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"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)
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!
These are some notes recovered from an old pad by the name of "Google Keep"; since I trust those ramparts about as much as beer farts, let's back up to an even more mysterious cloud!
2016-04-10 untitled so tree
sirocco rpt autocorrupt the phone alone falls only from the throne how now plow cow?
how about a nice game of AlphaDrama (a game for one humanity (autocorrupt: bullshitter))?
I'd play with myself, but I don't yet know the rules of theoretical play well enough to sing a solo songalong
- 2016-04-10 Digital Fortress
This is what you should never build yourself; the day you become wealthy enough to need one, you hire the best opsec guy in your network to build it not-for-but-with you. Building it yourself is a challenging exercise, worth your time for the lessons you'll get, but should never be regarded as battle-ready tech.
The fortress consists of maximally inspectable hardware, and double-compiled software. The fortress contains no key loggers, and all packets are sniffed before exit.
Such beautiful silence, at the hour you could only choose as twelve... confirming what before you only thought you knew: this task was for an elf! But you let prosody get your betters, and fell again from the highest cliffs. Aah well, life isn't all buts nor ifs.
- 2016-04-11 Enter Archman
Daunted by the full scope of the task ahead, once it'd finally hit him, he inhaled slowly, nostrils hugging tight to his septum till they nearly made one fleshy mass, then fluttering apart as he whistled out his newly-relaxed surprise: "Coo!"
The most difficult part of predictive authorship lies in determining, before the words have been etched, into which (whinceth?) medium - a question spanning memory, security, audience, prestige, self-image... the works.
- 2016-04-20 Gallows Stall
there's a wondrous adolescent joy about calling just to hear a friend's voice; not a ring-wrong-ditch, but a brief chinwag, to hear the surprised joy on the other end, even catch a whiff of it yourself. That's a just use of the tech, playing on the social buttons of hearing familiar voices to elicit emotion... yet like any weapon, no degree of safety nor training can ever prevent it from one day swinging the wrong way, slamming shut on an innocent tail.
- 2016-06-13 Burned Manuscript
This is not my story, I'm just the unfortunate wretch charged by fate, misfortune, to tell it, to beat the odds and bear the news of our victory. Setting out, unknowing the end, only the message received, the word to pass, of the victory achieved at Marathon.
This is not your flood, nor your blood. This is not your scene, nor your dream. It's a waking life, all day aware, never afraid, never too scared. This is the first day of the rest of your strife.
Virtuous machine learning: self-image deciding recognizing fraud detection for p2p makers. redefine spam!
- 2018-09-25 Irony, Man!
Not a quarter after "Gallows Stall", this one dude hung himself in the shower using his clinic-issued pajamas as rope. Life finds a way - even one out.
... ...awake or just a guest at my own wake to spite the cold I play for playing's sake from bottles cut a river flows of sake ...lest we drink our silly way to taki touch more than just black and white they said you play all day from fear you'll wake up dead here now I stay at last that day is past when loved ones see a final smile aghast let's wager there's another way to say ol' Woland dallies when collecting pay smiling like a Cheshire, B cries: "words!? my tongue's curved forkature beats nurbs!" who could even dare to claim to write a fitting battle tribute song tonight
Sing to me, O Muse, not of her that slipped past, down the streetside path to God-knows-where yet here, always, forever, like the track star: gone yet never left (or from another frame, nothing but!)
Sing to me, O Muse, not of future's solvent, buffering that unmeasured measurable, mind's undustable mirror image, introducable yet never reproducable;
Sing to me, O Muse, not of idiots forgettable in days so-ber as to make mules mate...
Sing with me, for I'm losing my only voice.