[07 Jun 2010|12:51pm] before the lists ... january 2008 1 sofa, achingly it is midnight and there is no one in this house but me. it is forty-four degrees. i lost a matchbook in the washing machine; it advertised winston cigarettes. i have a cropped denim jacket, no hair, red scalp. i keep blinking. i sat earlier at the piano in an empty house. two cats tugged at a vacuum cleaner, sleepy lions. to lay with her there. i am alone in this house, may light the match of this lamp and breathe. 2 troy and food troy is a man who lives across the street from a ditch. behind his house there are chickens. i rode a school bus next to this ditch, troy says under the road there is a culvert that served as a fine club house. there is a plate where bananas lie. also apples both green and red with little stickers. all of the satsumas, this time, are ripe and seedy though some of the slices are dull and juiceless. there is oatmeal, wheat bread and gravy. troy told me stories about the woods behind his house. many men attempted homesteading, many failed. but hidden back there somewhere, before you get to the cows and after a few four-wheeling black widows, he says there are orange trees. peas, raisins, my grandmother prepares dark and white turkey, rice dishes, pickles, cranberry. when it snows you heat the milk in glass in the microwave and mix it with the cocoa near the toaster. there is butter and potatoes, baked chicken. troy wears a mohawk and flirts, fucks. he rolls a joint in the car and tells his friend, 'i am in love with a woman.' he breaks the sixers of tallboys at the gas station leaving four with one hanging from the shelf. the cashier says a second time that she is two days older than me. or doritos, dominos. sometimes the flat end of the paper towels is soiled. plenty times the kitchen smells of cat shit. bugs follow the opened ham, popcorn drowns in olive oil. there is sausage, pasta, soda and ice. troy's television drinks beer with nascar. he is scared when i ask about the roosters i notice along the walls; says, 'oh shit!' then says he forgot to close the chicken coupe, i ask if its alright. it is. troy will meet us later for the party, after he picks up his girlfriend from work and catches a few more juiced, swirling laps. 3 lights now, then the sky is purple near the city. i bite into the avant-garde apple in love. there go two million years, polarity shifts. steam rises, renewable, in song and the moon floats down the flooded streets in swim trunks holding an umbrella. four pigeons organize in time on the powerline. jets streak an early night. i smell the citrus in the soap, then descend. 4 dubai, destiny, kismet tonight we are rocking for bhutto, money launderers, jelly, salads, lafreniere park, kites and small-headed birds. tonight i am in love and know so, 'specially cause i get sometimes so sorry. tonight my jeans are blue, norwegians mourn and victoria sings with the warble of ripples on the pond. 5 underwear dancers robert unwraps the butterscotch candy and adds it to the salad with ham, vinegar and eggs. rain draws a line in the mud around the house. they lie as pressed leaves beneath pulsating air. 6 wet-eared january a cigarette, a leaf, pine, moss, guitars, her mother. i have bitten bruised arms. the sky: a slate-grey ceiling for wintered, seafoam cypress. 7 et mon bureau? i cannot breathe, i cannot fly a kite. i cannot smoke and see the road. julius, i ask julius, 'how are things?' he talks of funerals and cows eating wild onions. i burp i cannot kiss, i cannot fly a kite. julius walked four miles with a stone, hitchhiked from thibodeaux, did not have a car. his wife has a stroke it is his daughters birthday, the floor has been waxed, the trafficed areas. i cannot carry the pipe, it is about to rain. robert cannot sing and cannot start a fire. my knife is unsharpened, i have no money, robert is poisoned by whiskey, julius says, 'things get worse and worse,' and the white cat walks fat out from the lumberyard. sheetmetal sounds, hear the wind howl, i am worried about the water table rising, robert cannot sing, cannot fly a kite. julius holds his nose and milks the cows on the levee. i will not work a day of my life, et mon bureau? i cannot sell my work, my back is burned by grits seasoned from above birmingham treetops. i cannot see this place, i cannot see fifty feet i am worried about the things buried in the ground. julius will bury his wife, i cannot walk, robert cannot walk, has stones in his passway. what of my work? i cannot sell it, i cannot see. i cannot fly a kite. the kitten was left outside and starved beneath the big, old christmas lights. 