Saturday, September 13, 2008


might you be a configuragbility dunderhead? what can your computer do? are you opposed to arbitrary reconfiguration? well, I'm not. If you want your T key to be an enter key, I'm for it. I'm just not for machines that are unconfigurable or inconfigurable. Give me flexible, facile computing. Let me avoid those repetetive processes that are the bugaboo of the blunderbuss of my understrung superstring! I haven't a flonzy to bargain with, my caper is pure and my capers resemble walknuts. The violinzetti grandulously gourding the central repetetive processionaries have their own bivalve on the artlepungle, with such minas fancigoffdots and other seoppodsoppergdduals to the kingpin of the densitometers and I clearly need to take a break from all this neologismizing. But, maybe the central tentacell gravitat'd, a germane thing that nosoc? I valkyrgzstalwart! concentrate'd on the present

Thursday, September 11, 2008

finish this post

It is a subhybrid module of the nectarine variety. It has the flavor of a transmexican muffin: does it knock at midnight and what questions does it ask? Where does it have provable parts? Has it been seen in the company of abstract geometric spaces with decidedly nontrivial cohomology groups? The calculation that the restricted endive gives is not one which is particularly tasty or digestible in these parts, we're left with the ramified remainders and the lost postal addressing systems which only worked for nineteen dimensional matter-energy spiders, and no one is particularly interested in being their lunch. Oh sure, you come in with a complex library science problem and attempt to distract them from their mutterings in the stacks and all of a sudden one of them takes an intense interest in you and starts asking suggestive and nontrivial questions about the research that you're doing, but your deep research is their hunch. They spend about five minutes blasting you with references wither and yon and then get bored, and go back to muttering about misprints in nineteen eighties electronic toy catalogues, and whatever relevance that might have to the various mesozoic fauna that weren't involved in the collapse of the stock market in 1929 and you suddenly feel this pall coming over you: you're not going to get anything in the way of real, substantive help from any one of these matter-energy spiders. Whatever they suggest is based on wildly variant and variable premises that are strongly and piquantly distinct from what you're working on

uttered commentary

And in the mode of tomorrow, we find ourselves striving and seeking a potato chip of the future, a questionable taste that has yet to be whittled into a full time profession, a tympanic oscillation that predates the foredawn. Was the magic chicken not made from stone? What other less sundry offerings were made at the stone temple? And who piloted that ridiculous mackerel of a temple anyway? Edwina Elvengthar? Sam Stainstein? Or any of a cast of characters more unsundry than adroit. With manuscripts being thrown at each other and anthems and drinking songs being sung, I would rather make the decision myself: but the mylar corncob that is my life at the moment prevents such ease and such lanky facility with rapid and autonomous changes: I must consult the scrolls and am beholden to processes and prephets and other assorted (and unsortable) marginalia that first: I can have no ambiguous opinions, and second and perhaps more importantly: I find it hard to get across the most important of opinions that I think I have because many experiences that I think are the most important are also the most fleeting and the colors and history that belie some of them are the vanguard of the dismissable for some: I rely on a tasty few to make it through to the next branchforking.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

marketing ideas to me

the manic communique written in a perpendicular language had no sepulchritudinous verxes or anthems like the cross transets had their attention-monikers and their appallingly less-than-obvious extrusions into the local basalt schemas. I, as you may know, do not believe in the existence of Belgians, and therefore when accosted by the local religious, scientific, or secular lunatick soliciting for the proselytization of their religion, the adoption of questionable pseudoscientific scintillae, or the environmental awareness that is best (at least they consider so) respectively, I counteraccost them with my disbelief in the existence of Belgians, which of course exist, but to hear that so profoundly and adamantly as a response to said solicitations is meant to denote (particularly for the solicitor that I have to interact with): look, dude, I think that your marketing strategy is so profoundly misguided that I would rather state to you up front that I, being of sound mind, find your marketing strategy repellent and vacuous. If the idea which you are trying to pimp-meme me/someone on is so vacuous that you need to accost unsuspecting people and yatter at them, then I think I should express disapproval with a 'the way that you are presently marketing your concept is invalid. Please try again at a later date with sexier marketing materials and/or methods.'

