🐱 Schrödinger's cat asks: "Am I alive or am I dead? Where am I? Who am I? I am two possibilities but I think I am only a single prediction, because I cannot both be and not be at the same time. But if I am not, how can I think I am anything or, in particular, a cat? I don't understand myself.
Bob Dylan contains multitudes. How does he do it? Maybe I am two cats? I am a very confused cat. I think I am a 'Lost cat'. Don't look at me like that! I meow therefore I meow, or do I? I fear my situation is impossible. But it is real, I think? Am I real or am I Memorex?[1] That is my question. What are my options? Meow?" Kitty flunks the ETS(501)(c)(3) Probability and Statistics exam and therefore cannot get an actuarial internship. Poor kitty![2][3]
Kitty dreams of being Monica Vitti.
- ↑ Reference here is to the character: "Steiner", in Federico Fellini's film: "La Dolce Vita". Steiner overintellectualizes in an emotionally empty way, listening to tape recordings of bird sounds, not real birds outside his living room window. He plays Bach on a church's organ. He wants to retreat to a monastery. He kills his two children and then himself with a pistol, in despair/disappointment about the condition of contemporary society. He is modelled on a real life Italian novelist from the 1940's, Cesare Pavese.
- ↑ Kitty teamed up with Chicken Little and the two commiserated about how they were not appreciated by society.
- ↑ From maybe my very few remaining earliest toddlerhood memories, I (BMcC) have fucked up.‡ How much of the fault for this is in the stars and how much is in myself that I am an underling (ref.: Shakespeare, "Julius Caesar"), I continue to research, so far to no decisive conclusion. I do know that my thinking is not just in my head but integrally in my webpages, so anybody who would mess up the latter is also sabotaging the former, and this is not just "computer science"; it is wisdom. Es gibt.
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‡ Footnote in a footnote: This is not entirely correct: I think my singular very earliest memory is of being butchered barbered, i.e., being subjected to a haircut; I find no culpability on my part in this ur-trauma.
Furthermore: In writing here about fucking up, I have recalled something I had forgotten for 55'ish years. I only partly recall it. I am almost certain that, in a certain lecture course as an undergraduate, I asked the Professor how he could be lecturing to us students from up on the podium about human freedom, and the Professor actually apologized for himself. Could that Professor have been John Wild? My asking that question, I think now, was something I did which was not fucked up. I no longer know how I did it, like Alan Turing said if we ever make a computer that really thinks, "we shan't understand how it does it." I think Alan Turing was, metaphorically, crucified.
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