'do not sit on this sidewalk!' --oh! new orleans. i cannot see, i cannot fly a kite. i smell the petroleum, smoke three cigarettes, put up two dollars for gasoline. the bugs swarm the lights, i cannot breathe, and a lady rasps and whispers in my ears (i want to fuck) selling icees, lighters, 32 ounces. i cannot fly a kite, i want to fuck the oak tree, the sturdy one and want it to fuck me. but what of my work? i cannot sell it, not the pulsating air around the dusk bridge. robert cannot breathe, cannot see, flips the light switches in a little prayer. buck tells me, 'the school life is over, now is the real life.' i cannot fly a kite, it dips down to the left, i try to compensate, my shoes are filled with water, i want to fuck. but what of my work? watch the powerlines over the lake, i understand this light, i cannot breathe. robert cannot fly a kite. 8 dog, oak grapefruit unlined, sour pillows, i am younger to-morrow. she lies, paradise, in redblush and the clouds undulate, altostratus. the moon peels scented between pink folds. dogs bark distance, oaks sponged the sun, sediment settles at point-aux-chenes. 9, satellite

[07 Jun 2010|12:49pm] haiku and other short things november 2007 - january 2008 1 at six six thirty you, me, in this place, where the grass is not yet cold, pad the coloured leaves. 2 squirrel they just cut the grass: smells of fruit to forage a cross the powerline. 3 blake and i lis'nin to the owl, warm; down sinks the thick old oak. coarse scarf-skin, autumn. 4 just wait i waft northern lights then i drop two blue footballs, still praying mantis. 5 snow near rapid city dakota black hills, vanilla tapioca: shortened days of white. 6 citrus a curt cricket chirps. she bites into the orange, many pillows burst. 7 caravan, patrin torn cloth egyptians rather be lucky than good, root near the birch-tree. 8 calm monday on mister rogers they polished a bell today. still sat the bird house. 9 some summertime moss rafters, gold hair, mississippi bullfrog croaks. a banana split. 10 peyote, heat lightning rattled tambourine. thunderstorms paint wyoming's raspberry half-moon. 11 baobabs i am banana'd. love me and lets cook dinner while aretha lies. 12 how she looks at me over bare shoulders: raindrops, teardrops, lemon drops. soon retiring sun. 13 fifty-one degrees christmas approaches, we just need to find our friends. the brass wind-chime sounds. 14 cardinals in the green, a nest. the baby was just crying. -- poor little thing. 15 i want to take jelly-roll shots, atop juicy mt. nebo, from her pulpy breast. 16 bathroom fireplace blue-flowering walls, bristled dim-nude christmas light. fog on the mirror. 17 with faron young i wear a derby, overalls or suspenders smoking cigarettes. 18 dream snare taut stretched-leather drum. she rests beneath the willow, stomps of night are caught. 19 chanteuse road trip turrell horizon. '57 chevrolet. julie london sings. 20 where it is you out there amongst (maybe the bench is the art) the pigs and chickens. 21 briefly los angeles kiwi-green palm trees wheat bread mustard sandwiches, out picking flowers. 22 houmas dupre oreos, pine trees, peel a ripened clementine. red-leaf old raised house. 23 come here heating, cooling. i stole the knife. she has cherry tomatoes for cheeks. leaves, pages collect. i sharpen the pencil or a stick. i miss you. parsley, basil. fur, fir, cat-sour -- 24 thumb sex upright mulberry. corvette parfum. zig-zag drum circle. staff and skirt, goodyear. intone insane throttle bushes. 25 wigwam grandma dirty rice blueberries blue bathroom space heater okra salinas brown-eyed fog garrulous sweet pickles chamber music galavants glamour cardio washing machine pakistan cunnilingus potpourri bleachers gasoline los angeles paperback rose quilt grandma wigwam satellite

[07 Jun 2010|12:39pm] into a new minimalism ? september 2007 - october 2007 1 all my whole life baby i love to see you strut 2 nostalgia yawns on the free-fall fucking nothing cloud and skids around the corner on two wheels of rollerskates-- lurching like frogs from the road 3 dusk, not in california randy says, 'shit' cat on the driveway nextdoor bored boy pushes himself on a skateboard before a black pickup backs in i want to cry; the tools are greasy and the air is heavy like black holes the garage inhales-- 'emission standards are,' he clanks, 'a little different over there' 4 , 'girl i drive to work and my feet turn purple cause of the shoes,' barks a voice up to the cellular universe 'what?' she asks then, 'oh my god oh my god oh my god ive never -- oh -- thats the -- -- sixties --,' the voices dip onto her porch like the cracking treebranch feeling the weight of purple-grey moisture i again, 'and baby i am so sick i am so tired i put forty-five dollars of gasoline in the car so i can drive to work -- to the meeting tomorrow -- and i work to pay the insurance and my feet are turning purple cause of the shoes and im so tired -- im so tired' and she bounced back via mirrors and from what is my past, what with timezones, internet, (what is the future?), 'just come here theres salads i am so sick of telephones, baby --' a drunk car plows into my eardrums as a woman on the pa system, '-- and inside the quick stop --' my feet are so purple and