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As you may be aware, efforts are underway to revisit, comprehend, and ultimately digitize the unpublished research notes logged by the pseudonym allegedly signed as Borodin, no mean feat given the centurial culture barriers blasted apart by the brave volunteers. Although Alexander Shulgin may have cast open landscapes innumerable of both the imaginary manifestations of reality, and the physical attainment of hitherto mere amorphisms, he also found himself at the precipice of a language chasm deep yet narrow: for example, had he needed to verify that his friends and relations could recognize lexicographic racemization in eightth-bit-cleaned compilations of IUPAC nomenclatures - or worse yet, disclaim their own proficiencies in one or another of such disassembly exercises - he may have never encountered the question of how exactly "2CB" decompiles as "brominated two-carbon notafueladditive"... if you're still reading, there's a chance that you remember what I have forgot.
In the hope of finding common understanding, recognizing the preexisting conceptual landscape, and not getting too worked up about whether discussion of how many concepts this list contains is conversation or syllogism, I'll elaborate upon last semester's practical work, starting with my quick rephrasing of instructor comments regarding an educational recreation of four experiments performed just over one hundred years ago, all of which exhibited at the time of their publication an unexpected degree of discontinuity, despite the prevailing theories regarding the nature of the underlying continua:
nb: comments and grades for either student could apply to the other, since they worked together on all parts of these experiments, interpretation, and presentation in the first week, you arrived prepared, with questions about the apparati. your elucidations of the prevailing theories improved markedly in the second week. in computing the statistical expectation values, you performed several computations yet presented the results of only one. merely listing which source measurements caused statistical failure is unacceptable, without discussion of possible reasons for each measurement's exclusion, and your grade was reduced for this reason, and for omitting an additional procedure made possible by the preassembled wiring of the provided electromotive forcing apparatus and documented in the reference notes. your presentation of the results suffered as a consequence of disclosing choices leading to the samples ultimately correlated against the prevailing theory, a disclosure which reduced the time available for discussing alternative wirings. your reference notebooks are incomplete: roughly half consisted of rephrasings of the prevailing theory, and you could have saved ink by specifying one of the previously published works as a reference standard; and you failed to detail your rationale for choices made during experiment, computation, and debriefing.
Since my final grade in that semester was lower than that given by this instructor, above the minimal level considered passing although regrettably closer to that than the perfect score, and quite satisfactory given my policies for allocating study time and mental effort for schoolwork, I consider that to have been a good learning experience.
Incidentally, the numbers relevant for rendering the previous reflection against
the one percent decimal background across half a year of an arbitrary sparse set
of the distinguished portion of a fourfold metric are:
'#(63 89 76 87 30 84)
Reconstructing the machine that produced such a trace is neither trivial nor ...
... and in case you were wondering, the four experiments are all spanned by attempts to measure Ohmic impedance of fluids (e.g. Helium, Hydrargyrum) dilute well past chemical inertness, and modulation of such measurements by the nature of the irradiation upon the circuit component emitting the lepton.
Sometime in the hours after that last incident, I found myself balancing the perfectly reasonable yet mutually exclusive demands upon my time and location from people who do exist, although have never met each other outside of this particular hell. For reasons likely influenced by current events, my conversations with them collided at an overgrown cathedral rudely interrupting an otherwise perfectly serviceable maze of urban alleyways, which had turned my would-be escape route into a surprise pilgrimage.
I juggled excuses at the first two pursuers, although one would require an actual conversation rather than just a quick response, and such commons is no place for conversation. We arranged to meet at one of the nearby gardens to talk things over, and I realized that I'd taken off my shoes upon entering the holy ground. While putting them back on, the third pursuer appeared above me, inquiring about my conversations with the other two:
"Have you always been bilingual?"
I answered in the affirmative, and he followed up with a question that was regrettably lost during the subsequent confusion, although my answer survived:
"Thinking in two parallel languages is a blessing turned curseful by the overlap of their phonemomes, an interference quite unfortunate."
