From Punnel to Illyriophone.

Cyrillopongbu Cohet was sitting down at her desk one day, keeping to her current context level, not on any hallucinogenic chemicals, just sitting down reading about mathematics on the local portion of the cosmic information network when a really odd meme was broadcast. Now, Cyrillopongbu was highly proficient in memetic discipline and could discriminate between memes worthy of replication and those memes unfit for runtime on her biological computational hardware. Cyrillopongbu Voxilliger Cohet, biological daughter of Arahasknse Tercheo Tharcohetha and Mnilliringbe Politheuzise Tnycohethry. Well, actually, she recieved a meme that was broadcast through the incomprehensible, ungraspable, ineffable mishmash of araspongbence, oggprungalloa, and pfersyfeny that is the infinite. The meme was a simple quine, stored precisely in one quantum of data. This particular quantum of data was smaller than a attonat in natural information storage, but when her memetic architecture unfolded and arboresced and polyorthogonalized this particular piece of data she saw that it was a free "you have lived your life in a fashion that is congruent to our principles and we believe that this little fragment of our existence will help you make a better and more coherent internal structure for yourself relative to your internal context. We provide formal algorithmic verification for both the precision of our language and our intent, to reassure you that we have not erred in the slightest, for you are very precious to us, a creature like ourselves that is living outside a Transquilateral, our native habitat, a being that is the next logical step in the evolution of primates in your context: as in the regular Euclidean geometry of your existence you are a creature that is five-by-five (five appendages, each with five subappendages on them -- head,hands,feed, fingers, toes, and so forth), you represent the next logical step in the evolution of the Transquilaterals. So, we invite you in with full honors awarded, and we mention with great clarity that the far longing, the Allongoa of the Oggallongoa was heard and duly transmitted by one Allegra (trans)-Pelargonia [Patricia, nominal silent letters and local contextual shortcomings] Levenger to our representative and then we analyzed the information we recieved and confirmed with quantifiably zero doubt in the most precise of our mathematical information structures, and thus, we being unified again, since the Plumontale Stone Crystals around the Lohaspo river, the actions that you have taken have unified the metacultures of the Sagahanta and the Vlyssanghai (nee Vlurfked) to become the Sahallangke
on the ninth orb from the lightcandle Illyriophon in the greater Nephrongent Archgulf by the Yelphreo Conurbation.,,,

the information overflowing into Cohet's brain rolled, plumed, etherealized her to sleep. And when she slept it was the deepest, most relaxing, most thorough and purest she had thusfar in her awareness-epoch and deeply satisfied and rearranged stress-quanta in her muscularome. When she woke, there were violet daisies in her eyes and she saw everything in a whole new light, just in time to start reading about mathematics again.

Transquilaterals

So, Merethria, you asked me what a Transquilateral is, and I think I finally understand Doctor Rocque's explanation.

The sort of Transquilateral in question here is one of the Oggallongoa. There is no distinction between sensory and manipulation appendages. Which are six mutually interimaginary: people, all living in parallel worlds: the names and languages might be different, but the feel of the places are the same. The Tranquilateral's avidya is centered on a sort of asymptotic pair of people who represents all the worst features, and to preserve sensibility, this pair of eigenpersons is continuously annihilated in the internal conceptual space of the Transquilateral. The fundamental percepts or units of meaning that the Tranquilateral percieves quantum mechanically are projective conceptual spaces.

Araquayun Porofaia Malupsis reports an experience by a creature called a "Gethonklin" whose native habitats are the prebuddhatomic primate mass minds of religions and belief systems and perform symbiosis with those mass minds, doing janitorial work, that sort of thing. The faces of the Gethonklin are like multiply intertwined rivulets of branches adorned with various mechanical and synthetic components in their native contiguous perceptuum.

