/lit/ - Literature

>>22961209
>>22961209
Look up Simulacra & Simulation by Baudrillard. The shorthand is: don't mistake the representation of a thing for the thing itself. Korzybski's shorthand is "Whatever I say a thing is, it is not" (the word/label cannot be the same thing as the referent).

You could reproduce a map so detailed and at a 1:1 scale, but it's still not the territory. It'll always be something other than what it represents. So in IJ, when it snows on the tennis court, it shouldn't affect the game-world (map), only the real world (territory). The kids were arguing over levels of abstraction.

Also pic related.

>>21732179
Indeed. And the larger social context of mechanization (as "medium") has completely changed our relationship with cows (the "message", or effect). Non literate agrarian life is involved with livestock. Literate societies detach themselves from and accelerate processes involving livestock.

Mechanization/Industrialization is only possible because of the interiorization of the alphabet. The alphabet is a "map" (semantically meaningless symbols represent semantically meaningless sounds), but we live in the "territory" it creates for us. The medium of literacy makes the map possible in the first place.

These two expressions are not mutually exclusive, but dovetail into one another. Did you get the message, OP?

>>21699949
Do all problems have solutions? Are we in error, calling it a "problem" (the term itself smuggles in the assumption of a "solution"), when it's perhaps more of a predicament?

There are no solutions, only trade-offs.

>>21647268
Alfred Korzybski. Whatever I say a thing is, it is not. Ambiguities of reality run very deep. Language isn't what you think it is.

Also Baudrillard.

>>18096084

>>17333788
How about madness?

>>11092312
This is not a bust this is actually an image of a bust and it's actually not an image but an illusion of an image made up by pixels and we are not seeing this same illusion because we are looking at different screens and we are actually not perceiving the screen itself we are perceiving what our eyes tell our brain and we are actually not just experiencing this because this experience is put in relation to a nearly endless amount of other information so much that our original experience is hard to find.

This is not a pipe. It's a metaphor.

>>6486074

Your question presupposes the answer. which is as wrong and foul as each breath that you draw.you see, dear boy, the way you ask these things, the way you think about these things, presupposes a dualist, human, i.e. biased, and circular, and therefore meaningless answer. "made" presupposes "a creator", or a "purpose" or, if not any of those, " a separate instance of coming into being", which then presupposes a "finite causality" and then, necessarily, "duality", which you use as an instrument at attaining "truth", the inversive side of which ("falsehood") will help you move your terrified flesh along, and always provide you with soothing ignorance, through "baptising" your privileged beliefs in "truth", by its very existence and through an awfully handy second order faculty which closes both its ratty fucking pig eyes and with its greasy pig fingers marks your senses(primarily, and those always with a "T") and whatever comes through them with either a "T" or an "F". and you stare at the sun like a retarded toddler with downs,thinking how wonderful and illuminating it all is.

you cannot possibly ever know the answer. or the very nature of being or "mode" of thought required for you to even begin asking that question, without first abandoning your humanity, language, and ego (good luck faggot). without transubstantiating into a non-entity, or a subatomic particle that exists here and there and nowhere at the very same time. while realizing that "time" itself makes no sense in any human-perception-neutral, and thus "objectively meaningful" way.realizing then that space is not really an actual concept or thing but a projection of your own nature through a conception of "substance as opposed to non-substance, axiomatically exclusive" ie. "this OR not-this".

after all, aren't you totally sure that you were at very least "made"? you know this right? didn't that whore sow spit you out her cunt after 'making' you in that poisonous shit-trap of hers? and that you actually "exist" because hell, you think right?,so i must "exist",an idea carrying with it its inversion, the concept of "not-existing"as mutually exclusive of your being. then, you run not only with the idea, but with the very structure of that idea,and plug everything else into it.you plug your whole life and meaning into it,and create these fucking impossible,capricious,arbitrary and selfish tomes to your Ego, tomes that get a spirit of its own, because after all they either "exist or don't exist" and you've thought about them enough that if these things (spirits, gods,moral structures and everything which is full of humanity and yet so "above it" for some masochistic reason) didn't exist, your stupid little head would immediately implode.(apropos of masochism:without suffering, you cannot make any sense of happiness, so you must suffer,hurt and even die willingly and so that the greater good can feed on its soylent green, through cannibalizing you and that is "wrong"with you).

>>6144781
That's how all ideology works.

Or.
sweets, vague behind wheat paste on skies. tinsel
ropes are bangs on clouds, left inside the atmosphere.
a need of spots of red smeared thin to lift and off glass parachutes,
something pink, too, and ordinary wine breath
or the misaligned levers in a strip club,
a long-time friend that hasn't lost another,
a sorter of post cards and junk mail.
warm sealant gums open, flap up and waddle
to planes, to a street of asphalt houses, tar on delivery,
unfolding nose dives to the backs of dogs
chewing at the ties around Next Door's funnies,
rubber bands off mats from their neighbor's home,
a district of mice housed on powdery sulfur.
ore is not more for me.
the sill on which a handle rests, loose for gin,
a day of fritz,
of Franz and francais,
to the fray of pocked out minds in armor, below them,
boot strapped trees, horny shelled insects
spreading walnuts, wives in beaten flowery,
to a whore encompassing bedsheets and lunatic assholes
that have flipped too many quarters on pull tabs for the pink or blue pastel inside
saying they'd lost.
to herd me from clouds, from the dream of music
in others' heads
where i drop inside their chakrik blowholes and sludge off the red walls for awhile,
'their' were like hardly meated bones dancing about and bumping
blasts from the holes to carve pathways to waterfalls
of weightless cerulean particles. or.
at the time I didn't have possessions. orc. ordinary.
I keep all wanting
for ordinary, an orness
to caress the tone.


Evan R. P.