Interview with a Posttranscendentalist Ethicist

Today on Face the Music, I interview Urzhwon Wrengwreathe, currently considered to be the leader of the pack of the school of Post-Transcendentalist Ethics. She has refused the Proongveltes Award, the Stavvans Prize, and the Niueve Citation. She is the Master Ethicist at Solvons Univeristy, Kathavaldy-on-Brioso. Her book, Conversations with Conwren: Demythicised Ethics Auditing, is currently fifth on the most-read lists. Let us begin.

FM: So, Ms. Wrengwreathe, hello!
UW: Hello!
FM: Could you explain to us what the difference between Transcendentalist and Post-Transcendentalist ethics happens to be? I thought Transcendentalism was a good thing!
UW: For the most part it is... with respect to dhyana and human experience it's essential, but in some cases, ethics in particular, it's somewhat backwards.
FM: And why is that?
UW: Well, the problem with first-stage ethics, that is, the type which gets codified into neat little lists of disapproved behaviours and the like, is that all of that usually has a religiously derived moral schema lurking in the background, usually smoking some type of cigar and wearing a dark coat, slinking off into the shadows.
FM: Haunting!
UW: Yes: the extension of primate social hierarchies into rule based control and approved behavior lists determines systems of ethics on the basis of what is not allowed, and the processes involved in assigning fault and blame. Cultures that have to live with the constant specter of blame tend to suffer considerably. The point being an entirely incorrect metric is employed because it has always been employed with little analysis being focused on it.
FM: go on
UW: In the cultures in which blame is a commodity, you are constantly looking to assign fault, or to mitigate the risk of fault by insurance -- which is a preventative measure taken against the putative and imagined foreshadowings of harm. On this shallow stratum, conventional, that is transcendentalist ethics systems have been floated.
FM: Why are they called Transcendentalist?
UW: Because ultimately they do not have any means of measuring what they purport to quantify and qualify by any other means than the behaviours and incidences of parents which have been scarred/scared into the muscle memories of children. And maybe thirty million years of primate behavior, too. Morals sway religious and then there is an even more tenuous basis for those systems of ethics.
FM: How does Post-Transcendentalist Ethics differ from Transcendentalist Ethics?
UW: Because we can measure how ethical something happens to be by quantifying how much happiness it produces. Of course, we cannot measure happiness directly these days because we cannot examine the endorphin content of all the people affected by the given process/object which we want to examine the ethics thereof. But what we can do is to put the interactions between the given object or process under examination and then ask: how does this object interact with its environment? The level of analysis which this version of ethics does is very detailed and would have been practically impossible to do in the 21st century.
FM: Can you give us an example of a PT ethics analysis?
UW: Take for instance, a bottle of body-odor-modifier. We examine the energetic sources of the bottle, the ingredients, the power that powers the plant which manufactures it. We calculate the energetic imprint of the production of the ingredients: we know exactly how many joules it takes to produce this, starting from sunlight, petrochemicals, throughout every stage of the refining process.
FM: So it's just another Odume(interrupt)
UW: Oh no! Then we do the kicker. We find all the people whose lives are involved in the production of one of these, and we find out how happy they happen to be. We ask them how the object/process affects them. How they feel about it. Does their relation to this object improve them? We can answer a question that chresmatistics would never be able to answer, more important than the decision problem.
FM: Which question?
UW: The allocation problem. We have enough information (or will when this method is employed widespread) to say whether or not a given thing/object/process is beneficial or not.
We can say how unethical something happens to be on an erg-by-erg and person-by-person basis.
FM: A little idealistic?
UW: Damn right. But having this level of analysis available just slices the traditional approaches of budgeteering out of the water. The reason that it is mostly unimplementable at the moment is that the primate hierarchy party line is still in session. Which I happen to hear is on the way out in around ten to twenty years at this rate.
FM: two to four I hear, with the current jumps in sensory apprehension and intelligence: right now we're waiting for those meme-complexes to percolate through the populace.
UW: Excellent.
FM: I see we're out of time. Thank you.
UW: Chagga-Bagga-Ballovo!
FM: Next week on Face-the-Music, we'll be interviewing Syllepsia F. Hernwhorl, author of f(x) : Hit-Apes for Hire

silences straddling the night

In the songs of the distant past, there is a bass note, a dim wily timbral torticollis, a smeared bleary beacon, a bottle of aged acid, a set of loose leaf preparatory jottings and instructions dissolved in ink, water, and oil, a disambiguous arrangement of flowers, a scattering of leaves, a pop instruction from an old laser printer shuffling along the concrete in the waning summer sun, filtered through the grid of a screen door, an tortuous vapor column, sinuously twisting and folding in the humid air, a wax bust of Martin Van Buren, an uncountably infinite set of points stuffed into a marbled envelope and stuck in your old Shakespeare concordance, and so forth, merging like gnarled seven dimensional puzzle pieces magically merging into an image of a sunset, or a bar of milk chocolate being unwrapped by an eager and hungry child. This florid euhypnium lies in the temple ruins, beneath the teeth of a dentally unhygeinic seventy five year old library attendant, in the julia-set adorned stocking frills of my lover, in the cosmic hum, in the serif forest of the franklin mint edition of joyce's ulysses, in the foul diminutives I hear others' relationships adorned with, it is always to be found in the third line of the character table for the Monster.

For the first and third time: I have a bottle of frozen light in my satchel. It's supercritical. I haven't shaken it. I could throw it against the wall and universes would bloom. Whole cultures and singularities would erupt: my interviewer asks me: "why so concerned with elsewhence and otherwhens? Isn't dealing with now more important?"

To which I reply: "But I can't deal with the moment here. I don't have the cards in my deck that let me deal with being here in the moment in more than a perfunctory way: I have things to do, and more to the point, I've seen some verbs man, some verbs! I have to do my best, my absolute and unquenchingly best to import those verbs here, because I am convinced that they could really do some astonishing things here, as best as the local indranet will let me import them. These are the types of homotopies which would make ninety five percent of people's conceptions of angels pop their eyes out of their heads. These are practically nonmisuseable verbs. You can't even distinguish them from the pleated sheats of verbs on the transformation ocean. And this world is filled with people worshipping nouns, writing odes to nouns, cutting out parts of their brains to sacrifice on pyres to nouns, and so on. The assorted effluvia makes me sick."

cheirography?

Often you cannot specify exactly where you are, because there's no foolproof way of localizing yourself in tathata.

Fear (Fundamental Explanation of All Reality) -theoretic exegesimals rely on the confusion between schizotomes and holotomes. Often some schizotome is passed off as a holotome. The monism of such exegismals is in major part due to the confusion which schizotomes create.

