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``Don't hate the player; hate the game.,, -- Полиграф Полиграфович Шариков
This ain't quite an obituary, for I disqualify myself from writing those about people of whom I only first learned by reading those written by others; for, however often professional journalists may discover that, contrary to chasing dreams of shattering records in composition of the primary sources, the formal funereals are their responsibility, and I am neither paid nor well, and not much of a reporter, either. If only I could write one for that pastime!
Baseball has done a lot for me, given me an education in meeting other kinds of people... It has taught me that regardless of who you are and how much money you make, you are still a Negro. - Henry Aaron [quoted in the link]
Individual pinnacles of athleticism frequently speak louder than arbitrary rulesets, especially when doing so in the face of adversity, yet I am puzzled as to why a man no stranger to the limelight, would credit so strong a lesson to the whims of a nation; it's just a pastime, after all, and far too measured and quantified for consideration as a game like football (either kind, really!). So you may rightly ask, who did teach that lesson, if not the grassy diamond? Definitely not the upper management, and probably not the wastes of oxygen, nitrogen, and other assorted fuels of capitalism that kept Aaron's spam chute balanced; perhaps it is merely evidence of the man's humility, likely strengthened adversely by societal biases against a man who had the balls to spare the four seasons that'd let him walk to commencement, instead actually spending his every hour of youth honing the skills that payed his bills. Let's hope that future teachers, regardless of their pedigree, academic and otherwise, are less hesitant to claim a lesson as simply found, written in their own life story, that merely happened to be buried beneath the behaviors of fans and fanatics.
It's not much; definitely not enough for an effort at reconstructing the truth, however alleged you may allege mine be, nor should I give details sufficient to place the geography, leaving instead only cues for those who recognize, and voynichal salad for those who don't.
;;;;; title: Greenshifted Spake From The Head, or: How I Learned To Worry STOP tags: school, people, truth, geography, prose date: 2020-11-02 ;;;;; This one's dedicated to the school-girl-city who reminded me, during an expected interdiction of my restless pacing through the both sleepy and ambullomutationally hollow suburb, at the north of its tidal sewage, open to the freshest swills of the Ostajhian Puddle, where the innocent and guilty frolick alike through desert dunes, paved and tarred lanes, and under rooftop weather vanes, that although dogs go, and cats me-ouch, too, and snails die under John's Old Brown Shoe, one must never forget that goats can eat, bleat, climb, rhyme, and have an all-around jolly good time. Although I must acknowledge honorable mention to those who have encouraged me, through ridicule, anger, incredulous faith, and most importantly, dance-free safe, that although the most important techologies are those that no sane green man, while he patrols the Corridors of Time, should expect to find absent when falling through a one-way floor, there are a few that work no more. Instead of pretending to understand the broken symmetries of the vector guage, as normalized relative to few-dozen-component Johnson noise across a hand's span of mostly empty printed circuit boards, I will tell a story that never happened, about a soldier that my brother quite possibly personally instructed in every important skill of the variety that keeps certain cases alive, certain cases dead, and avoids shooting uncertain dire wolves in the head; and for the unavoidably pervasive imposition that words describe actions, instead of merely patterning the shape of the world across flat space, and mapping the projections sattallittic onto oblate spheroids without ever considering whether the Integral Trees could consider the unidirectionality of time's arrow as mathematical certainty, I will continue my avoidance of scalable vector graphics, bitmaps both compressed and chromatically reduced, and include a small amount of paragraph justification for purposes of allowing the prosecutors a sideband, through which they invariably accuse me of wasting fuel for music school; and I reserve in the hearts and minds of the architects untimed one special place for the invariable case, computationally equivalent to the Axiom of Choice, wherein the world's shape is described in softly spoken direction cosines and aggressively murdered men.
Although, as men older and wiser than myself have observed in the archives, there are few reasons to increase the rate with which one encounters the enforcement branches of the public service, I have often, and usually do, as a matter of policy, disregarded this priority when planning the path taken in retrospect by the author of the next mind, resulting in a number of encounters with the local fuzz.
Although the precise documentations in the relevant departments almost certainly differ, possibly wildly, from the descriptions that I have listed, my record is sufficiently diffuse that they can probably serve as mnemonics for either interested party.
namer of profession 2014 racketeering sting claims investigator 2017? stolen tree splint deliverer of corpus 2018 altercation with head of corrections 2018 ... pub bouncer tlv-jaffa detective 2018 ... same incident tlv-jaffa detective 2019 assault? battery? tlv-jaffa detective 2020 ... breached peace!
