This chain will come alive again sometime after the New Year, at least temporarily.
The upcoming third phase of this blog is the THIRTEENTH NOTE OF CHRISTMAS.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Global warming is affecting my bedroom disproportionately, and that's why I'm mute.
It's a late night.
What is a new experience envelops me in a textured mush of uncertainty, not unlike the mush of snow by the road but uncomfortably warmer and depressingly stickier.
As of now the plan is to travel back six years, to late 2002. I will find what I'm looking for and then recalibrate. No one should return too late and may God help us not to miss lunch. The button will be pressed in twelve seconds.
At this point, the seconds begin dilating until the songs never end while I listen to every one, demanding subsequent clicks right and left and channeling. Some authority tells me I need a box to convert my channeling? What a surprise.
Three seconds, two, one,
What is a new experience envelops me in a textured mush of uncertainty, not unlike the mush of snow by the road but uncomfortably warmer and depressingly stickier.
As of now the plan is to travel back six years, to late 2002. I will find what I'm looking for and then recalibrate. No one should return too late and may God help us not to miss lunch. The button will be pressed in twelve seconds.
At this point, the seconds begin dilating until the songs never end while I listen to every one, demanding subsequent clicks right and left and channeling. Some authority tells me I need a box to convert my channeling? What a surprise.
Three seconds, two, one,
What stands in my way is the love of unwanted patrons; I am M111.
So I decided to give Saturdays=Youth a spin.
And, as usually happens, I linked it to something I could read about on the internet. Before I know it, I'm reading about Messier objects and trying to figure out why I can't find M83 on a map of the local group [of galaxies]. I read that Andromeda is 25 million light-years away and M83 is only 15 million, so either it's so small it's not showing up on this map or I'm missing its name or I'm...
Then I realize that I missed the decimal point between the two and the five, and the scale of the map is much greater than I had originally thought and all of a sudden this galaxy is not only not on the map, it's almost off the monitor.
So I scroll down the list of Messier objects and the list just keeps getting more and more messier so by the time I'm reading about M109 (which probably isn't the most distant of them) at 46 million light-years away I'm hearing a narration talking about becoming a star and being kissed and being young and all of a sudden I feel old. Old and grounded.
Maybe I don't mind being alone as much as I thought I did.
And, as usually happens, I linked it to something I could read about on the internet. Before I know it, I'm reading about Messier objects and trying to figure out why I can't find M83 on a map of the local group [of galaxies]. I read that Andromeda is 25 million light-years away and M83 is only 15 million, so either it's so small it's not showing up on this map or I'm missing its name or I'm...
Then I realize that I missed the decimal point between the two and the five, and the scale of the map is much greater than I had originally thought and all of a sudden this galaxy is not only not on the map, it's almost off the monitor.
So I scroll down the list of Messier objects and the list just keeps getting more and more messier so by the time I'm reading about M109 (which probably isn't the most distant of them) at 46 million light-years away I'm hearing a narration talking about becoming a star and being kissed and being young and all of a sudden I feel old. Old and grounded.
Maybe I don't mind being alone as much as I thought I did.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
As the stratus arrive parading over the horizon I remember where I receive the energy to type this...
Why the sun should be so concerned about a dot in its field of shine and whether clouds cover its line of sight to the solar panels that worship it or the panel constructors that love it is beyond me, but I remind myself that the clouds, too, are part of the family of engines that are friends with the sun.
Now the clouds are rolling over the trees across the field, and these are the darker clouds. They bring rain as if they are trying to bring the ocean to me as I can't be with the ocean. I take it the sun wants me to be happy.
Nor am I the first person to be partially entranced by solar worship, understandably. When a beyond-conceptionly huge sphere of fire in the sky speaks, you listen.
So what is sun-music (solarsound)?
... usually you're too bright anyway. My sunglasses are not false idols, but rather a concordance, a bishop, turning my back to you on the top of Mt. Sinai.
To be honest with everyone, though, I side with Selene just as often, perhaps the antichrist, more likely just another human trapped in the heavens in the rocket ship of mythology.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Between Dreams and Nonexistence There Lies Eternal and Infinite Satisfaction..
A few nights ago I was going to sleep at my recent usual time, probably around five in the morning, I can't remember exactly. I guess I was feeling pretty tired, because as soon I laid down on the floor (where I have been sleeping recently) this brilliant idea came to me. Goes something like this:
Well, I'd like to be able to have what I want. So I'm imagining a device right now that will do this. I would, obviously, like to have this device, so I'm attaching a special attribute to this device: it does not exist, except in imagination, however, as soon as one imagines it, it appears in the real world. (I made this last condition very specific, thinking of one of the few parts on the floor for it to materialize on.) Odd part is how much sense this made to me. It was, incredibly, incredibly rational—the very definition of this object included its real-world existence if it was imagined, which it was...
Soon after I thought of this, there was this slight noise near where I had imagined the device entering our plane of reality. I jumped up, and after a moment of hoping turned on the lights to find nothing.
Needless to say, I was thoroughly disappointed. Perhaps the sound was something creaky or something settling or perhaps it was the sound made by this device rapidly shimmering into and out of our world. If the latter, it makes me think that there's some condition or variable I haven't considered yet and I'll keep working on the logic. Also, I'll be thinking on my first wish.
Well, I'd like to be able to have what I want. So I'm imagining a device right now that will do this. I would, obviously, like to have this device, so I'm attaching a special attribute to this device: it does not exist, except in imagination, however, as soon as one imagines it, it appears in the real world. (I made this last condition very specific, thinking of one of the few parts on the floor for it to materialize on.) Odd part is how much sense this made to me. It was, incredibly, incredibly rational—the very definition of this object included its real-world existence if it was imagined, which it was...
Soon after I thought of this, there was this slight noise near where I had imagined the device entering our plane of reality. I jumped up, and after a moment of hoping turned on the lights to find nothing.
Needless to say, I was thoroughly disappointed. Perhaps the sound was something creaky or something settling or perhaps it was the sound made by this device rapidly shimmering into and out of our world. If the latter, it makes me think that there's some condition or variable I haven't considered yet and I'll keep working on the logic. Also, I'll be thinking on my first wish.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Seven-twelfths suffix.
Radiohead concert was tonight; undoubtedly one of the most engaging experiences I've had, at least music-wise. It would really have been wonderful if I had been closer to the stage, and if I had been in the very front row or close in the pit I can't imagine the power, but I'm thankful to have been able to see them live. The more I realize how popular they are the less I tend to like them (or any group), but a performance... seeing the music... it reaffirms my own personal love for the music.
I've been going to sleep so late, but now I'm so tired.
Goodbye, Aleksandr.
Speakers speak?
Inferiority is driving, driving, driving.
I'm going to hang up my list sometime, probably taking down to Bloomington with me so that I can see it more often. Then it will likely keep looking at me. Now I begin the remaining five-twelfths.
