Samuel Scoville: It's not Easy Being Epistemological

Monday, August 18, 2014

It's not Easy Being Epistemological

It’s Not Easy Being Epistemological

Can my Ways of Thinking be “wrong”?

Inappropriate lack of FIT & sustain-ability

to some Larger Whole generating what

might could be called my ongoing un-hap-y

Ways of Thinking, My Lady of Perpetual

Nostrum Notions: alma matrix habits whose

seeming internal tautologic wonderfully
seals itself against what don’t agree with it!

Impenetrable.

How would I know better than I know?
How could I tell my wrong from my right
ratios rationalizing my wrangling warp &
weave, twisting & turning beautifully
depraved self-fulfilling ways my systemic
knowing knows so as to put my finger on
my self, so to speak? Trap me under my
heel! “Aha! Got you now: writhe you
wretched rationalizing rascal! I’ll fix you!”

The signal could come like Terror: knock

knock knocking at heaven’s door. B.B. Wolf,

bastard! huffing & puffing. the hairs of my

chinny chin chins? Can I know better than

my butter knowing? Devise some counter-

intuitive distant early warning anti-home

land security system that undermines my

intuition as well as all that tuition & of

course courses sealing me up & down my

bubble womb tomb whelm closet cave culture

convention convenience stores storing my
pre-packaged shrink-wrapped holy smokes &

inventories?

No comments:

Post a Comment

Auto Bio

I choose, as a determining POINT in my life, to acknowledge a bullet fired into the armpit of my grandfather, Samuel Scoville, Jr. by a thief in the night sometime in the late 19^thc.

The thief escaped, my grandfather having pulled his own pistol from beneath the pillow, squeezing off a couple of rounds and sending the burglar scurrying into the Connecticut night...

For reasons of family notoriety, the incident was reported in both New York and Philadelphia papers. A former roommate in Philly called up Young Goodman Sam, inviting him down for a weekend gala: The Yale-Penn Football game. “You can take my sister Katherine, and chaperone me and my fiancé, he said.

In those days couples were not advised to be alone. Unaccompanied.

Sam took a steam-driven locomotive train down to Philadelphia, escorted Katherine to the leather-helmet contest, fell in love, asked her to marry him. She did & they lived more or less HAP-ily ever after, generating a tribe of offspring who like wise generated in kind so that if it hadn’t of been for that bullet, well, it’s impossible to begin to consider how unimaginably different life-as-we-know-it would have been. No one can say.

For one thing: YOU, dear Reader, wouldn’t be reading THIS HERE right now, resurrecting these words to walk around in your skull-haus this very be-here-now moment. So even you are impacted forever by that bullet.

(I could drive up to Connecticut right now, retrieve the small bite of lead, drop it in your hand and remind you how co-incidental our life is—how inexplicable, how arbitrary & selective our accounts, how much we omit which is also absolutely necessary, how inadequate our because & affects.)

The bullet is a NECESSARY but INSUFFICIENT cause of who-I-am, without which any explanation would be incomplete. Sam Scoville

Samuel Scoville