contemptibly clean, '32 ounce --' i am so tired, i ask again, 'baby -- baby?' then the dull buzz of a wireless disconnect 5 had/has auburn hair every time or baby sweet like butterscotch, my favorite candy as a straight haired boy and was i blond too, sure works in the art museum and sticks the burger king straw in my mouth when im trying to chew my burger and not mix them, always scheme-en wears bluejeans and wifebeaters and always worries and wants to hitchhike and should be an editor and always understands especially childrens fiction and hidden aphorisms still that auburn hair too dancing through some kinda book at five years old and figured out, 'i can look it up! its what my fingers can do.' planted trees and buried treasure dyed her hair like strawberries and i joked giggles like a carbonated beverage and tickles my nose the same, just the voice of course i could sing songs in her earlobes and have before, soft and sweet ones from here you know louisianne and wants a boy that plays in that art museum and is i dont know three years old and hers that shakes his head at the op art when told of its secrets and sure as hell doesnt forget to keep on shaken when hes lookin somewhere else also a dancer, ballerina, im excited with big sugar cane lips and a holographic hula skirt and hair smellen like maine and beachless coastline and i swear i watched her once from up in the football stands with my shirt buttoned crooked and sitting on the wrong side of the field and wanted to shuffle her legs, stems and set them in water 6 were the green door bar her low bungalow apartment, outside would be as it is which is to say her on a tincan telephone stretching her voice as a cat, lean and clawing my fingertips the wire, before taut, was a duckling to her shoed feet, distracted before scurrying back to mother chewing bubblegum she talks about the praying mantis, '-- oh my god !' and how much it looks like an alien no how it is an alien no how it is a martian spy and then she spies the sleeping bag were the shuffles of card playing cheaper wine and cigarette shouts around the corner staircase then again there she is gum snapping and popping, crunching red fall leaves as it cools in inner dialogue, 'should i take it ? its a camouflage sleeping bag !' and looking and thinking and finding then an orange peel then lists her favorite foods into my pockets: grapefruit, ravioli and my applejuice salads her feet turn and leave it for tomorrow then it might fit two indians but forgetting she tramps past the praying mantis and panics, rummages in the dark, '-- oh no !' wondering if shed smashed him and so the parties roll on she leans and begins searching finally, achingly finding him in the carved out center of a trees chalky, flowering heart 7 when my shirt is unbuttoned and my girl is across the country i am pushing the plastic cow with wings hung from the ceiling in circles its batteries are dying and so are people i am sad and cuddled just like jesus at least according to the priest and when my mother cries for her mother and her mother cries for her husband and his sister cries for her brother i am staring at the stigmata on the hands of the statue above the altar and humming in the ears of my switch flipping autistic cousin when i push they all have questions steve says, 'is it a cow or a bull?' shirley says, 'what kind of batteries does it take?' my living brother is the voice of reason and says of my spinning that i must be patient and wait for the cow to straighten itself so later when im outside standing on the concrete picnic table beside the silent banana spider and sprinkled by the bustle of a fifteen mile an hour southeast wind through the bust of the trees i listen, as to not die, and step down and sit when my mother says theyre worried that the thing might tip and collapse 8 i would be fucked and stranded unemployed i would be fucked vehicleless and poor i would be fucked by the most beautiful girl i would be fucked and drowsy on the roadside i would be fucked sneezing, late for my flight i would be fucked slowly and deliberately i would be fucked and then sleep, you know, so well 9 o, lo, audience i see i be i is this world is full of cheerleaders and books books about cheerleaders and cheerleaders about books the moon goes up and down at night and mountains used to not be the cheerleaders stack on shelves their thighs and lift down (or up) gauzy-eyed jellyfish assuming formation from here yes our perspective beside to-nights winking lucille the moon goes up and down at night i am i rest with her we be 10 once there was a rabbit we were chasing but only cause we were out picking blackberries and she darted clean, like light, past three of us and what if her closet with the steamtrunk and violet curtains, where in her grey dress time froze, were our nest of berry brush? 