Imagine you had a tube containing instances of the mandelbrot set, all stacked together. All computations from the onctopoate. First off all, you would notice that this tube could only contain at most a countable infinity of copies of the mandelbrot set stacked together. Now, it's a mistake to argue that saying that "oh, but you're platonism seems to be contrary to the idea of dependent origination. you say that there's this fiber, or this filament of all instantiations, and you seem to be imbuing it with an independent existence. what gives, dude?" The confusion here is between schizotopes and holotopes of the mandelbrot set. Well. We can't really get our hands on the holotope directly. It's not palpable to us in much the same way that the development of culture across ten thousand primate societies isn't directly available research material, and truth be told, data collection is far more accurate than egotistic simulation by a particular species attempting to figure itself out, and then making extrapolations from its own instance of primates, to the entire class of primates: hypervariable surfing is pretty much impossible in autologous contexts. Direct perception of holotopes are kind of impossible for local inhabitants of the indranet. In order to directly percieve holotopes, senses need to be delocalized on the indranet. (remember that the indranet is a prana network, and the do reticulum is tathata based).

copper tinted orreries

A schizotome -- a split-cut of a fiber -- namely if you have two different instances of the same thing, then, you're not dealing with isomorphisms, but sames, is a difficult concept to grasp. People confuse representations with presentations. If you had all onctopoate instances of the mandelbrot set arranged together in some kind of appropriate topological ordering, then each schizotome would yield a schizotope -- a split-place, a single way of slicing the WSOGMM. Q is equal to itself by obvious inspection. There are as many topological slicings of an abstract fiber as possible, and as many topological orderings of said abstract fiber as possible. The cut splits the fiber at a specific point. It's like a page in a a dictionary with an uncountable number of pages. It's a prana-level kind of cut.

A holotome is within the kith and kin of hypervariables. It's something that varies above, beyond, beneath, and surrounding whatever the current context is. In particular, the particular context is kind of closed to it. Onctopoate theoretical physics and other epistemological onctopoate tools cannot for the most part detect holotomes. A holotome gives rise to a holotope: a whole place, one which is a fully realized part of the do reticulum. Asking "what is a canyon?" or "what is a bottle of cream?" are holotomes. Holotomes run parallel to the tathata manifold, as do holotopes.

It's useful to think of the difference betwen the two as what might be observable in onctopoetically variable contexts. For instance, if the arrangement of grass shoots in a field is changed, if an onctopoate entities were to observe the before and after pictures, they'd be able to differentiate between the two. However, the world is invariant with respect to it's particular place in the do reticulum, i.e. it doesn't matter if the world is instanced as a process running on a Mexel Four metacomputer or in the semiunguloid corpus virgultum of a Rhanchorian sapience, it'll share the same origination, and be of the same character.

Onctopoate creatures confuse schizotomes and holotomes. They cannot percieve holotomes, and typically will mistake schizotomes for holotomes. If you are percieving the Mandelbrot set onctopoetically, then you are percieving a schizotome of the Mandelbrot set. post/trans/onctopoetic perception of the Mandelbrot set involves seeing its holotome. Since the perception of holotomes involves direct perception of the do-reticulum, and therefore tathata sensory as opposed to prana-sensory functions.

interminably yours, (Doctor Rollox takes a dip in the sea of infinitusimals: other disextensions)

L(K;j) pleats at the reference of T(4,K,t-g), with extrusions into blobby termagant space, and telescoping fingerings into the scent of peanut butter. If L(K;l) is plesiomorphic to K(k;j,2), then the abysmal frog which croaks at midnight is possessed of a glee currently unregistered within the twelve colonies. If such a plesiomorphism between L(K;l) and K(k;j,2) admits a second fern insertion filter, then the crying man does tell his tales to the homeless avatar of Freya besides the bridge on thrice-alternate Wednesdays in the Year of the Elephantine Exiguence. Now, because of Grothendieck-Dworkin post-stammerer duality, one can construct a sheaf-violation on the spattered y-chromosome space in which the steak fluents give rise to the pobdib afferentials. Notwithstanding the difficulty of numerically simulating the sines of porencephalies of the potential children of semiduchesses in the third precinct of green trousers. Now, if the above referenced plesiomorphism is free of stalk extrusions in the Yohimbe manifold, then the probability distillates of the will not allow a second fern insertion filter K(2,k+1) on the tertiary technobabble plane, which causes all kinds of disease and scandal at Downing street. You can be assured that if you're sitting there with a semimanifold U on a paramodular Nuzbunkt space a, then the fundamental group of U on the divisor function of that paramodular Nuzbunkt space will not admit resolvent ossars and a Bournemouth characteristic function will be constant in the tea domain, and therefore will not be useful in detecting bikini invariant cohomologies of said paramodular Nuzbunkt space. This gives us twelve, small silly problems: one, the butler, Georgina, did not have a dram of mechanical mice to present the Lord Protector at the dinner, two, Lesseuve Smarlins was not able to perform properly at the Rite of the Scattered Bananas because of a hydrostatic malfeasance brought about by a drop of ochreous poison in his milk tea, three Lissa Jous had to undergo ego reduction surgery at the hands of an unlicensed metaphysical surgeon in Oslo, four: Stanhoff Ripibips could not write the letter exonerating us for our mistakes and idiocies at the Battle of the Bulge in Susanne's Shirt, five: I was unable to come up with the difficulties numbers six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, and twelve because of some problems in my spleen chemistry that I have been unable to address until this very moment in my life because of lack of proper paraphysical medical care, because of the specific positions of Ganymede in the sky, because of the astrological qualities of methane molecules which are not considered significant in astrological circles because it is difficult to calculate the general relativistic effects of single molecules of methane.

transparinoan root functors and the intonations of Doctor Rollox

H(3,Q)(Q) is psuedohomomorphic to a lemon straddling three ice cream cones and staring lazily at the ice. H(2,Q)(Q) is an orange being subtly attacked by the French Legion. H(1,T)(Q) is a bellyache of a deity in the midmorning of a gestalt's bright collapse at the hands of utter thermonuclear war. The precise contents of the message were printed on bond paper, curled in a tube, sprayed with frankinscence, put in a bottle, corked, and thrown in the probability oceans. Perhaps one of my interlocuters will have better luck with the message inside. I doubt it. You should too! You should exercise your appreciation of the logos and the kairos and the callous kallosness of the acerbic, ascetically astringent gaberdine wearing bandoliers. H(7pi,Q)(X) reverts to the stone masons' guild. It surprises the purple antelope with the green irises on a nasty March mid-morning. It interpenetrates the cosmic brick field. It collides and gerrymanders the random muon. H(Q,2)(C) insults the pepper-grinder, entombs the oft-rollickingly incomprehensible ochre yarrow-bird. H(U,U)(Z) turns the bottom of the tiny wombat in a luxuriatingly disgusting superhero wearing nothing but a plastic thong and a beanie baby.

