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Whatcha Writin' In Ma Vein For?
leashed un 2019-05-26T18:22

If you'll excuse the puns, plagiarism, and General Irreverence, I'd like to begin by retelling an anecdote from George Carlin's assortment of memoirs, opinions, and other various demented ramblings, Napalm and Silly Putty. At one point, as the poor ol' fuck is reading something other than that morning's paper while eating something likely no other than bacon and overeasy, the gal asks, as she pauses to make sure that his coffee cup runneth ever brimming: "Whatcha reading for?"

Spoilers of that specific conversation are available at your friendly neighborhood hexodrome, since I have paused here to install quite a different aeromodulator on the proverbial hood.


  HER: What are you writing?

    [ ADLAI meets HER gaze, barely suppressing an eyeroll ]

  HER: What are you looking at me like that for?

  ADLAI: Nothing, just  wondering what to call  this.  I'm writing
  nonsense, mostly, although after I've written enough nonsense, I
  eat  it,  toast  your  health,  roast  the  remains,  grind  the
  sun-dried cat-cut crap, and see whether the pressure cooker will
  distill anything worth bothering a publisher about.

  HER: Oh, cool! You're writing a book!

  ADLAI: I wish  they'd stop calling it that, but  you may call it
  so.

  HER: What's your book about?

  ADLAI: I'm writing about you!

  HER: How dare you presume to  write an entire book about someone
  you've  only just  met, and  of all  possible circumstances,  in
  these?

  ADLAI: Please take only the  just and judicious level of offense
  at my upcoming response... it's  quite simple: I can write about
  you, because you don't actually exist.

  HER: Of course I exist!

    [ HER coffee  pot tilts slightly and  stops suddenly, spraying
          tepid filth all over ADLAI, his papers, and all else ]

  ADLAI: Clever girl.  You just proved that your  work exists; you
  proved that your  customer exists; and you proved  that his work
  is all but bunk; yet you have yet to prove your own existence.

  HER: Well,  lemme tell you this:  I read part of  what's already
  soaking  into the  blanker half  of  your book,  while you  were
  pissing.  I recognize myself in  your memories. Isn't that proof
  that I exist?

  ADLAI: Ahhh,  now that  is a good  question!  I  should probably
  stop  writing about  you,  and resume  writing my  dissertation,
  although  the absence  of a  thesis precludes  such presumptuous
  bloviation.  Incidentally, does  this  fine establishment  stock
  hwiskye?
Spaniards At An Inquisition
leashed un 2019-05-16T0200

Karl, Max, and... well, Ludwig (for lack of a better blamehole) walk out of the pub, because two have a beef and the third sold books on who'll win it. There's cold rain pooled in the alleyway's cracked pavement, flowing softly towards the gutter as the warm rain overflows the bounds, ripple by reflected ripple, but the clamouring boots make quick work of those cesspools, forming a ring around our three champions.

After a brief verbal dispute regarding directions perpendicular to the compass rose, as pertains to belts, and the sportsmanship of a flail improvised from a belt terminated by an oversized buckle, the clamour calls for a less partial referee, so Mycroft fishes out a brace of shattered glasses, a well-rotten dishrag, and an intact bottle of 202-proof rum, for use as emergency disinfectant.

Details of the fight are available upon request from eyewitnesses, although allegedly the subsequent claimants of stubs from the well-made books were glad to demonstrate exactly what happened; all I know is that once the salted plasma flowed so freely that none present could distinguish one pavestone from the next, Mycroft took aside the winner.

"See that river, into which yon gutter drains?"

The winner nods.

"Here's your Planck, and I never want to see you on this side of it ever again."

On The Objective Indestructability Of Documentation
leashed un 2019-05-04 2019
  `` Рукописи не горят. ,,
    - Михаиле Булгакове

Before the lies begin, I'd like to anchor this speculation partway through a conversation that actually did occur, somewhere near the Euclidean midpoint between the cafeteria of the modern languages building and the best vantage point on campus, although you'd have to use a proprietarily-weighted geometry for the mean calculation to land in the talking-aloud part of the relevant library, rather than the graveyard floors; and the talking indeed was allowed, and loud, and lewd, but the rudest dude was in too good a mood to tell the future doctors to act their age, so she and I spoke as soft as we could, short of actually whispering, while that orgy of sophomoric ineptitude raged in the rest of the room.

"You should've left a notebook", she scolded. "If you'd left a notebook at this desk, like I left one at mine, then nobody would've taken your seat."

