Triadic Philosophy

Important Program Note

2013-05-19T16:27:00.003-04:00

Effective with this post I am moving all blogging to GOODREADS I feel Twitter is fully adequate for most communication I was doing here and Kindle is my main focus now and in the future. Goodreads is a perfect fit at this point. Hope to see you there.

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We will not solve our climate problem by adjusting the width of streets

2013-05-16T07:25:00.001-04:00

We will not solve our climate problem by adjusting the width of streets. | Stephen C. Rose

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‘Buycott’ app aimed at companies like Koch Industries - Wichita Business Journal

2013-05-15T07:51:00.001-04:00

‘Buycott’ app aimed at companies like Koch Industries - Wichita Business Journal

A new smartphone app allows users to track the products they buy back to the corporations that make them, with the idea being consumers can use it to boycott companies they don’t like.

Not surprisingly, one of the companiesmentioned in a Forbes piece on the app, called “Buycott,” is Wichita’s Koch Industries.

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> So, is the structure of language a blueprint for the structure of the universe? | Stephen C. Rose

2013-05-15T07:33:00.001-04:00

> So, is the structure of language a blueprint for the structure of the universe? | Stephen C. Rose

Juliette and husband Charles Sanders Peirce by the well at
their home Arisbe in Milford, Pennsylvania, in their later years. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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Thinking in a binary either-or manner hobbles progress.

2013-05-06T07:03:00.001-04:00

Thinking in a binary either-or manner hobbles progress. | Stephen C. Rose

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Charles Sanders Peirce on the Sanctity of Guesses

2013-05-05T14:09:00.001-04:00

Charles Sanders Peirce on the Sanctity of Guesses | Stephen C. Rose

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Cigarettes are the paradigm for global nonviolent change

2013-05-05T06:43:00.001-04:00

Cigarettes are the paradigm for global nonviolent change. | Stephen C. Rose

Triadic Tales has been launched on Kindle (stephencrose.wordpress.com)
Triadic Philosophy. $9.99 price will remain constant. Kindle readers can get updates free (stephencrose.wordpress.com)
Everything is real. The rest is classification (phenomenology) and judgment (ethics, aesthetics). (stephencrose.wordpress.com)

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Six-word Memoirs about Boston Marathon Bombings | Stephen C. Rose

2013-05-04T13:37:00.001-04:00

Six-word Memoirs about Boston Marathon Bombings | Stephen C. Rose

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Jesus favors proactive help, justice, fairness and tolerance.

2013-05-04T12:04:00.001-04:00

Jesus favors proactive help, justice, fairness and tolerance. | Stephen C. Rose

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Ego is a nominalist misnomer

2013-05-04T10:55:00.001-04:00

More: Ego is a nominalist misnomer | Stephen C. Rose

Click for an intro to a a synthesis beyond the failed dialectics of the present binary discussion

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The mystical experience to which all have access is a profound awareness of universality and connection to it. | Stephen C. Rose

2013-05-03T10:37:00.001-04:00

The mystical experience to which all have access is a profound awareness of universality and connection to it. | Stephen C. Rose

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The mystical experience to which all have access is a profound awareness of universality and connection to it. | Stephen C. Rose

2013-05-03T08:12:00.001-04:00

The mystical experience to which all have access is a profound awareness of universality and connection to it. | Stephen C. Rose

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Finality is unattainable. Seek rather a way.

2013-05-02T10:46:00.001-04:00

Finality is unattainable. Seek rather a way. | Stephen C. Rose

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We limit morning after pills and OK dangerous testosterone gels. Who's minding the store?

2013-05-02T07:38:00.001-04:00

We limit morning after pills and OK dangerous testosterone gels. Who's minding the store?

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Capri exemplifies the virtues of car free living.

2013-05-01T11:18:00.001-04:00

Capri exemplifies the virtues of car free living.

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In a world of reason there would be no need for politics.

2013-05-01T07:28:00.001-04:00

In a world of reason there would be no need for politics.

