The Results become Variables.

Problems with Scientific Epistemology (Positivism.).

I was lying in bed pondering an important decision. Ought I to invite Candace to dance with us at Stampede? She had all ready hinted that she wanted to see me again at Somewhere Loud, roughly a fort-night following our initial and dynamic meeting.

Obviously impulses were in favour of seeing her again. I had all ready texted her later the same night that she surprised me with a call. The following night, prior to the day of judgement, I found a song by Ciara. It was entitled Dance like We are Making Love. Ciara had matured. Of course if the song had not reminded me of Candace it was because its sub•conscious impetus had been her to begin with.

As the proper decision literally Dawned upon me I felt compelled instinctively to look upon the window at the front of my house, from the inside of my room.
It was as though the Sun had entered in. Apollo his self strode in with the authority of Hestia.

And I was reminded of how I had come to dis•possess my self of my Positivistic Idols in late Two Thousand and Thirteen.
Nietzsche had proclaimed that Dialectic destroyed philosophy. To be a reductionistic empiricist (as opposed to a radical one) one must lay 'both sides' against the same ruler to measure which is longer. Which is the leg? Which is the hypotenoose? Had it been true that contemplating the lesser of the two options and the greater of the two evils I had failed to look to that same window, I should have to totally ignore Apollo's Visit.
Given the sheer madness of that prospect I must forget it upon thought of it.

Re-creating the initial contemplation of the lesser path would have been just as fruit less. One cannot step in to the same river twice.
The archaic superstition of science is in that one could theoretically control one variable whilst allowing others to vary. This is insane. The authority leant to science is based upon the delusion that any two events could be 'repeated' and the reports believed upon the say-so of the participants, whose sole witnesses are usually their peers and whose rank determines their validity. This is atrocious.
No two thoughts can be repeated with the certainty that it had been so. At every moment the Sun sets. The leaves age. My memories mutate. Each attempt to repeat my initial ponderances are met with the brick wall of futulity, the hardened sediment of increasing self•consciousness piling up upon its self.

The ascetic ideal ruptures. With a force of Will I rise from bed and begin my walk to the bank. Along the way my eyes are seduced by Nature. A pine needle hanging from a branch tempts me, caressing my eyes remotely. I must stop to photograph it as the Sun stands behind, Apollo peering through the brush. I never arrive at the Bank. The human world with its pretensions has little hold on me. It is a mere seat•belt in the roller coaster of Life.

And only the bastards that would have called her unwitting would believe in Science.

Dm.A.A.