11 when im depended upon when im sad when im not hes got the bag and the grass there is also a book of beatles songs glaring eyeless, singing and singingly, from atop the piano which is trudys piano that we have yet to steal and we have yet to heal wear your eye makeup lose your hair, shop call me or her on the telephone and yell, sing songs, oh sugar sugar pump gasoline and kegs, save plastic cups put some butter, bubbles, on the bread and toast it my grandfather owned these things and did not own other things owned bars and toasters, not lovers nor roosters wrote poems he didnt know in his boat and on his trees wrote them with a shovel, with twine before or during, turning, twain and the civil war which is where his name traveled from and on trains with modern beers cooled by throws (boughs) of blowing language i smoke a cigarette, you dress as an indian and steal into the pool naked and clean, bursting buttons that look out as eyes: alive 12 are, pirates are good, she has nice tits; there is the balloonMan! things were dirty when i woke up, i am drawing lines through pound's 'and's. i am a wash, not awash. my bardot bandit is in the sky, winking; words are inside words are inside infomercials. her dark-theory makeup informs, transfigures. the gypsy book is marked by a picture of troy and jenny; lucy, lucille, said moon, and we are (things) as one. 13 i have written a song for you, it harmonizes with the cucumber green mountain the crimson of hushed sun descent fills a wineglass sky i dance and sing the lucid pulp, the porous ease, of your flight 14 why this is what is, why is is why no yes is everything is nothing why is thing, are things people things form, cats is it seeing? not just seeing, why see what why how how seeing, how is why is everything nothing, nothing everything people things, is is are is why how is why not is what not, how? what a wink, a moon, why? how when, when -- not? what not is, is not am what is, am i what i am, is is what i see, i be am i seeing? not be do i, how i be -- is i are, we speak and is you do, do is, do nothing everything speak walk, watch see sea eat, eat is, eat see -- speak i walk and is walk be, to where how, to i you we seen once twice, three twine twain time be, we, were is will -- see is not stop, is not one six any is any and not any not not all, all be is, is fun -- not? bore moral oblique is why didactic is empty full is full is empty out in we is empty full out in not nothing all any is why, what lyric musical arhythmic be form, before -- now -- never then was is wont when why we are, will, all were are wait go stop teach is love love not why noise rain, moon, why stuff stuff why is, is why? thing why is thing, thing thought, thought god, god me, me us, us then, them now, them then, we will, i are, be not, it is cool warm why why -- why not? sea, see saw seen why seem why see be we is seed seam to be to is are up down grow, time, i seed see every seem saw did i my our, state and states i we teach why -- to learn! 15 love, be my glove be your dress, be mine dove warm, take my arm fill your chest, tend to farm be my rest, be mine love yes, timeless -- above enough 16 to la playa, west three bottles of mustard two bottles of wine and one a plan italian class, accordions, birdcalls turrell's white beard mouthless skyspace golden gate dominos, polaroid sea lions smell like blubbery sex things are immediately familiar, unfamiliar the quiet lady selling the bottle of chilean wine asks if she is french; jenny says, 'no --' strawberries, ducks, brie cherries in chinatown or berkeley oakland by train, under the bay filthy toilets lose numbers and receipts the quiet lady selling the bottle of chilean wine says, 'i ask because you are beautiful' i agree; french and beautiful '-- i think i am dutch,' beautiful and french in the twin peaks hotel i smoked one cigarette, she brushed her teeth a man drank gatorade at the foot of his bed r&b purred out of the radio built into the television we danced naked and dropped pink petals on the sheets, then checked out 17 halloween halloween i am tall she tastes like raspberries tonight jenny is the shaman in rags i a tree and poisonous party here in the low bungalow and elsewhere, ted leo, beer league, washed clothes, two in the shower, how she smells ! descartes -- grateful dead, 'alligator' this all i am documenting, she says 'pictures in your head' or so her mother told her, mother hott, like to marry. late for the art museum, granny smith apples, gimmie a kiss ill buy the bottles of rum, green apple, sunburned hand, smoke on venice beach, canals, jazz, fuck you l.a. one hundred i am smitten, bought cigarettes, always picking flowers for her hair and rags, tying things, smelling like elephants, sneaking, pilfering, debasing, rousing then we get sloshed, sauced, zoot, blitzed, banged, fucked -- spun ! i am tall. she drips down the side of the apple, how i love, i love. satellite

[04 Jun 2010|05:29pm] told u id do this ( 41-81 ) 2, satellite