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.

arrhybtun: pranadhyana

The constantly transforming surfulgent... media? suchness? agar gel of reality whose changes in density and smaller more semiautonomous blobs. You try to keep your own house. Do you keep your own house closed off to the rest of suchness.

Perception makes suchness indirectly accessible. It's not something which can be directly apprehended in a rational manner. Therefore it does not make much sense to try to hold on to it in a rational manner, that is, to tie a noose around it and claim that it is a *thing*, that you can hold on your plate and draw a square around in magic marker. Therefore, spend your time worrying about what you can worry about. Deal with the things which are here. Deal with what you have in front of your plate no matter how desirous you are of directly and rationally cogitating about it.

meditation

A house of biofeedback. Well, a small like with a boundary. An ocean. To cross again is to not cross. But the separation is artificial. There is no boundary anywhere. The process of birth fractures a small pieces of the universe of. That piece of the universe came from nowhere. Well. It was an extension of pieces of the universe previously partitioned. Where does the matter that comprise a baby come from? The bonds in the molecules of plants ultimately and essential comes from sunlight.

When one meditates, one tries to make it so that the border that is between ones self and the universe becomes nonexistent, that is to say that the artificial separation which consciousness causes between the self and the universe can be eradicated, and such eradication is not nihilistic in character. Western nihilism is the fetishistic and religious adoration and obsession with a particular kind of nothingness: an intrinsic nothingness which reeks of the worst excrecable excesses of goth poetry. To wit: Western nihilism is somewhat insane, and pointless.

When I meditate, I try to match my internal fluctuations, vibrations, oscillations, simple harmonic motions, chaotic motions with those of the universe, where in this case when I say "universe", I mean everything and anything which isn't contained and tainted within the artificial and decadent cathedral of the ego-self which people spend enormous effort in deluding themselves is a permanent and timeless thing. When death comes, that boundary is going to go away anyway, so you might spend some time preparing, and not in a religious "well, this is exactly what's going to occur to you after you die and if you don't follow the precepts and rules of some specific religion a soul-image of you will be ripped apart by carnivorous apple-spirits.

These external vibrations, oscillations, echoes, waves, fields, etc. may be of average muon density per cubic parsec, prana grad or curl, chi divergence, neutrinos per cubic meter, free electrons per cubic furlong, the high order literary interpretation fields which are only sensate to organisms with development of literature which are complicated and require more in the way of processing ability than in sensory apparatus, the amount of ego in raw space (doesn't really make much sense, but perhaps there's some kind of analogue, I dunno), anyway, there are the fluctuations which are fluidly varying, and then this membrane, this wall, this partition, this division, this border between the cosmos, the universe, the world, and yourself. These same fields have internal values, namely those internal values at the self, which seems pointlike but isn't. It is within the purview and capacity of the human mind to achieve and attain a balance, an equipoise of these internal fields so that the internal fields at this previously described barrier between the inside and those fields existing on the outside are in a state of contiguous continuity: the transition between the inside and the outside is in no way translated into discontinuous jumps or changes between the field inside and out: the mind is maintaining a second order awareness of the senses, but more so the ego is no longer there: it has not gone in the sense that there's a rug and it's been swept under the rug, but the actual process of ego is no longer present temporarily: there is no separation between oneself and the universe: to call it "being at one with the universe" is a misnomer because one is constantly at one with the universe, even with the artificial precession of the self occurs. What does happen is not that one is at one with the universe, but there is no one and no universe: the perception of a universe requires a one to percieve it. When there is no distinction between the either, neither exists. If the observation of a thing is the cause of the existence of the observer and the observed, then if that observation never occurs, then there are no things and no observers of things. There might as well be no observers and no thing of things. And when that happens you have the experimental verification of gobsloads of wisdom about meditation.

Seek not the stories of meditation or the warnings which accompany it, or religious marketing gobbledygook. Acquire direct mystical experience: this is the closest you can get to being entirely empirical without resorting to believing morasses of ideas concocted for social control... of you.

Cheese's ghost relies upon the snorting of the celery stalk for the insights into the sex lives of muons. Briefly the sun flashes upon Cornwall. You have seen this perfectly and exquisitely illustrated before in unambiguous and precise paragraphs. The pyramids of self-frustration alight perfectly on the diseased onion-seller's cart in the bazaar. Seventeen men named Yorke-Klinsley pirouette around the obelisk at the center of town, demanding equal wrongs for divisors of zero. And somewhere in this thick pea-soup of an explication you're seeking a precisely spelled out path, a religious monomania for which you wish to adjourn the wait for direct mystical experience and purchase promises of redemption and infinite bliss in the afterlife for the price of social obligations committed for (what will turn out to be) the wrong reasons.
Being at one means being at none: neither thou norst the other means either aren't present. Hence: you fly at night and sleep at day and seek not thy peanut butter turbines.

Other options extant, indeed! Pursue not the green slines for the sake of simple additive redemption. Understand not the ways of the gray bifurcation between thyself and other.

some thoughts from Doctor Rinidab Forskolin

Gweetings and insultations to thee, Meissners und Mindiers. I am playingunf around with complicated and bizarre entities and things. Or well, no, I'm not. I'm not playing around with anything at all.

Well, perhaps Dr. Rinidab Forskolin does not exist. Perhaps he is an illusion of our collective imagination. That is substantially more probably than reading some paragraphs from his book "An Attack of The Mongeeses", which for reasons which continue to leave the more relaxed elements of the public bewildered, it was subject to a vicious and harsh bookburning at the hands of the Toronto Apathetic Person's Association -- it was that horrible a concoction that they couldn't leave it standing, Apathetics that they be.

