Some of the thematic connections to my data book.

A Story by Mark

These excerpts, from my other works, thematically link to the data management philosophy I write about. Much of the management of data is the management of the people who use it, understand it.

A couple of addicts:

After taking so much speed for so long they developed patterns of thinking, waves of thought on subjects which were far ranging, deep, and distorted. I found it fun to follow the twists and turns of the parts; to recognize when the process deformed a piece of the thought, flattened it out so I could see a dead spot in the logic, formed by a need to get past it to another thing, when it became necessary to define something as, “they want you to”, or ‘that’s how the system works”, to make the next connection.

Addicts suggesting, I read Carlos Castaneda books:

The books did suggest a malleable reality. I long before had accepted the instability of reality, so, reading about what another thought of this just showed how he figured it out. I wanted a way to create a solid point of view, by a process where I didn’t have to compromise an expansive vision for dogma. I wanted to make it real without a lot of bullshit. I saw, championing another’s point of view, as just more s**t to set in order for my own understanding. The natural conclusion, explanation, to me would be a thing explaining it all in a simple way without involving other people.

Meeting art students when I was a teenager:

I think most of those people took the same intro course to literature, as they always seemed to be talking about the same thing. They never spoke about it in any detail, but expected if they said Kafka or Nietzsche, you’d snap to attention then give to them the respect, equal to the mystery they accorded the author, which he gained, when presented as an object tossed out in front of them as a roadblock, by a teaching assistant at college. Presenting this as important to know became an agreed upon reality for this social group. It wasn’t a dodge, or a cheat, as much as a thing a kid of average intelligence, post high school, forming a world view from being slightly suspicious, a little pissed off and unmotivated could develop into an easy substitute for an actual education. They’d read part of something from one of the authors; but never finished it, figuring they didn’t have to as they, “got where he was going with the idea.”

Understanding how a point of view is formed:

That thing of images, and alluded to meaning, is how I was taught to see life; observing it in the world created by my mother. It was insanity, for her, but it was an insane version of a thing common in any understanding of religion or social expectations; molded by prodding and blunt force into an operating philosophy. As I could see, when presented, lived by others, all acts, all things were symbolic sets, which had to be strung in a line, to get to some unnamed, and generally, poorly described conclusion.

The expectation an epiphany was possible, and applicable:

That’s how religion was, a revelation but no plan. In fact- that’s how everything was- not a set of things to do, just a feeling that you should do something, tied to an expected outcome; a lie, saying if you had that burst of insight, then everything would fall in line in front of it, and all you had to do was casually stroll through the rest of your life.

Deciding to purposely change:

In this haze of out of sync, floating free in time bizarreness, I pressed against a mass, so large it distorted time; deformed all around it. The depression over dealing with the death took over everything, slowing it to a grinding, almost backward motion. The riot, two girlfriends, losing my job, moving back home, stopping drug use and, of course, learning to talk to dead people, created realities bigger than the year measured to contain them. Each of these things became interconnected, creating a huge imposing mass, a shifting voluminous shape holding me away from all other things, forcing me to push back against it from the outside edge of s****y.

After being asked, at age 19, by a person with a PhD in literature, about class and writing:

I said, “I don’t know. Depends on how you define literature and class, I guess.” I didn’t think of the term “class” as anything other than a construct, used for rationalization. I only knew of two kinds of literature, the kind that comes in pamphlets about hearing aids or politicians, and the academic sort that gets autopsied. What was left was books, which I either read, intended to read or didn’t want to read. I didn’t bring any of this up, but waited to see what he’d say next; if he’d take my lead. He considered what I said for a second, then set it aside, perhaps to dismiss later, or perhaps he dismissed it then as the mutterings of an uneducated person.

A schizophrenic young lady, unreachable:

She wrote in a way I wanted to write, wished I could write, all the unnecessary pieces, things, clutter, digressions removed. Her sentences, neatly typed, double spaced on crisp white paper, cut a neat trail across her mind, a place where all was bright, well formed, with an omnipresence, in the voice, I imagined- I knew to be the real person she was, the one I wanted to draw from the rest of her, make present with me. I wanted that part to kiss me, look me in the eyes, make love to me, be there when I came home from work, follow me like a thought; live as another voice in my head.