The problem of complexity.

Let's ramble on together then, shall we ?

I read.

I read a lot and have for a long time ; but why ? And rather, who said "the revelation of the number and size of one's holes in knowledge and dams to facility", and where, and why did they ?

If you lend someone some money, the one thing you do not wish to hear's that he's died. While there's life there's hope, right, and while you get packed ever denser, while you somehow, unexpectedly and inexplicably yet disavowedly nevertheless somehow find your way into ever tighter sardine cans and chicken batteries, tender loins of somber sorrow... you end up confusing things.

If you lend someone something, the one thing you do not wish to hear's that he's diedⁱ -- now tell me, why do you weep for your father ? I know why you could be weeping, of course I do, just as well as you ever could, and even better, because I read just like you do, except more, and faster. "Nobody could accuse you", don't worry about that partⁱⁱ, just tell me, why ? What had you lent him ?

It's not just money, of course, and besides, money's a thought more than anything else. In fact, it's always thoughts. Who did you lend what thoughts ? Ever bothered to take a count, like any sensible trader ? If your father dies, what part of your world dies with him, and why does it ?

Did it occur to you, by the way, that "ramble" might well just mean "excursion", as in talking a walk ?

So then : I read, a lot, for a long time, bla bla bla. You know what I also do, a lot, for a long time ? Oh, many things. I trade, say, to avoid the fucking obvious -- o look, literalism deadpan joke! But anyway : I was saying, I trade. Here's how trading goes : when I don't like something, I walk away. All trading works this way, which is what everything is anyway. I read a lot, but the lot doesn't matter. It helps, sure, but it doesn't make it. I've been reading for a long time, but that doesn't matter either. It also helps, and in a way that synergizes with the other helping, of course. But...

Here's the thing : yes I run faster, and yes I've been running for longer ; yes I shovel more dirt, and have been soveling for longer ; yes my plot is deeper, while also being wider. This is all true, but these are minor points, there's a qualitative difference at work also, before we get to these merely quantitative, perhaps amply arch-sufficient just by themselves but nevertheless merely quantitative considerations.

You see... I actually run. As opposed to thinking of running. I actually move earth, as opposed to daydreaming moved earth. The wider and deeper plot is actually registered with the title deed office, it's not just a drawing on paper. All that'd make a difference, would it not, a categorical, all-encompassing difference. A difference of the kind that exists between the gold winner and the gold dreamer -- it's not that the former's merely faster. It's that he's actually running!

This is the killer -- I read, yes. But as I read, there's nothing I can't aford to lose. I have no trouble penning a piece about how to satisfyingly have sex with a girl under twelve, and making it actually good, earnest, effectual in its stated direction because... well ? Why ? How come ?

If I drag my slaves, women I own, women I have enslaved, through the supposed center of a sleepy rural town because I so feel like one day, this costs me nothing at all. It costs everyone else, involved or uninvolved lots and lots and lots, apparently. Now tell me more about them dams to facility. What are they, and what do they do ?

I read, yes. Been doing it for a long time, sure. It doesn't threaten me. That's the big deal. That I don't care what it says one way or the other makes all the difference in the world. Whatever it is, it doesn't have to say a certain thing. The story doesn't have to come out a certain way. If it comes out one way rather than another, it doesn't thereby undermine the quicksand of fallacious speciousness upon which I chose to build myself.

The story here, as you've probably read it time and again in various pedestrian restatements of assortments of menalone should go something like

I took nothing on credit, not ever, and therefore I'm not particularly invested in the survival of anything, whatever it may be. It can stand for as long as it serves and not one second longer, bla bla bla

Well... it's not how it goes, what can I tell you. I accept and I extend and I demand credit all the damn time, how the fuck's trade supposed to work without ?!

Which takes us directly to the problem of complexity : a set is a collection, but a power set is the collection of all the items in the set taken in all combinations. {tits, dicks, cunts} is a set -- but its power-set is no less a horror than {(tits, dicks, cunts), (tits, dicks), (tits, cunts), (dicks, cunts), (tits), (dicks), (cunts), ()} ; notice how we went from three elements to eight, and from twenty characters to a hundred ? Those tendencies only aggravate : not only does the cardinal of the power set drastically increase as the cardinal of the set increases, the space increases even more! It's just... it's a lot, what!

This is the problem of complexity : that the numbers constituting the gap between realia and idealia are indeed so very large no serious approach is even remotely possible. When trying to smush an eight that meanwhile metastasized into thousands of digits such that it recognizably relates to a three that became merely ennumerably large, one's stuck employing simple solutions -- or rather, any kind of solution anyone could ever come up with will be necessarily simple. You're not getting even remotely close to anything else, how should I put this ?

Now we can also appreciate what's at stake here. How to -- and at the same time, mind you -- manage to both avoid personal misinvestment while also deploying simplicitious error all day long, every livelong day ?