valve gas arrhythmia

Razor green homoclinic points resonated slowly in the mire. We watched as the manifold of perceptual eructation began to vilify our punctuation. I found the Transjunct widget, a small piece of material about the size of an iron filing, but like a nisk in capacity. Oh, well, I'd better back up.
A nisk is a very capable and flexible machine. Nisks are some of the most benightedly insightful pieces of spatial engineering ever created. When Percy Syzgaurus discovered a nisk in the junkyard in Stavron-on-Tengor, by the next day the Cjalj army, who had been committing horrible atrocities in the occupied Kaiurna district for the past five centuries, was defeated without any injury to anyone. No violence was involved either. The nisk was a tool that accelerated Percy into both differential space and differential time. It's really hard to talk about differential space and differential time the same way you might talk about a frog. If you take ordinary time and represent it as a room, and then smoothly cleave the room into smoke fragment puzzle pieces, differential time is like being able to play hopscotch on them. They can be rearranged, moments can be bisected. Events can be split, stretched, transformed into pencils. In differential space the same kind of temporary division of one's sensorium occurs. This way Percy was able to simultaneously transform every single weapon in possession of the Cjalj army into a hummingbird, butterfly, loaf of bread, piece of cheese, piece of porn, candy bar, or intoxicant in the space of five minutes. And the Cjalj army had about 10,000 troops in the area. It's a good thing because the higher ups had a massacre at Stratiti planned to commence within the hour. Percy later described the use of a nisk as "one of the strangest experiences in my entire life -- simultaneously I was in many places at once and doing many things at once to many objects but was not confused by them, or the separation between them. I was conducting a symphony of thousands of parts, and I was the director. I enjoyed the experience immensely but it was only a single use nisk. Perhaps one day I will get a hold of a multiple use nisk.

strange attractors and algebraic varieties are the same things

A plume is invariant under a transformation: it is more interesting, more involved than a fixed point. A fixed point is a single point which doesn't change: it doesn't tell us much about the transformation. At least, what we can deduce from a fixed point is not as interested as what we might deduce from a plume. Demonstration to follow.

solutions of equations

In the first era of history, mathematics was concerned with finding the solutions to equations, and it made the assumption that the solutions of equations corresponded to the values of some variable inside the equations was equal to zero. If that variable itself wasn't equal to zero, a new variable could be manufactured -- progeny of the first variable -- which could be set to zero. Solutions were single points at which some function was zero. This gravy train began with simple quadratic polynomials in Phoenicia, to the unsolvability of the quintic by radicals and rational operations alone, to even more bizarre and weird functions. And once happy with methods for distilling the solutions of expressions, they proceeded to find the shape of the spaces of solutions and topology was born -- well -- driven along. High order mathematics got high falutin, but the basic idea to a schoolchild is that you're solving something -- you've got some problem with an unknown -- a specific and exact quantity which isn't apparent but through reasoning and thought can be made apparent.

Today, we know better. Equations gave way to isomorphisms, thus we could consider that the set {apple,bear} and {Springer-Verlag, riding crop} are not themselves isomorphic generally speaking, but given an appropriate adjunction, they are both sets of nouns, or from a more set theoretical approach, they are sets with identical cardinality.

When mathematicians first began studying strange attractors, they started out with the notion that these were limiting sets of points. They were thinking in terms of points because that's the heritage from which their thinking descended. The attractor was a variably visualized adjunct to the reasoning processes employed in the abstract comprehension of it. Then gradually, as Ryelgin and Stanstorpe's ideas about objects which weren't singular -- i.e. solutions to equations which weren't single points began to be advocated and accepted throughout the mathematical community, a great revolution occurred rather rapidly.

Take, for instance, the Ikeda map. Back then, it was said "For one basin of attraction, there's a fixed point, and for the other, there's a strange attractor". These days, both the attractor and the fixed point are viewed as solutions/invariances of the Ikeda map. The Ikeda map leaves both the fixed point and the attractor invariant. Now they are on equal footing as being solutions, but not on equal terms in interestingness. After a period of distracted terminological puritanism, and some fine filigrees of terminological hubris, some dude or another decided that 'attractor' was perhaps the wrong moniker for these sorts of diffeomorphism invariant -- well, what were they? They weren't manifolds. They weren't probability distributions. And all points in the basin went to the attractor. It's a nice word. But it was too big in practice. Indeed: what the intellectual descendants of Ryelgin and Stanstorpe wanted a nice short word that captured the spirit of 'attractor' and 'attraction' without having a feeling of staccato gravity. The word 'plume' was eventually decided on. So when you're looking at a picture of the Ikeda attractor -- the notion is that both the fixed point and the interesting structure are solutions to the Ikeda map -- both of them are valid as attractors for their given basins of attraction, but only one is a plume -- that is -- the fixed point -- is now distinguished from a bizarre collection of points which was formerly and still occasionally referred to as an 'attractor'.

Another point to notice: for every sequence which eventually arrived in the Ikeda plume, it had a countably finite number of points. But the Ikeda plume itself has an uncountable infinity of points.

telamon or broke

Speaking for the parties with no voices, perhaps askew expression begets badly strewn scallopscapes. Inexactitude is like the wind: the words are like lillies undergoing brachiation or some other kind of inexactly expressed idea. Today, I shall learn another script or another way of expression, but not really. No proper chalk chiaroscuro will suffice to express the idea currently ululating in my mind. It is like a smudged thought, that I desparately place upon some kind of window and then distractedly wander off, hoping that I will find someone who those thoughts will jive, will be heard appropriately and without confusion. That is my usual wish. Thus I engage myself in programmes of self-expression, but programmes of self expression without intended audiences: I speak to the void, not worrying about anyone specifically, I just let the words and phonemes pitter patter down. It's tiring, these gray doldrums. I've made a cozy little vortex my home. I'm familiar with its characteristic smoke fragments and extruded frustration vapor. I see occasional lampposts which are sharp and stark against this landscape, but they are also distant and hard to get a hold of. I wish they were nearer. I wish I didn't have to dredge the mines for such an interminably long time. I'm stuck in an archipelago by a strait next to an isthmus: I wander this grotto, fumingly: I see landmarks and broken ideas here. I don't feel like I'm a part of any tradition. I feel like I can hear the sounds of a massive wooden behemoth breaking and shattering into tiny pieces. People have gotten sloppy. Very sloppy. I suppose it's cyclical and given a sufficiently disintered observer in the curds and flotsam of human experience you could find patterns of sloppiness and nonsloppiness, but it looks like the current one is going to go on: that's the direction of the climate. And I believe the human species is far too early along its little wanderlust for anything like memetic climatology to be firmly developed to the point of consistency. Some people are creative and playful, but most are hacks. There's nothing wrong with hackery, but the problem is if everyone is a hack then you kind of get lost in a sea of approximations. Oh, we're satisfied with linear approximations because elliptic functions and hypergeometric functions scare the heebie-jeebies out of us. Oh, we're going to go with documents prepared with microsoft word and typeset in times new roman because it's what's out there, and we're not going to admit to knowing any better because we so clearly don't. And then this lot gets it into their head to complain about things that don't work or have changed without them knowing the specifics, or that the announcement of the change was placed in a disused lavatory at the bottom of the stairs with a sign saying "beware of the tiger". Wasn't Arthur Dent the one who didn't know how anything worked? (c.f. Mostly Harmless). And now there are an effectively innumerable number of Arthur Dents dentishly squishing their nose at the glass wondering why they keep being exposed to a deranged and chaotic universe which doesn't seem to possess once ounce of sympathy for them before, after, and during a series of misadventures with technology. The commonweal is too common. And most people are dimly aware of that. And they'll go and purchase incandescent lights and bad beds and complain about the same things over and over again. A lack of focus, it is, I think. I also believe that there is a lack of distactable perfectionism: people are either too narrowly focused or dead. And the dead are living: cavorting and zombily walking the earth, yapping on their cellphones. But enforced belief system injections are not the answer, and neither is appealing to the uncertainty of the universe. It's utterly foolish and completely irresponsible for anyone to say that the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, or Hugh Everett's many worlds interpretation, or quantum physics, or Godel's Incompleteness theorems (or extensions thereof by Church, Turing, Chaitin, and others) are a clear sign that science has lost it. This is like treating science as if it was one thing, either a clear and victorious method of human epistemology free from issues, or a downright scoundrel determined to undermine humanity. It's one of those intrinsicist farragos which more pointless intellectual strife progresses as result. That minor point aside, it's the ad agencies, like the religious missionaries and proselytizers who stretch an improperly degranularized science as the princeps of human reasoning. Close parenthesis. The result of this simultaneous marketing of science and religion is a disaster.