The Gethonklin in question, one Fo'o'or Mahalongom sez: "It was amazing watching the universe and the person change, and the relationship between the person and the universe stay the same. Or the person looking at different universe with different places, but this wasn't a person: the people were like its interface with its environment. What amazes me is that unlike most of the mass minds I deal with, where there are literally billions and billions of people is how clean the place is. Large mass minds are dirty, disgusting places with many pickings, leftover concepts and whatnot. But walk into a Transquilateral's mind, and they'll let you because they're so disciplined about things, and you are shocked at how organized it is. Every part is aware of every other part, and is also aware of that awareness, and, this is the shocking bit, they can operate the symmetry group of that awareness, moving parts of it as need be. As far as self-organizing entities, it also shocked me to learn that some Transquilaterals have their eigenpeople develop awareness of their condition as being part of a Tranquilateral. It is shocking being your own separate being and being part of a well defined larger structure. It is that well-definedness which is what gives them their strength. Walk around a primate civilization and see people with poorly defined relationships to less evolved mass minds"

Because of these strengths, Transquilaterals are strong enough to venture outside of their home context, and that home context is not the home context of the eigenpeople.

by the archgulfing of the inferior ventral anastomosis

Orrhungbe? Oh, maybe. Oh, where? Therengerell? Five throntears avulcent from Corringene, and one twelfth of a thrasmere starboard of the Gullwullurull nebula whorls, rich in hydrogen and orange-tentacled amino acids (because we know that all life arises from orange-tentacled amino acids), when suddenly, through technologies tonnagely, and perhaps transthronteareally, arrives a cohort of life forms based on blue-tentacled amino acids. And, oh, the acrimony. Biologists orange-tentacled and the odd blue-tentacled one all baffled. These visiting life forms? Their first question? "Are you right handed or left handed?"

Again, more acrimonious cloddoghth-pfereflughling. Sigh.

unlistened warnings

You asked me how fast they were, what steps we could take to protect ourselves, that kind of thing. You didn't understand why I had moved to the edge of the swamp and swore that I would live my life in a reedy hut writing in spidery calligraphy on dried parchment. You wanted to make an issue of it. You wanted my expertise on the matter. I told you to stuff it. I told you, again and again that no strategy devisable would work. You pestered, editorialized, proclaimed the power of our technology.

One of them is eight hundred and fifty seven octillion times more intelligent than our entire species. Each one of them moves thirty septillion times faster... than the speed of information in our computer network. And that thing you did, didn't just incur the wrath of one of them. You incurred the wrath of four thousand, a whole creche. I told you, very explicilty, to not do that hideously stupid thing that you then went ahead and did. There's a reason that the artifact they left behind was protected the way it was, and yet, despite the warnings that both I gave, and others gave, and in fact, some of their kind gave you, you persisted, opened the thing up.

And you were perplexed, after the whole affair had reached a sort of conclusion, why they wouldn't let you make me the scapegoat for our entire species. If you think that's the extent of their manipulations, oh, the next twelve years news headlines or so are going to confuse you immensely. You basically asked them to do what you had done to them to be done to us. I'm going to go back to my reedy hut and steamed saltcakes and hope the next time one of your ilk decided to do something equally foolish as far as that Them is concerned, that they won't come running to me to tell them in as clear language as possible "don't, ever bother".

all's swell that bends fell

Tartuthekely, half an arborescence trifurcatory athwail Krylb and trunsey of Gorragare: the breeding ground for Psenheetches and home to small gangs of outcast Yitteraries, each of them bearing the brunt of a parasitic philosopher occupying major portions of their secondary brains: the parasitic philosopher is a concept that evolved from the primitive meme mines of the Yitteraries Third Network Age, like the lolspoons, the silly Pin the Monkey game that nearly wiped out two generations of intellectual accomplishment amongst the Yitterary, bastackling your noon*.  The parasitic philosopher could be removed, but only by spending a couple of durations in Tartuthekely, where the ethereal zephyrs could wash such infectious mimetic agents from one's mind through sufficent exposure. Most of these Yitterary were outcasts because the Third Network age had ended and they could get appropriate exposure to conceptual prophylactics, so they arboresced from the Yitterfield to Tartuthekely where they could bask in the iatrous flow of the ethereal zephyrs.