I've been going to sleep so late, but now I'm so tired.
Goodbye, Aleksandr.
Speakers speak?
Inferiority is driving, driving, driving.
I'm going to hang up my list sometime, probably taking down to Bloomington with me so that I can see it more often. Then it will likely keep looking at me. Now I begin the remaining five-twelfths.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Seven-twelfths bytes.
My mouse isn't working. It right-clicks fine, but a third of the left clicks are no clicks and another third are double clicks. It isn't working out that great and it's taking plenty of time to work through what should otherwise be ordinary tasks, or, I guess, clicks. Single clicks.
Someone's been cheating and it hasn't been me, although I certainly have cheated in the past on completely unrelated issues (though in completely related company). Cheating's probably not the right word, anyways.
If I can't be just alright at being the best, then what's the point?
In the same game in which I had the interesting conversation the other day, I had to make a choice as to whether to merge my consciousness with an AI (a different one) in order to rule the world with justice and rationality or to reduce humanity to a new dark age as to prevent domineering conspiratorial government rule forever. As both are situations I have pined for, it was a difficult choice—I eventually decided on joining the machine. Hope I made the right call.
Is what makes a person great simply the height of the bar of expectation he sets for himself? Probably... I think Thoreau might have been a tool.
I rarely do anything in fives anymore, but I think the last of the seven-twelfths will be tomorrow.
Someone's been cheating and it hasn't been me, although I certainly have cheated in the past on completely unrelated issues (though in completely related company). Cheating's probably not the right word, anyways.
If I can't be just alright at being the best, then what's the point?
In the same game in which I had the interesting conversation the other day, I had to make a choice as to whether to merge my consciousness with an AI (a different one) in order to rule the world with justice and rationality or to reduce humanity to a new dark age as to prevent domineering conspiratorial government rule forever. As both are situations I have pined for, it was a difficult choice—I eventually decided on joining the machine. Hope I made the right call.
Is what makes a person great simply the height of the bar of expectation he sets for himself? Probably... I think Thoreau might have been a tool.
I rarely do anything in fives anymore, but I think the last of the seven-twelfths will be tomorrow.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Seven-twelfths slices.
Who's not slipping away. I sure am along with everyone else. The rest of the universe is, so who's special. Strike that—who's not special.
At the center of the universe is nothing, pure nothing, and the way to survive in spite of it is to construct a layer to protect the mind from this inconceivable vacuum; this is most often humor. For the most part, though, the innermost universal anti-sanctum is unreachable anyhow by the human mind. Some creatures probably dwell there their entire lives without knowing it or anything. And again, a few men manage to slip through the cracks in the cosmic joke, see the face of God, and collapse in insanity, but I think they are closest to what we would call dead. A vacuum will devour what it is not shielded from.
I want paint of a new color to flow down my walls and envelop my previous thoughts in a blank slate (retroactivity would be nice). I want the Internet to erase itself and for chords to work backwards and Sharpies to retract ink and entropy to reverse and the Sun to dim and for polygons to become more perfect.
This person wishes he had someone to talk to. Also, he wishes he would not bungle the experience as he usually does with most conversations. It's like trying to drive a hypodermic needle into a sheet of metal.
And there's nowhere to put things, especially my list, which is under my desk and not looking at me presently.
At the center of the universe is nothing, pure nothing, and the way to survive in spite of it is to construct a layer to protect the mind from this inconceivable vacuum; this is most often humor. For the most part, though, the innermost universal anti-sanctum is unreachable anyhow by the human mind. Some creatures probably dwell there their entire lives without knowing it or anything. And again, a few men manage to slip through the cracks in the cosmic joke, see the face of God, and collapse in insanity, but I think they are closest to what we would call dead. A vacuum will devour what it is not shielded from.
I want paint of a new color to flow down my walls and envelop my previous thoughts in a blank slate (retroactivity would be nice). I want the Internet to erase itself and for chords to work backwards and Sharpies to retract ink and entropy to reverse and the Sun to dim and for polygons to become more perfect.
This person wishes he had someone to talk to. Also, he wishes he would not bungle the experience as he usually does with most conversations. It's like trying to drive a hypodermic needle into a sheet of metal.
And there's nowhere to put things, especially my list, which is under my desk and not looking at me presently.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Seven-twelfths slips.
So I'm pretty sure the keyboard issue is hardware, which isn't good.
On the opposite hand, the box in which I was looking for an adapter to try and solve the problem contained my cell phone charger, which I had been in search of for months now. I guess God didn't want me finding it until then.
Hip-hop music is calling to me. I've been listening to some good shit recently (up in this bitch). At the same time, I'm rediscovering This Desert Life.
I had an interesting chat with an AI the other day. Here it is.
By virtue of time; where there's a consciousness, there's a future.
On the opposite hand, the box in which I was looking for an adapter to try and solve the problem contained my cell phone charger, which I had been in search of for months now. I guess God didn't want me finding it until then.
Hip-hop music is calling to me. I've been listening to some good shit recently (up in this bitch). At the same time, I'm rediscovering This Desert Life.
I had an interesting chat with an AI the other day. Here it is.
By virtue of time; where there's a consciousness, there's a future.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Seven-twelfths bits.
My list is looking at me, and usually I can ignore it. Right now I have it to my left. I am taking it down to look at...
It's remarkably well constructed, matched only by my striking inability to purposefully execute the items on the list. When the end of the year arrives, things will disintegrate, as they usually do around Christmastime.
The E flats and As on my keyboard aren't working. I'm going to try and procure a MIDI cable and hope that the problem is in the USB port. If not, I can't compose in keys that use those notes. Ha. On the bright side, though, this has driven me to using alternative-to-Reason methods of creating music, namely sampling. Some interesting things. Two of them, experiments both, neither of which are that great.
More tomorrow.
It's remarkably well constructed, matched only by my striking inability to purposefully execute the items on the list. When the end of the year arrives, things will disintegrate, as they usually do around Christmastime.
The E flats and As on my keyboard aren't working. I'm going to try and procure a MIDI cable and hope that the problem is in the USB port. If not, I can't compose in keys that use those notes. Ha. On the bright side, though, this has driven me to using alternative-to-Reason methods of creating music, namely sampling. Some interesting things. Two of them, experiments both, neither of which are that great.
More tomorrow.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Summer's Not Horrible..
BAD BAD BAD BAD
NO NO NO NO
deck and deck and decks and decks
deacons and beacons
slaughtered, reported on
but I'm still typing
NOCEBO
I CAN TYPE
STILL!
