This blog covers robots, friends, theology, fremdsprache, space, oneirotics, shards, history, meta, family, music, war, charity, lies, time, truth, rant, people, her, le sed, crumbs, drink, spielwort, verse, geography, venom, plagiarism, school, medicine, quotes, prose, changa, sports
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ccl --eval (mapc 'ql:quickload '(:coleslaw :hunchentoot)) 126.96.36.199 - [2018-11-28 21:13:23] "GET /tag/lies.html HTTP/1.1" 200 6953 "-" "Mozilla/5 .0 (compatible; Googlebot/2.1; +http://www.google.com/bot.html)" 188.8.131.52 - [2018-11-28 21:13:23] "GET /robots.txt HTTP/1.1" 404 360 "-" "Mozilla/5.0 ( compatible; Googlebot/2.1; +http://www.google.com/bot.html)" 184.108.40.206 - [2018-11-28 21:13:23] "GET /tag/prose.html HTTP/1.1" 200 9001 "-" "Mozilla/ 5.0 (compatible; Googlebot/2.1; +http://www.google.com/bot.html)" 220.127.116.11 - [2018-11-28 21:13:23] "GET /tag/family.html HTTP/1.1" 200 9701 "-" "Mozilla /5.0 (compatible; Googlebot/2.1; +http://www.google.com/bot.html)" (coleslaw:main "~/blog/") ;Loading #P".../src/quicklisp/local-projects/coleslaw/plugins/sitemap.fx64fsl". .. ;Loading #P"eee/src/quicklisp/local-projects/coleslaw/plugins/static-pages.fx64 fsl"... ;Loading #P"EEE/src/quicklisp/local-projects/coleslaw/plugins/versioned.fx64fsl "...; rsync --delete -raz lol/src/quicklisp/local-projects/coleslaw/themes/snid e/css . ; ln -sfn 1.html index.html ; mv /tmp/coleslaw/ /generated/3752428435 ; rm -r /generated/3750221939/ ; ln -sfn /generated/3752385548/ /.prev ; ln -sfn /generated/3752428435 /.curr NIL NIL 0 ? 18.104.22.168 - [2018-11-28 21:14:10] "GET / HTTP/1.0" 200 28296 "-" "w3m/0.5.3" ^Z Suspended adlai@adlai:~ % grep tags blog/37.post tags: people, time, truth
This one's dedicated - with no regrets and only a drop of respect - to my fellow cadets, whatever kind of field we span.
Someday, I might fence in an area, and exercise some planning over what blooms. I doubt I'd care enough to call it a garden, but there'd be clear selection rules, and eventually, I'd have to put a sign up, warning the literate passersby which way the road goes:
- Here there be poppies
- If you render latex for opioids, please do it off my property.
- If you are misfortunate enough to get shot by a member of the Citizen's Highway Patrol, whether on or off duty, please hire a lawyer.
- If you can't afford to hire your own, please be nice to the one you get!
You don't even have to be that honest. They can usually tell.
"I've been trying to optimize my morning routine." I sip whatever it was - most likely, ethanol with a dash of poison - and impel across the table as loudly as is possible to send a silent thought, that sipping a drink and staring into space is a reasonable substitute for "YES I AM STILL LISTENING KEEP TALKING IF YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY". Who knew, maybe there'd be something said, by the end of that next exhalation. "You know, all that must happen between opening my eyes, and closing the door from without."
Now that we'd gotten that far, and I've gotten this far from then, it's about time to prune a loop and see whether le sed's got anything to say, se ipse. I know the metaphor doesn't quite compute, but that's part of the point: if the metaphor clicked right into place, there'd be a complete subgraph of indiscreet questions (such as - "Which place? Clicked how loud? and What did it truly mean?"), whereas a dangling metaphor is almost as flexible a nunchuck as a swinging participle. Relax, bruvnator: these are tools for thought, not bullets!
As I often do, I'll avoid those baggage-laden words which only serve mental course obstruction; were you there, you may recognize yourself in the autopsy, but I'll do my best to follow Taraza's last command, here summarized ad exsecutibus: "if you're captured... burn your own heads, shatter them completely. Take the necessary precautions.".
I'll skip the question of why the above was said to me, as opposed to any other of the many heads that listen, talk, and even walk; more interesting are the implications of that technique, where a daily routine is shaved down to essentials, yet - and here I point at some context, so do a favor and fire up some more content-addressable - for what purpose is this one ritual honed, whereas the day's bulk is treated as mere mothballs, necessary stinking fluff that fills the empty spaces whence the vital style flows?
In closing, a lone crumb for none but my own amusement:
"Sure! I know exactly what you mean. You want a morning routine as reflex-driven as the act of blinking itself. Where's that approach belong: strategy, tactics, ... ?"
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)