This irks. It bothers. For some poor souls, some misfortunate bodies crawled out of sad transHajnal cunt with the partial deletions, ablations and assorted missings, gaps and holes in their very core that genitive misfortune oft begets, such as the Schopenhauers, the Kirkegaards, the major depressives generally typify... why, it'd be cause enough to simply keel over on the side of the road and just die. There is no hope to coerce reality into ideal, and no manner of interacting with the reals nude, but only ideally mediated, so "what is the point" etcetera.

The implicitly dysfunctional byproducts of the foul genital fermentation occuring in the distinctly cursed sort of woman that gets married late an' stays widowed forever so as to better preoccupy herself with neurotically intricate nothings are stuck, for their parents' sins (of not having stomped that female line out of existence yet, like their better neighbours did indeed). These misfortunates have problems only they perceive, that then only admit solutions they come up with, and by themselves alone perceive.

"Just the facts", right ? Scientism, the pretense that somehow nevertheless ideals can be coerced into the much narrower set. If one carefully avoids "fake news" and "toxic facts", one could perhaps bowdlerize reality into such a subset as to allow a bijection with its power set. It'd be small, of course, but...

If that doesn't work for you, if you live in a land too luxuriant, the vegetation too rich, the juices too thick, why, there's a host of "discoverers" available, who have figured out "the one right way". The Henry Ford diet, the Kellog religion, the Atkins blessed underwear, the... Beans and ricely yours, right, nevermind "the facts" aka doing violence to reality, let's focus on "the words" instead. Have you found jesus yet ? Do you read the scripture ?

Here's the problem with being sad : you're sad. I don't mean "sad" as a subjective state, I mean it like it's used in the logs, a nonspecifically broken piece of machinery, a bad design, inept abstraction, these are the sad things. The mirror fashioned by the sufferer of hemispatial neglect is not going to correctly reflect the missing part -- nor is he bound to notice during testing his mirror's hemispatially neglectful, just like him. They're sad, together, a relationship just as meaningfully necessary to each as it's necessarily meaningless to all others. True love, wouldn' you say, the stoke survivor and his broken mirror he fashioned himself, out of a crushed out tuna can.

Hey Ashley
You 're really stupid.
Cos I was saving up to take you to France.
Yeah, I was gonna take you to France.

The true problem of complexity is that simplicity breeds simplicity. Yet there are ways to both discuss and remedy the broken offspring of simplicity. They only work for cisHajnal people, those that weren't born of systematically stupid women by the offices of whatever drunks could be bothered with them. Those who are rich, wealthy beyond wealth, those whose forefathers left them fortunes uncountable (literally). Those who weren't born in the scar tissue left after the death of society, those whose language isn't ergative, those who...

I can afford to read ; I do a lot of it, and have, for a long time now. The reason your mileage may vary is simply that if you can't afford an actual car -- imaginarily driving around in an imaginary car instead produces no actual movement.

1. I want to add here a link to that "they live meaningless lives" cartoon thing, which is already in the footnote of a relevant Trilema piece, which of course I can't find. If anyone thinks of it, please say. Billy the Mountain Goat meanwhile found it, tyvm! [↩]
2. The insistently derpy mental process of pre-human genetically male adolescents, whereby the world's all flat ; and we're all an inch tall in it ; and he's a goat thus therefore I'm a goat ; and let's sit around and talk about what we would do and why we would do it. What's wrong with that ? And what's this "in order to discuss the deeds of one of the real people, 'with property they own, Jerry! and secretaries!!!' first gotta qualify to reality, with properties and secretaries of your own" ? Why should there be a gap between the would and the deed ? In the adolescent's "whole life experience" consisting of no doing whatsoever, this theory doesn't appear to find any support! How could woulding be entirely irrelevant when there's nothing else there ?!

   That's what poverty does : it confuses things. For lack of resources to provide separators everything becomes admixed. When all you got is one bed sharing the bed with your cousin's not right or wrong, it's simply unavoidable and necessary ; fathering her offspring at least partially just as necessary, flowing just as unavoidably. When all about and all inside's all about what you would do, on what power's one to maintain a distinction between the irrelevant set of woulds and the empty set of dids ?

   The world consists of thousands of people training, dozens of people qualifying, three people getting to the podium and one getting the gold ; but alongside that it also includes millions of adolescents dreaming -- always of how they, a falsified thus infalsifiable they, got the gold. Never 9th place. That's the histogram breakdown : a million would-get-golds, a few thousand training-to-get-golds, a few dozen qualified-to-dispute-golds, a coupla nearly-missed-golds and one did-get-gold. No final s, just one. Yet in the dreamy mind of the practically inexistent human that goes about daydreaming his imaginary life, the outermost million and the innermost one are "pretty much the same thing", notwithstanding that in reality they're strictly polar opposites, the girl who would and the man who did are separated by more layers thicker than anything else known to nature. [↩]