[04 Jun 2010|05:28pm] ok so i told you id do this. heres a bunch of old poems, the first section. i figured id break them into different sections but this one is pretty big, about 80 poems. theres a few more years of stuff i still need to go through after this, but here is a start. some (if not most) of these are kind of embarrassing but that hasnt stopped me in the past. some of them (surprisingly enough) i still find a bit charming. they run chronologically. im also going to queue them up on tumblr so they go up one at a time every six or so hours, so its not as daunting. but then itll just get monotonous cause u get four a day. but oh well, as i said before (maybe not here), i dont really care. for my own archival sake im going to post the whole thing in one fell swoop on here right now (if it doesnt exceed maximum length, which i totally have had this beast tell me before during some experiment). perhaps itll spark a bit more writing, but that FYAH OF YOUTH, i dont know if i have it anymore? i do have a fire still though. hmmf. <3 ps 'Error updating journal: Client error: Post too large.' so this is part 1 of 2. poems 1-40, next is 41-81. pps follow the tumbles HERE ( HAVENT DONE ONE OF THESE IN A WHILE ) 4, satellite

plotinus on ecstasy [03 Jun 2010|12:18am] Many times it has happened: Lifted out of the body into myself; becoming external to all other things and self-encentered; beholding a marvellous beauty; then, more than ever, assured of community with the loftiest order; enacting the noblest life, acquiring identity with the divine; stationing within It by having attained that activity; poised above whatsoever in the Intellectual is less than the Supreme: yet, there comes the moment of descent from intellection to reasoning, and after that sojourn in the divine, I ask myself how it happens that I can now be descending, and how did the Soul ever enter into my body, the Soul which even within the body, is the high thing it has shown itself to be. Plotinus Enneads, V, 3, 17 Who that truly perceives the harmony of the Intellectual Realm could fail, if he has any bent towards music, to answer to the harmony in sensible sounds? Why geometrician or arithmetician could fail to take pleasure in the symmetries, correspondences and principles of order observed in visible things? Consider, even, the case of picture: Those seeing by the bodily sense the productions of the art of painting do not see the one thing in the one only way; they are deeply stirred by recognizing in the objects depicted to the eyes the presentation of what lies in the idea, and so are called to recollection of the truth--the very experience out of which Love rises. Now, if the sight of Beauty excellently reproduced upon a face hurries the mind to that other Sphere, surely no one seeing the loveliness lavish in the world of sense--this vast orderliness, the form which the stars even in their remoteness display--no one could be so dull-witted, so immoveable, as not to be carried by all this to recollection, and gripped by reverent awe in the thought of all this, so great, sprung from that greatness. Not to answer thus could only be to have neither fathomed this world nor had any vision of that other. Plotinus Enneads, II, 9, 16 satellite

[11 May 2010|01:56am] how u know my in-knowing or by what standard you measure again is there 'standard' or recede into subjectivity, sorry solipsism this is my way-ism infused, perhaps inspired no indicative of my ego-ism, my my-ism not mysticism the confusion of elucidating mystery the way of not-way, self of not-self indetermined fatalism lust and thrust for freedom, yet we only know freedom through submission ? i sense the inanity, insanity this way that way my way your way her way his way the north south east west way every no which way satellite

[07 May 2010|04:07pm] pastelplaid:  brb checking your twitter  me:  hahah like, i was thinking if im gonna doa  philosophy i have to start with an assumption if i start with the hindu assumption or what4eve,r or like the sufi idea that i haev that god is everything then i have to start with that as my assumption 'god is everything' if thats my assumption, what follows ? it follows that god is EVERYTHING what does it mean if its everything it means that it is confusing it means that it is CONFUSION it means that it is terrible, horrible things it means that it is manipulation, disease disaster dis ease dis aster disaster means bad stars i means that its doubt it means that it is atheism ! it means that it is science and inquiry, materialism it means that it is solipsism it means that it is every idea and every thing and every person and every possibility and even every non possibility  pastelplaid:  yes  me:  cause since its a possibility, we can think of it so we can think of its opposite i just been thinking about all of that i just been thinking that the yin yang is a really good symbol for an idea like that where everything has a complimentary opposite and inside