Nearly noon. You are at Kroger’s on
Tylersville waiting for Carol. Diplomat had a little trouble sorting material
for presentation today because a few story lines fell in together. Don’t fret
over her problems as you are presently. Actually you did not during the actual
writing – you let her stay in control to come up with a kid’s excuse of sorts.
My background focus on her blog is that she stay in character. You allow her
the free will. This is very important in allowing this writing experiment to
continue – you give up the world, boy so I can direct. What you are doing, in a
sense (literally) is standing in the doorway. – Amorella
1158 hours. I was hoping not to be
that close.
You are referring to the ‘framework’.
Forgetting where you are when in your ‘trance-like automatic writing state’ is
a happy happenstance. You would rather focus on the automatic reading while the
automatic writing takes place. What do you think of them apples, boy. –
Amorella
1202 hours. Now, to me, this is a new
perspective on my situation – it is kind of like killing two birds with one
stone.
No, young man, it is the opposite. –
Amorella
I don’t know how to express the
opposite.
Think on it. – Amorella
1210 hours. It doesn’t seem morally right to do so. I think it has to do
with plausible arrogance.
You took the groceries home, stopped at the
bank, had lunch at Penn Station; now you are at Kroger’s on Mason-Montgomery
picking up items forgotten. Home and out again from more errands.
1340 hours. I still don’t know how to
express the opposite.
1517 hours. I
was reading about Laurie Santos on Edge-dot-com and her article below does not show a
specific.
** **
Laurie
Santos: WHAT MAKES HUMANS UNIQUE
"I'm
going to talk about some new findings in my field, comparative cognition. I'm
interested in what makes humans unique. There are findings that I think are
fantastically cool, in that they might be redefining how we think about human
nature, but first they're going to pose for us some really interesting new
problems.
"I'm
doing this, in part, because I think already having redefined human nature in
the last couple of years is sort of a tall order, and that scared me, but also
because I think that open questions about human nature can actually be more fun
and I couldn't help but use this audience to kind of get some feedback on this
stuff.
"The
findings in comparative cognition I'm going to talk about are often different
than the ones you hear comparative cognitive researchers typically talking
about. Usually when somebody up here is talking about how animals are
redefining human nature, it's cases where we're seeing animals being really
similar to humans—elephants who do mirror self-recognition; rodents who have
empathy; capuchin monkeys who obey prospect theory—all these cases where we see
animals doing something really similar."
LAURIE SANTOS is Associate Professor, Department of
Psychology; Director, Comparative Cognition Laboratory, Yale University.
From - Edge #409 - Laurie Santos: What Makes Humans Unique
** **
Researching I
found an early interview online and the
one thing she says that separates humans from the rest of the life on Earth is:
“. . . if I had to put my money on
what was uniquely human I’d go with the kind of motivation to share information
with others.”
Recorded on January 26, 2010, the Interviewer Austin
Allen. This is from Big Think dot com.
** **
1520
hours. I am delighted to find this, that one of the things that make humans
unique is our motivation to share information with others. This gives credence
for my marsupial-humanoids coming to Earth to share information with others.
This secures the Merlyn story line with more plausibility. And, also the Dead
want to share information with the Living, this demonstrates their humanity in
the story also.
You don’t need to make a case for your
Merlyn novels and blog. The point is that you are doing the sharing. – Amorella
1531 hours. True, but what I share is fiction.
It is honest fiction I see to that. –
Amorella
You see to its being shared also. The sharing is your rule.
What better rule is there, boy? You tell me.
– Amorella
You leave me stumped so first I need a definition to know what
to think from.
** **
share
1 -
noun
a
part or portion of a larger amount that is divided among a number of people, or
to which a number of people contribute: under the proposals, investors would
pay a greater share of the annual fees required | we gave them all the
chance to have a share in the profits.
•
one of the equal parts into which a company's capital is divided, entitling the
holder to a proportion of the profits: they bought 33 shares of American
Standard.
•
part proprietorship of property held by joint owners: Jake had a share in a
large seagoing vessel.
•
[ in sing. ] the allotted or due amount of something that a person expects to
have or to do, or that is expected to be accepted or done by them: she's
done more than her fair share of globe-trotting.
verb [ with obj. ]
have
a portion of (something) with another or others: he shared the pie with
her | all members of the band equally share the band's profits.