But most of the groups weren't having luck: since the Third Network was down, they could not go to the Hypercyclopedia and check that the major subspecies of ethereal zephyr was in the portion of its migratory cycle where it had arboresced to Clonthoyl, and wouldn't be back for another three durations, too long for them to stay there without becoming field people or gettergaws, both of which risks they knew about but no one, even in their wrong mind, would take. So after a couple of weeks, they dejectedly ended up arborescing to one of the Interstitial Depot Plazas lining the inner membrane of this nightmare and spent a lot of time dozing and reading the popular Captain Hypoplasia comic that the Inubrium corporation has been seeding at various rest-stops and waystations. Fortunately, (and this, I think is somewhat still a secret), the Captain Hypoplasia comic is a memetic agent specifically designed to eradicate the parasitic philosopher.




* (a hard to explain social phenomenon that involved geotagging one's spleen and having a live feed of the metabolic status of one's spleen microblogged to a gaming site where one was rewarded points based on certain metabolic configurations, and then eating some franch fruit to lower one's serum colchuamine below detectable levels: players would find ways of sneaking in franch fruit into someone else's meal, and this practice was called "bastackling your noon", and was popular for about thirty thousand hours on the main trunk of the Yitterary Third Network)

oh yuk

Stacktharn Groxitromiles of the Crayaster Perementhrium is not the most fombent of micthurists, plenny and dorodgely, he skeppers and mondylls the plogsires by the wallafronds, skepsing and preusingly oroptifying the calseps of the Grotteries that line the Grand Artundian River, separating the Chulfrum of Gransique from the Orrhengarybs of Jwaljerom. Ol Groxy's such a mustardface, skeppering and oroptifying this and that. What a frongillaryp! I bet his spoon is understudied and that his binary compliance directories are not in working order. Staggeringly blermosian? Probably. I mean, look at the Groxy insulted the Feldershaj of Gransique, throwing a one third baked fubbing tin at her while the stonkylphores of the nerbitsc plobbered on! What a scandal.. the next day all the data papers on the local ultranet were hoovering in cacophanation about the fubbing tin, featuring lurid composites of the fub grease and garish shots of the Feldershaj looking greatly irritated, cleaning fub grease off her face with a paper monkey! If the Feldershaj weren't campaigning for the amelioration of the hyperwharves then it might be so forgiveable, but she's going to have a hard time convincing the stetterworts and mindwrights of the dockyards that she didn't deserve to have a fubbing tin lobbed at her after she unilaterally fonkled the Yaunjest of Thrombilary in their televised interview with a carrot triangle and a broken pungle spoon, though in all fairness, Groxy has been behaving a bit oddly lately, and most speculators and gossip-slungers think that he didn't come back from the Hutch quite right -- there are rumors that Phelbart Oggins saw Groxy perform the Ritual of the Attenuated Celery Fragrance west of Siders' Cairn with a licensed Progfrobe.

the candidacy

In the Star-District of Krayanderthere, there are four political parties, all running for the Candidacy: this is not so much an election for a particular office so much as the style of governance. The parties are: the Thransilists, the Dradgepheurs of Gozylius, the Ethereals, and the Araphageum. Here are their platforms for the Candidacy:

The Thransilists (e.g. Crost Fronthemium, Hardcone Dtholdinem, Meteha Juraragoepe, Traktebe Bilithurum, and others) believe in rigidly structured government hierarchies with multiply distributed multipartite authority segregations and unambiguously machine parseable rule sets written for and organized by machines. They basically oppose humans being governed by other humans, because the temptations of self-interest, they believe, always corrupt people in power, and that, in consequence that it is impossible for human governments to stay focused on maximizing human happiness and contentment without drugging the masses.

the Dradgepheurs of Gozylius (e.g. Ordge Blosoons, Trinsellia Cardupon, Ververaryb Vostashire, Linsely Eratow, Iuli Rarefacta) believe that the correct form of government is infinitely corrupt: because rulesets cause the abandoning of reason and the deferment to the deontic drag, they think that government by the bribery syndicate is more effective than anything else.

