spinnaker globules (one fifty-thousandth chances)

Rest, thy nostrils in contusion, thy allotropes of disgust fluoresce, thy messengers doze in the midday sun. Perhaps in the blue envelope merry be a minstrel labrador. Minus Semiackroyd and Semimurray.

bitter: not much to say

Look! Leishmon and Doropadro didn't return from their expedition amongst the Nightmare Machines. I told you that it was a bad idea, with their papier-mache dinghies and their Electric Bugaloo Turbines. Trans-what? Transcension? Transcoherence? Transaptitude? Transattitudinal? transcached? tracecached? Transpartitioned? Translinear? Translocalisms? What formalism is this composed in? Dyzgoa language? Bisphenyl Corotatory language? Yeusg-Phombront radiative neutrino expression signage? The last time I read a Dyzgoa polyrhyme my nasal phalanges nearly underwent exculpatory transparesis! Too much "trans"ism! Transmetaparahypersuperultrosis? That's a nasty affliction I hear. Utter phenylcyclization and didgejombling. And it's a fair lot that you can't have some kind of "new extrusionaries" or "the new reasoning", because someone's already done it already, or done something to render it pointless and ludicrous! You don't have "The People's Pompidisclarian Committee for the Explicit, Unambiguous Expression of Concepts and Ideas"? Do you remember when Silas Arragheri and Melissa Wylhoeff discovered the Transgesimal Underflow? It smelled like dried tempera paints in elementary school.

transjunctive excision

Choppy turbulent coffee, tobacco, and alcohol scented froths of dulled perception line the weal. Turbid people-twainings and perspective separations lay before thee. There are those so well-off that the clubs and establishments which they frequent serve water distilled from children who have just seen their parents die most horribly. At places like this, glass clothes are in vogue these days: suits and trousers made entirely of glass: some even rigid, with the wearer in some kind of fluorescent undershirt beneath. These people, if you want to call them that, are so rich that they don't need to worry about sense. I'm told that if I dress nicer I'll get the girls, or something like that. Why would I want to do that? Why would I want someone so concerned with presentation that they are completely transparent to substance? Just because you can afford diamonds mined by starving Sudanese children, does that mean you ought to? Just because you can afford fabric painstakingly sewn by a Belgian two year old, does that mean you should wear it? In twenty years the fabric will be moth eaten or covered in smelly organic solvents keeping the moths away: it'll smell old and your best attempts to keep it new and fresh will shorten its life. Even diamonds are metastable in air -- they turn into graphite extraordinarily slowly.

sinus

the air feels like thin tobacco paper fragments, dried, soaked in week old coffee grounds. it is rich, pungent, sulfurous, aching with caffeine, nicotine, the smell of old rubber, the smell of new rubber and organic solvents. the air smells like it's been bleached by light and everything looks dry. perhaps I'm dehydrated. perhaps this sinus headache just places a muslin gauze of dessication in the air, but as my nostrils let up, I can swear it's not just me who is feeling this. it's in the air, I say, the air. a thin hoarfrost of fall dryness.

the far longing

say to me, tell me, touch message me, kythe me:
"hey, you really don't suck. you really really really really
don't suck. I want to spend time with you. How can we juggle
our schedules to make this happen? I like you. I'm not artificial.
I'm not a figment of your imagination. I'm out there. I'm real.
I exist. I am in the flesh. I am substantial. I have mass and
inertia. I'm not a ghost or suffering from an existence failure
at the moment. I'm honest, but I don't like saying so: that kind
of self-description fills me with dread too: it's just another
abuse of language. It's just another attempt to be dishonest.
But this space is not for me to talk about what we agree about:
there'll be time enough for that later when we meet. I'm just temporarily
borrowing your fingers because in this rather... I hasten to say 'idiotic'
because it isn't, or to lay blame at the universe, because we are parts of it,
but from a hardened perspective, I think neither of us can but help doing
that. I am saying this as much to you as you are saying it to me? I don't
know. We are, have been, very distant from each other. What else do I think
you need to hear? I think you're.... I can't put it
into nonpoetical language. You are home, you are from the same semantic
clade as me. Home is where the heart is? The heart is not here. Here is
longing and a little mess. Flux tubes of coruscating desire furiously
gyrate like iridescent kelp fronds in the ether, like the plasma jets
from the accretion disk of a black hole at the center of a galaxy, like
an evolving civilization, a misplaced metaphor,
a wet shifting glowing geranium scented array of interconnecting
corridors and passageways, oscillating and changing, leading to
delight and disaster, depending on direction and intent. You need
to let go. To just let go. And it's so hard to do that because you're
currently (and sadly) surrounded by people who are somnabulists. You are
more awake than any, and that's a scent of fresh mellifluent lettuce to me.
I am nearby. Closer than you might think. I'll see you soon."

