretty good pretzler. Don't put anyone near this check. In the olden days they waited and waited. I don't want harmony. I want harmony. There are only ten of us and there ten million fighting somewhere of you, so get your onions up and we will throw up the truce flag. The sidewalk was in trouble and the bears were in trouble and I broke it up. You can play jacks and girls do that with a softball and do tricks with it. I take all events into consideration. No. No. And it is no. It is confused and it says no. A boy has never wept nor dashed a thousand kim. I am sore and I am going up and I am going to give you honey if I can. Mother is the best bet and don't let Satan draw you too fast. They dyed my shoes. Open those shoes. I know what I am doing here with my collection of paper. Come on, open the soap duckets. The chimney sweeps. Talk to the sword. French-Canadian bean soup. I want to pay. Let them leave me alone.

Dutch Schultz was a New York City mobster who one night in October of 1935 was shot to pieces while urinating in the washroom of the Palace Chophouse in Newark, over in New Jersey. The gendarmes hauled his expiring corporeal container to the hospital and planted a police stenographer in a chair by his side, in case Schultz wanted to talk about who shot him. Or anything else that might be of interest to the Law.

Schultz lingered for some 22 hours before exiting his body. He emitted many words in those hours, all faithfully committed to paper by the police scribe. Those words later got loose in the world. Almost all of them are thoroughly non-ordinary. And thus they have, through the years, acted like a magnet, attracting the sorts of people who are ineluctably drawn to certain types of deep weirdness.

These include the Discordian pranksters Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson, who in Illuminatis! posited that Schultz' last words are a coded message revealing many secrets of the nefarious globe-bestriding conspiracists of the Illuminati. In E.L. Doctorow's Billy Bathgate the protagonist uses Schultz' deathbed burblings as a divining rod to locate the gangster's buried $7 million in felonious monies. And William S. Burroughs, he was obsessed with the Schultz gibberish for decades. Both before and after inserting them into a novelized screenplay, The Last Words of Dutch Schultz, Burroughs picked and picked at the Schultz emissions, pulling them apart, rearranging them, putting them back together, seeking therein a Key to Language.

Burroughs, he was always dubious about language. He was pretty sure it was up to no good, and that it would be better for everybody if it just went away. The fact that Burroughs himself made a living as a writer, that was of no moment. And, anyway, the only Real and True reason Burroughs even became a writer, is because he shot his wife in the forehead.

"I would never have become a writer but for Joan's death," he said. "I have no choice except to write my way out."

Burroughs ultimately concluded that language is a virus from outer space.

"[A] virus operates autonomously, without human intervention," he explained. "It attaches itself to a host and feeds off of it, growing and spreading from host to host. Language infects us; its power derives not from its straightforward ability to communicate or persuade but rather from this infectious nature, this power of bits of language to graft itself onto other bits of language, spreading and reproducing, using human beings as hosts."

Burroughs provided this description of how the virus reproduced itself in early ur-humans:

[A]lterations in inner throat structure were occasioned by virus illness . . . This illness may well have had a high rate of mortality but some female apes must have survived to give birth to the wunder kindern. The illness perhaps assumed a more malignant form in the male because of his more developed and rigid muscular structure causing death through strangulation and vertebral fracture. Since the virus in both male and female precipitates sexual frenzy through irritation of sex centers in the brain the males impregnated the females in their death spasms and the altered throat structure was genetically conveyed.

When you shoot your wife in the forehead, that can pretty much through-a-glass-darkly your outlook on most everything.

Leonard Schlain, who has not shot any wives in the forehead—or anywhere else—sorta concurs with the Burroughs virus hypothesis. Asserting in The Alphabet Versus The Goddess that language rewired the human brain, shifting dominance from the "feminine" right hemisphere to the "masculine" left hemisphere, thereby allowing patriarchies to worldwide supplant matriarchies—a complete and total disaster that has produced stultifying horrors without sense or number, quintessenced in such as "bread gloves," pictured below.

As soon as they looked through their space-tubes and regarded these "bread gloves," extraterrestrials expanded by an additional 50 parsecs their "no-go" zone around planet Earth. And wisely so.

Anyone who pays attention can readily apprehend that human language is a piss-poor means of communication.

But it has additionally been Proven, by Science Men. Thus, we Know that in face-to-face communication as much as 80% of all information is transmitted non-verbally, and that "only about 7 percent of the emotional meaning of a message is communicated through explicit verbal channels."

Trying to communicate, then, via an even more constricted modality, like phone or paper or tube: these, clearly, utterly: hopeless. Just not going to work.

It is, however, possible to further fuck it up. Peter Farb noted that "[h]umans eat and drink a variety of substances that disorient the mind, interfere with the ability to walk upright that took millions of years to evolve, and produce personality changes counter to the sociality that has been a hallmark of human existence"; Robin Williams put it more succinctly, when he observed that "the main purpose of alcohol is to make English your second language."