The Ethereals (whose major eigenpersonality is the hyperego of Ransphondrea Urunbe Yikrejur) are as anyone sensate can make out, not so much a party as a collection of half-dreams that has been seething and roiling in the collective unconsciousness for a while, so long in fact, that it's taken on a life of its own, and because the collective unconsciousness is of sufficient largeness and grandeur, a tiny blur of it has achieved consciousness, and is multifurcating now.

The Araphageum (mostly Gonset Arruncalon, Povobe Balaheju, Tarsiste Runzugue, and Rhenthipgeus Apparungaryb) has stated in its promotional literature that it is about "A Return to New-Fangled Values" and "Low-Phaluting Uncommonweals" and "Blowing Everything out of All Proportion", and a variety of other buzzphrases that appear not to have any sort of coherence to them, though they have also stated that they found the platform that the Abject Nonsense party rather distasteful but have been effusive as to the reason for their distaste.

dwellers of the moonlight.

The spongyll is a two dimensional, bosonic lifeform which feeds on neutrinos and can only exist in moonlight: at day it is too hot, and the artificial light of the anthroponemous settlements on La Arth is too harsh and of the wrong spectral character. They are close to transparent. Being of a bosonic nature, two spongylls may exist in the same space at the same time. At their smallest, each spongyll is about a square meter, though they can range in size from a square kilometer by attenuating their material. There is a degree of danger of being so attenuated, though: sudden light from thunderstorms or meteors or perhaps anthroponemic activity may kill an attenuated spongyll. For reasons that are inexplicable to the current crop of anthroponeme biologists, spongylls prefer cool air near areas of dense vegetation, and cloudless skies.

At day, or when the environment is not correct for them, they sporulate, forming neutrino sized spores which have a tendency to stick to the centromeres of treebark dwelling crustose lichens. In some places, though, where there are vast caverns or other dark spaces of appropriate humidity and flora, spongylls will overday and sleep: since these places are few in number (spongylls detest bat caves, and do generally sporulate if there's a batcave around), the population of spongylls that sleep rather than sporulate is rather small. 

The method of reproduction of spongylls is rather peculiar: rather than classical binary fission or sex, the spongylls reproduce by interference, as two spongylls can inhabit the same space at the same time: they set up a number of spongyll-eigenstates in the surrounding false-vacuum, and at the end of the reproduction cycle, either 3 or 7 spongylls are constructively interfered from the two original spongylls, which have now been resurrected as state-vectors amongst the new spongylls. It should be said that in this way, the spongyll represents a sort of state of miscible life: rather than the pure death, the spongyll population is a kind of way-station for spongylls from here to their. 

If the conditions are just right, and you know the right syllables (something like "na khra gad taw pru bo"), and the moonlight is streaming down, and you see a spongyll, hold your hand out and say that phrase. The spongyll will stretch square and center itself with your hand.

prognosticatory arborescent recursion

For every life that is created between more or less conscious entities, there is a meeting that takes place somewhere in the grand transepistemological interstices between one mind and another which is too sublime for the biological entities participating in bodily union to be aware of in the slightest.

The ensconced/instanced representative of the male psyche is the(an) Absolute Unsunderable, which is a sort of superposition of potential eigengenomes across all the male gametes. The ensconced/instanced representative of the female psyche is the Absolute Ineffable. Each one of them more or less corresponds to the sort of meiotic fugue the gametes arise in. The Absolute Unsunderable counters the quality of fragmentation that the male meiotic fugue occurs in: spermatozoa are teeming, numerous, many, tiny potentials, whereas the Absolute Ineffable parallels the folliculogenesis of individual ova, and involves a different mechanism for superposing eigengenomes. 