TYPE TYPE TYPE TYPE
bedroom doom, segmented, wavy, tidal
taking a step back now
pretzels en masse and drugs and liquid
more tides now
coasting through a room I am in
TYPE TYPE
COMPLETELY ACCUSTOMED
BUT IT'S NOT BAD
MAYBE MAYBE MAYBE MAYBE
can't terribly involve myself in my work anymore
he's no artist
he eats pretzels and takes drugs
his biggest fan only blows the already hot air around the room
but he can still type
and it's not bad
certainly
not good but not bad either
continue with the oscillations
BEFORE OPINION SWITCHES
BEFORE THE LOOP STRANGENS UP
BEFORE BEFORE BEFORE
enter:
YES YES YES YES
YES YES YES
NO NO NO NO
deck and deck and decks and decks
deacons and beacons
slaughtered, reported on
but I'm still typing
NOCEBO
I CAN TYPE
STILL!
TYPE TYPE TYPE TYPE
bedroom doom, segmented, wavy, tidal
taking a step back now
pretzels en masse and drugs and liquid
more tides now
coasting through a room I am in
TYPE TYPE
COMPLETELY ACCUSTOMED
BUT IT'S NOT BAD
MAYBE MAYBE MAYBE MAYBE
can't terribly involve myself in my work anymore
he's no artist
he eats pretzels and takes drugs
his biggest fan only blows the already hot air around the room
but he can still type
and it's not bad
certainly
not good but not bad either
continue with the oscillations
BEFORE OPINION SWITCHES
BEFORE THE LOOP STRANGENS UP
BEFORE BEFORE BEFORE
enter:
YES YES YES YES
YES YES YES
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Excerpt from Vacatianilopschtran!, Chapter 5: "In which I am subjected to the scrutiny of myself which I am not".
The darkness faded instantaneously, and it took me a minute or so to gather what exactly I was witnessing; I stood at the ground level of a massive vertical coliseum, in the rows of which were densely packed people, some of whom I thought I recognized. Below me was a sandy stone floor and no other comforts of any sort... but by far the most intimidating element in my new environment was in fact something missing--I could not glimpse the ceiling or roof of the structure I seemed to be held in. The people trailed off into infinity.
And a voice boomed: "YOU ARE ON TRIAL."
"For what?" I shouted back at the voice, again, one that I believed to have recognized. "I have committed no act to warrant such an extravagant ceremony of jurisprudence!"
"WE JUDGE YOU FOR BEING A LIVING PERSON."
At this I was obviously confused. "Now the courts are claiming existence to be a crime!"
Immediately another voice responded, this one female but just as dominating: "WE ARE NO COURT AND WE JUDGE MORE THAN CRIMES."
"WE JUDGE ALL DEEDS," shouted another.
"And what are the consequences if I am convicted?"
"THERE CAN BE NO FURTHER CONVICTION AS THERE IS CERTAINTY OF GUILT."
I remember growing more frustrated. "How is this possible? And if not crimes, then what point does this court serve?"
No response immediately followed, but a second later one of them, a man, jumped down from the first row and walked towards me. When he spoke, he sounded as I did, unamplified by the acoustics of the shocking chamber. "I and my comrades judge you for the manner you lived our life."
"My life?"
"Ours, as we are all the same person. Those of us that are not you, though, merely exist within the realms of probability and this astral plane where you found us."
For being odd, this was odd. "Probability? So you don't exist."
He smirked. "We exist here."
"Explain."
"A biological phenomenon forged the chamber. That is, you and you alone are the result of a specific union of two gametes, and we are those that are not." At this point he gestured at the rest of the chamber towards the ceiling. "Ah, we are arranged by probability. I speak for the individual that you are, in essence, first of, but as you are the version on trial, I am now first."
"So... you are the sperm that would have reached an egg if I hadn't?"
"I am no sperm any more than you are. But I am the extension of that line of events. The world hasn't changed, but you have."
"And why am I on trial."
"Well we all have the collective individual's best interests in mind. That being agreed upon, it makes logical sense that the one of us with the best initial conditions, purely genomic in our case, should be the one to exist."
"So if I fail..."
"I replace you. The process starts until the group decides upon an acceptable life."
Needless to say, I felt unnerved. "But I am the first."
"Yes. Not necessarily the last, though." At this, he openly smiled. I suppose he had no reason to conceal his vested interest in condemnation.
And a voice boomed: "YOU ARE ON TRIAL."
"For what?" I shouted back at the voice, again, one that I believed to have recognized. "I have committed no act to warrant such an extravagant ceremony of jurisprudence!"
"WE JUDGE YOU FOR BEING A LIVING PERSON."
At this I was obviously confused. "Now the courts are claiming existence to be a crime!"
Immediately another voice responded, this one female but just as dominating: "WE ARE NO COURT AND WE JUDGE MORE THAN CRIMES."
"WE JUDGE ALL DEEDS," shouted another.
"And what are the consequences if I am convicted?"
"THERE CAN BE NO FURTHER CONVICTION AS THERE IS CERTAINTY OF GUILT."
I remember growing more frustrated. "How is this possible? And if not crimes, then what point does this court serve?"
No response immediately followed, but a second later one of them, a man, jumped down from the first row and walked towards me. When he spoke, he sounded as I did, unamplified by the acoustics of the shocking chamber. "I and my comrades judge you for the manner you lived our life."
"My life?"
"Ours, as we are all the same person. Those of us that are not you, though, merely exist within the realms of probability and this astral plane where you found us."
For being odd, this was odd. "Probability? So you don't exist."
He smirked. "We exist here."
"Explain."
"A biological phenomenon forged the chamber. That is, you and you alone are the result of a specific union of two gametes, and we are those that are not." At this point he gestured at the rest of the chamber towards the ceiling. "Ah, we are arranged by probability. I speak for the individual that you are, in essence, first of, but as you are the version on trial, I am now first."
"So... you are the sperm that would have reached an egg if I hadn't?"
"I am no sperm any more than you are. But I am the extension of that line of events. The world hasn't changed, but you have."
"And why am I on trial."
"Well we all have the collective individual's best interests in mind. That being agreed upon, it makes logical sense that the one of us with the best initial conditions, purely genomic in our case, should be the one to exist."
"So if I fail..."
"I replace you. The process starts until the group decides upon an acceptable life."
Needless to say, I felt unnerved. "But I am the first."
"Yes. Not necessarily the last, though." At this, he openly smiled. I suppose he had no reason to conceal his vested interest in condemnation.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Fuzzy Aphorism Roundup; Week of 8-14 June, 2008.
Starting off easy: I have more to learn from this than from this. One, it would seem, gets what one pays for.
Terminator 2: Judgment Day is twenty times more philosophical than it is correct with its physics and time travel theory.
Political revolutions are more likely to happen, I think, in the technological climate of late eighteenth-century North America than today anywhere. When it takes weeks to receive news and the same time to send orders back, the oppressors have quite a communications shortfall. It seems to me that it's a good thing we entered the current age with as many stable free nations as possible. (This would raise quite a debate between conspiracy theorists; that is, is near-total free speech indicative of a society where the will of the people truly rules or have the individuals and their pet corporations simply adapted to a climate of pulling strings from shadows?)
