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TERROR WARNING: The weak of spirit would call this a waking nightmare; they who have so diligently abraded all traces of spirit against the lathe of heaven must recognize it by now as merely the latest page in a choose-your-own horrorshow.
In chilling duality to that recurrent sensation wherein the final peace found at the end of freefall is merely sudden resumption of consciously sensing the equilibrated support of one's own somata, one of the worst states of mind into which to awaken is the panic of an uncontrolled dive from full comprehension of plexure hypervalent than the waking state: final grips at an idea's full graph alternate with sense data, and soon enough the tendency of entertaining the illusion of control compels the counting compulsion to reveal that the two sequences tend in opposite directions. Punt that observation of how the Zeroth Impersonal is less lonely than the person into whom I now awake, in favor of hinting the local nabla, that it may guide tomorrow's turn...
Imagine an amphiphilic fluid near criticality, foaming as it struggles to contain the nucleated vapor phase within at least two surfaces of liquid. The liquid itself churns, oligomers forming and vanishing while enthalpy dances between the phases. Consider only those oligomers lasting longer than the relaxation time of the pressure imbalance across a punctured membrane; and consider only those regions of the liquid sufficiently thin to contain no more than a single layer of so-called bulk separating the surfaces. The arrangement of such units is enumerable, whether the fluid is water or words.
Barely over a decade ago, I had my conversation last (at the time of this writing) with an inspiration - words don't do him justice, so I'll use as few as possible, though fallibility and fatalism compel the use of a few extra. I don't remember our full exchange - for it took place over minutes scattered down the hours and years, blown across forest trails, grassy diamonds, and endlessly flowing pitch, level for a fleeting lifetime - so I'll avoid quoting the exact words leading to the following misinterpretations, although if reinterpret them you must, I recommend that you do so with the assistance of one or more of the locutors present at the time of that speaking...
- If you must shoot, shoot to kill.
- If your first shot isn't likely to kill, make sure you're sufficiently familiar with the firearm that you can send off a handful.
- Kill with at least one bullet.
- Don't be the guy who gets shot in his sleep on the beach.
- Don't write that book.
- If you must enlist, think once; think twice; and enlist.
He is quite likely to have meant at least one of those interpretations, and someday I hope to ask him which of those unintended were not incorrect.
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.
Check out this 8bit-clean compactification of notes, written by mine own hand, during a recent seminar delivered for the organic chemistry department, on the subject of academic publication, by a doctor named Neville Compton, who spoke as representative of a publication conglomerate; out of respect for the academic process, and the prudence necessary for correctness, I will give credit where credit is due, although the full names of audience members are not disclosed out of respect for their privacy:
2019-02-18T15:42:33 notes during SOC Seminar, 2019-02-14T15:00 Dr Neville Compton von Ang.Che, EIC 'forest vs trees' cf numbers: Erdos, Bacon... worandie Bell curve for the Nobel graph? unidimensional academic noise: launch/land density of journals/societies didimensional research mappings: lat/long are only relevant at lowest&highest resolutions, languages (of publications&conferences) are more relevant 'What Would Hipassus Publish?' re: publication (cf lateral vs longitudinal communication, ie, 3+1- metric): "language all over the place", in abstracts (and the rest of the paper), he means that authors conflate vernaculars with 'standard english' [noshit.gif] "none of our editors are active in research" cf tenure - academic vs editorial "publication ethics" academic ethics from the editor's perspective: plagiarism, misdirection, interest conflicts, exclusivity violations (in no particular order) journals use antifraud software!? drywear!? what idiocy is this. 'who will fuzz the fuzzers?' Editor's Note: Please do not shout from the gallery! datafraud detection: are graphics considered wrt viewing on screens, printed, or as raw data? this I asked at the end, and he claims: they've only launched systems for raw data, and are still mulling over presentation forms. citation DAG: prune early, prune often! reviewers are not necessarily a blindable factor, so journals (at least, those owned by his conglomerate) consider author recommendations and interest-conflict disclosures "new vs innovative" - what's the difference between 'novation' and innovation? this is 'patent nonsense', mais c'est pumpernickle! everything becomes FeNi when it's all fini. journals respond in a variety of manners, rejection does not necessarily mean the research itself is invalid, and could just be an opportunity to revise its draft for publication; often the editor will offer comments (their own, and/or based on peers' reviews) elaborating why exactly the draft was rejected rather than accepted with suggested modifications. speaker presents a "pyramid" graphic, reminiscent of food pyramid, but I, sitting aside Umberto's ashes, think of that trivial Manutius<->Garamond pingpong... editors accept responsibility for the whole review ensemble's opinions, thus suffering appeals, blames, etc: they are the diplomats of academia! the manager-psychologists, calm-skinn ed thick-headed lizards, soaking up environmental energy. What would Malaclypse do? social media leads to rapid dispersal yet also to rapid fragility of shifts (cf orders of phase transition, fragility in the literal, engineering sense) ... at which point, RA comments in tangential response to NC's question "if you hadda earna million pounds in twenty seconds, what would jesus do?" that he'd ask for a fistbump. initially I misinterpret, since RA and I communicate as silently as practical, knowing that the entire classroom hears our every word, as I do not whisper, and superfluid tetranucleomers do not sign. my interpretation entails social media's brittlifaction of the infosphere as arising from electrodynamics in a manner similar to friction. final thought, before stage is opened for audience questions: the challenge of 'social engineering' the publication process hinges upon an editor's (thus also their peers') susceptib ility to influence by 'screen numbers', i.e., number of followers. not all numbers are created equal, although some numbers are more equal than others!