Sementhemes for Clarissa

Sleeping light monstrous smocks? A mastermind minding it's own minimax strategy starts on Graham Kerr and peers at the bonobos, bleating cacophonously its rather messy message. Haloo, Halay, I saw a bearded Malay smoking a cheroot on the beshingled roof of the Count's summer home, the Prince of Paresthesia, the Pauper of Prissiness, E. Ethwin Mengwharve. The hired help (well, at this point Mathilde was more a live in lover than a maid, and Mengwharve took advantage of her in the obviously concievable fashion) was more like an accident in home misdesign, or home misstaffing. Three bleans of coriander drift lazily down from the firestalks and collide with the nose of Mengwharve's butler Georgius Alois Wartefunkelis, who brushes them away dismissively and derisively, paranoically believing them to be a species of beetle committed to the destruction of sand castles. Wartefunkelis, while not engaged in periphrasty or butlering, is given to writing nasal obsequies to the editor of the New Straffam Daily Buffoon detailing the horrors of beetles. And the scullery droid Y4-Seineproust bakes horrendous Yttrium tarts and mercurichrome souffles which are inedible by the human inhabitants of the house. Wartefunkelis usually ends up ordering Basque-Korean hybrid cuisine from Stan Kowalski's Ethnic Stereotype bar down the street, take a left, walk three paces to the North, prostrate oneself in the direction of Toronto and say five "All your base are to belong to us" in honor of the deity (well, their deity) Strong-Bad.


The villa is sprawled against the stucco houses: the architect who designed it was thoroughly out of her mind. This is not surprising because she decided to donate her mind to the Children in need of Minds Society before said society was declared illegal by the Docent of Sense. The villa looks like what you'd get when you take the finest shaped porcelain pot, all ready to be fired in the kiln, and throw it against the nearest politician's face, and then fire it, decide it wasn't worth a thing and toss it in a disused cardboard box, and then months later it's found by some plucky graduate student who decides that it would make the most fascinating piece of avant garde art, and has it displayed in the closest art museum's galleries to the adulation of the local egotistic art critics, and then gets numerous grants and fellowships while you languish in obscurity. It is *that* ugly an architectural monstrosity. Mengwharve inherited it from his grand uncle U. Propin Mengwharve thirty years ago, and has taken bitter satisfaction that he has used every minute of his occupation of the villa to synthesize a satiatingly spleen-strewn type of decadence, much to the ire of the surrounding countrymen, who work honest jobs at dishonest wages for your X-standard corporation. Mengwharve styles himself an aesthete, a patriarchical buffoon, a pair of needle nose pliers being used to remove a wart, a screamingly abused witness to the clumsiness of the species, an android baluchitherium, a shallow ice-cream spoon floating down the Ganges during monsoon season, a fat man with dead eyes and a loose face who is invited to the most pretentious soirees and speaks deliberately meaningless prose-poetry, a professorial adjutant to the local constabulary, called in times of need, a writhing sex bejungler, a catatonic ant-hater, a notably lunatic ice-maker, and so on, et cetera to the point of personal vertiginy, wherein in desiring the mantle of the appropriate monikers for all of these self-stylings, he becomes the Zenith Prince of Dilettantes and the Distracted, a title he often ignores, even though every reasonable art theorist damns him with it at least thrice a day (sometimes twice, in cases of great duress).


