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Dark Corollaries ili Logikom do Smrti
Milan Novković (7 Februar, 2007 - 16:23)
Ovo su, uglavnom, univerzalne barijere koje je realnost stavila pred nas. Barijere koje su nevidljive za logiku. Izomorfizam u najcistijoj formi; od kosmologije, kvantne mehanike, preko fizike materijala, hemije, pa do ljudi i njihove nesvesti, svesti i organizacije. Ja ću navesti tri, a zajedno možemo da ih navedemo još mnogo.
Mark Twainova „The Deceitful Turkey“ – je polimorfna barijera koja se, i pored besprekorne logike, pojavljuje kao perpetual rešenje na dohvatu ruke. Baš kad smo krenuli da poslednjim korakom stanemo na cilj, taj cilj se malo pomeri. Ali samo malo.
Irelevantnost – je elasticna barijera gde vredan i pametan rad, krvavo stečen i human konsenzus, udaren u realnost se jednostavno odbije i ponekad se vrati kao bumerang, a ponekad se odbije u bilo koju drugu stranu.
Kolektivna Nestabilnost – je previše plastična barijera, gde se ozbiljan problem rešava, ali samo tako što rešenje istog trenutka rađa potpuno novi, ozbiljan problem.
Dark Corollaries su crne rupe za vremena i crne rupe za strasti.
jako
Jasmina Tesanovic (7 Februar, 2007 - 16:34)
mi je zanimljiv ovaj pojam deceitful turkey, gde je kod mark twaine a
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Evo cela prica
nsarski (7 Februar, 2007 - 16:38)
When I was a boy my uncle and his big boys hunted with the rifle, the youngest boy Fred and I with a shotgun--a small single-barrelled shotgun which was properly suited to our size and strength; it was not much heavier than a broom. We carried it turn about, half an hour at a time. I was not able to hit anything with it, but I liked to try. Fred and I hunted feathered small game, the others hunted deer, squirrels, wild turkeys, and such things. My uncle and the big boys were good shots. They killed hawks and wild geese and such like on the wing; and they didn't wound or kill squirrels, they stunned them. When the dogs treed a squirrel, the squirrel would scamper aloft and run out on a limb and flatten himself along it, hoping to make himself invisible in that way-- and not quite succeeding. You could see his wee little ears sticking up. You couldn't see his nose, but you knew where it was. Then the hunter, despising a "rest" for his rifle, stood up and took offhand aim at the limb and sent a bullet into it immediately under the squirrel's nose, and down tumbled the animal, unwounded, but unconscious; the dogs gave him a shake and he was dead. Sometimes when the distance was great and the wind not accurately allowed for, the bullet would hit the squirrel's head; the dogs could do as they pleased with that one--the hunter's pride was hurt, and he wouldn't allow it to go into the gamebag.
In the first faint gray of the dawn the stately wild turkeys would be stalking around in great flocks, and ready to be sociable and answer invitations to come and converse with other excursionists of their kind. The hunter concealed himself and imitated the turkey-call by sucking the air through the leg-bone of a turkey which had previously answered a call like that and lived only just long enough to regret it. There is nothing that furnishes a perfect turkey-call except that bone. Another of Nature's treacheries, you see. She is full of them; half the time she doesn't know which she likes best--to betray her chid or protect it. In the case of the turkey she is badly mixed: she gives it a bone to be used in getting it into trouble, and she also furnishes it with a trick for getting itself out of the trouble again. When a mamma-turkey answers an invitation and finds she has made a mistake in accepting it, she does as the mamma-partridge does--remembers a previous engagement--and goes limping and scrambling away, pretending to be very lame; and at the same time she is saying to her not-visible children, "Lie low, keep still, don't expose yourselves; I shall be back as soon as I have beguiled this shabby swindler out of the country."