•
give a portion of (something) to another or others: money raised will be
shared between the two charities.
•
use, occupy, or enjoy (something) jointly with another or others: they once
shared a house in the Hamptons | [ no obj. ] : there weren't enough
plates, so we had to share | (as adj. shared) : a shared bottle of wine.
•
possess (a view or quality) in common with others: other countries don't
share our reluctance to eat goat meat.
•
[ no obj. ] (share in) (of a number of people or organizations) have
a part in (something, esp. an activity): the companies would share in the
development of three oil platforms.
•
tell someone about (something), esp. something personal: she had never shared
the secret with anyone before.
ORIGIN Old
English scearu‘division, part into which something may be divided,’
of Germanic origin; related to Dutch schare and German
Schar ‘troop, multitude,’ also to shear. The verb dates from the late
16th cent.
Selected
from Oxford-American Mac software
** **
1543 hours. All that and the only element that relates is
“tell someone something personal”. The definition is an example of why I have
difficulty understanding the ‘rule’. I am limited in my sense of language and
its meaning and purpose. Definitions allow for and account for a manipulation
of language’s basic purpose, which is to communicate, to share. The irony here
is that you say my work is an “honest fiction”. There’s the rub, Amorella. This
is one of the reasons I am not happy on this planet, the manipulation of
language. Being humane according to the Oxford-American is:
** **
humane –
adjective
1
having or showing
compassion or benevolence: regulations
ensuring the humane treatment of animals.
•
inflicting the minimum of pain: humane
methods of killing.
ORIGIN late
Middle English: the earlier form of human,
restricted to the senses above in the 18th cent.
Oxford-American
software
** **
Manipulating
language does not show compassion or benevolence nor does it inflict and
minimum of pain on human beings. It is dishonest.
You are entitled to your opinion. – Amorella
Do
you want to be like Superman and fly for truth and justice and the American
way? – Amorella
No. I always like Superman, I think he was my first
fictional (comic book) hero. I feel our species can be better than what we are.
We can be better than the physical nature that evolved us here.
You are arrogant. – Amorella
I am what I am just like everyone else in our species.
Post. - Amorella
2058 hours. I
have cleaned up Brothers 12. I still like the sense of it – a diversion into
the real world with slightly darkened humor.
Add and post. – Amorella
***
(final) Brothers 12 ©2014, rho, GMG.One
Late afternoon and Richard sat in the winter blue wingback living room
chair, looking on the west wall at a thin black-framed historic portrait of the
Stoner Inn on South State. I continually forget, he thought, how much this
small village was a part of the Underground Railway. In the 1850’s, George
Stoner used to smuggle slaves in the back of his stagecoach to the Inn where
they stayed in the basement until they could move north to Canada. Bishop William Hanby was a conductor on the old Underground. Here I
sit in comfort a few blocks away from the present location of Hanby House.
Mother used to volunteer to take children around the
place after she retired. Richard’s frown turned to a scowl and he thought; we
are all slaves of different sorts today. No more Ohio River to cross, no more
underground railway out. Where would we go to be free other than in our heads?
Grandma used to say that we kids should study hard and learn what is important
in the world, that way no one can ever take it from you. Grandma was born just
above the Delaware County line in 1888, the year of the Great Blizzard.
Richard's mind was forming on the family genealogy,
both the Greystone's and wife Cyndi's, the Bleacher's. Shoot, he thought, all
eight of our grandparents, both sides, were born and raised in Delaware County.
Riverton used to end at the county line, now the city stretches up several
miles, almost to Freeman Road in Genoa Township. He glanced at his watch and
asked, "When is Robert getting home?" No response. This left him with
a disagreeable opinion, I thought they were in the kitchen. They are always in
the kitchen. He got up from the semi-comfortable wingback chair. His tone sat
unchecked as he said, "Cyndi! Connie!" followed with a grumbling
mutter, "Where the hell are you two?"
"What do you mean, where are you two? We
are not your children to boss around, buddy boy," snapped Cyndi from the
open basement door.