Wartefunkelis tolerates Mengwharve's exuberances, miseloquences, parturitions, parsimonies, ignominies, acrimonies with dizzyingly patient overtures too sublime and meticulous to escape Mengwharve's attentions with difficulty. While attentive and sharp, Wartefunkelis is not a condescending Jeeves, at least not in any way immediately perceptible to Mengwharve. Mathilde enjoys the comfortable high bandwidth communication channels that Wartefunkelis seems to comfortably and sublimely inhabit without arousing Mengwharve's jealousy. Mathilde complains: "It's like dating two men. Essel provides the cathexis, he's almost an engineer in catalyzing it in me, but when the field of focus is dancing the cosmic arrhythmias, he effortlessly arcs over his own head and collides against the opposite wall face, usually to shatter in thousands of pieces, um, well, okay, so more to smash and pulp like a piece of gelatin. Georgius's apprehension of the cosmic arrhythmias is unparalleled, but he sucks in the sack."

Mengwharve has this to say about Mathilde: "My shining radiant woman, my temple of femininity, my holy skirt to ransack and oscill in lugubriously vibratory miasmous pulsations. My scent-factory, my Central Central Womantelligence agency. The Zenir of my Nadith! My core competency! The inner base on which I draw my strength! My cactus! My Welshman of Belgium, my astroplexus of Cantor! My dynamic hip-possessor! My transnational supply chain, my astrological compass! My transpetroglyphics anonymous confessor! My very own mid-Nineteenth century pseudotalmudic French Existentialist philosophy! I scream and cry at the microseismic distortions which her feet make in the ground. I toss with glee at the sight of her body. I am overcome with the trilogy of eros, philos, and what was the other one? Agave? Tequila? Yes, that's it! Eros, Philadelphia, and Tequila, when I breathe her scent. I pulse and shudder to think of her."

Wartefunkelis sez of Mengwharve: "A singularly crimson wollop-wharf of incomprehensible traffic-jams. An undirected summons to the corpulent neutrino of status worship and diseased conception. His methods, his message, his structure all shriekingly declare an unrivaled incompetence. Mengwharve's inaccuracy is studied. His imprecision a work of art. His clumsiness is miraculously developed. If there is an inner sanctum of twithood, he is the temple monk. While I try to lubricate and smooth the confusing, congealed array of arroyos which is his star-stallion of a mind, he continues to amaze me with the buttery clash of his mind's continual malfunctioning."

higher order sinews and blankenship striations

Flayed isotropy sullenly marks its own grave. Stark standards bobble and shake in the thin green lines of the ice-nostrils. Beauteous liniment cream bottles evolve from toothpaste jars. Jamboree me a messerschmidt teratomy, all red, crablike, violent, and restless. Project not thy extensions from within the mirrors of taxidermy. Rabid red rust fractals oscill and perfudder. Mary waves foliosely at Gargen as the setting sun rarefacts and makes its nightly doppler death. Gan mates with glans, languorous epistles to Lord Gouraud lost in the etherscapes turn up years later in old champagne bottles. Royalty makes its sad little dance. Princes and parsimonious paupers graciously offer their hands. It's not end times. It's not beginning times. It is no time. The thin deep brown-orange-purple twang of the sitar ululates against the stangstones. Suncliffs and archgulfs misted by icebursts, watercrashes, and steamquakes burblingly bear nature's own no-witness to the events: all is harrowed, hallowed, and lost in the blur. Seminal works by artisans and alligators remain uncatalogued. An era of simplification and complexification melodically intertwingle in the syncopated dance of all sentiences. Thar be an essendine, a burgeoning plume of stacked, intermingling simplexity and complefication finding a yet unsurveyed blood red arroyo in novel equipoise. Gnarled ice filaments tangle and stumble around the yet unfrosted season. Staunch ardworts and lessengues, crackling, blistering, browning and dessicating fall to the ground, instantly self-ashing, their non-nitrogenous semantic constituents to be digested and transfigured into new prosperity. Thinly, the distant echo of unabridged clarion-ring of perpetual, lazy, pan-trapezoidal meaninglessness that is our curse and our sunglasses pulses through the void, scrambling and dancing it's own arctangent tanzy, until the sequences of syncopated waves and exhalations finally is subsumed in the seas of uncordoned suchness. Dizzy sallowals and clasp-aigrettes for the prototypical transastrological fakir burn uncontested and unconcerned amongst the strewn cloudfronts. Knowingly, the art is never yet dead. Someone, whether here or twelve trillion parsecs away in another time-sheave of a far and distant landworld on a echoingly unaeonic orthogonal perceptual space will take it up again, balancing random filaments of chaos with deep contrails of iridescent violet structure, bringing the sloshing wet fury of the dance back from the dessicated paper fragments of the deep.

