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PLEASE DO NOT READ PAST THIS POINT IF YOU ARE A JUNGIAN, FREUDIAN, ANALLYSTERANT, OR ANY OTHER SORT OF TWO-BIT CROCK-SHIT WITCH DOCTOR.
Naturally, I was in some rather open campus environment: too many people to know many personally, let alone recognize faces at a glance. Sure, sometimes someones seemed familiar, but life's a bitch, innit? Until I recognized... her.
One of the few truths I'll ever label a lie is that in this dream, her identity caused a stale stack resurrection (or perhaps a register collision, if you swing that kind of metaphor) with someone I've not met in a long time; last we spoke, she likely got justly insulted by some connotation of exactly what I said to her about a guy she fucked.
(at this point, the lies resume)
We made eye contact, and I'm quite sure she recognized me back. Maybe she winked, or smiled, or let her eyes linger; but she was in a flock, and such flocks flow. I saw her again a few times in a similar manner and concluded that there must be some performance of a visiting dance troupe, because I remembered her as a skilled dancer from a young age. Maybe I could verify that conclusion, and thus actually talk with her, rather than just smiling at eachother across the void?
Needless to say, such dreams do not collaborate with that other kind of dream. My quest led me to a room full of unrecognizable acquaintances who just got visited by a jolly fat holy man of stereotyped ethnicity. I could tell he was holy because he dressed like a hobo, yet wore an immaculate turban, and because he was there to sell drugs. Naturally, I asked him whether he accepted the only kind of coins I had kicking around as unallocated spending cash, to which he laughed and twinkled out of the story.
No worries! Salesmen don't travel in vain, and the buncha fukken junkies now gladly split the purchased wares among themselves (and everybody got two share). Perennial outgroup member that I am, I wondered aloud as to the kind of flower they had bought, and whether any one of them felt like reselling. Before I even repeated the name of the coin, I realized that it would be in vain: they ignored me in favor of their greedy delight at crumbling that golden brown between their fingers.
My momentary disappointment didn't quite hit rock bottom, though: although I prefer vaporizing active essentials from Cannabis blossoms purchased uncut, the remembrance of hashish's complementary advantage of greater edibility reassured me... as I awoke to the sound of a pigeon alighting at my windowsill.
TRIGGER WARNING: Vital escense is not absorbed by the kidneys!
Hokay, so: there's the sun, which is active matter of one sort.
There are planets, or overgrown, well-behaved comets, or aggregated, annealed, aquatic asteroids, or whatever you call the rocks. You can kick them quite hard, cut your teeth on them, eat them, smash them at eachother to make more or less of them, but as far as I can tell, they're the kind of stuff the turtles swim above.
On the better-civilized parts of some rocks, are a bunch of... museums. I use that word in the Wolfeian sense, and expect audience familiarity with everything I can recall during the acts of creation, editing, auditing, and reliving, so a "museum" is not quite what you'd expect. Perhaps you know me better than I do myself, and you could define the concept more accurately than my feeble effort, so I'll let you do that yourself as an audience exercise.
One of my earliest memories involves a dispute about who'd visit which parts of a museum, under what conditions (note the omission of unpriced admission). When museums grow large enough, these disputes can heat so vigorously as to cut costs on central heating, and soon enough the tearily nostalgic demand for a thermostat gives way to the much more interesting challenge of climate maintenance. Control, as you may be aware, is naught but the name of a button or two on various antiques littering this museum; maintenance, whether by hand, foot, or nail, is a fucking career.
The incorrect way to express displeasure about museum administration is by amateurly executing the chief executive amateur.
