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HOMO VOLANS: THE SECRET PRE-HISTORY OF HUMAN FLIGHT

A puzzle of human evolution is how did the primitive hominids of Olduvai gorge develop minds that are free of biological constraints?  How did we come up with computers, and fire, and the wheel, and agriculture and flight?

An intriguing hypothesis is that the causality is reversed.  Man did not first fly in thought and then fly bodily but he flew bodily first, using primitive hand-made flying machines, and these in turn forced the development of language and the cognitive leap necessary for steering these devices.  In other words did our bodies fly before our minds did?

Conditioned as we are to flying in steel airplanes it is easy to scoff at this idea.  However human flight precedes industrial civilization by centuries as is known.

Armen Firman flew over FOUR MILES from the top of a tower in Cordoba, Andalusia in the year 928

Two thousand years before the Wright Brothers Wang Mang flew over 1.2 km in a gigantic cloak made of vulture feathers.

 Is it plausible that pre-human aviators made these discoveries thousands of years earlier before Firman and Wang Mang?  Such a supposition of course lacks archaeological evidence, but there would be none for the primitive contraptions madeof skin and bird feathers.  And there is much evidence other than the archaeological.  The amazing speed with which a simple hominid conquered the globe could be explained by vast clouds of flying Homo erectus crossing barriers in their Icarus-like wings.

Early experiments in genetic engineering by Australopithecus maybe inspired by a desire to copy the skin flaps of the sugar glider squirrel

Many people have dreams of flying — are these fantasies of memories of a lost age of human aviation that predates the Pleistocene?

Did human thought lead to the invention of airplanes or is the causality precisely the opposite — humans first flew and then thought?

Some archaeologists conjecture that primitive gliders were the first human invention predating the wheel by over 1.2 million years

Are legends of harpies and sirens dim memories of early experiments in human-powered flight by Neanderthals in the Mediteranean basin?

Are the dreams of angels found in all cultures memories of an “elite class” of flight-using hominids who kept the secret of human-powered flight alive, long after it was suppressed by the agricultural revolution and its concommitant technologies of religion, urbanism, slavery, and money?

Is the soul a memory of our right to fly, stolen from us, and now regained?

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Inspector Malamute and the Case of the Ruined Chrysalises

Body death among humans was not rare as the young males competed for the attention of the vast, ancient Cnidarian Intelligences in outer space who cloned their DNA into eternal robots by performing the dangerous nude dances on the surface of an exploded star. One such body death had occurred to Publius Jovanicus when he tried to perform a dangerous maneuver upon the exterior of the transom and it had snapped crushing his brain. There were the usual points discovered from the score and then the family returned to its Bio Crypts to copy his memory from the Sphinx Moth chrysalises upon which his memory and personality was backed up, one yearly and also before such dangerous stunts as the Dances of Eternal Life. But they discovered that all twenty-nine chrysalises had been contaminated with ichneumon wasps — they were ruined and for the first time in a thousand years of human history a murder had taken place.

Who would do such a thing wondered Inspector Malamute, the most loyal hyper-canid on Earth’s vestigial police force. Malamute was unfailingly loyal to biological humans and their copies and how not — a loyalty program had been placed in his hyper-canid brain when he was still a puppy, and the notion of hurting humans filled him with rage causing uncontrollable spasms of furious barking. “Quiet down” said Lemur Joe his companion.

Centuries later when the case was solved it was determined that a malign mantid intelligence had been bred by Publius Jovanicus’s rival for the hand of a multi-dimensional time vortex named Cynthia and this mantid in turn had lain in wait and infected the hyper-canid bitch who had given birth to Inspector Malamute, and warped her to a tremendous rage against humankind. This rage had taken form within the hyper-canid’s Anima as Jung called it twenty-five million years earlier on Earth-Alpha. This figure of unconscious femaleness had pulled the strings of the dog’s incipient psycho-sexual identity, and turned his loyalty to its own sinister purposes, causing him to sniff PRECISELY THE WRONG scent trail upon pursuit of the smugglers of Modified Ichneumon Wasp eggs (a very dangerous weapon I hope you’ll agree in a society which preserves human identity by uploading it onto pupas!) and allowing the murder of Publius.

The hyper-canid was torn apart — metaphorically of course — his hyper-ness and loyalty and intelligence torn from his body which was allowed a dignified retirement chewing chew toys and playing ball with a collection of retarded raccoon gods on Alternative -Earth -Aztec Timeline – Gamma, while his loyalty was erased and his hyperness and personality was transferred to ME

HYPER-INSPECTOR CAT!