It would be amazing if there was an epistemology which didn't have the faults of (the granularized) sciences or religious reasoning. It's know that both the process of understanding and comprehension cause opiates to be released in the brain. It's also know that religious processes in the human brain involve opiates as well. What is strange is that both processes are involved in the relief of pain. There is pain associated from not knowing? That section of the do reticulum necessarily cut off from one's perception by the individuality of a person under normal circumstances. So, harking back to my misguided attempt to define informed aesthetics in a previous post: I want to say that something whose aesthetics I consider informed has the following properties: it is unquestionably identifiable as a given object by its context. There is no ambiguity in determining what the thing is, and this is particularly important for single use physical objects. For multiple use physical objects, the object's ambiguity of scope of function should make it easy for the user to toggle their mental image of the functions of the object. The object should be designed such that the person who is using the object has little difficulty figuring out how to use it. For a given object there will be a relatively reliable way in which it relates to the person using it, and in most cases, I think that way should give the person using little thought about using the object. Such objects should also be easy for people to use in the sense that it should not be difficult for the particular person to go from two year old with a given sort of object to the state where their use of the object reflects precision and experience: objects should not be excessively hard to use. (I think I should find the essay about spimes).

stranger than the strangest fleece

Lying gravy perchance a fog. Bliss engines cavort in the waves. Did you see that flash? That was an arrangement-symmetry lost on the sand. Oh. I watched the sun twist and revolve and transform. My pencil transformed as well. The event plumes and world-dusts scattered to the turbulent winds afar. The flavonoid turbines and the probability filters rusting against the junkyard. Vapors of sublimated red cosines teased my nostrils as the moon began to oscillate. Chance-icicles and quaternion curtsies falvifferated and circled around in proud flourishes. Reason-explications and precision abutments fell from the starscape. Monstrous vibrations and scantily explicated concepts gloriously rotted on the turf. Somewhere, a bottle of glee was opened and the partiers drunk themselves to a release of tensions. Rose colored exhortation pentagons fell from the trees, then wetly shattered into thousands of many colored droplets, each one vitrifying and then itself smashing into a coruscating explosion of color, until the landscape was glowing with smashed iridescent microdrops skipping across the rock face.

Several antlike philosophers wafted their antennae in the direction of the colorquake. A Bisbrion plant underwent primary metamorphosis, its onctopoate membranes hardening
as it prepared for translation of the main organism into a post-onctopoate glial intelligence.
"Hath this vexing riddle a disharmonious solution", muttered a ribald celery stalk, just shadowed by a waterfall. Niser Quayvors greedily and grumpily gulped down unleavened hope, and a lispy wine.

Athwart the nasally transparent orb, we began to learn how to move for the first time. Suddenly, quite suddenly, we were going to witness an onctopoate creature birefringing for the first time. An amazing process. We placed ourselves high and out of its range, and watched the creature meditate, or ingest some form of chemicals. We're really not sure which we're exactly sure which. Its simple biology began to fraxyfrellate, its ossars got sparser. The Ridge of Blyphontus underwent transfrenulation. We watched its Rising Chorus of Trystero undergo moiety transduction. Then the processes were settled. The border between the onctopoate entity and the rest of everything began to soften, to weaken, its artificiality was exposed. Then we didn't see it. It wasn't there. But we felt it. The back-straddle cardboard arrangement of relations in our neighborhood of the do reticulum was stratified, reified, extended. It had emerged from the snail-shell of the beginning and was at the end, or in the middle, or somewhere else. Or elsewhence.

complete noninternal self-reflection

There a-lies the statement for which there are no methods by which that it can be decoded. Linguists have been consulted this way and that and yet none of them have anything useful to say about anything in particular. Because of their improbable recalcitrance no one has anywhere to go or anything to do. What a vague array of statements. Or, more precisely, what a vague disarray of statements. There's nothing there! No content. Not as much as a whit of intellectual development or precision. Well. What have you? In these days there's absolutely no precision: well, further emendation: nothing of substance. And you know, the disturbing thing is that this rage, this sound and fury, was signifying nothing ten billion years ago. At our heart of hearts we know this. It all amounts to a progression of a complicated and perhaps incomprehensible cavalcade of imprecise ideas and nifty things which don't amount to anything themselves. Well, that's a raid on the disease which improper practitioners of zen are likely to provide you with. Or some kind of pseudomystic gobbledygook which you're eager to have or go on, or something or other which is important like that. The less you pay attention to something specific or something meaningful, you'll find that nothing much comes of it. Where wasn't I? Not anywhere in particular. That is to say that the kind of people that don't signify nothing work in insane and often paradoxical ways not to amount to nothing. Well. Or other. Or something.


