Maro, let me get yer opinion on something.

Ok, dis vigilante madness stuff was not yer normal Prin behaviour. She’s from dis suburb way d’hell north o’de city, an accordin to her she’s always been a bit of a weirdo. One o’de first courses she took here was English lit. or some shit. So, she had to write dis essay about how she ended up at Dork U. She wrote dis really cool piece. She gave me a copy of it to read over for her an everythin. I think I even have a copy somewhere. Yeah, yeah, da’s it. In my opinion, i’s kinda shitty writing, but who am I, Dostoevsky?

Justifiably an ARTIST
I come from a small town. People in small towns tend to view life rather simply. Judgments are made without hesitation and without much thought of the consequences that ensue. Judging people according to their surface appearance keeps life simple. Things that can be placed in a defined category are easily sized-up and filed away in some corner of the mind.
When it comes to choosing a profession in a small town there is one rule and one rule only: You are what you do. Heaven forbid anyone have the audacity to change his or her profession midway through life, thereby forcing the alteration
of a community’s perceptions regarding that person. Small town citizens will be damned if they'll give up their convenient definitions of what a person is or isn't. Thus when it came time for me to choose a profession I discovered that according to my outward appearance and mannerisms I had very little choice indeed.
From an early age on it was apparent that I was to become something peculiar. One sign of this peculiarity was unmistakable: more often than not I would be off "in my own little world". Being a dreamer and having little desire to verbally communicate the dreams I indulged in led to ridicule from my peers. Once cast aside from the games of the playground, my only solace was the security I found in independence. This independent attitude led to further isolation from my small town community. I became suspicious of anyone accepted by the society with which I had become familiar. Furthermore, having virtually no friends made me withdrawn and moody.
A virtual recluse at age 11, I would sometimes catch snippets of conversations concerning "what was to become of" me. One that all the overheard descriptions of me included was "artist's temperament". This phrase germinated and took root when I began to exhibit interest in various areas of the fine arts. It was at this point that I suddenly realized my options for the future had without my knowledge or consent, been limited.
My aptitudes in math and science were of little significance to teachers who had me pegged as one of those "creative types". When I began highschool and shared with our guidance counselor my ambition to enter into the field of medicine he, while making little effort to hide his shock and dismay, suggested that I aim for something more in line with my obvious proclivities. He hinted that trespassers in fields like that of medicine were shot on sight. The "types" of fields to which he was referring were those of a no-nonsense, serious nature (i.e., science, business, etc.). Social deviants were not encouraged to immerse themselves in studies that would land them in positions of power within the community (i.e., Who would have any respect for a doctor dressed like some sort of circus performer?). Instead, my guidance counselor steered me towards a career in an area that was a little closer to what he assumed were my tastes: the fine arts.
Of course I was angry. Flagrant discrimination on the basis of appearance and social behavior seemed like a burning injustice to my adolescent mind. From that point on I walked around with a chip on my shoulder and preoccupied myself with thoughts of proving everyone wrong. This earned me the reputation of a scatter-brained, absent-minded girl with a bad temper. Lacking the wherewithal to verbally express my anger, I took to using visual media to express myself. I painted, drew and sculpted my opinions of those around me, thereby fulfilling the artist’s stereotype completely. I did not conform. I did not fit in. I was angry with my peers and society at large. I did not communicate in a normal fashion. I looked like an artist, and now I had truly come to behave like one.
I will admit to you that I am the embodiment of my small town's concept of an artist. On the surface I am prone to moodiness and impulsive behavior. I express myself using unconventional means. Furthermore I may seem flighty, immature and unreliable. This is the persona that has been shaped for me and I can offer no excuses for it other than the circumstances in which I was brought up. It may seem as though I ended up in the fine arts by default, that art is the only salvation left for a social deviant such as myself.
The persona created for me by my environment may fit me like a glove but, in the end it is my choice to don such a glove. I choose whether or not to embrace this destiny. Should I choose to accept this destiny, I will be in a position to portray my impressions of all other professions. It is the artist more than any other professional, who has the opportunity to draw upon all the resources that human civilization has to offer. When the language, the currency, and the members of any given culture have died, their art will still live on. So, be careful about what you say to me. It may just be kept for posterity’s sake.