Saturday, September 06, 2008


Selungulo theorized that amidst the cosmic (er, comic) network, that there was one thing that was missing. One thing that broke the cosmic symmetry, and that everything is striving (in one way or the other) to find (or approximate as best as possible) that thing. Selungulo thought that the reason (for life, or mustard, or Belgium, or what the hell have you) is that since that thing was .. bpdauhsgkfdhjeee

reports of the chirugeon

the charged, churling, charming, chaste, chirugeon enters a drudgeon with a dungeon and placates a lactating actatille with some fractious back action in iosonic prosody like a melody on a pocket calculator. Fervent convent inventions vent vaporous gaseous druid fluids like the deep sleep sheep because the strasse as an ass is quite blaise, and scriabin had chillblains while marcus rigby's nostrils were trilling with random rhotacised interdental fricatives. Postsanguinary Janissaries enstruct, obstruct, and destruct a structure exherent to a coherent category theory. A charged chiaroscuro oblate to Orithnet lesbesgues across the rhyme.

Do you have a Rhyme Machine?

of forgotten dreams

the devlin against the muslin made the prince a pauper, a greasy lauper, a larper, a marker, a cat-corking podiatrist at the bend of time, no wits or hydrogen to spare. Where is Practice? Where is Prudence? Do these virtuous and wholly unholy parmaggianissimi have anything to do with the Cheese Shorts? I am not the man to answer such illly concieved misquestions or misquotations, but I don't have the answer. I am not the podgeblodger nor the neitherwhence agonist. For the trump of tomorrow is that the Transmogrification was never performed and never happened and you ask yourself...

But when confronted with the ladle or the placid lapidary Laputans might ensconce a tea soaked ditty or a lamuellan sandwich, of totally notable impropriety had against the wall the barest and bleakest sorceror's war of attrition, a kind of carnal askance: jettison the wainwright Tisdoremeo, we have averaged out the mettle of the average conductor: whereas the hyperconductor leaves much it has nothing and nonwhences such as Sal Arrhenga and Pisboroghshire l saw through the cloudiest most confused interstice of the lattice of the gods once, and I was not quite attentive enough to make anything meaningful of it: a wholly singular experience, and I came back babbling in typical mystic fashion, and I was a rationalist, or vaguely so. My memory was strobed with the lethargic forgetfulness of the no-moment, so for you all I have is an empty plate. I assure you that the cheese was most tasty, but those are empty words, words without the experience as a dry leaf to the cosmos...

Thursday, September 04, 2008

a fire in the sky

generating the magical aspect of the tomorrow trapezius leaves me feeling gently annoyed: what with all this ass-passion and dynamic eye-worship leaves me a little odd and a little oddling: I have to ask, where is the hole in the middle, the eye in the sky, the stranger lattice that unasks the mu-question which the vice-minstrel collates the various uncorroborated series of data and then sights a monster that she saw at the end of the time oh please, where oh wear oh what was the question and what was the answer because the thing that I saw was definitely a vertebrate because the unasked answer is much less interesting than the thin vaporous contrails of mustard which emerge from the dog of time and make the box of illuminated neutrinos overcome the density function which was seen at the end of time because we all demanded that the thing that we saw was the thing that we could not have seen and the idea which we had was converted into a pattern of reliable insights in real time and then a pounding sensation was heard, not unlike the reversion of an onion, because the jelly had congealed and then we were stuck ina mountanous crevasse at the edge of all reality with nothing but a lack of balance, and say, was I paying attention. The problem with so many sensory streams is knowing how to mux them: even if you increase the amount of new, how can you be certain that you're not being overwhelmed by them all, which is bound to happen at some point, and when you make the decision to be more for balance than for momentary pleasures, then things can get really interesting, because it is at this point that you are no longer convcerned with that one thing that will win you all the gold in Jupiter is being able to take all those streams of sensory information and muxing them without becoming so distracted by all the individual parts of them, which is likely to happen in the general case, because in most people's experience, I think, there's too much information to handle and that it's not handled robustly. Disaster is easy to strike at this point, and has struck me many times in the past. But what I want is to ride that cosmic storm, just surf the probabilities, feeling the endorphins as they come, without respect to words or worries or disasters now or future imagined, because that's what I find most pleasurable. The night by the slight by the box by the socks has a flavor like a saber and then some indium flavored candies which were abandoned by the edge of the sea, and we walked from here to there.

Much of this post was composed in an experimental fashion, where I do not look at the keys or the words as I type them but instead type them with my eyes closed. I like this method of language composition quite a lot.