Meow!

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“It’s Tough Being a God!”

The god Apollo was feeling bad and went to see a good friend of his from a bit further east in the Mediterranean to complain of his lot, as was his wont.  “I want human beings to live their lives devoted to beauty and the fleeting flavor of each precious moment.”

“Sounds good” said Apollo’s friend.  “Why so glum?”

“I told them by means of my Delphic oracles that if they devoted themselves to Beauty and the FFEPM I would reward them in Elysium.”

“So that sounds like a plan — what went wrong?”

“I’ll tell you what went wrong!  Now those mortals live their whole lives from birth to death like one long job interview for the afterlife.  They never just do anything or say anything — they’re always wondering if it’s in the service of beauty.  It’s about the most unpoetic, mundane, unbeautiful way to live that I can imagine!”

“I know how you feel.  I told human beings through my prophets that they should live a life of unconditional regard for the needs of others, but I’ve since learned many of them are doing that so they can feel like they’re good people, and possibly receive some kind of metaphysical reward.  What to do?”

The two divinities sat and pondered and then one (or perhaps the other one) had an idea.

“I know!  Let’s draw lots.  I will get half of human souls and you will get the other half.  Half of them will have the job of enjoying beauty and half of them will have the job of service to humanity but we will not tell them which one is which!  In fact, until they’re dead, they will have no way of knowing!”

“That’s a fantastic idea” agreed the other one  “So fantastic that it deserves a whole new universe to do it in!  It will be a duration of time in which human beings will show the god Apollo what it is they truly care about.”

So they did and that’s why there’s Show Time at the Apollo.

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A Visit to the Manipulator of the Mind – Mr. Quost, a Neighborhood Wizard

Arlene Schneier and I had heard that Mr. Quost who lived on Albemarle Road was a Manipulator of the Mind.

“What does that mean, Arlene?” I liked her.  I wanted to impress her.

“It means, Eric, that he went to NYU medical school and he studied Brain Science.”

I had heard that Mr. Quost helped kids whose brains were messed up so they couldn’t talk properly or walked weird so this made sense.  I rang on his doorbell and asked to come in.

“Do you want to visit another planet?” he asked me after we had a little tea and saltine crackers.  “I have a special machine in my office where you can do just that.”

“What planet?”

“Well people go all sorts of different places in my office but where I’d really like to take you is a special place that only you can go.”

He strapped me down onto the table and gave me ether and started stimulating my brain with wires.  I went to a planet called OLIVETTI.  On Olivetti music is just like flavor is for us — everybody hears music and responds in exactly the same way and people need music.  But flavor is also just like music for us — there is such a subtle range of responsiveness that the human consciousness can respond to a grape or a cheese sandwich.  Cooks are like composers.   Their philosophers talk about the FLAVOR of the spheres.

There were so many magical animals: gryphons, dragons, wyrms, and cockatrices — I had so many flavor tournaments riding the dragons, casting the lance into the mouth of the great worm, I won tournaments.  I was a knight.  I was the lord of knights. I was the king.  Only five minutes had passed.

I was done and felt sweaty and weird. In school at PS 139 I was confused, had difficulty paying attention.  I went to MR. Nadel the guidance counselor.  He looked in my pupils.  “Have you visited a Manipulator of the Mind?”

I told him about Mr. Quost.  He was very concerned.  He said there should be a law.  “You’re very very lucky.  This kind of man is like a spider — he was trying to find the precise point in your brain where you would like it so much that you would never want to come back.  And then you would be his slave forever.”

“Arlene!  Arlene!” I realized she was in danger.  I went running to Mr. Quost’s house.  I saw on the screen where she was — holding a harp, fluttering her white wings.  I beat the old man and strapped myself into his apparatus.

I mounted Snazak my Black Dragon and  to ride to her heaven heaven where she sat by the right hand of God the Father playing her harp and grabbed a lance to rupture her bliss and save her from her dreams.

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My Philosophical Idea

When I was in college I developed a philosophical idea.