A’right, so parts o’dat essay still make me cringe. To tell you de truth, I hate writin, myself. Sometimes I don'trust de written word at all. Words jus get you into trouble. If I had a choice I wouldn't use dem at all. Dey are inadequate to de bone. Dis probly sound like some kinda o’foppery considerin all de written words an notes dat I keep takin and keepin and takin, etc. all de goddam time. But anyway, de point is... What was my fuckin point, anyway?
...
Well, her teacher really liked’essay. It was the kinda thing where he read it to de whole class, yadda yadda, which again, centers her out. And in d’end, what he told her was dat her essay was d’only one outta de class dat indicated she had ended up in her program because of prejudice. Boy, did that ever make her think.
...
I think da’s part o’da reason she was so big on being my roommate: she wanted to go into medicine. She jus felt like she wasn smart enough to make it.
...
Shit. Dat was my point. No matter how much she got made fun of, no matter how much she was centered out an laughed at, she never (an dey did some mean shit to her man, let me tell you) fuckin fought back. Never once. When I first met her, she was de nicest damn person I had ever known. And’en after d’attack, she jus fuckin snapped. Prin was on de warpath, an from dat moment on she didn stop. To see her like dat was quite eerie. I’s like she totally flipped a switch. And it really makes me wonder. Maybe we all start out innocent and wonderful, it’s just a matter o’time before our experience corrupts us. Prin led a pretty sheltered life. Maybe she was able to hold out longer dan most.
...

When the room fills up what will THAT be like?

Do people pay attention to me? It goes without saying that I will pay attention to them. I wonder if they ever feel watched by me. Do they feel listened-to when I am observing them? I suppose that affects the observations. But then again, they’d be watched no matter what. I’m sure they don really think too much bout any o’dis anyway. Dis a very good place to have a conversation wid yerself.

Jo never listened to me. He didn’t like poetry and he didn’ like Henry Sugar. Or perhaps he jus didn’t like bein read to.

“Look Ma! I’m an existentialist!”
A fake laugh, such a fake, fake laugh.
Dey’re interrupting. Want me to move my chair, my body (my existence?). Well, it’s not going to happen. fractals connected. fibraccio. libarace. Maro is part of de closed circuit. Maro is a telekinetic photon-machine. D'ultimate gadget. Can take still photos, can shoot moving targets. Maro can send notes to other similar gadgets across time and space. what universe did i attend? it’s called FU. I should be talking to her ARM AND NAVaL. saying, Intelligence, you need not worry bout fallowing out, there. to be completed at a later date.

Kretschmar. You can’t trust her, ever, not even for one cool minute. You gotta remember that. You gotta keep dat fear in your heart. De terrible thing is dat she wants you to have dat fear there. It should be about respect. That’s what you’d think it would be about, but it’s not. It’s all about fear and de kind of control dat she has over you. She needs to have dat control, no matter what situation she’s in.

She has her minions. And you have to watch out for dem at all times, eh Maro?
I once looked up to her. I almost admired her. Almost. I thought she had something like compassion. But I was dead wrong. I’s not compassion afterall. I’s jus’elf preservation, a sickening, destructive kind of self-preservation. She’s only nice to you as an after-thought, or perhaps she actually needs something from you, though she would never want you to know it. She will demand things from you. That’s all. She will never admit to actually needing you.

Diagnosis? No.
Don't know why she's getting better.






WHOA. I was totally dozing off there.



Da’s it. I’m jus gonna sit here beside all these ridiculous people an work on my own fuckin report or somethin.
How does one become an autonomous agent? Is it possible for an agent to contribute to his own process of autonomy?
It would seem that it may be possible for an agent to dissociate himself from the sort of deliberation that he uses to decide between first-order desires. In this way, one could say that an agent may not identify with the sort of reasons-responsive mechanisms that she uses for deliberation, as well as the potential solutions that they may provide him with. If an agent does not himself recognize or identify with the psychological capacities that should render him autonomous ought we to hold him responsible for his actions?
I dunno.

“Exactly, but I like this... You couldn’t say that I’m shy... [laughing].”

“I went to a newsgroup last year... She’s a psychic... Judy, in my group, she’s so unhappy... But... You just take these trips...”

“Hmmm...”

“New York... The divorce hadn’t gone through, yet... And then they broke up... One day...”

“So, it could be the last day... I wrote everything... I... I... I... Friends.”

“And then you say it’s not my fault. [laughing]”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I cry so loud. Why don’t you help me.”

“So we’re chatting away...”

“I told him...”

“No, the guy...”

“Always remember... Yeah, confirming... TSX Group Inc. and Montreal Exchange Inc... Yesterday. They have renewed merger talks... a made-in-Canada deal.”

“Who’s going to underwrite that sort of bill?”

“Certainly not Heywood Securities, Vancouver.”

“Most definitely. I heard they’re going under.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, they took a big hit with the meltdown. Seriously, at least five of their companies are gone, like they disappeared overnight.”

“No shit! I guess they’re out of the game.”

“No shit.”

“Then she wrote... from there... She should travel... then she will understand.”

“You want to take on...”

“So it’s there...”

“Actually...”

“She says, ‘I brought it up and the next thing I know...’”

“Did you ever get away?”

“And Johann will be here in August.”

“He didn’t sound right...”

“So, um...”

“And I know that I will be with her...”

I’s Alison Tsoukalas and her sister-in-law (whose name I can’t quite locate). Nice little stock-tip dey giving me der. I oughtta try dat one out. Alison should know, seeing as how she used to work for Heywood Securities’ head-office in Vancouver.