Richard stood awkwardly at the kitchen
entrance, "I didn't say you
were. Why didn't you answer?"
"We
were in the basement,” said Connie clearly perturbed.
Richard
responded unkindly, "What were you doing down there?"
"None
of your damn business, Richard," rebutted Connie. "None of your damn business."
Cyndi's rejoinder sat silently on her face.
Richard
toned down, "I thought you were both in the kitchen."
"Why,
because we're women?" snapped Cyndi.
Richard
calmly stated, "You are always in the kitchen."
"If
we are in the kitchen we are working; we are not sitting on our duffs playing
chess or writing," responded Connie.
"Or
playing with our computer toys." Cyndi paused, "You'd think you and
your brother would do more around the house. We give you lists and you never do
them."
Connie
commented, "Rarely, you rarely do them, Richie and neither does Robert,
but rarely."
"Rob
isn't here to defend himself," scolded Richard.
"Robbie's
at that medical conference," piped Connie.
"Why?
He's retired."
Cyndi
responded more kindly, "He's still interested in surgery, Richie."
The
tone stood like Richard, sulking but defiant. "You're saying I'm not
interested in anything?"
Connie
responded positively without thinking, "You like your history."
"You
don't need to side with the old goat," said Cyndi angered.
"I'm
not, but he does like history and both like writing poetry." Her eyes
threaded a protective look at her sister.
Cyndi
declared, "We are not always in the kitchen, Richard." Her voice
choked, "We work hard to keep everything in order."
Connie,
unconsciously caught in her sister's emotion, railed, "And provide
happiness."
A
consolatory tone rose in Richard's voice, "You just didn't answer. I
didn't know where you were."
"Why
didn't you just get up and come looking?" asked Connie somewhat exasperated.
` "Did
you think we were upstairs ironing clothes?" added Cyndi.
"I
just wondered where you were." He paused like he was going to apologize
but did not. He thought, Why didn't you say something if you could hear me?" I
wouldn't have muttered. Losing the battle, Richard sat down quietly fuming.
Within the
moment Robert entered the side door and strolling into the kitchen he greeted
the house with, "Hello, everybody! I'm home. It was a great conference.
Very exciting work on invasive aortic valve surgery. Only a three to four inch
incision." Silence. Robert walked into the living room. Connie and Cyndi
were sitting on the separate ends of the couch waiting for Richard to speak
first. Richard sat stubbornly ridged glaring at the dark framed portrait of the
old Stoner House on the wall. "What's the argument, Richie, are the girls
getting your goat?”
***
You decided in the quiet of the
evening to continue on with your review of Grandma 12 and you made a few minor
changes. Drop it in, post, and relax. Call it a night, boy. Snow and cold wind
will greet the day according to your forecasters. – Amorella
2134 hours. I enjoyed Grandma 12. It
was fun to write because I had to look up some legendary facts. Sometimes I
don’t agree with you though. I think some legends have a fact or two in them,
or a belief enough for it to effect a change in the culture and territory that
gave it birth. I ‘accidently’ touched (though it was not allowed) the Queen’s
coronation chair in Westminster and saw where the stone was placed beneath.
When I was writing I thought on this – that I had touched the chair that had
touched the Stone of Destiny – and this ‘fact’ made the writing from my
fingertips more real in my mind. The fingertips give me an added sense of
reality within though I ‘know’ legend is what it is. The touching gives me a
plausibility I would have not had without the touch. The touch is an empathetic
construction in my mind that travels to my heart, which is full of the fiction
that I am. (2144)
This you write as though you were swearing
on the Bible itself, boy. So odd you are, being a true agnostic and all. –
Amorella
I have no excuse but my humanity. It
is humiliating to be a part of a species so well constructed in heartansoulanmind
and so imperfectly self-existing in the real world at the same time.
The heartansoulanmind are imperfect too boy.
You know better than to spout such words from your heart from where comes your
anger. – Amorella
(2150) I have no good reason to be angry
yet I am. There seems to be an injustice in being alive and conscious of how I
am and how I greet the world that was here before me and will be here after me.
Such is your own mystery. There are few
humans that deep down do not understand this truth-in-being. Add the story and
post. – Amorella
I
do not like myself to have uttered these words in my mind and heart but I
cannot erase them.