Over the next few years, as I see necessary, I will write of specific commendable actions taken by each officer noted in the above list; I doubt any of them recall the incidents as anything other than another day on the job, for they did nothing beyond what can be expectated of their profession. I avoid writing of the other extreme, in the hope that I may forget the people, despite how impossible it seems to forget their actions. I often avoid writing precise descriptions of the settings, although I'm aware that the convoluted confluence of unconvicted innocence, convinced guilt, and inequivalences of architectural practices, simmering metastable across that paper-fine hyperplane, itches.
If you are not, nor have ever been, in the public service, you are advised to read no further; furthermore, if you have been in the public service for a time so short that it left no impression on your identity, and especially if your service was in enforcement branches other than the blues, you are also advised to stop reading. Now that my audience consists primarily of military veterans, medical professionals, and the various branches of police, I proceed:
It is difficult to determine what is permitted, and what is prohibited, in regards to cardiovascular ventures lasting longer than one kilometre, roundtrip. Since this fact is quite distressing, and since I wish the dispensation of advice to last no longer than absolutely necessary, my only advice to those who kept reading, regardless of whether they complied with the previous paragraph's advice, is the less frequent of the two imperatives yelled at me from George Herbert Mangan's window, during the late hours of morning classes:
GHM: DOAN GIT ARRESTID!
Getting arrested -- that is, detained, interrogated, and subsequently released after legal proceedings -- is a wonderful way to increase the town's cumulative viral load for the days in question, and what's worse, it comes almost entirely at the expense of others.
tense that I rote but then wished I hadn't, wished I hadn't - Jacopo Belbo - Umberto's Echo
There! I've gone and done it now: intentionally misquoted a master at his art, and at the coward's time, too: well, after the man is dead, anyone can say he said something that he didn't say and all you'll get is an estate tax attack.
Umberto claimed, from the recorded words attributed to a fictional antehero, that there's no discipline of forgetting, for the sort of information that oft chills our minds at quite the nonlocal mesoform, although metastable upon fine inquiry. Let me only mention that there are forgetful folk, and forgettable peoples, and before I've even extrapolated that individuals pervade the entire basis, you've gone and read too far: you may become unforgetten, if you'd like it ior not, and the only hope left is that the... oh, megabytes of variance - heritable, discernable, once twice thrice differentiable yet no further! Cease, fair Pandora, for I stocked that box so scantly that you'll wonder whither why.
I can't quite recall how I ended up there; although the immediate surroundings were unrecognizable, their nature hinted at an unforgettable compound where the scarcity of water paled in comparison to that of shade. I scrambled partway up a slope of loose earth, pausing to squat by a cement cube crumbling to expose iron loops rusted far past their original usefulness. My rest was soon interrupted by a procession of cadets, clothed in nondescript uniforms and carrying all manner of equipment: rifles, ammunition, stretchers, tents, people.
After they had assembled into formation, a uniformed officer's familiar face materialized at my side.
"How did you get here?", asked his puzzled look of recognition, as though eight years had meant nothing and I belonged with the others. Recalling where I'd seen him last, I answered: "After giving up on the military career quest, I am currently in the academic career quest, although about to give up on that one too, and am wandering alone at the edges of Known Space in search of a tangible goal. What about you? You, too, are almost where I left you, but not quiet."
He smiled, the same smile polite to the point of bashfulness that had earned him so much scorn from the cadets, as though he wanted to grin yet was afraid the aerosol of flies, mosquitos, and desert dust would fill his mouth should it ever open without a simultaneous exhalation, and the dreamtime vacuum energy filled my mind with his hypothetical predicament:
"When you met me, I prepared artillery men for officer training. Now, I prepare officers for artillery training. I do not know whether I entered this revolving door forwards or backwards, but it spins too fast for me to leave."
As I wonder how I would navigate out of his boots, I find them gone, replaced by my own bare feet, gathering dust at the gateless gate of Abulafia's missing art; there is a war in heaven, yes, although the angels and demons are all our own.
You got me!
... but "the story is true", so I'll tell it the way it should have happened, and leave the retrosynthetic ungineering to the paralegal information police:
Shortly after entering some fast-track research program at the chemistry school of the exact sciences department at Tel Aviv University, expressely advertised in their printed materials as being aimed at those most enterprising youths who's life goals found themselves radically shifted outta the transcendental extension after Breaking Bad, I found myself sitting in a lecture hall watching that cool genius preparing to hold forth on the local consequences of immutable truths, while excitable students chattered all about me as I silently lamented the vanishing chance I'd ever recalibrate the long-abandoned disparser.