I lunge into anomie after more than a few hours in front of the television. But, television is certainly not a sin.
Good Lord I'm aging so rapidly it's not funny.
Terminator 2: Judgment Day is twenty times more philosophical than it is correct with its physics and time travel theory.
Political revolutions are more likely to happen, I think, in the technological climate of late eighteenth-century North America than today anywhere. When it takes weeks to receive news and the same time to send orders back, the oppressors have quite a communications shortfall. It seems to me that it's a good thing we entered the current age with as many stable free nations as possible. (This would raise quite a debate between conspiracy theorists; that is, is near-total free speech indicative of a society where the will of the people truly rules or have the individuals and their pet corporations simply adapted to a climate of pulling strings from shadows?)
I lunge into anomie after more than a few hours in front of the television. But, television is certainly not a sin.
Good Lord I'm aging so rapidly it's not funny.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Taking of Natural Resources..
I.
HUMAN IS A PUZZLE
QUARTETS QUATRAINS QUANDARIES
DOCTORATES TAKE TOP DOLLAR--
FIVE STARS ON SUNDAYS
DON'T MAKE ME START LISTING THINGS
1. NOBODY LOVES ERIS
2. HUMAN ARE THE ONLY ONE THAT COULD EVER LOVE SUCH AN ERIS
SO FORTH AND SO FORTH
HAPPY MINING! ERIS
II.
HUMAN IS A PUZZLE
QUARTETS QUATRAINS QUANDARIES
DOCTORATES TAKE TOP DOLLAR--
FIVE STARS ON SUNDAYS
DON'T MAKE ME START LISTING THINGS
1. NOBODY LOVES ERIS
2. HUMAN ARE THE ONLY ONE THAT COULD EVER LOVE SUCH AN ERIS
SO FORTH AND SO FORTH
HAPPY MINING! ERIS
II.
Dear Sirs:
The International Committee on Nomenclature, Semantics, and Coinage has come to the conclusion that, in the best interests of your community and of humanity as a whole, the system would be considerably more streamlined if, from this point forward, you were referred to purely by the degrees you have earned. A college degree will now superimpose itself over names. This is for everyone's benefit. Those without earned degrees will not be affected at this time.
We thank you for your cooperation and willingness to assist in this matter.
Quite Sincerely,
Your Friends at the ICNSC.
The International Committee on Nomenclature, Semantics, and Coinage has come to the conclusion that, in the best interests of your community and of humanity as a whole, the system would be considerably more streamlined if, from this point forward, you were referred to purely by the degrees you have earned. A college degree will now superimpose itself over names. This is for everyone's benefit. Those without earned degrees will not be affected at this time.
We thank you for your cooperation and willingness to assist in this matter.
Quite Sincerely,
Your Friends at the ICNSC.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Friday, June 6, 2008
Excerpt from Blue Planes, Chapter 49: "Exit Community".
The instant Nigel landed on the ground after jumping out of the port on the doomed C.S.L. Into the Lithe Lea, there emerged behind him a dazzling, blinding light, first blocked by the falling frame of the Lea but soon visible as a vertex, then elongating across half of the entire sky. For a moment he considered using the Closer, which was ridiculous for a fracture of this size, and it slightly shamed him that his mind had brought this up as a solution. It was irrelevant and distracting.
By this time fibers from the other side had anchored the tear to the rocky ground and were pulling the thing open further and further, finally parting enough for small vessels to break through. The first few only detonated, knocking out of the sky what Nigel realized were the remnants of the Coast Guard; after this, wave followed wave and he was left alone on the cliff edge as the invaders made a name for themselves.
His eyes narrowed, widened, then narrowed again. After this he remained motionless.
By this time fibers from the other side had anchored the tear to the rocky ground and were pulling the thing open further and further, finally parting enough for small vessels to break through. The first few only detonated, knocking out of the sky what Nigel realized were the remnants of the Coast Guard; after this, wave followed wave and he was left alone on the cliff edge as the invaders made a name for themselves.
His eyes narrowed, widened, then narrowed again. After this he remained motionless.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Lead-In to 'Phase II: Adventures in Hyperspace'..
Humans and robots of both sexes, it is now, this June of a fifth in two thousand eight that Winfield DeSol presents ADVENTURES IN HYPERSPACE, the second set of entries comprising the ongoing canon of "Looking For Something..".
The restart will see changes in subject matter and significant increases in audiovisual material, but for a grasp for all of us, we will wait and find out.
Hopefully we will see regular updates, cloud-willing.
The restart will see changes in subject matter and significant increases in audiovisual material, but for a grasp for all of us, we will wait and find out.
Hopefully we will see regular updates, cloud-willing.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
The Recently..
FLY OUT AIRLIFT ME
WAVE INTERFERENCE
HIGH ART HIJINKS
FAZING PHRASING
NOT GOING ANYWHERE
RESET PLAY COUNT
SCROBBLE, SCRABBLE, SCRIBBLE
EXIT NOPE
THE VERY SAME
YOURS TRULY, TRULY
WAVE INTERFERENCE
HIGH ART HIJINKS
FAZING PHRASING
NOT GOING ANYWHERE
RESET PLAY COUNT
SCROBBLE, SCRABBLE, SCRIBBLE
EXIT NOPE
THE VERY SAME
YOURS TRULY, TRULY
Monday, February 4, 2008
Towards the Center Led By Force and Purpose, Pt. 4..
There’s a clock on the wall to the left of where his head is and it tells me that right now the sun has risen and in a few hours I’ll be able to see a bit of sunlight before, a few hours later, it will be night again. Those photons will ricochet off of the balcony and into this room, near where my two eyes are at this moment and they will pass right through this space and into the wall opposite, a few bouncing again, around, again, pointless. I’ll be dead by that time.
“Is there any way out?”
“No.”
“So you are just an arm of a machine.”
“Maybe.”
“But you are! You’re just submitting to something.”
“I’m less than an arm. I’m nothing. In fact, there is no machine.”
“No, there is a machine, there has to be a machine.”
The man has a pulse on his belt. In a few minutes, something from there might be over here, or not. Is it part of a machine?
He’s got this… removed expression, his face is glaring at me. If not at me, where would those eyes be pointing, where would that drink in his hands be at this precise moment? His watch makes a small sound, ripples, recognition. “Actually, you know what?” He stands. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Perhaps we can reschedule?”
This causes him to laugh.
“Right. You’re an entertaining one. No, seriously, it’s always a regret when I can’t talk to the contracts before I fulfill them. I was, however,” he looks at his watch, “fifteen minutes late, which I imagine was torture for you, I do apologize, but hey.” He puts his arm around my back and leads me to the balcony, towards the large window. “If life is good and thinking is positive and all that, maybe even toss in an afterlife or two, then that’s good news for ya, mate!”
“If not?”
“Well you have nothing to lose. Or maybe you do. I have no idea.”