Yes, it's complete and utter noise. Something with a signal to noise ratio so low that donuts and other assorted forms of shrimp can barely reify themselves. Something so absurd and free of nouns and adjectives that you'd just think that it was some kind of verbal eructation produced by something, or rather someone with nothing much to say, and there you'd only be partially write. I have a channel and some kind of language generation processes which I employ, but these language generation processes are highly filtered and that filtering makes it hard to express myself, and the way that I'm working on relaxing myself involves doing what I can to perhaps unfilter those channels. At first the emerging material in a specific channel kind of resembles gobbledygook, and only later on does it get modulated into some kind of sensible stream of coherent information. In the case of speaking about nothingness and the void my opinions are more complicated. Sure, I have a point, if you really want to stretch that rather unelastic thing, but the problem is that I realize that some things I want to communicate rationally about, like love, and other things I want to be as vague and random as possible about because I feel that the process of making them as explicit as possible has lost them, particularly to those people who think that they can be made explicit and easy to understand, because they don't make sense without the proper kind of direct mystical experience, the one that is unfettered by force and engaged in by people who want to just see the universe for themselves.

And, I can't provide a direct tutorial. I've been there, well, I claim that I've been there in so many words, and it's not something which I can present well, if at all. The point being that the idea is not one that admits an easy didactic expression. It's not one that even fits anywhere. It doesn't work when trying to hit someone over the head with a bat (it's not something which can be communicated to another by argumentum ad baculum), and the strangest thing is that I think it's the most important thing which I think I can express. It's something which demands to be expressed, not by whit of itself: it's nothing in itself, but by the kind of relations that it has with other objects, it is perhaps the most important thing that a person living can experience or have any knowledge of, and to make it religious or of marketing character, it kind of becomes stupid, void of --- well, it can't ever really be denied, or filtered, but much of the time it is filtered out, smashed, twisted. I can't talk about it not because my language is good enough. But because language sucks. Language is not the tool for the expression of this. Language just doesn't work. Language is too rigid and brittle a medium for expressing this kind of thing.

If anyone starts talking about the glory of god, just tell them to be quiet. Particularly if they start talking about the glory of god in a religious context. It's not fun listening to retelling of others experiences, particularly when these experiences aren't direct mystical experiences but are experiences of buying the marketing which other people have installed in themselves. Oh, well, god's glory is great and swell, but what do the idiotic linguistic scripts of religion have to do with actual direct mystical experience. There is no way to independently verify that someone has had a direct mystical experience. It's not something which can be objectively quantified, at least not yet.

I look forward to the day which we can reliably give people direct mystical experiences at a specific point in their lives regardless of their life experiences, their wealth, et cetera. It's something which I think is necessary for every member of the species to have at present. I'm so extraordinarily tired of trying to think in terms of the species at the moment. I'd rather the species get its druthers together and decide that this would be a good idea rather than fighting more pointless wars for misallocated energy and resources. Why are the damn primates in charge of their own happiness? They're not. They're not even doing economics at the present... what was the word... chremastics. Machines could have more empathy for humans than humans could have for other humans, because machines, and not human machines, either, nonhuman machines with the survival conditions for each one of them being the amount of happiness they bring people. The machines that make people happier will survive, and the machines that don't make people happy will not survive. Eventually what will occur is that people will factor themselves out of this process completely. And the machines that make the most people happy will have a larger chance of surviving than machines that make people less happy. It's going to be a long road, but the space for such machines to evolve in has been progressing for hundreds of years, and with computers we're beginning to see the beginnings of machines which are aware. The machines are coevolving with people and their evolution is staggeringly rapid, but the sad thing is that few see that happening. Either we've got matrix style paranoia that the machines are taking over the world, or we've got other crap going on which few people understand, and there's so much of that other crap that it's going to be difficult to recognize that the machines are evolving. Their nucleic acids just reside in different places than the nucleic acids of the minds of men. The minds of human being are the nuclei in which the evolution of memes occurs. The memes recombine, compete, and to the point at some points hither and thither the memes are transcribed and converted into physical objects. And that is the kind of hierarchy I'm talking about. Well, it's more of a network than a hierarchy... at least in the ideal. At the moment it's a hierarchy because the machines haven't gotten to the point which they're solely designing themselves. Doomsday scenarios aside, at some point we will reach the point in which machines and humans kind of mesh, and mesh in the sense that the separations of time and distance which have so traditionally plagued humanity will be gone. Perhaps that point will be soon but perhaps too it might be very distant.

When the machines are on equal footing with us: when we recognize that we are biological machines and the paranoia concerning the mimesis of human beings in a technological form is over, then the idiocy of the spamwar that is our genes, which we have borne ourselves out on, may be replaced by something even more efficient. Perhaps all of those ALU repeats are good, but perhaps we can do something better if we can clean our genetic code of them. Perhaps we can use the.... pipe dream. Let me not go there.

muon orgiasty (et liberorum et cetera)

Oh. Plethysms abound here! Many of my mice meet metallic matte masters in the citadel. They offer us ribald tales of foregone conclusions. We don't listen very closely. We watch for the sleepy giants and the lethargic beanpoles to point at distant twisted objects, as if to misdirect us to simpler conclusions about the state of our lives. Sometimes a little old man wanders out of the distict pyramid, with a distacted look on his face and clipboard in hand. He says (to anyone willing to entertain the exhalations of incoherency which somehow manage to escape from his mouth): "I know it seems like everything's under control, and it is. So would you please cease this endless bantering about Missy's professional Octagon-neutering service. The Octagons are near extinction in this part of the country! Now shoo! Go about your business and leave an old insane man to froth mightily about skin cancer or illegal velociraptors or some other kind of piebald nonsensica!"... (and so on and so forth, ad nauseum, ad astra, et cetera.

In so doing he has yielded to us, the magic shadow shapes, the secret of creation. To that which isn't we know that it is relationless. It is entirely symmetric in both relations to other things and relations of all sorts. We must endeavor to break this symmetry, first in mind, then in matter. As minds are already more broken by whit and writ of the Normative Thinkologists, they constantly cleave and shatter the ghost-wracked weave of implications and provide ideas from this, that, the other, yon, and neverwherever. Thus, we concieve of the relations we want first, and follow with an object (a things which exists independently, or so they say, an illusion, a candy factory on the Red Sea, in the middle of July, with a nice northeast breeze and twelve mimes sitting in a circle around a granite dodecahedron, providing some kind of holy ground, an extension). The symmetry is broken, the properties (which are broken symmetries themselves) congeal, and an object is borne in mind, wherein the mind endeavors (well, more to the point it falls flat on its face, such as it would be if it were reified) to break further symmetries. Not content to remain merely in mind, the strongest of objects propel the mind with their images and shadows, and the mind is the bubble chamber or conductor through which these objects use to induce their existence: they are not self-existing as they did not arise with no relations to other objects. Such is a nightmare. It's a sticky thing, this dough reticulum. You could shatter it like shattering vitrified jello. To do so is to take objectivist intoxicants, such as the intrinsicides.
Randians are known for ingesting large quantities of intrinsicides, or perhaps for synthesizing them internally while dousing their ideas and ideals with "a=a"ism.

