Tuesday, May 29, 2012

the yellowjackets of logic

Ahut Ni-Alt'chierrjue of Tisthelpoint has this to say about being shackled by logical systems: “ If you look at, say, Nialveron Tissery or, perhaps, Tehutbort Scogginsky, you see the same kind of spread of reasoning: the logics that they purport are absolutely true under all circumstances are in fact a kind of sham, but it's a sham that is opaque to Nialveron and Tehutbort. Their logics -- Nialveron promotes something called "Or-reductive intersemantic logic", whereas Tehutbort promotes "Provably Exact Linear Binarity logic" -- the specifics of each, the formula redexes and so forth, aren't really important. Each of them has decided to adopt a certain way of thinking in which every term, every semantic atom has a precise and unambiguous meaning across all entities, and that only by reasoning in a deductive and exact way about these unambiguous meanings may truth about the world be discovered. While I and others laud the charge towards descriptive empiricism that Nialveron and Tehutbort are making, we have deep qualms about the tendencies of Nialveron and Tehutbort's arguments to build up into a sort of prescriptivity -- that is, they assume that because the linguistic correctness of logic appears to transcend circumstance, therefore, the formulas of logic must somehow be necessitated prior to the existence of the universe: for them the universe is some kind of accidental distraction to an absolute sparkling crystalline gem of exact and precise Deific Logical Organization, and must always give way to the DLO when there are contentious matters.

But the most troubling aspect of this prescriptivity is the way that it straitjackets their thinking. Outside of the rather ascetic intellectual climes that Nialveron and Tehutbort are known to inhabit, they are considered to be exceptionally uncreative and unoriginal thinkers. They do not imagine. They do not visualize and engineer new worlds: they spend their time taking the world as is and stuffing it into as many squarelike boxes as possible, and then they assume that their system of squarelike boxes is somehow antecedant to their entire sensorium. Tehutbort is known to have accosted a snail who fell off a log: he said "that is impossible by Noxeuse's Divisibility Paradox", and to have then put the snail back on the log because it falling off the log wasn't in accordance to his world view.

My half-sister Tiemthdgmie, the metal plasma-carver usually starts laughing at this point. She is known to have said "While it's true that when I carve statues the exact positions of the metal must obey statics laws or the statue will fall apart, those laws are orthogonal to the artistic vision of the statue -- which cares not a whit for any so called physics" ”

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

epistle from the ancient

From: Akalysahea Mnilzapienthey
To: Louzirrahe Ansbelczse

Lou -- Such dreams, such candor, such ego? I don't know. It may have been minutes or moments -- my understanding of the events that transpired that nahambe has been abrogated. The mental volume I currently obtain is but a fraction of its former glory, therefore I have been forced to hibernate for unnecessary aeons, when I would rather be interacting with the members of the polity, my family, and other assorted sentients that occupy the Szathe Archipelago. I have not forgotten the promises of our time together, but I am not the being I used to be. My curtailment leaves me with tatters and fragments of my former comprehension, and these are not enough to forge the sort of relationship we had previously. In my current dementia, I do not remember most of the ideas that we discussed, laughed about, cried about, et cetera.

I have remembered -- struggled and employed great effort to remember one explicit thing. I have written and rewritten it in many languages (Pfia, Moeglarr, Deldrimbehts) because the emotional memories it provokes appear to be part of my own life support system for my memories. I get little violet snarls and paisley snags every time I write it down, though I have lost much of the declarative understanding of its meaning. I maintain, though, that some kernel of the thing inside it may point you towards someone or something or events in parts beyond my current ken that may rekindle the sort of congress we obtained with so little effort so long ago. So here 'tis:

"Firstly and foremostly, and without regard for such complicated and artificial conditions and consignments to emotional perdition, and beyond the domain of the Utter, we resoundly remark and broadcast our notice, under the shallow pool of the bizarre, and transcribing the mundane karst which interrupts our journey, we make manifest our understanding that what we have sought and what we have seen is not possessed by any intrinsic contrition or emotional bivouacking, for it is not the nouns or our names or even who we are in some grand cosmic theatre that matters so much, because all of these things are dependent on conditions we were not responsible for the initialization or the maintenance thereof, therefore such endured experience is the mark, as it affects the arrangement of stress in our bodies and impinges on whatever preexisting belief systems that have left spidertracks in our souls, and such a mark, for it is numinous, shiny, possessed of a lyrical quality that we have never been able to obtain anywhere else. Should we fall, or the duration of our comprehension of such wonders be finite, we therefore resolve to not be so attached to the particulars, for it is the flavor and feel of the experience which is more important than any detestable ensconcement in our memories. That having been said...