“You should have an idea! You’re Death!”
“Fuck no. My name’s Darren.” A pause, and we’re at the balcony. He trips me and I fall over. Something about a syndicate in the background.
Well in a matter of minutes I’ll be dead. I’m surprised at first that the zero-point net hasn’t taken over by now and tossed me onto safe ground but I guess they would have thought of that. Soon enough my eyes adjust and I can see the buildings and crosswalks around, both sides, and also up, towards the sky in the distance. It’s only a small quadrilateral even at this range but it’s shrinking slowly enough because I’m far enough already. And even now, I’m falling, past people and I can’t see their faces and it seems I’ll reach terminal velocity soon enough if I haven’t already. It comes to me that I never found the time to research what terminal velocity is on Earth.
Maybe I’ll hit a crosswalk and die sooner than expected or maybe their fix of the zero-point net isn’t complete and I’ll be found and saved or maybe, or maybe, or. And. No, I’m going to die. A matter of seconds? No, still minutes.
“Is there any way out?”
“No.”
“So you are just an arm of a machine.”
“Maybe.”
“But you are! You’re just submitting to something.”
“I’m less than an arm. I’m nothing. In fact, there is no machine.”
“No, there is a machine, there has to be a machine.”
The man has a pulse on his belt. In a few minutes, something from there might be over here, or not. Is it part of a machine?
He’s got this… removed expression, his face is glaring at me. If not at me, where would those eyes be pointing, where would that drink in his hands be at this precise moment? His watch makes a small sound, ripples, recognition. “Actually, you know what?” He stands. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Perhaps we can reschedule?”
This causes him to laugh.
“Right. You’re an entertaining one. No, seriously, it’s always a regret when I can’t talk to the contracts before I fulfill them. I was, however,” he looks at his watch, “fifteen minutes late, which I imagine was torture for you, I do apologize, but hey.” He puts his arm around my back and leads me to the balcony, towards the large window. “If life is good and thinking is positive and all that, maybe even toss in an afterlife or two, then that’s good news for ya, mate!”
“If not?”
“Well you have nothing to lose. Or maybe you do. I have no idea.”
“You should have an idea! You’re Death!”
“Fuck no. My name’s Darren.” A pause, and we’re at the balcony. He trips me and I fall over. Something about a syndicate in the background.
Well in a matter of minutes I’ll be dead. I’m surprised at first that the zero-point net hasn’t taken over by now and tossed me onto safe ground but I guess they would have thought of that. Soon enough my eyes adjust and I can see the buildings and crosswalks around, both sides, and also up, towards the sky in the distance. It’s only a small quadrilateral even at this range but it’s shrinking slowly enough because I’m far enough already. And even now, I’m falling, past people and I can’t see their faces and it seems I’ll reach terminal velocity soon enough if I haven’t already. It comes to me that I never found the time to research what terminal velocity is on Earth.
Maybe I’ll hit a crosswalk and die sooner than expected or maybe their fix of the zero-point net isn’t complete and I’ll be found and saved or maybe, or maybe, or. And. No, I’m going to die. A matter of seconds? No, still minutes.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Towards the Center Led By Force and Purpose, Pt. 3..
“No.”
“So you haven’t accepted it yet?”
“What?”
“You are who I’m looking for.”
“Then why did you inquire?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I’m about to dispute until I realize he’s right, that it doesn’t matter. So I ask him, “How are you going to do it?”
He looks around the room, his hands in the pockets of his vest, his eyes conveying an expression of… something. At least it is an expression.
“Does it matter?”
“No.”
“Sure it does!” This surprises me. He’s not smiling, but looks attentive and repeats himself. “Sure it does.”
“Why?”
“Well, hold on. You don’t know me yet. Do you have any, ah… drinks? Anything?”
I smile deeply, but it appears as though he doesn’t notice. “The refrigerator.”
He’s holding two glasses of something. I take one after he hands it to me, and following this the good man sits down across from me. “I know enough about you, I imagine. Anything you want to ask me?”
“You’re my executioner?”
“I guess.” He swirls his glass. He looks around the room. He’s marveling at how tight all the seams are, at how there’s no exit. There’s the door and there’s the window and that’s it. “But that’s a dismal way of looking at it.” Swirls. “I guess it is the only way of looking at it, though.”
“No! There’s another way, right? I mean, there’s got to be an exit somewhere. Otherwise something is, well, no, no, there’s just got to be an exit.” I’m surprisingly calm. “You have the power, right? You’re going to make a choice. You’re going to make a choice to kill me or not to kill me and you have that choice in your mind right now but it hasn’t happened one way or the other yet so until it does you can still change your mind!” I’m not pleading with anyone except myself.
“You don’t believe in free will, do you?”
“No.”
“Will you believe in it at your death?”
“No.”
“So you haven’t accepted it yet?”
“What?”
“You are who I’m looking for.”
“Then why did you inquire?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I’m about to dispute until I realize he’s right, that it doesn’t matter. So I ask him, “How are you going to do it?”
He looks around the room, his hands in the pockets of his vest, his eyes conveying an expression of… something. At least it is an expression.
“Does it matter?”
“No.”
“Sure it does!” This surprises me. He’s not smiling, but looks attentive and repeats himself. “Sure it does.”
“Why?”
“Well, hold on. You don’t know me yet. Do you have any, ah… drinks? Anything?”
I smile deeply, but it appears as though he doesn’t notice. “The refrigerator.”
He’s holding two glasses of something. I take one after he hands it to me, and following this the good man sits down across from me. “I know enough about you, I imagine. Anything you want to ask me?”
“You’re my executioner?”
“I guess.” He swirls his glass. He looks around the room. He’s marveling at how tight all the seams are, at how there’s no exit. There’s the door and there’s the window and that’s it. “But that’s a dismal way of looking at it.” Swirls. “I guess it is the only way of looking at it, though.”
“No! There’s another way, right? I mean, there’s got to be an exit somewhere. Otherwise something is, well, no, no, there’s just got to be an exit.” I’m surprisingly calm. “You have the power, right? You’re going to make a choice. You’re going to make a choice to kill me or not to kill me and you have that choice in your mind right now but it hasn’t happened one way or the other yet so until it does you can still change your mind!” I’m not pleading with anyone except myself.
“You don’t believe in free will, do you?”
“No.”
“Will you believe in it at your death?”
“No.”
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Towards the Center Led By Force and Purpose, Pt. 2..
There’s some way out of this, there’s got to be! I can run, right? I can leave now and hopefully get far enough away that no one will know who I am, not that everyone knows who I am around here anyway. Sure, they could find me, but that would develop into an unnecessarily taxing search all too fast.
That would get tiring fast, though. I’d have to move outside regulation, and that in itself could land me in confinement, and I don’t… well, I don’t think I love my life that much, to risk something like that. If I was in prison the syndicate could find me easier, but it would be just to their advantage to see me rot in confinement for the rest of my natural life, contemplating choices and all that lead me up to where I am now.
