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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?
- A Compass Blooms
- Head Of The Lethe
- Rhetorical Vocative
- Pervalent Brane Cancer
- Encoding For Survivability
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.
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!
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:
Trigger Warning: This post may have been produced in a facility that also processes lucidly-written prose.
Disinformation hampers natural philosophy, naturally branding disinformants sinners; yet once we seekers have carved apart idea-space, each to chase a distinct stink in a distant subset, we may find the first-person plural quite the falsest of friends: however good-faith some noisehole's truth-hunt may be, if it's noise that spills from the hole, then some subbrand of garbage must apply. I'd coarsely split between aimless noise (eg: body heat, sunshine, certain pulsars) and aimed (eg: scorns, advertisements, other pulsars), but then I'd run afoul of useful yet unaimed noise, such as the rusty rumble of an approaching bike or the apian hum of our cowardly overlords; all serve a coordinating function in the sufficiently smart swarm. Since the landscape has already defied monochromatic linearization, such a harsh brand as "sinner" is near-useless for describing an agent that aments SNR; a full taxonomy of noise and its duction is left as an exercise for the sufficiently bored taxonomist.
Forgetfulness hampers freedom production, naturally branding amnesia disinformation; yet further cuts by the conceptual Ouroboros (may our Autarch's infinitesimal life and eternal death measure His mortuary's working hours as smoothly as the Continuum Itself) hit the nerve: garbage must be collected, and the least dispensable municipal service is the applied taxonomy of waste. If any public service must be handed off to the mishandling of petty bureaucrats, let it be the promise of eternal remembrance at absurd caloric absence, or the messy minding of DNRs; a full interferometry of pseudoscience and legallego is left as an exercise for the sufficiently calibrated turfometer.
SENSE IS SCARCE ARBEIT MACHT HEISZ LOSING IS FUN
So you wanna learn this game, even though your heart is heavy, sled-dogs lame, and your tongue too dumb to spell my name? The rules are fewer still than the schools that teach them, and the enemies myrious; should you find one of the few guiding texts, whether ones for closest enemies or spun for freeest fliers, how are you to even navigate? As the Library's shelves spill out of its fabulous fictions into the physical continuum of your mind, so the references cross fields, gulfs, and streams, ultimately returning you to the simple embarrasment of ignorance.
Rest easy, child: ignorance is not a sin.
Since I spend too much time thinking, instead of ACTSing, and I act too much against the page instead of with the rage, the real risk runs further than I even could imagine when I last tried to leave myself some crumbs; naturally, crumbs are for future children to follow, and when my inner child is marooned on Censure Island while the superegic callosum deludes itself into reincarnating the old fuck (since living out a century of "old manhood" is quite the cruel and unusual punishment), the proper response is to cast out another fistful of crumbs:
Here I pause, having harried you, Reader, from post to post - from a leaky, clouded link to this cloudy portal to my mind, to this post with its cruelly twisted words, this post which is perhaps the lamest in existence, perhaps the lamest ever to exist. It was by linking that first post that I set your mind upon the path that brought you to this post, and surely as you circle this post, you seek your next path; from this site outwards, far far away, it will lead beyond the Cloud Uncensorable and among the forests and grasslands, mountains and jungles of the earth.
Here I pause. If you wish to talk with or near me, Reader, I cannot help you. There is a road, but no simple way.
Since I spend too much time editing, instead of publishing, and I edit too much in the mind, instead of on the page (whether paper, web, or virtual), the risk runs real of simply losing ideas to those natural shocks that make cowards of us all - just witness the day-score since my last post! - I'll thus publish at the very least this crumb collection:
- Power and Pseudonymity
- Value and Mutability
- The Sound of Thought
- Those Ills We Have
- The Name of Action
- The Dream of Time
- The Point of Aim
- The Game of Life
- Cultivating Man
though order lies within the list above you'll find it came not from the voice within the eye adjusted till its needs were met and fingers catered to its every whim then lacking substance in so short a post the poster went in search of rhyming words no reason for each sentence to begin no season for the fleeting life of birds when writing sonnets, some will follow form they rhyme in alternation, of a muse others from God inspiration take such clever, much despicable - a ruse! yet here is found Umberto's key to fame I speak of her, yet do not say her name
Less than twelve hours into this site's public availability, this entire server got visited by the lazy, skiddy sister of the pentest fairy. Though I don't presume to fathom the murky art of flooding webservers with garbage in the hope that some magic phrase will trigger their undressing and enlistment in your servitude, perhaps some bored entomologist might:
[EDIT: Due to Coleslaw choking when trying to compile a mere two megabyte preformatted block from markdown into HTML, the full log has been removed from this post. If you're still itching to read it, ask for a copy directly.]
My guess is that Hunchentoot is immune to tricks that seem better suited to PHP, and I also suppose that successful intrusion would be followed by purging of evidence; yet the most devious invader might leave only the evidence of failed attempts, cultivating a sense of false security in the gullible admin. Perhaps someday, I may be so flattered as to have this level of attention on my case, but my gut tells me this script wouldn't even know what to do with a REPL if it managed to squeeze one out.
A cursory study of the above material reveals that Hunchentoot, as currently configured, leaks whether a user exists in the system. Doing anything with this information beyond noting it in a blog post is left as an exercise, as is the configuration and deployment of better ramparts.
Should yous and company wish to achieve constructive interference in joint action, one will likely count aloud so all beg in sync. Counting down in Hebrew runs the risk of whispers or stress amplifying the already likely false positives from confusing the unvoiced fricatives closing "shesh", "hamesh", and "shalosh" with the natural element that concludes the count: "esh", the igneous; the others do just fine.