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5txh2GvPmAU]

Communication is about the body, more so than what comes out the mouth, or off the fingertips. As Kenneth Patchen observed: "There is body; there is mind: they are mixed up together. Shakespeare with a hole in his sock will not write the sonnet of a Shakespeare with socks intact."

This has been Proven by Science Men:

You say a person is warm and likable, as opposed to cold and standoffish? In one recent study at Yale, researchers divided 41 college students into two groups and casually asked the members of Group A to hold a cup of hot coffee, those in Group B to hold iced coffee. The students were then ushered into a testing room and asked to evaluate the personality of an imaginary individual based on a packet of information.

Students who had recently been cradling the warm beverage were far likelier to judge the fictitious character as warm and friendly than were those who had held the iced coffee.

Or maybe you are feeling the chill wind of social opprobrium. When researchers at the University of Toronto instructed a group of 65 students to remember a time when they had felt either socially accepted or socially snubbed, those who conjured up memories of a rejection judged the temperature of the room to be an average of five degrees colder than those who had been wrapped in warm and fuzzy thoughts of peer approval.

The body embodies abstractions the best way it knows how: physically.

Time and space are echoed in the body:

Researchers at the University of Aberdeen found that when people were asked to engage in a bit of mental time travel, and to recall past events or imagine future ones, participants' bodies subliminally acted out the metaphors embedded in how we commonly conceptualized the flow of time.

As they thought about years gone by, participants leaned slightly backward, while in fantasizing about the future, they listed to the fore. The deviations were not exactly Tower of Pisa leanings, amounting to some two or three millimeters' shift one way or the other. Nevertheless, the directionality was clear and consistent.

"When we talk about time, we often use spatial metaphors like 'I'm looking forward to seeing you' or 'I'm reflecting back on the past,'" said Lynden K. Miles, who conducted the study with his colleagues Louise K. Nind and C. Neil Macrae. "It was pleasing to us that we could take an abstract concept such as time and show that it was manifested in body movements."

The piece concludes with wisdom:

Yesterday is regrettable, tomorrow still hypothetical. But you can always listen to your body, and seize today with both hands.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_WbC7FUqds]

All of this is why all of the attempts by all of Them to roll up all their "data" and thereby be able to wizardly whiz-bang something such as a person's "threat score," are simply farcical.

Today the people of Them, they listen to all of the phone calls, and they peer into all of the tubes, and yet they know less about people than if they took a big bong hit and then put their heads in a big paper bag.

Nobody knows shit about anybody. Until they get up close and personal. That's just how humans are made.

When I was reading gulfgal's most recent police-beat piece it struck me that all these cops that are killing people are killing strangers.

If the cops who rolled up on Tamir Rice had lived in Tamir Rice's neighborhood, knew him, had met him face-to-face, talked to him, knew who he was and who was his family, they would not within seconds have filled him full of holes and taken his life. They would have known his gun was a toy. They would have advised him of the unwisdom of his waving it around like that. And they would have taken him home. Because that's the sort of thing that you do. With people that you actually know.

That human language is pretty much utterly useless can be appreciated in the image below, of the Cliff House, in San Francisco:

That says so much more about the place, and so much more about so many other things besides, than any writer, anywhere, anytime, could ever, in words, ever express.

For many years, when one purchased a postcard, or a print, or a poster of that photograph, one also received the following accompanying message:

A Japanese boy, noticing the approach of lightening and thunder storm, took the last car for the Cliff House at 10:30 p.m.

The night was dark. He took up his position with his camera on the beach, and patiently waiting until 2 o'clock a.m., was able by leaving his camera open to obtain this picture, the "flashlight" being Nature's own—the bright strokes of ligthening at the moment. The pateince of the "Oreintal" together with his keen perception of the opportunity, give us this photographic rarity, thunder storms and ligthening being a rare occurance in the "glorious climate of California."

The "Japanese boy" was in truth Tsunekichi Ima. A man. A commercial photographer with a thriving photography studio in San Francisco.

Proving that language is not only useless, but embarrassing.

Humans to this day continue to flood any and all tubes with embarrassing Reasons for the abolition of language. For instance, yesterday evening I was veritably trampled by the anathema embedded below. Which is not only a reason for all to go mute, but also a monstrosity that nearly succeeeds in assassinating music, and film, as well.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iZExWt-bj-k]

But that is as nothing, compared to the latest emanation of The Hairball. Which I ran across while researching "New York values" (the briar patch with which the shrewd Zed Crud is attempting to ensnare The Hairball).

In my search, I was directed to gothamist, and a piece titled "President Trump Corrupts Innocent Children With Fanatical Trump Theme Song."

It seems that The Hairball, every time he tries to employ music in his campaign, the creators of that music immediately catapult innumerable lawyers into The Hairball's domain, there to wave in The Hairball's face Copyright Violation claims, Cease And Desist orders, even Writs Of Fear.

This is because The Hairball, he is the antithesis of music. The Hairball and music, they do not touch, at any point. The Hairball and music, they are like matter, and anti-matter: if they were ever to come into contact with one another, both would explode.