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Everything is real. The rest is classification (phenomenology) and judgment (ethics, aesthetics).

2013-05-01T07:02:00.001-04:00

Everything is real. The rest is classification (phenomenology) and judgment (ethics, aesthetics).

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Tolerance, democracy and helpfulness are interactive.

2013-04-30T20:51:00.001-04:00

Tolerance, democracy and helpfulness are interactive.

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One and one not always two, what's a descartian to do?

2013-04-30T10:04:00.001-04:00

One and one not always two, what's a descartian to do?

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Whether reality is infinite or not we cannot tell.

2013-04-30T09:19:00.001-04:00

Whether reality is infinite or not we cannot tell.

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Triadic Tales - Recovery - Short Story (Part Three)

2013-04-24T09:15:00.003-04:00

Triadic Tales - Recovery - Short Story (Part Three)

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It's crazy. I have more power lying here, between death and, well. what? I have more power than I ever dreamed of having. These people seem to live by my every word.

People around the world must learn my name.

Here I am learning the ropes. But it is deceptive.

When it is just me staring at the ceiling in the dark, I see things clearly. These nice people are playing me. They intend to kill me. Who am I trying to kid?

They think we did a massive wrong. They say they want to understand. But what's to understand?

We just did it. It was mean. But there was no more anger on the street than in the ring. Letting go.

There was accomplishment. Making history. Going where no one had ever been.

Figure it out. They tell us to learn to think. Thinking gets you to look at a larger picture. When you do, you see the truth. We are either what we determine to be or we are nothing.

But now I see that's too easy. I have hit the wall, I am a good actor. A great imitator. A pleaser. But I know exactly where this leads, And when it gets there, I lose. Not my life. Something worse.

I see that I am actually one of them. We are all recovering. This was about a foolish fantasy and how things really are.

God.

And if it's that simple, how can I get out of this?

I need to think some more.

I am recovering big time. And just now, I am the only one who knows what that means.

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Triadic Tales - Recovery - Short Story (Part Two)

2013-04-23T09:15:00.002-04:00

Triadic Tales - Recovery - Short Story (Part Two)
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I almost think he smiled at me. It chills me still. I don't know why I touched him. I guess I do. I couldn't believe he could do such a thing and I felt -- I don't know what I felt.
Someone here is always watching. Security's intense. I am here because this is my job.
The man sitting there doesn't move. The boy can't move. The whole thing is weird.
I am like that song.
When I got married, young, and watched it all unravel, and ended up back home with two kids, I lost my religion. Like the song. Except I was not in the spotlight. Until now.
Will I go down in history as the nurse who attended him? Will I have to explain? Who knows?
These days everything is reality.
Anyway, here is this boy they say is the devil incarnate, heaping language on him to separate him from them. And yes, he can charm the socks off anyone.
I think we could all be mass murderers underneath. And saints underneath. We have everything right here inside us. Meanness and violence. Reason and tenderness. Who's to judge?
Can a nice person under the right circumstances become a mass murderer? Then go back to being nice? Like it never happened?
What are the right circumstances for something like this? Is whatever it is understandable? There but for the grace of god, sort of? Why not?
I don't know.
All I know is when I reached out. it was not voluntary.
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I saw her.
She actually touched the son of a bitch. They must have seen it. I'll report it anyway.
Now we'll have to check her out. Does she know the guy?
Jesus. I don't believe this.
Here I am, redeemed from the purgatory of pushing paper out in Worcester. Moved in a nanosecond. Here. At the frigging epicenter.
I guess this is the kind of thing that juices reporters. Being there.
Well right now, no one more there than me.
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Triadic Tales - Recovery - Short Story (Part One)