But of course the syndicate doesn’t forgive and it would find me and kill me anyway. So at this point here I am. My mind is racing, trying to find the loophole, but there’s no loophole, there’s only what I’ve been over, and I go over it all again in my mind, trying to find some way out, but there’s no way out, there’s no loophole, there’s only what I’ve seen before and NO! There is a way out. Physics demands it! NO! There is no way out.
Am I this way because of my lack of purpose? Well who has purpose to begin with. Nothing short of a last-minute conversion to some religion could convince me otherwise. So why should this upset me? Why shouldn’t this upset me? There’s got to be a way out. I could go to my refrigerator right now and start eating, eat as much as I could in what time I have left and try to make purpose, and then I would die having given purpose to those bits of food and those electrons diverted
Oh, but they don’t care, they don’t. And I will die and that food will have done nothing for me, it won’t help me survive, and even if it did, what then, I would die eventually, and even if I never died, how is that any different? The electrons don’t care, the food doesn’t care, the syndicate cares, and that’s it, and I’m rushed because of it, and damn it, I care. I don’t want to care, I don’t. I will die. I will die. I will die in minutes. I will never be realized, even desperately.
Those eyes, though, they are permeating and staring at me and I have no idea how long they’ve been there but there they are. His mouth is the next thing I notice, when it says, “You are who I’m looking for?”, and then there’s a man there; he’s wearing a black vest and it doesn’t matter how he entered the quarters, does it?
That would get tiring fast, though. I’d have to move outside regulation, and that in itself could land me in confinement, and I don’t… well, I don’t think I love my life that much, to risk something like that. If I was in prison the syndicate could find me easier, but it would be just to their advantage to see me rot in confinement for the rest of my natural life, contemplating choices and all that lead me up to where I am now.
But of course the syndicate doesn’t forgive and it would find me and kill me anyway. So at this point here I am. My mind is racing, trying to find the loophole, but there’s no loophole, there’s only what I’ve been over, and I go over it all again in my mind, trying to find some way out, but there’s no way out, there’s no loophole, there’s only what I’ve seen before and NO! There is a way out. Physics demands it! NO! There is no way out.
Am I this way because of my lack of purpose? Well who has purpose to begin with. Nothing short of a last-minute conversion to some religion could convince me otherwise. So why should this upset me? Why shouldn’t this upset me? There’s got to be a way out. I could go to my refrigerator right now and start eating, eat as much as I could in what time I have left and try to make purpose, and then I would die having given purpose to those bits of food and those electrons diverted
Oh, but they don’t care, they don’t. And I will die and that food will have done nothing for me, it won’t help me survive, and even if it did, what then, I would die eventually, and even if I never died, how is that any different? The electrons don’t care, the food doesn’t care, the syndicate cares, and that’s it, and I’m rushed because of it, and damn it, I care. I don’t want to care, I don’t. I will die. I will die. I will die in minutes. I will never be realized, even desperately.
Those eyes, though, they are permeating and staring at me and I have no idea how long they’ve been there but there they are. His mouth is the next thing I notice, when it says, “You are who I’m looking for?”, and then there’s a man there; he’s wearing a black vest and it doesn’t matter how he entered the quarters, does it?
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Towards the Center Led By Force and Purpose, Pt. 1..
In a matter of minutes an agent of the syndicate will walk through the front door of the quarters, and an indeterminate amount of time afterwards I will be dead. I won’t know that, of course, because, as I’ve already stated, I’ll be dead and incapable of knowing that very fact. It’s not really a paradox, it’s more of a desperate realization.
You know, likely I’m not going to see it coming. Maybe all of a sudden everything will just end and I won’t have any more time to reflect on my situation. I think that would be best. A pulse through the window. Or perhaps my own recognition of my own peril will consume me and, driven only by the possibility of exterminating itself, convince my heart to stop beating and all of those neurons to stop firing and my eyelids to close. I can’t stop going over it, though, and I can’t die until I’ve figured it out.
Ah… from what I remember, though, the syndicate prefers to make known their presence. Those hilarious bastards can harvest some sort of pleasure, I guess, from making me aware of my own death precisely when it happens. The last thing I’ll ever know is a pulse, a slight wisp of pain, and—nothing. Litera—
…
For a moment all of my discontent and anger is directed solely at the refrigerator for misleading me as such. It clicked on, I twitched, the door might have been opening, I knew it was the fridge, I twitched again, I lost myself, but it was right there, I picked it up and found myself again and continued feeling nothing and everything. I calm and remember that it’s not the refrigerator’s fault I’m wrapped in this scenario. There’s another one of those desperate realizations again: my refrigerator is keeping what food is within it cold, for me, but I’ll be gone. And that energy will have been directed here for absolutely no purpose. It has arrived, all the electrons, looking around, being overwhelmed with despair at having no purpose at all, and having absolutely no other choice, melting into the machinery and cooling food.
I wrote a list once of a couple hundred questions I wanted to find answers to before I died. Most were things I could look up in an encyclopedia or on the grid or what not, but a few were those questions that everybody asks that no one has ever found answers to, or at least answers that are universally true. I felt I could tackle ‘em, and now it seems more than obvious that I can’t or ever could. Come to think of it, I never even took the time to research any of the others, either. I’m going to die without knowing the modified circumference of the earth or how many atoms there were in the city or… and without having answered the more important questions, how on earth am I to know whether my knowing the answers to those questions mattered?
Well now I have no idea where I’m headed. There’s certainly no afterlife which means things could only get better… only what if I’ve grown accustomed to that idea and all of a sudden I do exist and it’s extremely dissatisfying because I was looking forward to a long rest of nothingness (of course this doesn’t make sense either because what’s the point of a rest if you can’t even realize what’s going on).
You know, likely I’m not going to see it coming. Maybe all of a sudden everything will just end and I won’t have any more time to reflect on my situation. I think that would be best. A pulse through the window. Or perhaps my own recognition of my own peril will consume me and, driven only by the possibility of exterminating itself, convince my heart to stop beating and all of those neurons to stop firing and my eyelids to close. I can’t stop going over it, though, and I can’t die until I’ve figured it out.
Ah… from what I remember, though, the syndicate prefers to make known their presence. Those hilarious bastards can harvest some sort of pleasure, I guess, from making me aware of my own death precisely when it happens. The last thing I’ll ever know is a pulse, a slight wisp of pain, and—nothing. Litera—
…
For a moment all of my discontent and anger is directed solely at the refrigerator for misleading me as such. It clicked on, I twitched, the door might have been opening, I knew it was the fridge, I twitched again, I lost myself, but it was right there, I picked it up and found myself again and continued feeling nothing and everything. I calm and remember that it’s not the refrigerator’s fault I’m wrapped in this scenario. There’s another one of those desperate realizations again: my refrigerator is keeping what food is within it cold, for me, but I’ll be gone. And that energy will have been directed here for absolutely no purpose. It has arrived, all the electrons, looking around, being overwhelmed with despair at having no purpose at all, and having absolutely no other choice, melting into the machinery and cooling food.