HER: I'm so hungry! I'm so bored! I'm so, so, so... HIM: Oh, you're hungry? I had such an amazing breakfast today, if you'd stayed the night like I wish I'd offered you to, I would've denatured you some eggs like you always wished. HER: ...! HIM: Yeah, no joke. Sunny-side up, over-easy, scrambled, any style you like... they're all dead, long dead, and delicious. The only problem is that it takes so long to cook properly: you need to first spend about a life and a half learning the art, and another seven generations amassing familial wealth that will allow your children to train in the same, and then you actually need to allocate time for the work itself! HER: Wha---
At which point I leaned my phonicone in their direction:
ME: You can save a few seconds in your daily egging by using only one hand per egg. Trivial once mastered, and you've got an entire life to practice, neh? HER: [spinning round] Ahhhh, I bet YOU are the chef who went back to cooking school!
Damnit, Lady, doan blow ma cover; shut up and listen to the man teach kinetics!
"Let us learn to joke... then perhaps we shall love the truth. But let us beware of telling our jokes till they have been bettered by the wakes of conversation." - l'Ourobohr
Just as compressing a fluid past a first-order phase transition inevitably catalyzes hitherto unemerged phenomena, so will the aggressed square-packing of a lecture hall eventually collide the elliptic peg with a dodecahedral hole; for although most students, whether having undergone graduation like so much unwashed glassware, or yet bearing the whips and scorns of time-worn institutions, resemble Euclid's nonsense better than a brick of solid oxygen, the rare exceptions emerge differently shaped from the factory schools. Amusing in retrospect as may be the lattice defects that emerge from such collisions, they do tend to strain the participants.
I found myself sitting right near the audience geocenter, a similar-humored friend at my left having dogged me to my seat, which I had picked not due to its vacancy, but due to the occupant to its right. I'd yet to speak with her, but thanks to the curse of uncorrected distance hearing, I'd heard enough to tumble headfirst down the slippery slope of puppy infatuation: she'd related to friends of the same dual-major that her new hobby was treating her daily dogpark visits as the opportunity to meet Mr Right. Sadly, I had no familiar canine excuse to present myself to her in such a manner, having parted ways from my best friend two years earlier. Reminding myself that even if we'd met while watching our dogs sniff eachother's butts, we probably wouldn't be imitating them right away, instead wasting countless kilolitres of air exchanging nonsense in the hope of breaking the proverbial ice (or at the very least, thawing it out a little).
Naturally, somatic vessel of the flaggelar germline that I am, I sought an opening; and naturally, being bored to death (and back again) of the inane claptrap flapping about between the well-packed squares all around, I sought an original opening. As I fished for worthwhile words, she began fishing for the right pen in her cute little case... on which were printed, in block capitals, three to a side, the words:
SO MUCH WORK SO LITTLE TIME
... which, in case you're unfamiliar with the physical sciences, is the six-word story of everything we learned that semester. Blinded by coincidence, I blurted out a shot from the hip, taking the time to neither draw nor even greet my opponent: "... that a special case for thermodynamics class?"
Her response, short and sweet, was painfully close to "LOL!", but lo and behold: she elided that second coronal lateral fricative as an unpronouncable terminal phoneme, leaving instead the last first word a man wants to hear.
"WE EVEN HAVE EARMUFFS, IF ANY OF YOU WANT A COUPLE."
Fine, the rest of this story will not contain shouted words, although the use of CamelCase at the start of sentences may be preserved; anyway, it pertains to a multiple-choice exam sat by the author recently, where the primary hindrance presented to the students consisted of FAA-compliant noise. Noting that nobody needed even a single muff, the proctor glanced at my choice of seating.
I nod, scattering allergens to assure the poison sniffers that the correct ghola had showed up for the Mentat Bowl, and prudently leave my cheating machines concealed yet readily accessible. Another proctor kindly wished me good luck, although the whorls of spacetime conspired me to think of the all-too-recent practice wherein children were forced to conform to seating limitations regardless of neurology. Ah well, we all bleed our age one way or another.
"Good luck!" said just about everyone, whether aloud, to themselves, or just to pretend they hadn't run out of mere politeness (quite the scarce resource).
Eventually, I notice a unital (as opposed to unitary, i.e. dimensional) discrepancy. These buggers are pernicious, especially when the exam purports to pertain to the physical sciences, but in truth does not contain a single SI-qualified value, opting instead for alphabet soup interspersed with "happy particles". I flag down a passing professor.
"You have a question for this one?", he mimes, doubtlessly thinking of the overworked teaching assistant.