And so, The Hairball, he has contrived to create his own "music." It is not believable, and it is not to be borne. As the gothamist aptly puts it: "Here, let the Donald urinate in your ear:"

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPRfP_TEQ-g]

This man, he simply has to stop, daily, excreting this sort of shit. Either that, or at the dawn of every week, he needs to ensure, shall arrive in the mailbox, of every American, mass quantities of Medicine.

Yesterday afternoon I went down to the town to go to the buildings to get the papers to take to the other building where the papers would be exchanged for different-one papers and also some pixels both of which I should then be expected to expend to save the floundering retail-sales economy.

When once I had accomplished this paper-exchange, I went by the bookstore, where the books displayed in the window not infrequently tell me to buy them, and I do that, which is all, many times, that has kept the American economy from completely collapsing.

But I could not buy any books on this day. Because one of the books displayed was the truly satanic tome The Chicago Manual Of Style, a treatise that should, all and everywhere, simply be burnt.

I stood there and had really bad flashbacks: flapping through my frontal lobe, as if on playing cards, flowed all the robots, masquerading as human "copy editors," who had, in my life, chanted gibberish, from that heaving garbage-sack of a book, in order to vampirically suck any and all life out of whatever piece I might be writing or editing.

I was going to go into the store and chunder on the proprietor, when I noticed a small typed poem he had affixed to the window. It went like this.

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see
i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid

look
the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel"

And then I remembered that I have known this bookstore's proprietor since he was a boy. When he was then the son of a woman with whom I was working at a perfectly useless magazine where we were required to run our stories through a Bill "666" Gates computer-program we all called "the fog machine," an ur-"data" horror that read and analyzed the words we entered and then screamed like a banshee if it determined what was written had exceeded the comprehension-level of a human who had dragged his or her knuckles through the 9th grade.

And I remembered that he was long ago now no longer a boy, but grown into a good man. And so I went in and I asked him what he said to people who came in and smirked that he had a Christmas poem in his window. Though it was January 15.

And he said what I thought he would say, because I know him, because I know him because I know him, not from any "data," but from Real Life: that the poem is even more appropriate now, in the days waning after Christmas, when all the little adopted Christmas trees, they are being abandoned, kicked to the curb, dying, dead, waiting, forlorn, for the garbage trucks, to come.

Cut Christmas trees: one of many, many, many, many, many sectors, of "American retail sales," that should decline, right now, and forever, right down, to zero.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4FFp-doyMTI]

Then I left the bookstore and walked to the corner. And thereon was a young man, and a young woman, and the latter was bearing a sign reading: "Free Hugs."

Well this is nice, I thought. People really wanting to really know people. Through physical contact.

And not Thanatos physical contact. Like shooting your wife in the forehead. But Eros physical contact.

I was reminded of an episode of the true-life documentary television show St. Elsewhere, wherein a very old man, dying of something terminal, as all humans shall eventually die of something terminal, was asked by a kindly doctor if there was anything the man, here in his last, might want. And the old man said: yes. He said he wanted to be picked up, and held, cradled like a baby, like when he was a baby. Because he was, then, still, a baby, still. And the doctor, he did that. Because that's the sort of thing that you do. With people that you actually know.

But then I noticed that, leaning against a pillar, was another young woman, and she had a notebook, and she was smirking, and she was Writing things. And farther back, in the shadows, was a young man, with a Camera.

And I understood: this wasn't about hugs at all. This was about "data."

And so I passed them by. Because I am not interested. In hugs for data.

I went back into one of the buildings to talk to a man about—assigned to me, by him—my latest quest: I will read some words, and then endeavor to extrude from some people some words, and then set about to write some words, that will encourage a judge to emit some words, that will debar a human being, alive on this earth, from being locked away in a cage.

When I came out, I saw that, on the corner opposite the one occupied by the data-huggers, the crows had roused themselves, and entered the world.

There is a coffee shop on that corner, and the crows often lounge at the tables outside. Watching the wheels. I think of them as like the crows in the true-life documentary film Dumbo. They are wise and wizened, and generally keep to themselves. But, sometimes, they are stirred, to poke their cigars, into what around them is happening. This was one of those sometimes. They had fashioned their own sign, reading "Free Hugs." And that's what they were delivering. But without the "data." They were just giving them away for free. And they had called down to the Irish bar, there a couple blocks over, and brought, out of the Friday afternoon revels there, to stand on the corner with them, a fiddler. And she was playing our song.

yet will I sing: bonny boys, bonny mad boys
bedlam boys are bonny
for they all go bare and they live in the air
and they want no drink nor money

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKwhq-zgCX0]

St. Elsewhere ended with the Reality that all that had occurred therein had occurred in the mind of an "autistic" boy. Who would neither write nor speak. Through his gazing into a snow globe. All that was Real, was all in his mind, projected through the snow, of that globe.

This, could be our world. There is, really, no way to, really, tell. Here. In the barnyards. O' Delgaty. Where I am a pretty good pretzler. Where I am sore and I am going up and I am going to give you honey. If I can.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCjFIJ8gu7w]