I wrote a list once of a couple hundred questions I wanted to find answers to before I died. Most were things I could look up in an encyclopedia or on the grid or what not, but a few were those questions that everybody asks that no one has ever found answers to, or at least answers that are universally true. I felt I could tackle ‘em, and now it seems more than obvious that I can’t or ever could. Come to think of it, I never even took the time to research any of the others, either. I’m going to die without knowing the modified circumference of the earth or how many atoms there were in the city or… and without having answered the more important questions, how on earth am I to know whether my knowing the answers to those questions mattered?
Well now I have no idea where I’m headed. There’s certainly no afterlife which means things could only get better… only what if I’ve grown accustomed to that idea and all of a sudden I do exist and it’s extremely dissatisfying because I was looking forward to a long rest of nothingness (of course this doesn’t make sense either because what’s the point of a rest if you can’t even realize what’s going on).
Monday, January 28, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Second Journal from the Ocean.
29 December—Neptune Station. On Monday we finally created a stable cut. Damian, Andersson, and I managed to work out the magnets and it just seemed like all the other levels fell into place with a pleasant 'snap' (though most of the actual sounds are of low vibrations). To tell the truth, Andersson was the one behind it. Either she was extremely lucky or she has a way with magnets.
As a matter of fact, we dined together last night. This was after the tunnel had been active and isolated for a day or so, so I guess it was reasonable to assume that that's all she had on her mind; of course, it meant the world to me to actually be able to connect with her. Is it that odd that I see tunnels in her eyes? Or that maybe I'm staring into her eyes at all?
The active cut is, as I understand, likely to influence the power distribution more than any achievement the other teams are likely to procure. Dr. Seimhalt and I passed each other in one of the side corridors and he took absolutely no effort to acknowledge my existence. Maybe they are close to something, but I can't stop my own research, partly because it's not entirely my research, but also because it seems that this tunnel has a mind of its own.
All of a sudden there's a renewed interest in our department among management and other teams. I was called from land today, by some corporate decider who was 'proud of my work' and 'wished me the best of luck'. I try not to harbor ill will, and it's probably best I ignore it all anyway. I will say, though, that for me personally it's quite disconcerting to have this stable tunnel into the sixth dimension, albeit isolated, open. Of course we're afraid to close it because it'll likely be hell to open it up again, but I don't know how much I'm all right with just having something like that constantly open, as I sleep, only a mile or two below me. The fields will do their job, but sheesh, it gets to me somehow.
As a matter of fact, we dined together last night. This was after the tunnel had been active and isolated for a day or so, so I guess it was reasonable to assume that that's all she had on her mind; of course, it meant the world to me to actually be able to connect with her. Is it that odd that I see tunnels in her eyes? Or that maybe I'm staring into her eyes at all?
The active cut is, as I understand, likely to influence the power distribution more than any achievement the other teams are likely to procure. Dr. Seimhalt and I passed each other in one of the side corridors and he took absolutely no effort to acknowledge my existence. Maybe they are close to something, but I can't stop my own research, partly because it's not entirely my research, but also because it seems that this tunnel has a mind of its own.
All of a sudden there's a renewed interest in our department among management and other teams. I was called from land today, by some corporate decider who was 'proud of my work' and 'wished me the best of luck'. I try not to harbor ill will, and it's probably best I ignore it all anyway. I will say, though, that for me personally it's quite disconcerting to have this stable tunnel into the sixth dimension, albeit isolated, open. Of course we're afraid to close it because it'll likely be hell to open it up again, but I don't know how much I'm all right with just having something like that constantly open, as I sleep, only a mile or two below me. The fields will do their job, but sheesh, it gets to me somehow.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
The First Januarism..
I don't feel like I'm a horrible person nor that I should be ashamed when I admit here that I am desperately afraid of my own death. Of course the act of dying isn't what I'm frightened of, it's what comes afterward, as I'm sure it is with the great many of the race that have similar fears.
Of course, it's probably not that many, now that I think about it. After you take out the devout religious folk, those that, as a part of culture, accept death without question or conflict, those that don't think enough to care, and other groups that wouldn't show up, like secular humanists that find some part of the natural world, some stratum, maybe, from which to chisel off a piece of morality and comfort regarding the state of what is greater than the universe.
What if we're just one type of intelligent creature that, in the course of finding our way to the top of the chain of planetary command, adapted using optimism towards infinity as a means to an end, and now that I find myself on top, the means are a greater hindrance than a help.
I spent nine hours of my waking day out of my room and around campus, a few of them eating, a few reading, a few playing, some time writing, walking, etc. I mean, I don't feel like I've wasted any of my time. Today was a good day, I guess. And yet when I extrapolate this... even if every day is as productive and as complete as this one (there are days more so and many more less so), I'll die having accomplished nothing and everything and everyone will forget me instantly.
It's kind of bizarre, really. The best description I've found for myself so far is (thanks to Michael Frayn for this one) an arrangement of material at a particular region of time. So basically, what's happening is that a small part of the universe is averse to changing and shifting form or melding back into the rest of it. I guess I'm a knot, and physics will undo me in time.
I'm not, though, sure that I won't come to greet my future with ambivalence or even welcome arms. Despite my angst, I probably have quite a few years left with which to conjure answers or find them should they exist already.
Of course, it's probably not that many, now that I think about it. After you take out the devout religious folk, those that, as a part of culture, accept death without question or conflict, those that don't think enough to care, and other groups that wouldn't show up, like secular humanists that find some part of the natural world, some stratum, maybe, from which to chisel off a piece of morality and comfort regarding the state of what is greater than the universe.
What if we're just one type of intelligent creature that, in the course of finding our way to the top of the chain of planetary command, adapted using optimism towards infinity as a means to an end, and now that I find myself on top, the means are a greater hindrance than a help.
I spent nine hours of my waking day out of my room and around campus, a few of them eating, a few reading, a few playing, some time writing, walking, etc. I mean, I don't feel like I've wasted any of my time. Today was a good day, I guess. And yet when I extrapolate this... even if every day is as productive and as complete as this one (there are days more so and many more less so), I'll die having accomplished nothing and everything and everyone will forget me instantly.
It's kind of bizarre, really. The best description I've found for myself so far is (thanks to Michael Frayn for this one) an arrangement of material at a particular region of time. So basically, what's happening is that a small part of the universe is averse to changing and shifting form or melding back into the rest of it. I guess I'm a knot, and physics will undo me in time.
I'm not, though, sure that I won't come to greet my future with ambivalence or even welcome arms. Despite my angst, I probably have quite a few years left with which to conjure answers or find them should they exist already.
First Journal from the Ocean.