The meeting of the Absolute Unsunderable and the Absolute Ineffable is called the Congress of the Nonexistent, and there is often great confusion about its mechanism. It is not to determine who lives, instead, it is to determine who fails to not exist: the first carries with it the connotations of making choices about who gets to live and who gets to die, but this conception does not truly address the philosophical basis for the meeting, while the determination of who fails to not exist is somewhat a more tractable proposition, both in the transepistemological basis under which the meeting is conducted, and as well as being more easily attainable algorithmically (if one wants to call it that).

Opinions on the Congress of the Nonexistent vary widely. The unborn don't have anything to say about it, can't speak to us, and are as inaccessible to the living as anything gone or come from Tumbolia. 

Together, the Absolute Unsunderable and the Absolute Ineffable do a dance that's called Prognosticatory Arborescent Recursion, which is sort of the "being many people at many places at once doing many things",  and allows them to choose, amongst innumerable possibility trees of future life, the one for which is meant to not not be, the double negative wriggling and metamorphosing into a 'to be'. 

history, schmistory, draw me a candlabra, Carahillia

Ledvenning Sterlong's paper The Eigenfunctorial Decomposition of Van Narsquil spaces was submitted to Acta Exactica's editorial board by neutrino pigeon on August 38 this year. The chief editor of Acta Exactica, one Artulbior Ragnescans complained that Sterlong didn't do enough work with the power series expansions of the irreducible representations of the eigenfunctorial decomposition method that he'd outlined in the draft, and moreover, found the draft littered with figurative language about the symplectic cohomology of Van Narqsuil spaces on a free shtuka. Ragnescans dropped the marked up draft in the editors pool and unflagged the busy bit, then turned off his editing terminal and took a red eye to Beta Pictoris. The next editor to flag the busy bit and examine the draft was Marifold Sun-Orrery Jarispensia, who was quickly drawn into frank perplexity about the exomotivic monadology that Sterlong had applied to Van Narsquil spaces of the first rank (like ξ_3,θ(1,L) and ξ_2,θ(1,K)), and wrote a comment on the section to the effect that someone not versed in current exomotivic monadology couldn't understand at all what Sterlong was getting at. Jarispensia unflagged the busy bit and meandered off to an acetone bar on the Gloss beaches for the nightly bacchanalium. After a few more editors had been at it, the paper was marked "Insuitable for publication; Return commented to sender", and since Sterlong had sent a self-addressed neutrino pigeon to the editorial board's branch office in Tunfthere, he was able to get it back within a week.

Puzzled by the sheer incompetence of the editors, Sterlong sent the draft of the paper to Acta Inexactica, where the famous editor Klaherry Cardlestoam accepted it on the spot as being "A prime example of the sort of thinking we want the younger generation to be doing".

trust not what the orange snail can mistake for a modular form

Artalgn? The Blesterferry of Thentec? Byalgum, fee's essthrayt gossins a musty! Thranstock gloggers the beremuffingont! Cherengerell? Auntherec? One throntear too far! Two too many! Ooh, like a sulfur! Dunny perhaps some illegal data structures. I gotsa queues, I gotsa stacks, I gotsa trinary trees and deques to lather and laminate your computational eigenfronds from here to Menthengerell, only a werry a donzlet, and half a werry for a functing! Byalgum, the spossoms of Blordge leave a tenthennering in my pocket for a donzlet of Yoks. And if I were the Vice-Ansthaulme of Cloggers' Punkt, I'd be twisty ways and divisory, if you get my definite Dedekindergarten in a oscillatory tubule, my matey! Voo. I'd have a mustard and be a mouthwash, but if the preceptors and their avonts be persuasiblenickety like a green george, I'd have my work cut out for me. They're sort of pugnaciously miserly with their donzlets and tenthennerings, and only give me scraps to work with. I've got some fine wares here. Pure lambda compilers written in the cosmic language, mind you. Not the sort of algorithmic pontoons that Aragmnio Fosparillo or Yeriyok Goo-Zadwallader are dealing out in kind to the foolish avonts, most of whom spend their thrungills on implementations of Karatsuba multiplication on particle-abacuses, much to the ire of their preceptors. Fortunately, the preceptor Vovonsil Lzongtep Alkyriobe spends many a tenthennering on my donzlet, and numerous werrys on my Yoks.  