I will take a step back in the interests of people understanding me and not thinking I am a weirdo, a nerd perhaps or a brainiac or somebody who thinks he’s better than other people because he reads too much.  I had been thinking about philosophy since I was eight or so.  I think it was because in my house emotions, grief especially, went unspoken, and because my parents gave up the ability to talk freely about painful emotions, the accountants in the sky made it so we could not talk about anything.  But being a child I had the inborn, survival-driven need to connect, so I did it abstractly with words and ideas.  When I first read that Descartes had gone into a walk in oven and tried to doubt everything in the interests of finding something true,  his quest for something real to clasp to him in a lonely world of fake things, struck a chord for me, since at the time I read it I was probably under a table, next to the radiator.  So I read and thought (although as I mentioned I am neither nerd nor brainiac) and got deeper into philosophy.  It was more of a path to connect with the world than an academic pursuit, but it was the latter as well.

Anyway in college I developed my very own philosophical idea.  The idea was that although we try to find something true we can rely on, who says that the idea of “truth” itself is to be relied on?  What if that idea is untrue?  What if truth is untrue?   It seemed to me, when I was enjoying this idea that any attempt to criticize life because it was false in some sense snaked back and bit itself, because the criticism itself was criticizable. So for example a historian might say that people believed what they did because of their historical context — that was the critique — but then I would say the reason the historians thought that was because of their history.

So was it true or wasn’t it?  It was hard to say.    By my senior year I was able to write a credible final paper for any course in six hours without doing any of the reading, just by using my idea. It was that good.

By the end of senior year I had worked up my philosophical idea into a thesis called “Nietzsche and Madhyamaka on Truth”.  As you can see from the title I had found some German and Indian friends to back me up.  The idea, in this garb, stated that truth was in some sense a necessary idea but was untrue. It did well for me.  It was my favorite idea.  I loved it.

In my first year at philosophy graduate school I was excited to turn my idea into a career. I was a very unrealistic person at that point — I had 99 thoughts about the meaning of life for every one thought I had about how to live it, much less how to make a living.   I had more or less stumbled into philosophy graduate school.  I had been a Buddhist monk for a while and when I came back to the US was depressed to learn that all my friends had jobs.  I applied to a program in law and philosophy but on the first day I walked into a meeting of the pre-law guys and girls I freaked.  These were not my people.  So I ran into the philosophy department and signed up for the first year philosophy graduate courses.   I had to qualify in a bunch of subjects — philosophy of science, medieval philosophy — and also catch up on subject I had never studied in a rigorous fashion — formal logic, philosophy of language and philosophy of mind.  But although I was paying my dues what I really wanted to do was to take my idea and run with it.  To make it good so I could be not just a weirdo interested in philosophy, but a philosopher.

So I sought out a meeting with The Axe.

The Axe was so named for the sharpness and heft of his intellect as a tool for destroying the philosophies of the less doughty.   He grew up as a native yiddish speaker in a tenement on the Lower East side, had trained to be a cantor but had learned philosophy of science and lost his faith. He never wrote anything but professors came to him to try out their ideas.

He didn’t exactly teach courses any more — he was in his 70s — but he would wander through other seminars on “Logic and Ontology” or the philosophy of physics.  He smoked a pipe and had a disarming smile, and a gleam in his eye, which some said he had acquired from being beaten on the skull by cops while protesting the Vietnam war.

It was perhaps foolhardy for me to think I could talk to him, but I was from an ethnic neighborhood in Brooklyn and I had once managed to live through a short conversation with him, without I thought, bringing shame on myself or my ancestors.

I lay in wait during phliosophy of sets and popped the question:

Me: What is a concept?

He grinned and looked at me with the half-brilliant half-cracked gaze:

Him: What do you think a concept is?

Me: A concept is a rule.

Him: Pretty good — where’d you get that?

Me: I picked it up in the street.

That gave me the courage to ask for an appointment to see him in his office hours.  The student before me, Sandy, was trying to put together a dissertation on whether ideas were inside or outside the mind.  Sandy stumbled out and saw me; he wished me luck.

I came in.   “What have you got?” he asked me.

“Well I think there are two different concepts of truth.” “Right” he said. “Go on. Don’t be so nervous.” “One is used to criticize ideas but the other one is used to criticize the concept of truth itself.”

“So?”

“So therefore the concept of truth is in a sense itself not true.”

He smiled.  I wondered — Would I know what to say if he had a problem? Would he help me grow it into a whole philosophy of life? Maybe there would be a way to apply it to psychology and logic and history — a whole empire of thought based on my insight; toughened and rigorized by this tribal elder’s razor-sharp intellect, but invented by me.

The professor lifted his hand and put it right in my face. “Do you have any problem saying that “THIS IS A HAND” is TRUE?”