the opposite there is a tiny seed of the other side a seed of white in the black etc that theyre interdependent i was thinking about that a lot when the saints won the sueprbowl i was thinking that  pastelplaid:  i was just trying to find a picture i saw earlier  me:  since the people here knew the extreme and terrible sorrow of katrina  pastelplaid:  it was an over shot of the oil spill but it looked like a ying yang  me:  and losing their homes and their properties asnd their friends and family that thye knew that loss that terror, that sorrow that anguish that it made the opposite of it, the joy in the  community when it came together as a team and wed cheer for a football game and say afterward that 'WE' won it was like the opposite degree of it it was like, cause we knew the tragedy it made the good that much better i been thinking aobut that a lot lately . i been thinking about how when youd oubt something when you are skeptical of it how much of a BENEFIT that ends up being how it helps you know whatever youre scoping out even better that, if i criticize religion it helps me underestand religion better that if i doubt god it helps me see god better to me it all seems kind of bound up with that 'neti neti' idea 'thats not it !'  pastelplaid:  i like a little doubt  me:  i was like riding around with amanda kinda stoned thinking 'oh shit !!!! ... 'its already been all figured otu ! !! ! 1.... then id just laugh  pastelplaid:  were you driving  me:  then i was like no then i was like 'oh shit its already figured out .... and at the same tiem its not figured out at all !!!!!!' then id just laugh and feel crazy and say 'thats the best part  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!' its a coincidence of opposites its knowing and not knowing at the same time  Sent at 3:59 PM on Friday  me:  hehehe its weird that assumption though 'god is everything' is just what those jews and shit always said was a scary idea, that might be dangerous for some people i can SEE why its dangerous  pastelplaid:  wait why  me:  its terrifying and envigorating at the same time its genius and insanity mixed together  pastelplaid:  oh shit its happening note: putting together my new poetic/ philosophical/ political/ ethical vision satellite

[29 Apr 2010|01:07pm] i want the biggest picture in my head that i can build then what then what ? make it bigger and bigger until i die and try to help other people make their own bigger and bigger until it becomes at last so useless that all we can do is laugh there, thats my 'utopia' sketch satellite

voltaire [29 Apr 2010|12:21pm] 'The Good Brahmin' 'I wish I had never been born!' 'Why so?' said I. 'Because,' he replied, 'I have been studying these forty years, and I find that it has been so much time lost. ... I believe that I am composed of matter, but I have never been able to satisfy myself what it is that produces thought. I am ever ignorant whether my understanding is a simple faculty like that of walking or digesting, or if I think with my head in the same manner as I take hold of a thing with my hands. ... I talk a great deal, and when I have done speaking I remain confounded and ashamed of what I have said.' The same day I had a conversation with an old woman, his neighbor. I asked her if she had ever been unhappy for not understanding how her soul was made? She did not even comprehend my question. She had not, for the briefest moment in her life, had a thought about these subjects with which the good Brahmin had so tormented himself. She believed in the bottom of her heart in the metamorphoses of Vishnu, and provided she could get some of the sacred water of the Ganges in which to make her ablutions, she thought herself the happiest of women. Struck with the happiness of this poor creature, I returned to my philosopher, whom I thus addressed: 'Are you not ashamed to be thus miserable when, not fifty yards from you, there is an old automaton who thinks nothing and lives contented?' 'You are right,' he replied. 'I have said to myself a thousand times that I should be happy if I were but as ignorant as my old neighbor; and yet it is a happiness which I do not desire.' This reply of the Brahmin made a greater impression on me than anything that had passed. 'I have taken as my patron saint St. Thomas of Didymus, who always insisted on an examination with his own hands.' 'every chief of a sect in philosophy has been a little of a quack.' 'The further I go, the more I am confirmed in the idea that systems of metaphysics are for philosophers what novels are for women.' 'It is only charlatans who are certain. We know nothing of first principles. It is truly extravagant to define God, angels, and minds, and to know precisely why God formed the world, when we do not know why we move our arms at will. Doubt is not a very agreeable state, but certainty is a ridiculous one.' satellite

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