(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 30, 2015)
The tendency to see oneself as less biased than other people, or to be able to identify more cognitive biases in others than oneself.
These are the vents of my being a self.
I am aware of my twain selves.
I witness the movie that is my life.
My atoms mingle with the worlds atoms.
My slutty atoms.
My feet ache. My chest hurts.
I suffer, therefore I am.
But then I forget I exist
and that this movie is me.
My own self has sold me out.
Genetically modified me.
Made me over with mascara.
The building blocks of me
are ancient. I duly notice
all my hot air.
I suitably put on the suit
and cling to the suit.
The suit sticks to me like an ad campaign.
I constantly need new technology
to explain me to me
when the new version is launched.
America is ceaseless newfangled versioning.
I am dying
but I don’t know where I am.
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 29, 2015)
The phenomenon where people justify increased investment in a decision, based on the cumulative prior investment, despite new evidence suggesting that the decision was probably wrong. Also known as the sunk cost fallacy.
The Donner Party refusing to stay put,
Mark Twain’s four million dollar investment
in the Paige Compositor, an early automatic
typesetting machine, Paige taking Twain’s money
for 14 years while other machines prevailed.
A project of biases like this.
It is the broken heart bias, the grit bias.
Tenacity like a tin ear. The fellow who completes
what he has, dammit, set out for.
Does it take decades anymore? Months across
the mountain pass? A lie you tell yourself
as fast as a tweet?
In times like these a robot could grab it—
your timely mistake and capitalize
your catastrophes . No leak. No hack.
No time to adjust to fortune’s funny ironies.
What happens too fast, what happens slow and long—
there’s always a spot of space to stop for,
time to consider time itself in your hand
with its diamond faces. What are you doing
and should you not pivot slightly to the side?
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 28, 2015)
The urge to do the opposite of what someone wants you to do out of a need to resist a perceived attempt to constrain your freedom of choice.
Devaluing proposals only because they are purportedly originated with an adversary.
Adversaries: we imagine them up
like dime store villains. The heroic "I"
discharging bullets at the caprock
until a quake tips the mudslide.
This is what we say when we say
the hero and the villain are one.
Violence is just or unjust;
the hangman is the madman.
Depends upon who holds the axe.
Depends on our reckoning
of your freedom and any estimations
on mine. There is no reason to it.
Only rationales and riots of biases,
sentiments knotted up in the noose,
the ethical choker worn to glisten
in the pageant, worn to crucify,
worn to suffocate.
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 27, 2015)
The tendency to over-report socially desirable characteristics or behaviors in one self and under-report socially undesirable characteristics or behaviors.
Putting on your face.
I call it Star Self-F**king.
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 26, 2015)
The tendency to want to finish a given unit of a task or an item. Strong effects on the consumption of food in particular.
The small bag of corn chips, the can of soup,
the box tray of pasta, studies of portion
marking progress through existence.
Units move from your hands to your body
whatever the form of consumption
like track loops, pudding trays and poems--
they all have their metrics, even nostalgic
collages hiding behind miscellany.
Even improvisation has its forms; every mess
and message has its borders like nuclear meltdowns
moving in waves to the California coast,
Nepalese earthquakes and the avalanche of Ever
through years of tremorfications.
The corner diatribist can always tell you
there's a horrific endlessness to it all
and many, many happy ends.
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 25, 2015)
The tendency to judge harmful actions as worse, or less moral, than equally harmful omissions.
The tendency to persuade oneself through rational argument that a purchase was a good value.
It's late at night and I'm forty years into a very thorough and consumerist collection of the vast ouvre of Cherilyn Sarkisian, 60s street urchin turned enshrined Hollywood A-lister -- iconic up there with Halston, Bianca, Liz and Jackie.
Paper and vinyl and electromagnetic tape, discs and cassettes and books and blankets and dolls and perfumes and magnets. Words and music and ideas every one purchased from corporations and strangers and seven 7-inch picture discs bartered online from a friend I didn't know I would one day meet.
It's late and I've been the Wrecking Crew premiere, sitting in the middle
of an Albuquerque scene of sorts, the documentary opening at the local art house with me wedged between California-Sound fanatics. I'm sitting next to an oldies DJ everybody in town seems to knows but me.
The DJ laments how political the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is, (but then aren't they all?), and how Chubby Checker has yet to be inducted. As I see Cher self-depricate through the movie, I know she's an outsider to even this outsider culture. And if we peruse the halls rosters, we can easily make her case. But omissions always mean something. My basement full of memorabilia tells me what ain't right. But that's the bias talking. The same bias that gets The Byrds inducted, those who we've just learned didn't even play on their own records, or the theatrics of Alice Cooper, or the season of Ricky Nelson, or the artifice of KISS, Madonna....I've spent a fortune but just wait until the book comes out.
Post-purchase rationalizations, aren't they all?
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 24, 2015)
*The tendency for people to place a disproportionately high value on objects that they partially assembled themselves, such as furniture from IKEA, regardless of the quality of the end result.:
My press-board dresser is a found poem.
Partly not-me but traces of my DNA
all over the ideas of wood.
Pointing to it I say:
this is me, something more
It is my romantic grain to cherish this,
to value the mass produced artifice
alongside the singular sensation.
One. Many. Me. Them.
What’s it all worth?
Bullies of values poke us
to tears and craft and craftiness.
LA street art disparaged by NYC
fashionistas. Let us drill down
the spur of all gangland critique.
Face the mural as it lays. Park the car,
face the plane and listen
to what every one is saying,
even if it’s nothing but
a minute reclaimed.