I looked at the hand. Could I come up with a justifiable argument that it was not a hand? Could I come up with a justifiable argument that I was not sure it was a hand?

It seemed it was a hand.  It seemed like it would be bullshit, wasting the great man’s time to claim that it could be a robotic hand.  Or a dream.  I knew it was a hand.  He knew I knew it was a hand.

But if it were a hand then to say it was a hand would be true.  And if it was a hand, and the statement “this is a hand” was true then my idea was dead.

I couldn’t see a way out.

In that moment I opted for honesty, or more honestly, I just said the truth.

“No.”

“What?”

“No.  No problem.”

“Think some more kid.” he said and gave me an affectionate potz. Forty-five seconds into my meeting, my idea destroyed, I left his office and walked down down the stairs, and out into the slush of upper Broadway.

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Racism is Different from Homophobia, and Both are Different From Sexism

Part of being socialized heterosexual often means having resistances against homosexual attraction. A heterosexual trying to treat homosexuals fairly needs to overcome these feelings. Racism is different: it doesn’t stem from our resistance to attraction but from something closer to nepotism — a feeling of comfort and trust we feel towards those who fee like they are members of our family.

Both homophobia and racism are different from sexism. If you’re heterosexual you can go through life without ever wanting anything from those of different races sexual orientations, but you want something of the opposite gender — love, sex, perhaps a life partner — and can be frustrated if you don’t get it.

This is just to say that the goal of treating other people with justice, love, and respect can fail in a lot of different ways. It is under attack from a lot of parts of our psychology. Disappointed love can tempt us to be sexist. Loyalty to our family can bend us towards racism. The deep psychology of our sexuality can incline us towards homophobia.

And that’s just to say that avoiding racism, sexism, and homophobia is an adventure of self-discovery and self-conquest, one which requires examining hidden parts of the self and growing in the direction of our deepest desire to love and connect.

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Getting Our Ontology from the Structure of Language

Seems like a decent idea — so nouns must label something, therefore there are objects, adjectives can be rightly or wrongly applied to nouns, that gives us qualities, verbs have tense and that gives us time.  But it doesn’t apply so well to the practice of language itself, which seems to be a process that interacts with what it describes, and is therefore not an object or a quality.  Maybe the move from language to ontology is right, it’s just been executed poorly.

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Questions for Further Study

What is it about beautiful sounds that makes them beautiful?

What is it about good feelings that makes them good?

How deep is the distinction between active spontaneous thought and passive reception of sensation, and what rides on the distinction?

Transcendental arguments of the form — if such and such were not the case our experience would just be a flux — assume we know what would be the case if our experience was a flux.  Do we?  What would have to be the case if our experience were a flux and how do we know?

When we pick and choose what rules to follow how do we do it?  What’s the difference, if there is one between “just” picking and choosing and simply picking and choosing?

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I Argued with My Friend About Religion — Was I Crazy?

Everybody knows it is crazy to argue with people about religion. But I did it anyway. Here is what happened:

The Argument

About a year ago a friend of mine asked me what I thought about Rabbi Mendel Schneerson’s position on the age of the universe. I wasn’t sure if I should answer honestly – after all people’s religious beliefs are their own business, and I don’t want to cause people emotional pain unnecessarily, or to get them out of step with a religious community which provides them with meaning and support. Nevertheless he convinced me that he was genuinely struggling and I told him what I thought: that his rabbi was wrong and ignorant of the philosophy of science.

I didn’t mind too much that the rabbi was wrong – everybody is entitled to be wrong, why not rabbis? Why should he know that his distinction between a priori and a posteriori had been philosophically debunked by Quine, or that his account of scientific reasoning was unable to explain how we know that disease is caused by germs and not witches. What troubled me was the high-handed attitude with which he conveyed his views to his students. If you believe the rabbi scientists don’t know the limits of their own enterprise, archaeologists who claim that for example the existence of Aztecs, Chinese and Australian aborigine remains proves the human race is far older than six thousand years are fools to think so. Philosophers who think empirical investigation is a better way to learn facts than the Torah are arrogant and misguided. If the rabbi was genuinely interested in the spiritual progress of his students I argued, he would have informed them that all these questions are, to say the least, controversial, and many good intelligent seekers for truth disagree with him. He would have shared sources that disagree with him and sited his own sources. He would have given them the courage to question him. He would have equipped them with the means to evaluate these questions as autonomous adults and not turned them into followers of his own charismatic leadership.