a brief summary of some famous bad ideas

Who could forget Simon Tbuntog's Diseased Paradox? Or Martin E. F. Whunkwheeze's Mistake? Or Georgina Saint Clymon's Insanely Stupid Concept which was accidentally released from the laboratory and caused half the residents of rural Chicago to become electric bees for two weeks until a crack team of semantic engineers from the EPA rounded up the idea and blasted it off in a rocket to space? While famous, their effects are somewhat like beetles, quick to spoil and very bright in shiny light. There are lesser well known bad ideas which I wish to mention, so that some of the young'uns amongst y'all won't be permanent orange-laces. There's Silas Congreve's Utterly Malpremised Syllogism, which gave Apricot Yallaby a case of adamsappleosis. And who can forget Noreen Bleenglewhort Johanson's Completely Malfunctioning Analogy which was applied in the Desparitions War by the Bolw-Syllons army to shocking and inhumane (and subsidiarily and more ignorably inhamsterane) effect? Or Hornas Almsby's Accidental Transposition which cost the lives of forty electric tardigrades in the Belgian Merchant Marine? Errors range from the ascetic heights of Irving Dendo's Subtle Binary Straw Indexing Gaffe to the lascivious obviousness of Natronkle Munckewort's Blatant Exipurugious Flamsteed Impropriety. The range encompasses the brilliant clarity of Sylvia F. Wrunkwright's Stunningly Transparent Error to the murky turgid blurriness of Salmitropan Syzgenda's Diallylsulfylhydrylminiskirtamine Disaster, which was proven conclusively to be a non-mistake by Silas Linderby in the year of our Gouraud 201,501,775,091 U.E (Usperime Error)

nand

Vesicles of raining rational number froth crash. Isolated shimmering fractured swans frolic in the surf. Senile lambs and drugged iguanas listlessly reexamine old feuds while flaying their angst on
the shore rock. Vainglorious semiknights clad only in boxers and garish hawaiian shirts lazily attack harmless rusted iron asp sculptures. HST'S shade hollers at the orange psychic sarcoidosis pfennig-frogs.

Yd. Oypabi. ydcbi C oa,v Cy ,ao oypabi.v

Orm.rb. oace yday ydcbio cb yd. jromro ap. oypabi.v Er frg ol.at Yd. nabigai. ru yd. l.rln.Z
C er bry ydcbt yday l.rln. jab gbe.poyabe rp .k.b ayy.mly yr ucbe a m.ydre ru o.apjdcbi urp yd. ypgyd ,cyd yd.cp ncmcy.e p.orgpj.ov Orm. l.rln. jab mrk. x.y,..b yd. y,r tcbeo ru ydcbio lp.yyf palcenf ,cydrgy dakcbi mgjd lprxn.mov Yd. Lprxn.mo ru l.rln. b..e yr x. aeep.oo.e rb. xf rb. abe br rb. P.annf dao abf ce.a ,day-o ircbi rbZ Er frgZ C eceb-y ydcbt orv C ydrgidy frg nrrt.e k.pf dape ay yd. ogb abe e.jce.e yday yd. ncidy ,ao mae. uprm jd..o.v

,dppe K kjglv kjak tsf mgujk a; ,spp

And so on and so forth ad nauseum ad astra.