RIP Yitzhak Rabin (b: 1 March 1922; d: 4 November 1995; c: trauma, kidney failure, life)
OOPS: I ACCIDENTALLY THE HOLE SONNET
Like all good tales, this one began! Not under sail, nor farming tans... I'd seen that man, (about my dog), and found firm footing in a bog. She wasn't there, but -- everywhere; Gills or wings would be no help. Nor audiences, as you learned from Delp. My spacetime, just: adjust, or tear. Perhaps she hears, or reads, or counts my words while them cardinals, counts, and overlords lord over the seven seas where Musa sails away on the MC Memora "Ahhhhh, GIRL!", (as Johnnie cried) ... well he cried and cried and up and died; or "BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH" as Johnnie said, when that shmuck missed that other one's head. The story's yours, but not for you! (all you need'za to be bru tay too)
TRIPLET WARNING: The following content consists entirely of a single three-item ordered list. If you are contextually biased to skepticism towards three-item lists, please await the publication of the five-, seven-, and eleven-item Deluxe Editions before inquiring at your local wholesaler.
1. In The Beginning...
One of the earliest memories of my maternal grandmother involves advice to her youngest grandson, at the time, who has having difficulty concealing the fact that he didn't much enjoy not wearing diapers anymore. If I recall correctly, although memories from such a past life are notoriously unreliable, I had just been scolded for sulking about for hours, accumulating unspeakable stockpiles of kidney stone nucleation loci, not to mention stool samples that could give IKEA a run for their fiat any season of the year. "Just let it out, kid! Learn from your elders." Well, she was a little more polite than that, but please indulge me and use your God-given imagination like it was meant to me used. Curious little cunt that I was at that age, I must've asked her what harm could possibly come to me from putting off work that would eventually do itself; and I rightfully expected her to have a good answer to this, seeing as she was living off a pension from the service half of the medical industry's frontest of offices. "If you let that all bottle up inside you, circulatory kinematics will hinder the flow of nutrients to your heart... and if that's a number two you're holding in, you might be able to keep those cooking for days on end, but sooner or later your stomach will hurt like shit."
3. ... and at the end.
One of my last memories of her places her in the geriatrium where she spent some of the last weeks of her life. I'm quite sure she remembered my visits and me, not to mention the familial parade that kept me sitting around long past when she seemed to have forgotten them moments later. She'd had physiological difficulties aplenty for decades and survived them better than the best, but at this one moment she gave a particular impression of not doing so for much longer (at least, not unassisted). I could've sworn I heard my brother whisper to our father, "I think she's dying", but he swore later that he thought she just wanted to go to sleep already. I'm not quite so politically motivated an editorializing recontextualist as to suggest that my grandmother (who lived out her post-holocaust adult life as the positive counterpart to Kesey's Ratched) taught me that life is only sacred so long as it kicks to keep kicking, but at the very least I learned to appreciate sensory precision.
2. Oh and that one time?
... when she interrupted my procrastination of yet another kind of work that doth itself do. I must've been in those formative years better known as the "almost preteen", and had school that morning (it was tomorrow by then, although nobody had yet told the Sun). My main fear was that she'd scold me for dicking about instead of sleeping, and my excuses had indeed all been used up the day before when she'd seen me finish my homework quite early. In case your mind teetered on the brink of some proverbial gutter: at that age, my idea of dicking about at that hour consisted of wondering just why it was that the Microsoft stack deigned it so unnecessary to respect login sessions when the computer was more or less prevented from talking to its peers. This fledgling detective work was hampered by the innumerable moralizations (many of them self-contradictory when followed far enough) stemming from what I'd seen on the cover of a magazine intended more for moms than dads: "SHOULD YOU SPY ON YOUR KIDS?" Forgive me for posting this riddle's answer in such close proximity, but in case you needed any help: not unless you enjoy heart attacks and sleep paralysis so much that you'd like to have a new hell tailor-made where you can experience both at once! If your imagination isn't yet working at this point, insert Tab A into slot B and press Back to continue. My fears were unfounded: she was thrilled to see that her grandson was not only playing around, but playing with office machinery that could simulate quantum annealing of racial genetics faster than the ethics ministry could convince me that a holocaust joke isn't quite appropriate, not to mention wholly anachronistic because Hitler's Venus Project would've needed at least five of those to takeoff real quick. Her fears were probably more along the lines of me redecorating the apartment with the use of excrement and matches, and evidently she got the impression that I'd just found the old sliderule and was trying to puzzle out what the less obvious scales computed... little did she know that I'd found the abacus instead, and was taking baby steps towards applied plumbing.