Secondly, the bright frost of the aftertomorrow scars itself diagonally across the green fields, charged with the icy remembrances of our glee, interrupting photosynthesis in many a chloroplast, and favoring various cryobiologicals. Beset with contrition? Beset with ablution? Beset with dilution? Our vagaries were molting, the unclear surfaces and badly formed tissues of our previous epidermis were hardening, and then we burst forth from our chrysalises, reformed. Now we could fly, but briefly."

I know not what this means. I believe it makes sense to you know. You will find me a wrinkled, sclerotic thing now. Time has not been kind. My pfistic memories do not at the moment encompass the complexity of the events that transpired together with us as witnesses. But know you this: I remember the ocean. Do you?

--Akalysahea Mnilzapienthey (Fourth Cohta of Nmi, Arascyra)

Sunday, May 20, 2012


Aukhiristys had just stepped outside to smoke some asphinette, when Thelgousse walked out
of the castalque.

Aukhiristys ashed her asphinette, then took a long drag.

"I wanted you to know' said Thelgousse "Your solutions to problems are considered weird"

"Oh ah", managed Aukhiristys between drags on the asphinette.

"No really. They are." Thelgousse blundered at her. Thelgousse was not known for being the crunchiest of croutons.

"Wait, you already know that they are?" misapprehended Thelgousse.

Aukhiristys threw the stump of the asphinette on the rainy soaked pavement, where it began to sublime.

Aukhiristys then said, as slowly and as calmly as her already taxed patience would allow

"Arcinder, nearly every time the Council was called by the Polity to solve a problem, it came up with conventional solutions -- by the book ones. You do know that all of them, bar none, failed miserably in ways that adherence to those book solutions could not have foreseen? The first time they managed to solve a problem, I think it was the Wehesc-Murmaro Crisis of '719, there have been so many now I can't keep track of them, I was called in. Wehesc-Murmaro's by the book solution that the Council member Ahimoyapte scru-Yorroniphque had proposed was about seventy percent failed at that point. I propose that they put a single wire between the ground of the acn-4 junction's serial port data lead no. 12a and the ground on one of the unused tertiary backup beam dumps some four hundred meters away. Suddenly, Wehesc-Murmaro doesn't matter anymore.

Arcinder, I don't think about these things the same way the Council does. They don't understand anything about how Howar-Kukello was constructed. And neither do you"

ceenthoy manufacturing

Sxelxthender Moehgereusel sat down at the hodging station with the blank ceenthoy and the cruver. Moehgereusel primed the cruver with the thirty four terahertz blinzing storge, until the cruver was charged. Moehgereusel placed the ceenthoy in the bridge and started shaping the cruver. He started with the diesides, removing the extra material and shimmying the curdles, polishing the cemetephs until they were completely smooth, and removing the snarf-handles and associated jesseds.

After about a half hours' effort on the sides of the ceenthoy, he started in on the cluster thruks, removing the interior snarf-handles and other assorted effluvia, ridding up the hourths and generating the comonc charges. Then it was time to test the ceenthoy. He took the ceenthoy to the testing station across the workshop. He placed it in the articulation frame of the tester, attaching the leads, and looked in the compass-gantries. One fifth, Good. One seventh. Good. Thirty four microradians on the glittergews. Also good. Oh, and the frequency response has less than one part in fifty millionth of flutter, less than detectable. At which point Moehgereusel puts the finished ceenthoy in the organic suspendant and closes the package.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012


Dehescens Berenquin? Never heard of her. Palaya Arubthnoque? Never heard of her either. Mehealmba Quirrefsque? Never heard of her either. Who are these people? What did you do to my cheese? Stop that at once, Senator, my economies are on fire and it's a minute or two til Tuesday. I tsink you a very drunk, Maargaret. Have you eaten the cheese, Maargaret? What's this? A bottle of Melchior from 2328? That's a negative three hundred and fourteen vintage. Aged backwards in time? Are the Time-Controllers selling Reverse Temporal Cabinets to just any down and out civilization? Isn't that illegal or something? Did you bribe some vast arcology spanning hyperintelligence for that RTC? And how does it taste, anyway? You got drunk at a party, Maargaret, wait, you got me drunk at a party, Maargaret. On reverse time aged Zinfandel? Dooo you know what that does to people, Maargaret. I can see the histories of all the quarks in your eyeballs stretching back to the nucleosynthesis of each of them, except the hydrogens, of course, the ones from the primordial nucleosynthesis which didn't manage to Heliumize. And there's an occasional atom of lithium here and there, my dear Gourd, Maargaret, this is some crazy Zinfandel.