Theropods and demescenes slapped thar rascally wabbits. Stillness abated at the crack of dawn. Nomes and telemetry glistened dully in the dawn's acrid glare. Stark storks hithered and thithered themselves to yon. Maseratis and Lamborghinis fell skywards. attracted by unmentionably perverse forces. Samutpadam? Sent tempestuous messages to incite trysts and assignations amidst my comrades? Leavened bread dastardly attacks my cantilevers. I hasten to immerse myself in the poor, syrupy language theatre that is my typewritten text produced while in Scholes.

more dispatches from the post-onctopoate

The interlocutor from last week's history lesson speaks again:

"Well, hrm. Invited here against my wrath and wreth to speak. What glorious and umbral joy you must all be feeling at my extemporaneous yattering. Well. Where does that leave you? And this time being shanghaied to speak to onctopoate creatures. No matter. It would get really dull. You know. I wouldn't want to live there and no one I know socially would. They spend their days obsessing about birth, death, love, sex, all the transitories and ephemerals. And then when they get the tiniest bit of awareness that suchness is stranger than they've been previously accustomed to, they employ their phenomenally limited terminological tools to just discover even more frightfully strange places and horrific melodies which simultaneously represent holy anthems and the most obscene heresies and blasphemies against their purported self image of immortality. I could say (and I would be right), that it gets awfully messy, and it does, but I didn't say that. I could also say (and again, I would be right), that it would be foolhardy for us to forget that they are our sensory organs. Our sight is mediated by and through them. We discover things in their world by their eyes, their eyes and sensoria being the most adapted methods of seeing within their part of the flow. They're not that useful for seeing outside and beyond their flow, but their flow is our flow. And thusly, we can't help but being active witnesses in their great migration. Which brings be to a rather nasty and unfortunate word, namely "onctopoate". It's a tag question or expression in our language which falls flat, to the side, collides against their vague understanding. Similar words with less clear meanings are "supernatural", "weird", "odd", "mystical", and the like. But these words address nonspecific kinds of reality frame changes or perceptual frame changes which they only have a limited understanding of. "onctopoate" refers specifically to nontransitive dicoherent space: where you're either coherent or not with other systems, and so there's a set theoretically valid laws of form origination with their world. Consequently, the wholeness superenvironment in which they live is formed by meshing together the skeins of that space, and thusly we get an uncountable spacetime which is gooey and hard to hold on for them. When, say, T. McKenna drunkenly made his little escapade through Praalas square after having taken a tryptamine, and the bazaar dealers at Squales market had such fun trying to sell/bribe him with trinkets and other tchotchkes, and then reported back to the other primates about what wonders he had seen, he yammered and stammered and spoke unclearly.

I guess my point here is twain. First of all I'm talking about the use and abuse of the word "onctopoate". We use that term to exclusively refer to their world. When they get a hold of it and wave it above their heads like a virgin captured from the war enemy, and then start sticking things on it, such as "transonctopoate", "post-onctopoate", "ortho-onctopoate" and so forth, we can't help but notice their resemblence to idiots. "

a little bit of history

"Class, today, Nyctrium Spellmnemnote will explain the intellectual history of a primate species"

"Thank you, Nuy. Sorpans. Today I will be lecturing you on the intellectual history of a particular primate species. Their catalogue number is BK34412-Sprung-120/1/4/224@s41#1200n when you set the Arbaghast origin at the Mneuve point of Strovvins and the index scape to be the Snell-Rothman transtributarial shuttered space without Rorse conjuncts. They have variously referred to themselves as "Sons of Adam", "We-Ilu", "Humanity", "anthropoi" and so on. Their history is fairly typical (much to the ire of its religious maniacs).

This species' physical scoping of their universe began with a standard foray from the find-the-origin maniacal monism of religion into the necessary dualism to kick start scientific reasoning. A two dimensional coordinate system was devised: differential and integral processes for determining the motions of objects affected by dualized fields of force were fractionally distilled and developed. The short flat object falls to the ground: it is a part of the gravitational field, not apart from it. The requisite scientific dualism which cleaves things from names of things is, as usual, a major thread in this type of civilizational sequence.

The pattern by which a species first discovers that dualism is a tool, and then proceeds to know how to selectively employ and discard it is always unique, but there are some general trends which primate species have in common. In their mathematics, they discover the screaming lout of formal reasoning shooting itself in the foot fairly early, and usually bootstrap from dithering around with differential equations first to find the paths of projectiles and primate warfare devices, to predicting the movement of objects, to topology, then to category theory, and beyond to nematics and transliteral functorics and still onwards.