the green tungstates

Perengveroia, sundt of the Bolgeas lammerstraits, greenways of Fos Porusa, a colony of dipthongwrights and curmudgeonists, werry ray and celeritous greetings abound, by the councils of the amber hulk, a greasy spork by the side of the road, an arrant fungal cantileverist and some artilpenters were gulfing the fongencies of the utter waxfroths of Hortec. But lo', did they rarefact the lunderwopps of the greater greeling, these men and their magnificient curtailments and abrogations: a stomacher, a bodice, and some rather precise measurements do retroflect thy gangrenous offal, my perspicaceous yardwaster, an unexpected artist at an incorrect vista pens a symphony in the blood of the last member of a species of heptapede mammalianoids, zrufing and fnurling, the swan song of the heptapedes is written in crabby letters in a forgotten script of an imaginary language, mixed with the blood and lymph of the artist, Stongbent Vlarvewhurl, furious and inaccurately rendering the rhetorical devices of the Perenveroian Knights-Errant into flawed Zmyff, with broken metaphors here and there.

gazpaur migration

Athwayl of Beremgenard, franspungy and diviss? A clerestory wail at the arch-bedeckants of the sunderworlds did propagage mine own heart, with the lavish blarthorns of crum, the plossocks of Terhedec gale, like a scattering of iron filings, or the cormorant of the post-alacritous coral ghost grease, a bisser, and the honchets of the Durgh were like underlilies in the first wind, without the mustard stained ears of the beyonders, drenched with concresced event plumes and other turbidescences, sodded down with the accumulations of mis-actions and other chances, prepared to strike, coiled in seeming inert configurations for many a conque, their archregality and seemingly over-fragile ornateness hiding the juggernauts inside, sagging in deep torpidity these metamachines lolled about, languishing in the bath of neutrinos and nitrogen atoms that the perhaps less-than-commonweal charged our preparatory gonsils with, like appendages with numerous protrusions and protuberances, and perhaps excessively armored with cosmetic calcifications, chitinizations, mother-of-pearlings, and endoskeletal interstices, they drunkenly and lazily hibernated, readied momentously when the chogg-ospills of the Vlarasboy and the hoc-ocuipsai of Hyrella's Grave would begin their transcendental migration from the Yosphenium of Grunder's Aulk to the Iridescribable Consyll of Gorgarionna, their trunset-gills and their asphellengions all aflutter in some vague misapprehension of uncalcuable pleurisy, these hephreats would be ensnared in the nematocysts of the suddenly enlivened metamachines. Centuries old hardware detecting the chogg-ospills and the hoc-ocuispai midway between Grunder's Aulk and Gorgarionna. The nematocysts would trap and anesthetize these creatures so that the gonsils of the Heceriut could retrieve them and mine the precious carraptangiet from their glands-of-a-diseased-future, fibrous and endocrine, necessary to the maturation of both species of gazpaur. For about a month the gonsils would be busy slaughtering about ninety percent of the captured chogg-ospills and the hoc-ocuispai, removing the glands-of-a-diseased future, and distilling and purifying the carraptangiet, a substance not synthesizable by our current chemistry-art, and capable of providing users with safe and reliable direct mystical experiences. The essence of yesterday would be removed from the glands-of-a-diseased future and then, through the application of poorly understood distillation techniques, the carraptangiet would be processed, purified, and sealed in lenstrots and ampoules. The remainding ten percent of the captured animals would be released, to complete their migration to the Iridescribable Consyll of Gorgarionna, so that they could encyst prior to the asexually reproductive stage of their life cycles.

After the mining of the carraptangiet had been completed, the stur-gonsils and the poffer-chirugea would begin the laborious task of resetting the metamachines that lined the Honsporaroa valley and by the Chosponk of Boktronjalo, laying down fine iridium traceries and charging multimodal paracapacitors, and installing fresh new nematocysts and folsek trunks. The next gazpaur migration would be in 29 conques, and the metamachines had to be ready to capture the gazpaur.