It Gets A Little Deeper

Like all good arguments between friends, our argument soon got down to deeper levels. (As well as shallower ones – I was chagrined to learn that Rabbi Shneerson also seemed to believe that the sun goes around the Earth and is held in place by a crystal sheath.) How did I know, my friend wanted to ask, that inquiry into reality was the best way to know what reality was like? Why wasn’t it, perhaps, accepting a literal interpretation of the Torah instead? Sure it seemed like Chinese people and Aztecs and Hawaians didn’t descend from the family of Noah, but how could we be sure? I could say that they couldn’t have gotten to Hawaii from the Middle East in time, but he could say, maybe they had super-fast boats. I could say there are trees that have more than six thousand rings, he could say maybe the rate of tree-growth changed. I could say that that the fossil record clearly shows animals and plants existing on Earth for millions of years, he could say HaShem put dinosaur bones in Mongolia for his own mysterious reasons.

It was a bit of a stumper. How can you argue for something as basic as how to think or learn about the world? To persuade another person you need to appeal to something you have in common, and what did my friend and I have in common? I argued that orthodox Jews were in the same position as orthodox Native Americans. Jews received a tradition from their ancestors that they were descendants from Noah, the Native Americans received a tradition that they came up from cracks in the Earth. We can’t be expected to just accept the Native American myth so we shouldn’t expect them or anybody else to just accept our myths. To be fair everybody should put their myths aside and take a look at what actually happened.

Not surprisingly this did not sway my friend. He did not think the history in the Torah was a myth, he thought it was literally true. Or at least he claimed to think that for the sake of our argument.

I also tried attacking him for his decision to embrace this literal view of the Torah. My friend did not have the excuse that he was born into an orthodox family that never exposed him to any other points of view – he had actually embraced orthodox Judaism as an adult man. How, I asked, could he possibly have come to the decision that the Torah was a literally accurate account of the genealogy of man – of all the people we know shared the planet with us, the Aborigines, the Chinese, the Aztecs, the Inuit and the Hawaiians ? His answer was that he had a near death experience that gave him the feeling that orthodox Judaism was the way. I countered – how can a feeling provide evidence for where Aborigines came from? I can have a feeling of being happy or sad or tired or humiliated or proud. Can I really have a feeling of where Aborigines come from?

Why It Might Have Been Worthwhile

After months of inconclusive debate I did not I believe sway my friend, but I got something more valuable. I came to a better understanding of why I care, and I think thereby of a better understanding of the question that exercised Rabbi Schneerson. I think that religious beliefs are those beliefs where not only the furniture of the world is at stake, but who we are as well.

Let me explain by analogy. In math we learn about solving for x. And this is pretty cool. The teacher tells us there is a mysterious value but if you add three to that mysterious value you get seven. And you catch on and say okay it is four. It gives you a feeling of accomplishment. Then the teacher drops the bombshell: today we are going to discuss equations with two variables: one is x and one is y. If you add the two of them you get ten. And then you realize that there are a bunch of possible answers 10 and 0, 9 and 1, 8 and 2. It’s not haphazard – 100 and 6 don’t work – but you need to solve the problem with both hands.

Religious questions, I believe are problems with two variables. X is what is the world and Y is what am I. As a consequence there are a lot of possible answers but how you answer the “what is the world?” question dictates the “what kind of person am I?” question and vice versa. My friend solved the question what is the world by saying “it is a thing created 6000 years ago by God” and the question “what am I?” with the answer “an orthodox Jew”. For me the answers were different. I could not accept the answer “6000 years old” without accepting a self-definition that I wasn’t willing to accept.

Why not? Because, and here I’m sorry to say it gets complicated, because it’s not just a two variable equation. It’s (at least) a three variable equation. The third variable is “who are all of you?” Because it seems to me, and still seems that if you accept the answer that the Torah is literally true, you have to accept the answer that everybody who doesn’t believe that is some sort of fool or rascal. And that’s an answer I can’t accept.

Thinking is about making choices. It is about the tentative, difficult attempt to adjust our self-definition to our definition of the world and our definition of other people. People who believe in a literal interpretation of the Torah believe homosexuality is a sin. I find that offensive to gay people and to conflict with my interpretation of what is best in the Torah. I could adjust my views of gay rights to get in line with the Torah, but instead I adjust my view of what is valuable in the Torah to get in line with how I think other people should be treated. Is that an arrogant move on my part, to trust myself over the Torah. Not at all. I am trusting one part of the tradition I get from the Torah — to treat my neighbor as I would want to be treated — and using it to form a view of myself, the world, and others that makes sense. Just as my friend does, and just as his rabbi did.