I shrugged away the matter, for the setting sun's image, crawling up the opposed wall, bathed in its soft glow the gradually emptying room, and there was now no shortage of computers. I sat where I had before, and loaded a questionably-obtained digital reproduction of the documentation in question.

Seeing where my attention went, she asked: "You're studying from the book instead of the class materials?"

I nodded, launching into an endless paean to the greatness of the book, rapidly terminated thanks to her impatient impoliteness, likely diagnosable as attention deficit disorder by the moronic future-professionals who so recently had rendered the room entirely unfit for studying.

"Have you ever seen her book?"

Instead of asking whether she meant the author's personal copy, or some library's well-worn copy, filled with the hints and tears of past generations, I shook my head; words were rapidly becoming quite an expensive commodity to spend, as I had entered the lexical storm of an organic chemistry textbook's contents table, and needed every drop of dopamine on task.

"If it's such a good book, and you like it so much, why don't you buy it?"

At which point, I must've made some joke about how I'd rather buy her, even though she hadn't read a single page of that book, than a book that is too heavy for her to survive having dropped on her head; although I doubt I'd have survived getting the pavement dropped on my head from the height of that room; although not claiming to have said that means that the only lie in this post is the fact that it is tagged as such.

In closing, I'll elide the book's title, as there are half a dozen different works with the same name in just the first page of search results, although I will mention that the author came to be known as "Bruice Almighty".

With Apology (Singular!) To Robert Frost
leashed un 2019-04-12 T400
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
leashed un 2019-04-01
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.

"Three Hues Collide", and a Mellow OOPS
leashed un 2019-01-18 0400

Lying along the shoals of inattentiveness, listening to each phonon (yes, I know how to use that word uncorrectly, too;) surf along the pitch black glideway, way below, I realize I've begun overhearing yet another conversation that never happened.

TRIGGER WARNING: IF YOU KNOW ME FROM SCHOOL, YOU MIGHT KNOW THESE PEOPLE TOO; ONLY THE WORDS, LEXEMES, AND CORRELATES HAVE BEEN CHANGED, TO PROTECT THE PRIVACY OF THE UNNOTICED AND THE SANCTITUDE OF YOUR MIND.

Three doctors - of philosophy, naturally - are quibbling over which rights to violate when administering the exam, in the hope that one will be sufficiently distrauchted by some best jest that a quick bid for the silverware could be made.

Quoth the theoretician: "First of all, the exam must be as fair as possible; all students who are required to pass the exam, must have an uncorrelated likelihood of passing the exam, and any students who wish to pass the exam, must have an uncorrelated likelihood of passing the exam, and any correlations arising unintentionally must be uncorrelated with each other correlate, in so far as --"

He's been interrupted by now: "That's a load of nonsense. You've written the exam by now, so why don't you tell us what's unfair about it? Noone will be judging you. Why don't you... do it in the code?"

Before he can deliver the correct, coherent, counterpoint, the third one suggests: "Any unfairness unavoidable in the exam should be biased in favor of those students who have attended lectures, in some power per portion of time wasted together."

"WHAT!?" is the inevitable reply, so he continues, explaining exactly what he means: "The exam is unfair, and always will be, so I'd rather at least encourage us to all waste our time together. I don't want academics to devolve into each student spending a semester in a silent sterile cube with a pay-per-view port to some quintessence datahose and a shelf full of dead-tree graffiti painstakingly curated by some long-dead Adlai."

Silence. You could hear a pin drop, land right-way up, and blow up the tire of the next hrududu blundering down the street (and what a fine alarm clock that'd be!).

"Did you just use a student's name as an expletive?", asked the practician of theoretical jurisprudence.

"Yes, because we all know exactly what I meant by that; if you have a problem with what I said, say whatever you want instead, but let me finish my gottanjecture."

What She Taught Me
leashed un 2018-12-19 06:26:08

After one of the department events, opening or closing one semester or another, I joined a circle of students chatting over pizza and beer on the lawn. Not wanting to make uncontextual interruptions, I listened...

"The system here is so unjust!" said one student to the one sitting next to her. "It gives priority to graduate students who accept teaching positions, over those who do other kinds of work, or even don't work at all, preferring to focus on their own research."

"Word", he said, sipping his pizza, biting off the top of a beer bottle, or whatever it is that the males do on your planet.