2013-04-21T14:05:00.000-04:00

Triadic Tales - Recovery - Short Story (Part One)
I can see her. I can tell she is confused about me. Everyone is I guess. I wouldn't care what she was. Religion kicks in and out. A chick is a chick. She's a good one.
I learned two things no one knows but me on the way here. How pissed off I was about my brother. And that martyrdom is bullshit. If I ever have lots of chicks, it will be right here. It won't happen now. But if I did, it would not be in paradise. Paradise is just a big confusion now.
I am getting stronger. They don't know how much stronger I am getting. The doctors do not communicate. They poke and dress and say does it hurt. I say nothing. It doesn't hurt as much as thinking about things.
I could end everything right here. I could. They do not know how strong I am. They have no idea how flexible. Shit. Flexible is right.
I am smarter now than we were. We thought we were smart. Then not so much. It all tumbled to nothing.
But I won my freedom. Now I see things they will never see.
Maybe she'll come back. I have to be careful. I cannot show feeling. Desire. I cannot do anything. Not good.
Lying in the dark yesterday I thought I would die. But it was obvious I wanted to give myself whatever life I could get.
We never named what we did. We did not think about it much. Doing it was the whole thing.
I knew when I gunned the car what I really believed. I believed I was doing justice. My justice. The justice he deserved. And I knew it would not help me. But it was worth it.
There she is. I can see without looking. She is coming closer. What's this? She reaches and touches my face. Gentle. Soft. I pretend not to notice. It takes than a second.
This may be the only good thing I will remember. I will recover. I will never be freer than I was last night.
I wish I still believed in Paradise.
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Triadic Tales - The Hand - Short Story (Part Three)

2013-04-18T10:57:00.002-04:00

Triadic Tales - The Hand - Short Story (Part Three)
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I am in a crouch at a black jack table at Binions in downtown Las Vegas. It is two used Mercedes since that fateful drive over the hill. These cars last me three years or so. Their price goes down as Mercedes accedes to the declining tastes of the market, rendering them antiques of a sort, discovered only by folk with whom I share a generally silent sympathy.
Bill and I are finally a couple. I guess that's what you call it. We've been that only a few months.
As I play this low-stakes shoe, I'm still thinking what to say to my children and my ex. She'll spread the word to the whole world. I wonder if that will lead anyone to the little apartment where Bill and I live.
When we met by chance, or was it chance, back then, I came to find in Bill someone so unlike me that when the similarities that run like mine shafts deep inside us began to resonate, I would spend months remembering one revelation after another.
Bill and I are deep down two of a kind. Nomads of the universe. Free and bound but spirits nonetheless.
When Bill's matter-of-fact hand creates in me a more complete release than any I have ever felt, I think how right it was to finally go with my own growing intimations.
Bill has an openness that takes me or leaves me depending and that therefore allows me to rest free in his embrace.
I do not hesitate to say, now that I have gotten it out, that I knew of my attraction to my own sex well before I began my wandering ways. I knew that the way Bill and I love with our bodies is a free choice. And that loving children remains massively more on the scale of reality than our little choices about how to relate to each other.
We have no children now, of course. I doubt we will. We are too hand to mouth. But a child leads us all. And the brokenness of our world begins with the way we treat the child.
Bill will come by later. We will probably play a few hands and maybe walk out on Fremont Street before going back to Boulder City.
We did not get together the first time we really talked. That was in the Kingman dawn almost ten years ago. We became friends slowly. A cumulative progression, with bumps along the way.
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I get up from the table and move to the coffee shop in back. Maybe Benny Binion, the Horse Shoe owner, will show up. He usually does. But now his corner booth is unoccupied.
I read. My notebook is open.
"The hand we're dealt does not rest on character or even proclivity." So writes Dr. Addison of Austin Riggs. His book is sensible. "It is a hand of our own making, ever changing, delimited by values we live by."
I look down at my hands. To me, they're nondescript. But Bill says they are beautiful.
Life is beautiful.
Ah.
Here comes Bill.
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Waco, Boston, Newtown

2013-04-18T08:32:00.000-04:00

Strung together nightmares on a string Waco, Boston, Newtown has the ring Of a cosmic glass so set on emptying That all hope would collapse
But time goes on beneath our moving sun And forward moves the hand for everyone We are still here, we live, we are not done This is no time for taps
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