When a person is ignorant and confiding, this immoral device can have tiresome results. I followed an ostensibly lame turkey over a considerable part of the United States one morning, because I believed in her and could not think she would deceive a mere boy, and one who was trusting her and considering her honest. I had the single-barrelled shotgun, but my idea was to catch her alive. I often got within rushing distance of her, and then made my rush; but always, just as I made my final plunge and put my hand down where her back had been, it wasn't there; it was only two or three inches from there and I brushed the tail- feathers as I landed on my stomach--a very close call, but still not quite close enough; that is, not close enough for success, but just close enough to convince me that I could do it next time. She always waited for me, a little piece away, and let on to be resting and greatly fatigued; which was a lie, but I believed it, for I still thought her honest long after I ought to have begun to doubt her, suspecting that this was no way for a high-minded bird to be acting. I followed, and followed, and followed, making my periodical rushes, and getting up and brushing the dust off, and resuming the voyage with patient confidence; indeed, with a confidence which grew, for I could see by the change of climate and vegetation that we were getting up into the high latitudes, and as she always looked a little tireder and a little more discouraged after each rush, I judged that I was safe to win, in the end, the competition being purely a matter of staying power and the advantage lying with me from the start because she was lame.
Along in the afternoon I began to feel fatigued myself. Neither of us had had any rest since we first started on the excursion, which was upwards of ten hours before, though latterly we had paused awhile after rushes, I letting on to be thinking about something else; but neither of us sincere, and both of us waiting for the other to call game but in no real hurry about it, for indeed those little evanescent snatches of rest were very grateful to the feelings of us both; it would naturally be so, skirmishing along like that ever since dawn and not a bite in the meantime; at least for me, though sometimes as she lay on her side fanning herself with a wing and praying for strength to get out of this difficulty a grasshopper happened along whose time had come, and that was well for her, and fortunate, but I had nothing--nothing the whole day.
More than once, after I was very tired, I gave up taking her alive, and was going to shoot her, but I never did it, although it was my right, for I did not believe I could hit her; and besides, she always stopped and posed, when I raised the gun, and this made me suspicious that she knew about me and my marksmanship, and so I did not care to expose myself to remarks.
I did not get her, at all. When she got tired of the game at last, she rose from almost under my hand and flew aloft with the rush and whir of a shell and lit on the highest limb of a great tree and sat down and crossed her legs and smiled down at me, and seemed gratified to see me so astonished.
I was ashamed, and also lost; and it was while wandering the woods hunting for myself that I found a deserted log cabin and had one of the best meals there that in my life-days I have eaten. The weed-grown garden was full of ripe tomatoes, and I ate them ravenously, though I had never liked them before. Not more than two or three times since have I tasted anything that was so delicious as those tomatoes. I surfeited myself with them, and did not taste another one until I was in middle life. I can eat them now, but I do not like the look of them. I suppose we have all experienced a surfeit at one time or another. Once, in stress of circumstances, I ate part of a barrel of sardines, there being nothing else at hand, but since then I have always been able to get along without sardines.
-THE END-
Hunting The Deceitful Turkey, a short story by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)
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Hvala
Milan Novković (7 Februar, 2007 - 17:00)
Hvala NŠarski
Pretpostavljam da smo svi mi ovo, i mnogo više, osetili na sopstvenoj koži i provukli se bez previše posledica.
Zaboravio sam samo da ohrabrim ljude da kažu kako su se oni provukli.
Ja većinu problema rešim, ili spoznam istinu o nerešivosti ili besmislu rešavanja dok mi još uvek zuji u glavi.
Ali ako ga ne rešim kad mi prestane zujanje tu ja volim da vidim vibrant, dark force at work.
Naravno, kad svo svoje besciljno vreme stavim na gomilu nakupi se tu dosta godina.
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Hvala svima
Jasmina Tesanovic (7 Februar, 2007 - 17:12)
ja sve vreme provodim u besciljnosti, ne daj boze da mi se ukaze jasan cilj, sve dam od sebe da ga izbegnem sabotiram zaobidjem
vrlo prustovski ako cemo otmenu stranu svega toga ali krajnje problematic kad su funkcionalnost i ucinkost u pitanju
recimo ja najvise volim da sanjam o knjigama/filmovima, da ih pisem/pravim a ne podnosim editing , a samo objavljivanje je traumaticno
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Zasto?
Mirko Kontic (7 Februar, 2007 - 17:21)
[quoterecimo ja najvise volim da sanjam o knjigama/filmovima, da ih pisem/pravim a ne podnosim editing , a samo objavljivanje je traumaticno
Zanima me zasto vam je objavljivanje traumaticno? Ako nije problem da mi odgovorite ili ako jeste onda mi recite.
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