Wittgenstein and E.O. Wilson are the gods of our consciousness, the men who's research effects all the people around you who create what we think of as our culture -- the beliefs that make us Americans.
Now, the people who are in the Witt. camp think that we are mostly created by our language, and what kind of language games we play. In a cult, they keep all the conversation nutty so the sane can never cure their mental infections. Games require rules, of course, and Witt. said that our agreement on the rules means more than whatever the word might (or might not) refer to in the material world.
An example would be that guys who make a certain type of windows, would say "I made 20 windows today," and his factory mate would know in great detail what he meant. They use the word 'window' as a tool, that they have agreed to use in a certain way.
These language games are so powerful that you can play them right into goosestepping behind Hitler, or swallowed Kool aid with Jim Jones (if that wasn't an MLK mind drug CIA thing, which I have an underground, well documented book claiming it is).
NOw, How does e.o. Wilson come in? He puts human behavior in the realm of the animal, finds where we do things in much the same way the apes do -- though, as I always write, the nearly wordless apes don't fill libraries with different reasons and ways and the complications of something like fucking. They just do it every ten minutes or so. Man, what a life. Another popular misconception, by the way, is that ancient, tribal man (who were intellectually as smart as any of us now, and much the same beings) spent all their time working their asses off. They worked three hours a day on average, and they used all kinds of drugs to amuse themselves, bring drama into their life, etc... Not to mention, they sexed as they sexed, with the dominate male often not being enough to satisfy pregnant males, so they also got the smart, nerdy ones babies too .
If I could make this world face the implications of two men's research and then change in kind..... too utopian for me to go there.
Well, my next writing project on the novel is to write the fucking artist's manifesto. I want this to sound like really high falutin prose, written for the ages, but still a little smirky, not taking itself that seriously..... but see in the end this manifesto will drive them to out into the fields with guns in their hands. The novel is all about my writing these slacker stoner intellectual painters lovers good men with deep hearts, revolutionaries without a revolution.... into going out into a field with guns into their hands, driven to protecting their principles on the most basic, ape-like level.... which unfortunately their enemies run on most of the time -- drunken gang bangers with no respect for shit.
And I ran into some cool bangers when I was a cab driver, okay, but the best of them always talked about getting out. I almost was killed by these guys twice, too. I will be putting all that stuff in the new entries entitled, The cab stories of Johnny Pain, which I will be writing, exclusively, in this blog. Though in the end, I will send it off for print publication because I hate fucking trees.