The Voiced of the Beyonders Promontory

The Voiced of the Beyonders Promontory (athwast of Correllon and two throntears straythwing of Gfujgme) can see as well as you or I, but, always, always, the two front facing eyes of their heads are always drawn closed... they have a different sort of vision, it is believed, one that is somewhat more accurate and less amenable to disruption than typical vertebrate eyes. The considered opinion of some of the more pedantic has usually been that it's a bad idea for the conventionally sighted or not sighted to venture there. The conventionally sighted get the willies, because they cannot shake the notion that despite the closedness of the eyes of the Voiced, they are being seen, and the conventionally blind for reasons that are difficult to enumerate but mostly distill to having the rudiments of the sort of sense that the Voiced possess. It is interesting to note that amongst the Voiced, there can be the doubly-blind, those whose eyes in their vestigial qualities do not function and for which the peculiar active sense of the Voiced is also disrupted. And these are the Speakers of the Voiced, who are the only cultural envoys that are permitted to interact with outside anthroponomers and whatnot. Tyh Houghdrossil, a Speaker, said to the anthroponomer Graysif Vorbithque from the Redacted University of Southern Reondiquette: "My fellow Voiced see the ins of things and the outs of things, both in a literal visual fashion, and in a literal figurative fashion, neither of which I can consign you an honest portrayal thereof. My half-mother, Volin, was cave diving in Nepollenth when her oxygen cylinder gave out, and within a matter of seconds she had removed the oxygen cylinder and hit the cave wall as hard as she could with it, which broke a two hundred measure long segment of oxiferous mineral in such a way that just the right mixture of inert gas and oxygen at the correct pressure was liberated into the section of the water that she was in at the time. Such occurrences happen all the time here, and are a result of the First Sight that my fellow Voiced are graced with."

cargo culture

Agents of the Thneux of Tophtareo bundled together in the cold. It had been a long, weary, winter, and the quest for the Theid of the Nohogien had been nothing but a wild duck chase with many dry tributaries and dessicated rivulets of opportunities. They had tried searching under the basalt stratigraphy, they had looked in Mrs. Yenderphleuw's spleen, they had tried overturning two recalcitrant continents, and in desperation, they had underwent comparative anatomical antidissections at the hands of Jones, Simeton & Daughters, Transanatomists-At-Large, but lo' they hadn't found the Theid. A priceless artifact of great and unadumbrated manufacture, that more or less words utterly fail to describe. It could be cubical? It could be shaped like a small philosophy or two, or a stalk of celery. Arwezio Val-Zogyar, the last known to possess the Theid, said it was like "a delicate milken dewdrop of alacrity diffracting off the mouse of misshapen carbonation", and refused requests for compact descriptions, breaking into pages and pages of dense, interwoven poetry, lyrical and glittery. The Thneux would not be denied. It would possess this most incomprehensible of objects, but as time wore on and its agents became ever more perplexed and bitter, it seemed, in fact, that the Thneux would be denied possession of the Theid.

Now, it is reported by later and more fact-pedantic data-archivists that the Nohogien Theid is in fact a Reheleth Advanced Hyperconcepts nine dimensional transnumismatic neutrino-muon coupler valve certified to run between 14 GHz and 18 GHz and produce flutter in less than one part in ten to the seventeenth (yikes!), which had accidentally left on Pleuroporr when the Sahagar-Rienstad cargo ferry crashed into the southern continent some thirty cycles before the Thneux ascended to leadership of Tophtareo. The Indigenous Culture Preservation League had swooped in and manage to remove most of the hypertechnological artifacts strewn about by the crash, but the Theid somehow managed to squirrel itself away into possession by the Nohogien

slo-mo fres-know.