Primate physicses are always a joy to behold. Usually they occur uncoupled to various meditative practices which have made the same kind of realizations in the grand scale much earlier, and yet they persist to twirl and pirouette around the notion of finding an ultimate reduction of all reality (FEAR: the fundamental explanation of all reality), and take things to absurd energies and ridiculously untestable fantasy concepts.

I'll take a break from talking about this species in particular and give you an idea of the keysign that a particular species has taken the first steps to really understanding itself. The term we will use is autonoia. A species achieves autonoia when it realizes precisely and unambiguously the wherefore of its own construction and functioning from a nonmonistic perspective. The Stranconid creatures of the Spineworld of Clorselis attained autonoia when they realized their separation from the environment (as well as other related organism in that biosphere) was occuring in the buckytube networks in their brain organs. It should be noted that they achieved autonoia much faster than the human beings have.

Primate species have huge hangups about terminology. They don't like mixing religious or quasi-religious terminology with intellectual terminology. Where science and religion are disjoint this works phenomenally well. Where science and religion overlap, there is disaster and lack of progress because entities contest for ownership of specific parts of the territory. There are unneccesary and protracted sematic turf wars. The minds of human beings run on a fabric of protein tubules capable of maintaining a coherent environment unslaved from tathata for limited periods of time, just like every other diune species in the onctopoate. The terminological angle is that the humans made a microphysics for elementary particle (hah!) forces, and a macrophysics for gravitational forces, and the name for the microphysics became abused by religious and quasireligious charlatans who confuted and compounded the mystery by attributing them to the same source. (that is, the name of the microphysics was rather unfortunate, and once prepended to anything, made it seem dreamy and distant). The funny thing is as their pedants stridently, starkly, skeptically, and pedantically refused to associate the strangeness that is consciousness with the microphysical properties of their brains. To quote S. Klayflon Norhoim: "Your biology has had 4.6 billion years to generate the information processing structures within which your minds reside: they harness the microphysics of your universe with far more fecundity than the limited language-juggernauts which you have engineered on silicon, and you persist in telling me that your brain is some kind of dualistic process which occurs with no regard to the most efficient way of transperambulating information with respect to that microphysics?"

Again, this kind of natteringly limpid rate of self-understanding is altogether too typical for primate species. One of the saddest effects of this is that primate species usually have a balloon phase wherein they think that physical space exploration is important for territorial reasons when resource allocation strategies by different geographical clades conflct and are cast as putatively all-important political, religious, or intellectual differences. What happens 7 times out of 12 is that the necessary gut-and-stinkem balloon phase causes a focus on computational systems, and then a catalyzed switch from physical exporation to mindscape exploration, which accelerates the process of achieving autonoia. Once autonoia is achieved, a given species can free itself from gene-slavery. As Welhorve Scriller said: "I will die. All finite systems in the onctopoate will die. I'm just no longer rushed by a genetic aging program. I have isomorphic software, but am now on different hardware. My humanity, that oft shaken trophy of normative biological thinking is the ability to be responsible and adaptable, to be imperfect. But to be imperfect better. We are no longer played by our genes. We are no longer in their thrall, either by religious commandment or environmentalist insanity. If anyone was in their thrall in the mental sense, it was those people who had ideas which were adaptive to the genes' perspective: don't muck with us. We're in charge. We're the bosses. You have to respect the genes. Don't tinker around with what you don't understand. And commit ourselves to a slavery which we're now aware of. I have to admit, being the result of spamfights between viral gene fragments is amusing, but long terminal repeats, choriocarcinomas, and a whole host of other collateral damage is just insulting. We have also not made the mistake of making ourselves too perfect, since we have seen the results of shallowing the pool. Yes, there were accidents and mishaps along the way, like any other endeavour. But the rewards so far outweigh the risks that you just have to wonder how much religion and rabid environmentalism were phenotypes of the genes control on human behaviour"

So, I'm done. I hope you enjoyed this little talk. Next week I'm going to speak about the actual (ed.: subjunctive) history of human autonoia."

gender identity

Some people have the "oh, I'm male" or "oh, I'm female", while being biologically the opposite.
Some people are decidedly and unambiguously feminine or masculine. Some people are androgynous
either by intent or accident, seeking synergy between the two. "genderqueer" isn't entirely appropriate either.