Postscriptum: The documentation processor aimed at conventions wherein a doublequote indicates speech by the presenter, and a singlequote indicates stenographer neologism.
nota bene: - please include statement to be proven, at top of file, - along with the assumptions deemed indispensible, - not necessarily in that order. - thank you *** 1a1 student assumed: - field of positive integers - from which, logarithms are extracted at a sufficiently high base - autopsist has enough humorsense to creatively disinterpret names of chosen variables in the context of locally-smooth metrics. for your consideration: - the integer constants in this exercise had historical meanings for the current operator of the autopsy machine. *** 1a2 student simulated: - piled cannonballs until reaching closed-form series collapse likely assumptions: - familiarity with common integer sequences - access to well-indexed encyclopedia **** for the benefit of Mr Kite: there will be a show tonight, with cannonballs. how about these classes of complexity computation? - i. naturals are either a constant, or sums of a constant. - ii. triangles are sums of all consecutive positive integers. - iii. squares are sums of two consecutive triangular numbers. - iv. square pyramids are sums of all consecutive square numbers. - v. now, you are thinking with exponential implosions.
The remainder of the proof mistranslations are left as an exercise for the future.
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.
Trigger Warning: This post may have been produced in a facility that also processes lucidly-written prose.
SET: My current life doesn't quite consist of "unending boredom punctuated by brief moments of sheer terror", but I'll reluctantly admit to being most afraid of succumbing to my own destructive boredom, yet also most loathe to harm my only asset - quite a powerful pact! Self-expression through words has tended to only agitate those who try understanding them, so recently I've combated boredom through reading, cycling, and the avoidance of liberal language with those who profess intent to analyze, heal, or otherwise "help" me beyond the essentials: camaraderie, companionship, and the unfettered exchange of information.
SETTING: On the day of this experience I seasoned my breakfast cooking with 0.8g vapovers, then cycled (or drug the steed) for several hours across rough terrain and rocky shoals to visit two friends whom, for lack of better pseudonyms, I will call Shura and Alice; the former I have known for several years, since our military service; I've only met Alice, who now lives with Shura, a few times before; but military conditioning runs deep, so I trust Shura's judgement in more regards than just partnership and supply.
ANANDOMIMETICS: I vape cannabis at low doses on a roughly daily basis, a habit variously termed "titration", "infusion", or "addiction", depending on the speaker's set. I cook with the leftovers - an imprecise science, but it brings back the magic of cannabis as adventure, a magic which frequent abusers erode. I do not consider my use of such natural medicine improper, yet I am aware that it places me without Law.
SEROTONERGICS: Lacking precise dosage data or other statistics, I brag with reticence, but I have developed quite a tolerance. My conscious mind enjoys a broad variety of receptor agonization, but the subconscious evidently doesn't enjoy entertaining that luxury and has gotten infuriatingly efficient at leaving me at or below a Shulgin-scale "Plus Two". This was my first time smoking changa (or any other form of DMT).
I arrived at Shura's door roughly six hours after breakfast. When greeting me, Alice lamented that she always met me in a similar physical state: awash in mud, sweat, and the good vibes that hours of highcycling catalyze. This comment brought to mind James Herriot's encounters with his fellow veterinarian's wife, Zoe, whom he'd never met sober. Although I've so long despaired of finding such an elusive mindset as to consider sobriety merely a useful social fiction, I still felt keenly what James Herriot described: the embarrasment of a somewhat insecure man finding himself disheveled to the point of clownhood in the presence of a charming woman, who also happens to be a good friend's partner. Before this reflection made more than the most fleeting impression, Shura and Alice herded me about with encouragements to feel at home and join them for pancakes.