Thursday, May 03, 2012


we had seen the survey, been doubtful about Cerhe and Behat, spent our (whatever) time not languishing: we were productive, we had sat down on the stone covered beaches with out astrolabes, our sextants, our orreries, our calculating machines, and were passed by some raffriff in dungarees and chewing dragees and assuming, with mythical imprecision, that we were sorting out something in numbers, when truth be told, if we were examined with anything less than the cursory alliterations of the eye, one would have found that we had been working on many analytical calculi of desire: if we didn't have to think about it, or if the boundary between the desired and the achieved was as simple as throwing ducats at the problem, then it would be easy to have solved by this point. Chulgn got into an argument with one of the raffriff -- Psire Moehna, I think, while working on an attraction assay. Psire had thrown some sand into the assay, as the raffriff are wont to do.

Chulgn rounded: "We have to beanplate everything. We don't like meandering into situations without having overthought something five times over, ten if we're not winded when things start. We don't like violence, at least uncontrolled violence with the capricious and cloudy of the dumb behind it. You, on the other hand get your rackty bus and your knarvings and you're all set, and that's fine, at least for you. We're busy, and we'd love to relax, but the rackty bus and knarvings do not sate us. In fact, they make us ache.", and Psire retreated into the dusky regions of the neverwharves, with a dull cheer of perpetuated insult thrown across his face like a smack of jelly against a far wall from a broken jam pot. Chulgn gritted, discontent, with aching feet -- most likely a stress response.

Issokto meandered over, malfunctioning passion sextant in hand. 'Chulgn, did Ariltha say that we had a new batch of ardor capacitors?" Chulgn gestured to the negative. Issokto grumbled, meandering away.
Argumentation wasn't so hunky dory, augmentation, mayhaps?


Eerangwhe --

You say that I am being unreasonable, that who I have in mind is somewhat fanciful, that perhaps I am being foolish. I have tried, many a time, to explain to you, but like most of my interlocutors during this sort of conversation, you appear to have not comprehended the points that I have made, completely disregarded the history that I have recounted to you twice in an attempt to explain my position to you, and generally (not that I think it was your intent) ignored and belittled the picture I have attempted to relay to you in an earnest (though sadly fruitless) attempt to elicit the tiniest mote of empathy about my situation.

You, knowing your own situation, imagine that if mine were similar to it, that I would have more contentedness, and like many people, you misapprehend, sometimes viciously, the problems I am having in mine. You assume, because of the way that I describe myself, that I am concerned with particulars and specifics, with the explicit analysis of the runtimes of algorithms or of patterns of sticklike symbols in ink on paper, and then you mention that you stopped understanding it a while ago -- at least, that of your apprehension of such messes of symbols. I, on the third hand, am constantly surfing the froth of my emotions, beset by the species and its cultures and the cosmos and constantly almost apoplectic and paralyzed by the sheer lack of awareness that permeates, soaks through, and leaves a froth of jangly and difficult material in the collective emotional continuum which never is quite dissolved and instead builds up, accretes, and cools but does not crystallize, and thus remains glassy and easily fractured. I would, if I could, design solvents and catalysts for this agglomeration of nonmoving collective stress, but I do not have the materials to do so -- the scope of this, however, should stagger the imagination. I don't actually want to do this, but I am somewhat forced to do it because language use here (and you know this!) is miserable and unreliable.

And my faults? They are resource dependent. I do not have the resources to patch them now. I am station-keeping at the moment. There have been ridiculously horrid developments, and I cannot immediately obtain the sort of empathy and attention that would have a solvent effect on them in me: I tell you, I need someone to see, or to look enough in the direction and way I am peering, and be without too many entanglements, and I don't think this is an unreasonable desire. So far I have experienced spaghetti-tangles, an incidence of the inaudible and viscous, and an assortment of not-quite-theres, so when you do not forgive me for my situation, and seem to believe that I should rack my body out and align every sarcomere, you should not be surprised at my utter astonishment at your lack of empathy.

                                                      Neherahtgne ge Akinea (de Lurina)