See, I sense the female and male threads in me descendent from my parents and those threads
are, for most of the time, thrashing. It is most definitely a binary and most definintely thrashing. It's
not... decategorified sufficiently for its internal components to blur together. The female is russian, harsh,
concerned with appearence. The male is czech, relaxed, concerned with actual structures and data. The whole
is western slavonic and relatively loopy. Somewhere in the intertwining process neither really succeded in becoming the other, and they're constantly dancing around each other at a very high frequency. I suppose that's what sex is: two beings desiring to become the other, starting with low frequency physical oscillations which cascade into higher frequency oscillations: getting so close together that you've got someone new.

leeway garamond

The metrical notions subsided, remembrances of transcoherent messages were lost in the ether. Notochords twirled in the wake. Mistral saliences tossed demoniacally in preparation for a tonnage sleeper. Many a moment spent in contemplation of the interior distensions of the ice queen. Next to my wavering inattention, thorough clementines spiralled around. Taffy and slime meshed around and sal ammoniac sprayed unto the vice-lords, smectic layers buffeted by basalt columns and granite protuberances while lasses in classes with tanned basses and chartreuse tassels tallied the measure of carbon and sulfur compounds in the air. Rather unequivocally the messed with the telephone system, and disrupted communications throughout the entire Pacific northwest.

Brolheim and Helliers' /Gestalt Awareness Amongst Onctopoate Sentients/

Gestalt mentalities vary from your garden variety primate religions, to highly meditative practices which link them to the universe. Regrettably for most onctopoate sentiences, there's no good shopping guide that describes in detail the sublime bioanatomy of gestalts. In a staggeringly large variety of cases, most onctopoate sentiences never have direct experiences (it is a quirk of onctopoate languages that there is such a word as "mystical" -- which is shorthand for saying "our science and our politics are too dimwitted to properly and precisely analyze the bulk of data points currently languishing in the cultural information pools.) Nevertheless Brolheim and Helliers do a remarkable job detailing the sublime bioanatomy of gestalts which would be of inestimable value to onctopoate entities (if it could ever be produced in a non-dreaming state in an onctopoate sensorium).

Meditation which uses mantras uses the mantra speakers as signal generators. The signal is used as a clock for a gestalt. The gestalt then redistributes the mantra speaking as needed. Even religions are a kind of gestalt. Gestalts do not have to be explicitly religious to be religious. You see this kind of thing quite a bit in primate species: religions get started and perpetuate themselves through marketing: the gestalt is maintained through interpreted and reinterpreted experience, not necessarily direct in character. Therefore the members do not have the kind of direct experience required to provide equipoise for the gestalt. Individual people have a difficulty balancing themselves with the universe: gestalts provide more information for individual people by relaying more border data to individual people than the person would normally be able to accomplish by themselves. The direction of a species' development and the development of internal gestalts within that species

dvorak

Naw, Deimos sauntered in the menhir, rambunctiously sliding under the weight of manifold drumlins. Belittled daggers tossed in glee ritually corroded to please the directors tasty relatiwes. Mebbe a rebbe belaboring under the notion of free energy and perpetual motion machines saw the real cosmos rather than an imitation, thereby saving all humanity from the appetites of the Sanpsorrit demon. What a drag, eh, Monsieur Ari Archibalthasar Congreve? Oh, you know that my aigrettes and eclectic apparitions coarsely vivify the delusions or the fantasies of the uncommonweal, don't you? Managed to do whatsoever you wish? Hah! It is that sort of plenary carelessness which salt, saltpeter, or desalinated salt statues dedicated to the deities' detritus and detriment while decent folk struggle against scams and scars. Semantics astride the bellows of misbegotten woes mates with mandated mellifluttery, much to the ire of the local cynics. Talc clambors and quests for random manes slidingly arrayed by the application of anally and pedantically imprecise surveying techniques must offend one of y'all. Natteringly, Theophagus Oroxetes blasted the beadle for allaying the overauditor's concern for the missing gantry operator.