While discussing with Shura how morals shift during and since service, Alice asks for clarification about one point I'd made using obscure language, and Shura explains with one word, "Bandit", to convey the immortality of action limited only by fear of capture. Though I appreciated the efficiency of information transfer between Shura and Alice, mediated by the connotations around that one word, amplified by the pronounced accent, I felt a twinge of excitement: for me, the word evokes Barnoch, Vodalus, Severian, and the cardinality of ethical continua. The philosophical discussion was cut short by relocation to the living room once we finished our meal, where we returned to psychedelia - that is, subconscious manifestation of the conscious, and vice versa; for lack of a better slang, "Mindbending".
After several reminiscences and comparisons of unshared experiences, Shura seemed to surprise Alice by offering me to try DMT for the first time, in the form of smoked changa. I gladly accepted his invitation, and he prepared me a mattress and pillow just indoors from a balcony: at my disposal were generous airflow, roughly pi steradians' view of the nighttime city at my right and the art-adorned living room to my left, and my two hosts making last preparations such as turning off the TV, adjusting music, and fetching that snuff that makes us dream.
Shura lit a stub of incense representing the Home archetype, and marked my "third eye" with the charred end after it finished smouldering. Next, he offered me plant ash snuff containing nicotine as nootropic, or at the very least, mental laxative. A pair of assisted insufflations, one per nostril, sufficed to send me powerwalking to the bathroom to practice the eyewash drill, but I returned after a couple of minutes to blow my nose and excuse myself for having not snorted anything in years. Shura suggested I smoke the hit while sitting, and lie down if needed; I propped my back against the pillow, accepted the pipe and lighter, and took in the hit which seemed to my eyes to be quite small, but Shura insisted was an appropriate dose for a first time.
I was able to return the pipe before noticing any effects; but by the moment the lighter linked our hands, I was struck by a wave of situational analysis, closely followed by visual effects. Before my attention turned to the visuals, I found myself analyzing the Promethean symbolism as my fovea refocused from the dime-a-dozen plastic lighter to the human guide sitting cross-legged by my mattress, his expression as inscrutable as the firsthand view of secondhand smoke.
Least interesting of all the visual effects were the baroque decorations leaking from an oblong lattice; predecessors have far surpassed my ability to describe polychrome fractalizations using mere language, and readers unable to visualize these or experience for themselves may still observe any of the countless offerings of complex analysis carried to its unending whorls (such as the sets of Mandelbrot and Julia). Additionally, I fear that my training and expertise with absurd doses of phenethylamines and tryptamines both natural and synthetic has desensetized me to such beauty. Far more interesting to me - and I'd been piecing together this decision during the minutes leading up to inhalation - would be searching for the neurological or optical elements of the entity contact phenomenon.
The visual field consists of both a broad two-dimensional display of the surroundings, and the mind's interpretation of them. By leaving my eyes neither solely closed nor open, but alternating at several low fractions of Hertz, I observed the interplay between how the latter broke free of the external world's impositions upon the former, which I shall now endeavor to describe as best I may, given the impaired lenses through which recall I must.
Concurrent with the effects' plateauing arose a memory of an old friend's account of her first DMT experience: though her exact words have faded, they left an impression of disdain; that she had experienced no effects beyond the visual. While I did not notice alterations to my thought process beyond those of a large bong hit, closing my eyes unleashed visual distortions of a hitherto unseen nature: each of several times, the neural leftovers of Shura and Alice rose from their seated poses to approach eachother and unite.
Reflexively yet without apprehension, I wondered whether I was about to watch them fuck; yet no amount of reading - Hegel, Huxley, or others - can prepare for, nor quite capture, the experience of witnessing Adam and Eve yield Shiva, within the bony personal cell of skull island. The entire process took minutes, if not mere seconds; while I lost count of both blinks and breaths, there was no subjective distortion of Time.
Speechless, I opened my eyes for a final time; that is to say, I relinquished conscious control of my blinking reflex, and grinned at Shura like a village idiot greeting his mayor. Meeting my eyes and hearing my silence, Shura raised a fist, which I met with mine. I do not recall our precise words, and I suspect they were preceded by laughter, but it was clear that the "Businessman's Lunch Trip" was over.