Nor would I ask you to do so. – Amorella
***
(final) Grandma’s Story 12 ©2014, rho
for GMG.One
Grandma comfortably sat cross-legged on a sand dune and began to
speak as the large yellow sun rose to her back. This story takes place about
twenty six hundred years ago and this particular setting requires an ancient
watery trade route between Egypt and ancient Ireland. But first, the two young
people involved are the legendary Princess Teah Tephi of Egypt and Prince
Eireamhon of Ireland.
Eireamhon called Teah his princess. Supposedly, Teah Tephi was
really the daughter of the last king of Judah, Zedekiah. Zedekiah had allied
himself with the Egyptian Pharaoh Apries. Many Hebrews went with King Zedekiah
to Egypt but eventually the Hebrews were sent to exile in Babylonia.
The story told is that a Pharaoh Apries hid Zedekiah's daughter
Teah Tephi, and she kept a title of princess to the pharaoh for her protection.
Whether she was truly a daughter of Zedekiah, only her mother and old Grandma
know.
When Teah left Egypt, she brought a few small stones from her
original home in Judah and locks of hair from her family to keep her company.
Though Teah was told her father had been driven into exile, she came to believe
her father had died in the desert or drowned.
The stories always made Teah suspicious and this is one of the
reasons she didn't mind leaving Egypt one for Ireland. She felt as princess she
could always return to Egypt if she so desired and that not even her husband
Prince Eireamhon was going to stop her from doing so.
On the boat that followed the trade routes of those days. Teah
said to her Prince Eireamhon, “I brought my Judah with me,” and she showed her
husband three small rocks. Her eyes widened with enthusiasm, “I will keep
these. These will bring us luck.”
The prince continued smiling, but secretly felt the Irish will
think her a fool for bringing these stones from her homeland, or worse, they
will secretly treat the gift as an insult to our own Irish stones. Prince
Eireamhon politely suggested, “Put them in a sheltered place so they will not
be lost.”
Eireamhon wants me to hide them, thought Teah suspiciously. I can
tell when he is lying. He is trying to show himself to be more clever than me.
Once the two arrived at Tara, not to far from present Dublin,
Princess Teah was presented to the High King and she said, “I have a present for you from my own
country of Judah,” she said. “This small stone is from the stone pillow upon
whose head, Jacob, our ancient patriarch, rested at Bethel. Jacob was the
grandson of our first patriarch, Abraham. It was at Bethel while resting on the
stone pillow Jacob had his visions of angels.”
The High King appeared interested because Ireland too had its
ancient stones. He asked, “How big of a stone is this piece broken from?”
She stretched her arms to measure its size, about twenty-six
inches. She moved her hands in to sixteen inches, and then raised her right
hand above the other about eleven inches. Then she added, “It weighed over
three hundred pounds.” And this is a small piece of it."
The king cautiously continued, “Does this stone have power?”
“Since
Jacob dreamed of angels while sleeping on it,” said Teah shrewedly, “it is
surely possible an angel’s touch is still within the stone.” She paused
dramatically and added, “no one knows for sure.”
The
king responded, “Perhaps we should construct a replica of the stone pillow and
strike the small stone to it so that the angel may move from the small piece to
the larger one.”
“This
is an excellent idea,” chimed the Princess.
When
the replica of the reddish stone was complete as carved, Princess Teah saw to
it that it appeared so very much like the original she once saw in Judah. In
great secret ceremony, the king struck the larger stone with Teah's stone chip.
“As it was a pillow witnessed by Angels,” the king decreed, “it will rest under
the high king’s throne for his own good fortune.”
Stories
create their own traditions, smiled Grandma. The replica sitting under the High
King of Ireland's throne eventually found its way to the Scottish kings where
it became known as the "Stone of Destiny". More time passed and in
1952 Queen Elizabeth was crowned in a chair with the same stone underneath.
Unlike the English the Scots don't believe this story, and I doubt the Irish do
either. Some stories are beyond belief. Only Grandma Earth knows the truth, I’ll
tell you. The truth is inside one’s own mystery.
People
can spend their lives considering stories and things,
And
thus so miss the sweet songs the little bird sings.
***
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