Whoops! I should've warned you about nonlinearities, although if you've ever seen a sliderule, you probably saw this one coming: I preemptively forfeit my chance to bid upon the chalice of history in deferrence of the claim made by that greatest of liars (save only Baudolino): the historian formally attributed as `Harq al-Ada'.
14:41:11 adlai | it could be quite stable, at the right pressure 14:41:16 adlai | you need to go back to thermodynamics class! 14:41:51 adlai | start with equilibrium thermodynamics. once you're good on that, fluctuations; then bounce your way up from there. 14:42:01 fogobogo | the right pressure being the mass of jupiter? 14:43:04 fogobogo | entropy. sucks all the fun out of it 14:43:36 adlai | if you like my stories, may i recommend a short one? 14:44:08 fogobogo | sure 14:44:15 adlai | http://adlai.uncommon-lisp.org:7421/tag/changa.html 14:44:28 fogobogo | oh. you have blog 14:44:37 adlai | 8k words, that's what... 8 hours reading, once you dereference all the pointers? :) 14:45:06 fogobogo | Reflexive Interferometry in prose 14:45:34 adlai | ahh 8k is the bytecount, it's only 1.3k words
Perhaps it's time to state, for lack of having previously done so, what exactly this means:
- Nothing here is [yet, to my knowledge] notarized. That means I edit with extreme prejudice.
- I don't [yet, to my knowledge] exercise unambiguous control over anything worth controlling unambiguously: not your computer, not the one serving this content, and barely even the one(s) from which I cook it. Misinterpretations and disintermediations are the responsibility of those unfortunate enough to have responsibility thrust upon them, as I believe Churchill isn't around anymore to deny having said.
- If I wanted this to become a halfassed predecessor of the sort of arguments witnessed in the darkest recesses of Facebook, Reddit, and their ilk, I'd have included some infrastructure for leaving comments at the bottom of these posts. Since I haven't, I probably don't! I may someday add a 'guestbook', purely out of nostalgia, but only hold your breath if you're really good at that kind of sport.
- As for why I spend so much timeffort making haphazardly selected parts of my neverending [yet, to my knowledge] argument with myself browsable by the random passerby: "beyond the obvious financial motivation, it's exceedingly simple... because I can."
For the record, fogobogo, all that entropy is rather what made it any fun to begin with!
These are some notes recovered from an old pad by the name of "Google Keep"; since I trust those ramparts about as much as beer farts, let's back up to an even more mysterious cloud!
2016-04-10 untitled so tree
sirocco rpt autocorrupt the phone alone falls only from the throne how now plow cow?
how about a nice game of AlphaDrama (a game for one humanity (autocorrupt: bullshitter))?
I'd play with myself, but I don't yet know the rules of theoretical play well enough to sing a solo songalong
- 2016-04-10 Digital Fortress
This is what you should never build yourself; the day you become wealthy enough to need one, you hire the best opsec guy in your network to build it not-for-but-with you. Building it yourself is a challenging exercise, worth your time for the lessons you'll get, but should never be regarded as battle-ready tech.
The fortress consists of maximally inspectable hardware, and double-compiled software. The fortress contains no key loggers, and all packets are sniffed before exit.
Such beautiful silence, at the hour you could only choose as twelve... confirming what before you only thought you knew: this task was for an elf! But you let prosody get your betters, and fell again from the highest cliffs. Aah well, life isn't all buts nor ifs.
- 2016-04-11 Enter Archman
Daunted by the full scope of the task ahead, once it'd finally hit him, he inhaled slowly, nostrils hugging tight to his septum till they nearly made one fleshy mass, then fluttering apart as he whistled out his newly-relaxed surprise: "Coo!"
The most difficult part of predictive authorship lies in determining, before the words have been etched, into which (whinceth?) medium - a question spanning memory, security, audience, prestige, self-image... the works.