"YES, YOU SILLY GOOSE, WHO ELSE?" I shout at nobody in particular, while nodding silently to respect the silence theater quivering at the brink of metastability. He walks over, punts my question at the nearest underspecified constant, and wanders off to give polite hints to less helpful questioners.
I guess it's time for me to eat more rotting fructose, since competitive thermodynamics is an awfully energy-consuming game: time is in finite supply, proportioned according to the Cayley-Hamilton nulleph (if you've got that sphere mapped; if you don't, please do: see Poincare's cut if you've already passed Dedekind). I don't blame that professor for my inevitable failure at this exam, as he'd actually given quite a helpful hint: he could tell I was asking for him to make a public clarification regarding a sloppily-worded question, the correct answer to which was painfully obvious, so he instead reminded me that the Grand Canon controlls how many ells deep drinks the spider.
Teacup - empty; birdseed - messy; orange - too flagrant a juicy snack, and there's still half the alloted time left! What could I possibly do now, other than start to actually work out the silly little calculus exercises? Maybe asking the proctors to unplug the noisy desktop computer fanning itself for no apparent reason, or at the very least tell us which prion it was busy refolding for the good of humanity, although somehow I suspect the answer to that would've been closer to:
Hush, little baby; don't say a word! ... never mind that noise you heard. It's just the wormholes in your ear, crawling thru that strength we fear.
At which point, the student to my right gets up, hands in his papers, and moves to leave.
"No! Stay!" quoth an audience member, who had elected to sit the exam undercover, out of true respect for the process.
"Sorry, honey, I've got a plane..." he replies, politely ignoring her "Can't it wait?" as he glides out, better than the most professional of bettors.
At least the desktop had decided to continue cooking its motherboard in silence by the time our friendly noisemaker began running his own fans overhead.
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."
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.
Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward. - Kilgore Trout
I've led a rather blessed life, so far: I've never had to perform acts of mortal violence against people, nor have I witnessed the salty splashed remains of such action. Ironically enough, those who profess a desire to save lives and heal, are more likely to end up playing the roadside autopsy game, where harm done is measured as correctness of identification rather than reduction of inflammation. But I digress, and nobody cares much about my military service; after all, as I told my lab partner just before the last sunset: "All I ever really did myself was tell other people what to do."
Some people I've known personally over the years are dead by now, as often happens to people after you know them long enough. What's less common, although does occur once you know enough people of the various kinds, is that they die by their own hand. Three times in my life have I encountered the news that yet another doctorate in practical existentialism has been granted, and coincidentally enough, none of these volunteers for an early afterlife deigned to leave behind their dissertation. I don't blame them; after all, annealing such thoughts into human language is messy enough work without the added challenge of not being around to edit the result.
On the one hand, I've already mentioned elsewhere the second instance, and I'm loathe to elaborate upon it, for a variety of reasons. The only one which matters in this case is that that story forms a brief chapter in my long-forgotten upcoming memoir. On the other hand, the third instance is simultaneously too personal, and too impersonal, and too soon, and - although that friend's memorial service just the other day triggered the thought-helix leading to this post - no, I'm not telling that story yet, either. The first instance really shouldn't count, although black humor can be found even in such sanguine remains, so I'll give it a shot - just like the instantiator himself!
One guy who went through basic training together with me was quite the basket case: the kind of dork who literally hits himself after realizing how stupid he's been, without even any bully around to mockingly tell him to stop hitting himself. This poor shmuck had glasses thicker than his own skull, and his skull was quite thick, because he spent most of basic hitting himself, because this poor shmuck just couldn't get anything right. He was the kind of kid who couldn't get through the morning routine without getting toothpaste in the barrel, gun oil on his pants, and boot black on his face. Soldiers are rarely nice people - the average platoon could make a kindergarden playground look like a safer space than the campus of Snowflake University - and we soon had a nickname for this shmuck: we called him Shock.
Shock must've had a good heart, because he volunteered for medic training. Not only did he surprise us all by actually surviving medic training (they do some rather gruesome hazing, if the stories are to be believed, but those are not mine to tell), he also volunteered for the most thankless assignment: yep, Shock went back to that part of the desert where men are turned back into boys again, where the worst of humanity is strained out and molded into rank and file: Shock went to minister to the next crop of drafted children. One day I hear the following brief tale:
"Hey, remember Shock who went to become a medic? We need to find him a new name. One of the kids there shot himself in the shower. Poor old Shock found the remains, and now he's no longer in shock!"
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!
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.
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, ... ?"
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)
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'.
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.