Sunday, March 20, 2022

Right And Wrong And The Blockchain

We would rather be talking to Satoshi, but he is nowhere to be found. He might not even be a person. It might be a pen name. It might have been a group of people. He has not surfaced. Even Deep Throat finally surfaced. Perhaps Satoshi will. In the mean time, we have Vitalik Butarin.

Time magazine did a profile on him recently. And he looks helpless.

The genie is out of the bottle. And the greedy people are having a have at it. That is the picture that emerges. The Blockchain so far is just another club of filthy rich white men.

The Blockchain is not supposed to be trickle down. The very promise is bottom up. So far it has not happened. The promise is there. But if all hope is on the technology, the hope will not be realized. There are human choices to be made.

Right and wrong is not on the blockchain. The blockchain is neutral. Right and wrong is in the spiritual domain. Right and wrong is inherently human.

It is being said Blockchain bookkeeping will be triple entry, as opposed to double entry as has been, and that will allow regulators and ordinary investors to monitor a company in real time.

I firmly believe a Decentralized Autonomonus Organization (DAO) that brings together all Afghans in countries with free speech will wrestle that country away from the Taliban.

If you believe in democracy, organize the diaspora. Let them get organized. And Facebook Groups don't cut it. You need sophisticated organizations. You need a DAO.

There is plenty of orgaizing to do inside the US itself. The idea that property taxes should pay for schools is insane. The poor kids will never catch up. I am for socialism in education.



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On Writing Well



THE POETICS OF HISTORY FROM BELOW This Kentucky coal miner was a larger-than-life figure in my youth. I fondly remember sitting with him at the kitchen table. In one hard hand he held a Lucky Strike. In the other hand he held a saucer of his beloved Maxwell House coffee, which he sipped that way even when it was no longer hot. In this posture he told endless stories to a boy who sat enthralled amid the pathos, humor, and quiet heroism of working-class life. His mood changed with the story. He laughed with his whole body, like the then-popular comedian Red Skelton, at his own funny parts. His visage grew dark and scary at moments of danger or injustice. His eyes danced with the drama of his words. I knew something big was coming when he paused, put the cigarette in the ashtray, and set aside the saucer, freeing his hands for emphasis. His stories were vivid, complex, passionate, and somehow always practical. They featured apocalyptic Biblical language (a lot of hell-fire), long silences (with fateful stares), and curse words that were normally forbidden in our house (son-of-a-bitchin’ this and that). He always managed to tell a big story within a little story. ........ What I remember most of all was how his telling of the story made clear how wrong the hanging was, and how a real-life lynching looked nothing like what we had all seen on television. He described a frantic, terrifying struggle, with legs flailing, ugly cheers from the crowd, and in the end a limp body with dangling eyeballs and wet pants. The storyteller’s sympathy was firmly with the victim, whose deadly ordeal he had made terribly, hauntingly real. .......... Poetry written by workers may be rare, but poetry to be found in action, in resistance by workers, is plentiful; it can be found most everywhere. My grandfather taught me to look for it. To give an example: I discovered a profound one-word poem in a memoir written by Silas Told, a sailor turned Methodist minister who described a drama aboard the slave ship Loyal George in 1727. An enslaved man had decided to die by hunger strike. Captain Timothy Tucker tried to force him to eat. He horse-whipped him to a raw and bloody pulp. He threatened to kill him. The nameless man uttered one word: adomma, so be it. Captain Tucker placed a loaded pistol to his forehead and repeated the demand to eat. Again: adomma. The captain fired and the blood gushed but the man stared him directly in the face and refused to fall. The captain cursed, called for another pistol, and shot the man in the head a second time. Again he would not drop, to the astonishment of all who looked on. A third shot killed the man but by this time an insurrection had exploded among the enslaved, who were inspired by the man’s resistance and outraged by his treatment. .........

One of the big questions in the Kentucky coal fields in the 1930s was, which side are you on?

....... I try to develop an ethical relationship with the oppressed and exploited people I study. The relationship is imaginary but no less important for that. ..... In the end I strive to write history that is vivid, complex, passionate, and practical.

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