12 December—Neptune Station. Dr. Page and Dr. Seimhalt insist they are near to isolating the necessary frequencies for the prisms, but if you ask me, it's a load of bollocks. Come January and the station reevaluates power distribution, their department is going to receive far more than their share because the snobs in upper level management haven't the slightest idea of how to distribute power despite having so much of the stuff. To be fair, I understand where Page is coming from completely, and as a person I admire her personality and she's a hell of a conversationalist (especially on a station with only a hundred souls or so). As far as her professional career goes, though, she and Seimhalt can go fuck themselves.
My mother sent me a package today. I'm not about to mention the regulations on mailed food as long as she keeps sending those cookies. Also, father is having problems with his heart again, but from her tone it's not anything serious. Of course, that's saying nothing and I know it.
Dr. Andersson has been making significant process in operating the tunneller. I don't know whether it's her dexterity with scientific instruments or her golden, flowing hair that has attracted me to her, and I'm not going to try and find out, either.
I'm going to sleep early this circade, so I'll wrap up. We're going to retry the sixth dimension tomorrow with the tunneller and, damn it, I'm going to be there this time. Hopefully it'll work. Also, hopefully Andersson won't be there, for my sake.
-Dr. Sam Whittaker.
Postscript: I'm enclosing a photograph. This was taken using the tunneller's capture lens, and I also altered the colours a bit. What you're looking at here is one of our openings into the fifth dimension. For awhile we weren't able to take pictures because the splits weren't stable enough to last long enough to photograph them, but we've improved the stabilisers significantly. This one, if I remember correctly, lasted for two minutes before it collapsed.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Book Song..
All books in all libraries ought to be banned.
Though authors can script me to some other land,
my heart feels like tearing in two, for as sand,
with time, trickles out of the palm of your hand,
I finish my books, and, against my demand,
there are no more sequels or sentences, and
the ending was marvelous, touching and grand,
but to have to go back to the world, wake and stand,
knowing your world monotonously manned?
All books should be banned.
Though authors can script me to some other land,
my heart feels like tearing in two, for as sand,
with time, trickles out of the palm of your hand,
I finish my books, and, against my demand,
there are no more sequels or sentences, and
the ending was marvelous, touching and grand,
but to have to go back to the world, wake and stand,
knowing your world monotonously manned?
All books should be banned.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
First Road Sign.
It's the secret of how to start a novel, and how to continue it, and how to share it.
It's the solution to world hunger and also my hunger.
It's what you possess when you have something and want nothing else.
Those types of people radiate it, so I understand.
It's in the west or the east depending on who you are.
It's on the wings of Sputnik.
It's a sequence of colours if you want it to be. I don't, though.
It's long and involved.
More often than not, it's in 4/4, which is slightly saddening.
It's your relationship, but different, and you know it.
It's under a blanket.
It's in the dictionary, and it is the dictionary.
It's agreeing with you. You're yourself. It's also chiding for that reason.
It's the sun, but only on earth.
It's the solution to world hunger and also my hunger.
It's what you possess when you have something and want nothing else.
Those types of people radiate it, so I understand.
It's in the west or the east depending on who you are.
It's on the wings of Sputnik.
It's a sequence of colours if you want it to be. I don't, though.
It's long and involved.
More often than not, it's in 4/4, which is slightly saddening.
It's your relationship, but different, and you know it.
It's under a blanket.
It's in the dictionary, and it is the dictionary.
It's agreeing with you. You're yourself. It's also chiding for that reason.
It's the sun, but only on earth.
Friday, January 4, 2008
January, Fourth.
Here's an abbreviated list of things that I would terribly like to be able to do that I currently cannot:
In broader news, it just seems to me like everything is getting always better and always worse at the same time. As soon as I structure something, something falls apart. The darndest part about the whole shebang is that it's absolutely romantic nor anywhere as near as it might sound. I suppose that's been my problem with the past year or two of my life—I could probably deal with being emotionally distraught, hyperbole, deep night, hole in the wall but typing, able in spite. I can't channel Kierkegaard; I end up with no one recognizable because he's no one worth channeling. This, truly, is likely the first writing I've really done in over a week or two. Such truth is disheartening and disillusioning. I thought I could write, you know? And now not only can't I write, but I don't even want to try.
I hate starting paragraphs with 'I', but there it is. I knew I'd age and get all wiser and smarter and more aware of myself. Damn, it's not what it's cracked up to be.
In short, there is more than I care to think about riding on the outcome of the next four months. Probable outcome (negative, as could be expected), I keep on shuffling by and nothing happens that didn't happen in 2007.
Most optimistic prediction, however; well, I've slowly given up most hope of a large switch turning from 'off' to 'on', from 0 to 1, and all of a sudden 90 becomes 270 and Alaska becomes Argentina. Best I can see happening is kind of a cascade of small switches. Like, snap, and instantly Eli is focused and there's kind of a quelling of the sweeping need for the creation of new identities and names because, like, I know I can solve my problems or at least something good at one point, although presently broken, can be made excellent or marvelous.
2008 could be a year of CONTRIBUTION, also of REIGNITION and ORCHESTRATION and ME and CONSTRUCTION and GAME NIGHTS. Maybe my apathy'll focus itself.
Four days in, looking probable.
- play the guitar.
- sing.
In broader news, it just seems to me like everything is getting always better and always worse at the same time. As soon as I structure something, something falls apart. The darndest part about the whole shebang is that it's absolutely romantic nor anywhere as near as it might sound. I suppose that's been my problem with the past year or two of my life—I could probably deal with being emotionally distraught, hyperbole, deep night, hole in the wall but typing, able in spite. I can't channel Kierkegaard; I end up with no one recognizable because he's no one worth channeling. This, truly, is likely the first writing I've really done in over a week or two. Such truth is disheartening and disillusioning. I thought I could write, you know? And now not only can't I write, but I don't even want to try.
I hate starting paragraphs with 'I', but there it is. I knew I'd age and get all wiser and smarter and more aware of myself. Damn, it's not what it's cracked up to be.
In short, there is more than I care to think about riding on the outcome of the next four months. Probable outcome (negative, as could be expected), I keep on shuffling by and nothing happens that didn't happen in 2007.
Most optimistic prediction, however; well, I've slowly given up most hope of a large switch turning from 'off' to 'on', from 0 to 1, and all of a sudden 90 becomes 270 and Alaska becomes Argentina. Best I can see happening is kind of a cascade of small switches. Like, snap, and instantly Eli is focused and there's kind of a quelling of the sweeping need for the creation of new identities and names because, like, I know I can solve my problems or at least something good at one point, although presently broken, can be made excellent or marvelous.
2008 could be a year of CONTRIBUTION, also of REIGNITION and ORCHESTRATION and ME and CONSTRUCTION and GAME NIGHTS. Maybe my apathy'll focus itself.
Four days in, looking probable.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
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