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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.
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?
Long enough ago that I've forgotten the club's name, although it had a wonderful view of the sou'eastern coast from the open rooftop, a bunch of would-be nouveau riche, along with a healthy helping of working men, working women, and the unavoidable innocent bystanders all converged for a nighttime beach bash. One fellow, local to the bone (I could tell by his accent, so I'll spare you the racial profiling), interrupted my conversation:
His attention seemed more focused on the next mark than on me, so I paused only momentarily to ascertain my own next target.
He'd taken at least a step and a half before turning half-a-round, glancing back to meet my level stare: "Coat?"
I smiled at him and shook my head quietly.
"What'd that guy want?" asked the guy awaiting the resumption of whatever bull session the businessman had interrupted; and again, I had to re-rail the thought-train after the guages hot-swapped underfoot, yet re-rail it did, and answered his question:
"I didn't quite verify, but I'm quite certain he wanted to take my coke."
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."
`` 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".
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?"
Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty walk into a bar; not at the same time, of course, and most likely through different doors, on different days of weeks occasionally synchronized and often wholly missing, until after a decade of such temporal anisotropy, they wind up sitting as near as politely possible: as philosophers dine, they've left an empty stool betwixt for the Lady, and scattered charms to ward off bad tramps and divert the ones in need of redirection.
Since it's been centuries since The Fall, cancellation, reboot, shoot, toot, and least importantly, endless academic deconstructivism of the theological substrate radiation and reflexive mechanical reassembly of leftover operators, they end up discussing that long-lost mutual friend, that lalalamamafaka: General Relativity.
Sherlock does do his best, but Moriarty is asking the questions this time. Soon enough, Mycroft finishes pouring a trivially hypergeometric shuralgebraic or two, slaps'em down on the bar without a drop spilled, not before instinctively ensuring that its level plane is locally flat, soft yet insufficiently malleable to serve as an example of ductility, brittle yet not enough to crack under the stress and strain of tension and solvation, and most importantly, roughened imperceptibly to their fingertips by abrasion against shattered glass and feathering tools.
Silence reigns. You can hear every conversation, for a distemporal ephemerality.
Mycroft scatters compasses of all parities, arbitrarily parting the arrangement with an unwieldy doubly straightedged knife upon which are engraved the words:
"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."
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!"
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)