- 2016-04-20 Gallows Stall
there's a wondrous adolescent joy about calling just to hear a friend's voice; not a ring-wrong-ditch, but a brief chinwag, to hear the surprised joy on the other end, even catch a whiff of it yourself. That's a just use of the tech, playing on the social buttons of hearing familiar voices to elicit emotion... yet like any weapon, no degree of safety nor training can ever prevent it from one day swinging the wrong way, slamming shut on an innocent tail.
- 2016-06-13 Burned Manuscript
This is not my story, I'm just the unfortunate wretch charged by fate, misfortune, to tell it, to beat the odds and bear the news of our victory. Setting out, unknowing the end, only the message received, the word to pass, of the victory achieved at Marathon.
This is not your flood, nor your blood. This is not your scene, nor your dream. It's a waking life, all day aware, never afraid, never too scared. This is the first day of the rest of your strife.
Virtuous machine learning: self-image deciding recognizing fraud detection for p2p makers. redefine spam!
- 2018-09-25 Irony, Man!
Not a quarter after "Gallows Stall", this one dude hung himself in the shower using his clinic-issued pajamas as rope. Life finds a way - even one out.
The Oldest Joke In The World
PONGO: I'm having trouble meeting my creditors! BINGO: I say, dash it! To be precise,.: who wouldn't?
The Blessed Joke In The World
Historical note: the following joke has been heavily revised from the original version, which contained a punchline so wholly unamusing that it has repelled the Island of Stability even further away from me.
Two blonde med students walk out of the biochem final. One says, "That damn final question! What was he thinking, asking us to name the single most important element for the continuation of life as we know it, and justify our choice? Such a dumb question only Philosophers of Semiotics could get wrong." The other replies, "I know, right? It's obviously Phosphorous." The first stops, and finally speaks, quavering in fear: "What are you talking about? It's clearly that one metal, I keep forgetting its name. Do you remember what's the ligand of methylcobolamine?" Ignoring her question, the dumb one blurts out: "Vitamins are important, sure, but wouldn't you agree that no energy transfers can occur without the near-equilibrium thermodynamics of driven fluctuations in those octokisdekaphosphomers?"
The Most Expensive Joke To Not Get
SATOSHI: Ya like DAGs? GAUTAMA: Ja sed also sprache posztifly towards Cat.
The Most Obscure Joke In The World
Q: What can you say about the special unitary samana squaredance? A: Don't get it sandy! (might be all we have to eat...)
The Politest Joke I'll Ever Type
... with apologies to nobody in particular!
(cum apologia papae)
Now I send me out to ride... trust the Lord protect my hide; If it gets lost in a far-off land: I trust my steed to cope unmanned; and if I find some garbage cute: please forgive my smash and loot. Should I swallow a suspect weevil? Brace yourself to purge that evil! Forgive my calling grapeshot puts, (I hope that won't cost me a foot) but if I die in a combat zone: gather what's left and ship it home. And if I die of likely cause, let me lie and hold your applause.
LEAK TRIG EDIT TODO WARN
sangre blue de dio hic tvam acid ... sipping brew, chanting the shapes no waves form while the lifegod watches a pedestrian shout caution to a swimmer about passing nature's water breakers. after morning rituals (e.g. mourning a ship's rotting carcass, fresh boiled coffee, mega seed hunt) but before morning lost children, we seek shade like the lazy fools we all are.
music, music, all so fish, yet no more drops, man; THINK! who cares what he said she said, this trip's braintoy's le sed.
Since I spend too much time browsing, instead of dowsing, and I dream too far away instead of of the way, exactly which metaphor was met for which set is lost among the notational abuse and what's the use if we lack a track back? As before, the eradication of uncontrolled amnesia progresses at the speed of pitch black humor, stumbling over its own aggregates as it crawls ever towards the ever-shifting space-time fixed-point, but progress it must:
- Spin and Yang
- Division by Ego
- Buffering Entropy
- Germinating Legends
- Singularity Dialogues
- Industrial Uncertainty
- General Intertextuality