I was awake and typing by the time the response to that thought had crystallized, wondering how much credit I could consciously claim for ideas that my unconscious mind had presented as those of another: if two languages have no overlap whatsoever, are they truly distinct?
The beaded raindrops, quivering as they waited their turn to slide earthwards, diffracted the outer confusion past the point of senselessness from my dry vantage point within the car, yet eventually I discerned a woman's face in profile at the driver's window, facing forwards as she spoke to another person just outside my mind. Try as I could to focus on her words, they remained unknown, although an urgency rising from within compelled me to brave the elements and crack the window. To my surprise, human confusion drowned out the weather, as the second woman snapped into focus facing directly at me.
"Finally you're responsive. Do you have any idea how long we've been here?"
I glance at the passenger side, where my wake of consciousness already blends seamlessly into the nighttime traffic. The car is empty, other than myself, and the moments of my confusion cost me another beat of conversation.
"Still no answer. We've been tapping on this side for longer than I care."
The two women, almost indistinguishable: blue uniforms, precise hue undiscernable through the airborne damp and urban darkness, black hair flowing to blend with the shoulder-clipped radio mouthpiece and hip-holstered pistols, obscuring their nametags on the way down. The one previously in profile has now turned to face me directly, and the focus left by the retreating glass blurs the other into the wake sweeping around to meet its counterpart at their aphelion.
"... I was talking to someone at the other window. You know, something about you reminds me of him, beyond the fact that you're all cops, although you do all dress the same. If you know who I'm talking about, he'll confirm this fact."
Now it was her turn to pause in confusion, puzzling through my answer: I'd answered neither her question, which I hadn't heard, nor the one I had, although my manner suggested that my words bore relevance to the situation.
"Sir, please explain to us what you're doing here. Traffic has reached a complete standstill for reasons unknown, and our colleagues are still failing to establish rapport with operators of other vehicles. How did you reach this part of the city, and why?"
Had I a quick ready answer to toss her way, I'd have given it without the second thought that warned of an innumerable multitude of questions surging beneath the invisible surfaces of aquatic equipotential realigning themselves to the changes in my cabin's airflow. Wary enough of her tired temper and scant patience for slow talk to overcome my regret that such action would certainly lead to the dissolution the passengers who had filled the car only moments ago into the partially unsortable blood-red-shifting context, I bought myself some time by revealing the topic fluttering out of existence as my wakefront converged:
"Have either of you ever heard of a closed timelike curve?"
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there, Had worn them both about the same, And both that morning equally lay, In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
... at least, that's how I found the undergrown, overbent one, winding 'twixt excessive capitals, elided punctuals, and italicized in a painstaking digital tribute to merchandise sold in the author's name, and guessing by the author's fame, the trees may not have died in vain.
Here's an other:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both, and be one traveler, long I stood. I looked down one as far as I could, to where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other, as just as fair, and having perhaps the better claim... for it was grassy, and wanted wear! Though as for that: my glancing glare had worn them both about the same. They both that morning equally lay, in leaves no step had trodden black, so I kept the first for another day; yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubt that I shall ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and oceans hence: "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the `dif-fer-ence."
In case you're wondering: "Here's an other" is not an intentional anachronism for the sake of clockmelt, but rather a transliteration from Hebrew.
General Intertextuality found himself years later as the Icing Squad he faced poised near that cusp adrift in time that floates always around the day when his great-uncle Sammy took him to meet Fire. Mind not the names lost and lost meanings named: the people missed, because of love, you know; the feelings tossed, the talent thrown away! Sailboats sail, and hunters diving go. It's not that dark old night has hid her from us... no. You'd find her, if you went along that trail; Her voice faded to an echo from the dark cold void: "Know Mores!" The primal word still spins the worldly lore!
You see the story do, but not that whore.