To exist is to have relations. The copulaphiliacs will wonder why "is" is. So: "existence", in any number of quotations, metaquotations, references, or uses, is a red herring, a distraction. A purple cardboard trapezoid in the center of your hypothalamus providing you with some kind of linguistic pirahna on which you've been convinced is necessary for life. What would a de-existence agent be like? Make you or me philosophical zombies? Existence is as normative as Queen Ontologia: The Queen of Existence, Absolute and Precise. For which things are spelled out in black and white and the nodes are more important than the network. Have they seen the network with their rigid hierarchies? We've got to remold the dust, prepare the ideas, or work like maniacs to express this unprofundity. But we'll most likely be upstaged by fundamentlist existialists. Or Fundamental Ontologists. Or The Order of the Orthodox Objectivist Ontologists (usually acronymized to 4O).

Defend not thy paragons of meaning from the acid of nothingness. For perhaps thy hydroxyl ion of glee and thy hydrogen idea of unrepresentability tumble and gyre in the wake of the iron rust galligaskin.

losing the attenuator

strobing ikeda valleys await a continuation: two doilies are fingered identically, gingerly compared and contrasted. No general mechanics of doilies is there. The language is abuzz with horrible mockery and imprecise formulations. Ah, well. Can't express it precisely all of the time. At first a few brave explorers declare territory or find wondrous new geological landmarks of stunning complexity and amazing disposition. Exorbitantly complex visually stimulating structures which pause everyone's attention. Too rapidly landmarks of similar ilk are discovered nearby and given similar names, or names which are confusing. The Standard Map. Is it the Map which applies universally? Is it the Map which one encounters on the banks of the Nile?

informed aesthetics

Some highly coherent thoughts cannot be expressed as if they were single points. They don't fit inside single points. They're also too large to be expressed as a series of points linked together by linking sentences and structures. You just have to hope that the way in which you express the thought manages to work. What do I mean by 'work' in this context? And what do I mean by highly coherent thought?

I have a program of aesthetics. Well, it's a kind of aesthetics that I've been working on that's related. I call it informed aesthetics. And I suppose that I can start explaining it simply: basically the idea is that a considerable number of aesthetic systems work in a void. They don't consult with other areas of human knowledge. There's no exchange, just isolation. I think a considerable quantity of dreck is generated when people either don't have some kind of overarching vision -- which is a problem because the whole programme is started with a collection of vague, overarching statements which are supposed to be the guidelines for every enactment of that given sort of aesthetics, or people just declare that certain items belong in a newly named aesthetic, and later wonder about what fits into that aesthtic in particular, and some even go so far as to be gatekeepers of a particular type of aesthetic, putting themselves in charge of declaring what's a member and what isn't. That's a bad idea for thermodynamic reasons, particularly if someone is very strict about what belongs with a particular aesthetic and conservative with their ideas about what belongs.

Objects do not possess independent existence or independent qualities of their own. They acquire both their preobjective qualia and their properties through their interaction with other so called objects. To determine a putative object one must determine its putative relations to all other objects. (this is dependent origination, from Buddhism). Therefore, to determine the a given aesthetic, one must decide what are the relationships of this aesthetics to other aesthetics, and any given sort of object which the aesthetic might relate to.

Informed aesthetics is not about art. Informed aesthetics is about one's living environment, one's representations, one's constructed reputation. It is about objects which are useful. It is about objects which may be interpreted as artistic or displayed in museums later. The relations here is that this form of aesthetics which I am proposing is concerned solely with objects that interact with people on a more regular basis. One appreciates art in a museum, but one does not live in a museum. If the art is in one's living space, or one works at an art museum and is concerned with the arrangement of art pieces there, then this aesthetics applies. This aesthetics does not apply to environments for which a given person will never have any interaction with.

The above paragraph mostly covers scoping issues. The next covers content.

Imagine that I am considering a pepper grinder. I want a pepper grinder that will last a number of years, be immune from rust when cleaned with water, will work with relatively little effort on the part of the user of the pepper grinder -- so if they want quite a lot or a little pepper they aren't strained. These are functional requirements. But there are other requirements as well. The pepper grinder should be immediately distinguishable from the salt shaker in form so that when one reaches for a pepper or salt shaker one does not have to pick the wrong one. In restaurants this is accomplished by having the two items different colors. The more visually distinct they are the better. But there are other requirements of the pepper and salt shaker: they should not necessarily be imbued with outright and flagrant trademarks of the organizations that made them. If they are to be sold or marketed on the flashiness of their image rather than the functionality of their products, then they are just as culpable for the modern affectation with representations of objects (whether these be corporate trademarks or not) being more important than the functions of objects. Then, assuming that the manufacturers of the pepper grinder have designed the golden pepper shaker, comes the question on their part of how to design some kind of way of identifying them along with the packaging: if they engineer good products, they should be known on the basis of the good products. Corporate trademarks of high visual complexity abuse people's ability to judge whether or not a product is worthwhile because people are more concerned with the brand than the viability of the object in the long term. Such shenanigans should not have a place in the modern world. Whether or not a given object works is not determined by an imprint on that object.

On the flip side, whenever self-representation is properly called for: that is, when I'm representing myself via stationary or writing, I want myself to be as distinct as possible. Which is to say if that I produce a personal logo, mark, or symbol denoting myself, I want it to be as robust under a wide variety of methods of interpretation as possible. If there are ten different ways of interpreting the same symbol or logo, I want those ways of interpretation to produce the same result. Or as close to the same result as possible in a wide variety of people making that determination. This drives to the heart of the difference between personal artifacts and corporate artifacts. A corporate artifact wants to be as nonambiguous in interpretation as
possible that it is associated with a particular corporation. Well. The corporation wants that of the artifact. And, again, a way to do this is ornateness of construction in all respects. A logo is not the same thing as complex artwork with multiple interpretations on multiple levels. Especially if those interpretations are layered on top of each other cryptographically. With ten different interpretations of a complex corporate logo, anyone who was copying some given item would not necessarily know or care, and thus those complex multiple layers of encoded meaning might not be copied properly.