"This is especially unjust to me, because I can't teach," she continued. I listened a little longer, but we'll skip over the bits that I did when I interrupted:

"Why did you say earlier that you can't teach?"

"Because I can't."

Maybe it had something to do with the part of the conversation over which I skipped, or maybe nobody had ever even offered her a chance to see that she's probably not the only person around who understands whatever she understands however she understands it. I guess her teachers, however faithful they may have been to the blessed curriculum, must have neglected the more important lessons.

I left her talking to the guy with whom she had chemistry; life is too far from equilibrium for useless reactions.

Passing Alien Taught Me Joke
leashed un 2018-12-12 01:02:29
  ONE NOTE SAMBA: Some of the facial recognitions
  in this dreama have  been scrambled, to protect
  the innocent  and leave the guilty  enough rope
  to  figure  out  which way  the  savage  swings
      without    even    reading   Huxley.

It was halfway through meal chat with a barely-recognizable homozygotion between Naked Emperor and The Comedian that I realized the self-important shmuck across the table wasn't exactly watching my six.

"Enschule-digger my shbitte!" I opened with calm loudness, turning towards the moving shadow. "Obwohl meine Deutsch ist nicht also schecht zu keine verstehe, es ist sehr impolite to behead a guest against their knowledge, without even letting them know why; and incidentally, that's not even the respectful arrangement for this kind of execution, if you honor the same codes as I've read."

My would-be assassin, lowering her scimitar-shaped lightblocker, vanished from the dream. She'd played a similar role earlier, and may have been insulted that I hadn't spoken to her much about languages, or too much in the wrong ones, but that didn't matter anymore, for I never saw her again. At this point, the plot quickened, synthesizing Wink Murder, Russian Roulette, and Garbage Contortion in a pathetic parody of how well Tim O'Brien makes war stories true by sheer force of repetition... yet it unfolded somewhat thus:

Once I'd realized my skull was so full of actors that they were about to start killing each other for the sheer joy of cooking, Old Faithful blurted out the escape coordinates: "I've got a joke in the oven and you're not afraid to tell it!" I had some trouble following that impersonal instruction, wondering whether I should just call to tell the MC "the band is just about ready, oh no,", the bassist that the guitarist forgot the chords but will be "countin' the names o' the modes until he's free", or the pianist that he should just show up taking care to bring himself - the self, and nothing but the self - and most importantly, assume the drummer hasn't practiced in a long time, until Old Faithful blurted the escape coordinates again, this time in the right projection:

  Is your band named Bluesic? ...cuz you're the only blues I hear!
Not Dis Quiet
leashed un 2018-12-08 09:19:99

ACHTUNG: While this post is not about noise suppression, I'm gonna skip the bets placed by the bot identifying itself as "Opera" until further notice. (at the very least, because it placed most of 'em twice, and the rest looked like fake pentest flash dispersors!)

One night about a year ago, outside the Tel Aviv Bitcoin emBassy, some fellow was being a loudmouth; in fact, a bunch were, and I, apart of that crowd yet picking it apart as I went, got sick of the noise. Eventually the loudest one of all seemed to bellow asking for a timeout.

"Listen, son," said I, while tapping that guy on the knee. "You oughtta shut up for a while, and listen to what those guys are saying. You might not remember this story exactly thus, but you know the drill."

That sorry shmuck bellowed even louder, and crescendo to boot: "No, no, no, no, no!"

He didn't yell in English either, but you can guess what it sounded like if you've ever heard people talk... much more like an unemployed singer delivering his stage orgasm, than an actor waiting for a job. After he was done yelling, I kept listening:

"Sorry for reacting thus to your grip. I was a school soccer star and I'm not used to having my legs fouled quite so rudely. If you can listen to so many conversations in parallel yet still follow the ball, why don't you go be a sportscaster for something better than a two-bit bucket shop?"

My response arrived, and that actor even delivered a convincing impression of having understood my words: "Son, you're getting carded before you can yell like that again. Can you tell what color card this is?"

He blinked, threw his glasses aside (without stomping them underfoot, as that would have been an excessive hyperbole), and gave the correct answer: "Do you want that information in primary, secondary, or frequency-balanced nuclear spectral densities?"

Believe it or not, I still owe that guy money. I doubt he remembers how much, and the exact sum ain't worth the paper it wasn't inked into, yet the story is true; he claims the debt is owed to a man long dead, so there is much remaining to debate.

The Name Of The Coin
leashed un 2018-11-03 10:04:36

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.


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