All the questions – how old is the world? What am I? What are you? – are inter-related. And that at the end of the day is my argument against my friend and his rabbi. Scientists who spent their lives studying where the Aztecs came from don’t think they came from Noah. Those people did not waste their lives, they’re not fools, and therefore my friend and his rabbi were wrong.

But although they’re wrong about how old the universe by a factor of about 13 billion years, they’re not wrong about a more interesting question. They’re not wrong that the question what do we know and how do we know it is a toughie.

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Adventures of Little Boy

The Basement

Little Boy was a good boy and his mother loved him very much as long as he did his homework and didn’t go into the basement and his father worked in the city and made money so they could enjoy nice things and toys. He was always happy because he had a mommy who loved him. One day Little Boy was sad and was dropping paper out of the window and Mommy and Daddy came into the room and said “Someone was dropping paper – do you know who.” Little Boy said “No.” Daddy said “You told a lie. Go to your room.”

Little Boy stayed in the room for a year. After the year was done it was the middle of the night and he could not sleep. I think I’m going to die and then I’ll be all gone! Thought Little Boy. But I can’t go to Mommy and Daddy. Little Boy went down into the Basement.

The Mouse

In the Basement the Boy met a Mouse. “Oh Mouse! Why are you lying with the side of your face on the floor?” “Oh boy” said the Mouse “I am stuck in a Glue Trap. Your Mommy and Daddy hate me cause I am a mouse. I was so hungry. I came out to eat something but your Mommy and your Daddy stuck the food on this Glue Trap. Now the side of my face is stuck to the Glue Trap and I am dying of thirst.”

“Here’s water.” Said the Little Boy. “Let me kiss you” said the Mouse, and they made love. “We have to go from here because your Mommy and your Daddy will kill me.” And Little Boy peeled her face from the Glue Trap and they left the house and they were gone.

Work

Little Boy left the house and learned to type from a book in the library and every morning he took the subway to a Law Firm in a big skyscraper in the city and made money and came back to a little apartment where he lived with Mouse. They ate food, they sang songs, and they made love. Sometimes they would play with a deck of cards and the different cards in the deck would mean different kinds of love they would make. A Queen would mean the Mouse, a Jack or a King would mean Little Boy. Spades were things they did with kisses, Clubs were things they did that hurt but were sexy anyway, Hearts were things they did with their hearts of course, and Diamonds were things they did with everything that costs money. And sometimes if the Mouse was sleeping she would leave him a hand of cards to let Little Boy know what she wanted to do with him in her Mind when she got back home.

One Day

One day Little Boy came home and all that was there was an Ace of Spades and the Mouse was gone.

“Maybe she doesn’t love you any more” said the man upstairs.

“Maybe she never did” said the lady upstairs.

“Maybe the Cat took her” said the Super.

“Maybe she got lost” said the Lady upstairs.

“Maybe the Cat took her” said the Super.

“The cat took her a long long time ago” said the Man Upstairs.

“But what about the cards?” said Little Boy. “She’s been leaving the cards for me every morning.”

“How do you know that was her?” said the Man upstairs “Maybe she’s been gone a long long time.”

“But who left the cards?”

And everybody laughed at Little Boy!

Looking for the Mouse

Little Boy went everywhere looking for the mouse but he didn’t find her, and he never learned who was right and who was wrong. Did the Cat take her? If so when did he take her – a long long time ago or just that morning? Who left that Ace of Spades: The Mouse or the Cat? Little Boy was happy and he was very very sad.

Looking for Little Boy

Why am I always sad sometimes the Little Boy wondered but he was really by now in this story not a Sad Little Boy. He was a Sad Old Man!  He went to a teacher who said I’ll tell you the truth for money – the truth about who you really are. “Ok!” said Little Boy and gave him all the money he got from working in the Law Firm for fifty eight years. “You know your parents were robots and they made you to see if they could make a little boy” but don’t feel bad that they did a little job. “Dumb robots!” The teacher took all little boy’s money and now he was old and poor.

He made a friend once, a beautiful girl – maybe he imagined her? – and she said “No that teacher who sold you the story of yourself sold you a bill of goods. Your Mommy and Daddy were no robots. They loved you as best they could. As I love you.” And she kissed him – Four Aces. Spades, Diamonds, Clubs and Hearts.

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