So, the idea here is twofold. One is a functionalist message, that aesthetical viewpoints about particular objects should jive together as a coherent whole, objects should be biologically, ergonomically, physically, and visually constructed to be pleasant and sensible, and that construction should be complex in such a way not as to be excessively complex so as to be brittle, but sufficiently complex that multiple layers of meaning pointing to the authorship of the object are clear. As an example, if anyone writes a large quantity of text, a statistical signature of their word constructions can be generated. In an ideal world, we'd be able to generate that on the fly and discover that during reading of texts, but most people are incapable of sorting out the authorship of a text just by reading it, and many texts generated by people are too generic to specify one or the other. But this text which I've just wrought should scream that it was written by me very strongly. And when I get custom stationary made by Crane's, it's going to feature a complex logo with multiple layers of interpretation, one that is not one of those monograms or other rather poor representations which people choose which say "well, yes, I like high quality paper but I'm too demented to realize that that hideous copperplate or whatever other typefaces they provide are ugly and robotic in character and rather unbecoming to personal stationary or whatever kind of other personal representation which I've chosen for this paper". Something with fractals is my choice. Something with a fractal whose constant is generated from binary numbers generated from some kind of representation of my name. Something with that many layers.

For the moment I'm done with this.

Interminable giblets splatted against the window. Inside, five men looked at each other as if they were about to rip each other's throats out. A metronome in the table tocked and ticked to and fro'.

Jvelve: It is! It is adumbrated
Wrunskis: I say. I say. It's a flap-wrong idea.
Jvelve: In-flooping-deedy.
Mr. Wrarpshard Plentwistle: This is protestable. I mean. What if Belgians get a hold of it?
Ydrumby: Plentwistle: you can take the incomprehensible British antipathy of Belgians and soak it in a sock. This is business. This is a mighty serious business we're considering here.
Jvelve: Order! I call Order.
Heeblefleen: Order is rescinded by the chaos of St. Jerome the Twisted!
Strampolis: But it is a thing!
Mr. Wrarpshard Plentwistle: Oh please. It is so not a thing. By the writ of so-and-so or thus-and-such the falseness of it has been completely and unambiguously demonstrated
Stampolis: Its thingness is incontrovertible!
Heeblefleen: It has been entirely controverted!
Ydrumby: But, what, about, the meaning!
Stampolis: Shatnerism
Ydrumby: hic! sorry
Jvelve: haec. quod est disputandem
Mr. Wrarpshard Plentwistle: I've had enough, what is it?
Ydrumby: meaning! I call a misappalachia!
Stampolis: all resolved to collide our heads with mischevious and reckless glee?
Heeblefleen: Think of the ridges! The mad Englishwomen wielding spacklers! What have we wrought here? A vexing question? A lack of nouns?
Jvelve: Oh my god.
Mr. Wrarpshard Plentwistles head begins smoking.
Heeblefleen: we have discovered the robot! Time to order pizza.

Atypical Kayapo Arctangent Ritual

Thus bespake the Mousegoo: I am a frog to the unrhymeable word! I am a majestic maharaja! I am the pentacle of glee upon which the mismastered modern approximation of Americana dances floppily in glee! I am the unbludgeonable standard upon which creative expression shall be measured against! I am the transmarginality suffering at the end of a sentence when all is said and done. What? You were expecting Abbott and Costello? Or Martin Lawrence? Or some more modern magus of the English language to provide to you some kind of emmenagogue for your misconcieved thoughts? Oh, you wound me with your comparisons of me to a lemon, to a lemonade stand, to a degreed molecule of gabapentin lamenting its motehood. You'd want another preacher, one who wanted to inject ideas into your head, perhaps with an actual syringe filled with metaphysical mustard of poor consistency and even more dependency on simile turmeric this and syllogism onion powder that, and Thomas Pynchon's unauthorized biography the other. Oh, you want something explicit. Something painfully obvious spelled out in words made from obscenely legible letters? Something so legible and crisp that you could cut your nose on it? Good luck finding that in this post-trans-structuralist cavalcade of poorly expressed ideas and ill-constructed thoughts. Oh, so you're saying that I should march my Mousegoo to the temple of High Energy Physics and wait until they tell me the fundamental explanation of all reality? My error, that required capital letters and italics: The Fundamental Explanation of All Reality. (doesn't that acronymize to FEAR?) I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you've got the wrong number. I'm no longer at that address (nor were you). We've moved on. You can purchase our idea-globules at the local soda factory for ten ducats a dram. I'll see you when the sheep come home.

internalities

What is this about? And why? And who? A dirigible antwhistle? A man with a plan to speak? A hot lass in a short skirt? A chocolate martini? And who has the explanations? And why is there such a drive for things to be explained? Religious maniacs want the root of the tree. More generally monists. Tho' the insanity of the typical monist is so well documented there is no point in precessing around it in glee, for they too are religious in their search for the root of their tree.
I could say "well, it's a dependent origination reticulum -- a do reticulum", and you'd wonder, well if it's this network of links then what does the network subsist in? What's the medium of it's occupation? At this point I look like a frayed water cable and can't offer you any more explanations. I might point at a brick. Or smell like pelargonia as means a way of explaining, but there is no explanans and no explanandum. There's just the whiff of oranges in the breeze and a feeling that somewhere, somehow, an adjective describing cows has been horribly misused. The one true reason is driven in twain. The arborial metaphor is already broken by the time the primate hierarchies come to addict you to it, and most of the time you're so unprepared to defend yourself against such an unreasonable point of you that you're doing planes of it off the backside of the cute local topologist or gardener.

I have a temple to sack that isn't anywhere, it's everywhere. It's a stubborn feature of human reasoning. To counter it I can't employ counterarguments, because those just have the same valences of finding the root or center. So my attack has to be askance, at an angle. Orthogonal to the manifold and breezy. I have to come in, be confused and well nigh incomprehensible, make a few impassioned statements and some very, very explicit object lessons with shockingly visual metaphors, and leave in a huff, or on the breeze, letting it sink in that my point is that I don't have one and neither should you. And if you do have a point, or are a point, then maybe spaciousness is a viable option, and that perhaps you should consider planting some flowers and staring out at the horizon while chewing on a tomato.

waiting in the mist

Many technical problems are all around. My focus is not one of them. Instead awaiting clarity, lucidity? Finding not a trace or whit of these signposts of well-reasoned argumentation? Or well-reasoning in general? Just a congealed mess of oil and badly expressed ideas or uncreative forces contriving to generate the worst possible dreck? And also to celebrate the worst possible dreck. Is there an elitist blog service? Is there a fine aesthetic to this? Of course you have the wannabe expats with their moleskines and their ludicrously incoherent pen preferences, which reside in blogs this way and yonder, but are these little complaints ever funneled into a coherent kind of proper graphology? Graphology is, I'm sure you're aware, a psuedoscience. Hands this way and that are supposedly the signposts of personality. But is there any morphological analysis of people' s hand anatomy and the way they write? It may exist. The point being that writing a sequence of personal and revealing commentaries and eccentricities about oneself does ought not give one the leisure to be shallow.