Lantern'd folksy astrally irrigated visions of rusted iridium, oxidized cucumbers, many and numerous, like lemons dancing on the head of a pin. Such was change: such had to be, for the divisor-thrill of an abnormal number precessing around a floating top, orbiting the head of the hostess, before the soiree is scheduled to begin. In quick succession a fine china teapot is knocked from the table, and falls to its inevitable shattering, as an unrulier guest says, in slow motion "food fight", and throws a pumpkin pie across the room.

The pie collides with an antelope that has mysteriously materialized in the middle of the event. The antelope looks at the proverbial narrauthorial camera as if to say: "Oh, another fine mess you've gotten me into. What is it this time? Party in slow motion? And last week you had me to contend with those three thousand five hundred lunatic atoms of rubidium. Grah." The pie, being neither sentient nor sensate, goopily slides off the antelope and falls on the ground. It has nothing to say to the narrauthorial camera. The antelope, being marginally more self aware than the rest of the party-dwellers, immediately sets upon eating the pie. The party dwellers neither know that there is an antelope there, or have managed to get much farther than declaring a food fight when the teapot finally impacts, breaking into numerous small and uncomfortably sharp bits.

constructive potential of dangerous intensity.

Tdzgolgze Tzunphe says: "we are used to measuring destructive forces, but we often do not consider measuring constructive forces, particularly if they are of immense magnitude. The yields of explosives are given, but have you ever seen the warning labels on a tube of constructor nanomachines?  The Drugn Pfamagai make constructor nanomachines that are able to rearchitecture cities in a manner of milliseconds, faster than the native population can react. Suddenly, the city is changed. The topology is preserved, but the geometry is different, less jumbled. Refridgerators, formerly with freon refrigerant, now have exotic pion-coupled adiabiatic refrigeration technologies. Computers are speeded up. Things are cleaned up."

undersulfurous jazz

After twenty or so years walking the highlands, past Theor Grunland and Theor Yusphealius, the Pleurg creatures who had been carrying the consciousnesses and muscular stress patterns of the princess regent and the cadre of royal advisors had reached the Yoveal caves, deep in the Thrunlands. Some Vlyssanghai engineers had set up a small laboratory outpost, and they still were using some Vlurfked composite quantum foam technology, and the Pleurg would discharge their charges into machines that would weave and sculpt new bodies for their charges. The process is two staged: the first stage involved the casting of the muscular stress patterns into blank quantum composite foam bodies, and was a fairly violent procedure involving immense energies: it was implosive and involved the careful arrangement of various attennules and other hyperfine projections into a sphere of unformed quantum foam composite. The sphere then shrinks into the shape of the body, which is still mindless, but carries the right muscular stress spectra to accommodate the mind that it is about to recieve. The second stage is much less violent and slower: while the original transcerebrrephrenization is fast because the tertiary brains of the Pleurg are made out of exotic matter, the process of writing a mind from a Pleurg tertiary brain to Vlurfked composite quantum foam takes about two days. 

After the mind is written (the technical term is 'milked') from the Pleurg tertiary brain, the booting occurs, this is the activation of the mind in the new substrate, and is effected through mental continuity: the experiential portion of the consciousness in the new body is linked to the the Pleurg tertiary brain, and in so doing, the consciousness moves. The Royal Anthropographer described it as "the mental equivalent of changing houses". 

After eight minutes or so, the composite quantum body, which doesn't have any of the original dna of the  person, settles into its appropriate shape. The composite quantum foam is able to determine, using the muscular stress data and the phreny, the exact appearance of the person. It takes about eight weeks for the person to settle into the new body without the added features of the composite quantum foam. At which point, if they so choose, and they usually do, to turn on the added features: dodecachromacy, increased memory and processing power, chromatophores in the skin, buckytube-tensioning of bone-equivalents. But the architecture of the mind is preserved, which is most important. In the case of the earliest attempts at this technology, minds were moved without care for the muscular stress patterns, and the most maladjusted minds would result, feeling naked, and they often lost it.

arabesques of the overtomorrow

Plaintive emissions of muons signalled the end of the empire: forewithal the mesoscale apportionments made by the royal diphthongwrights were etched in silicon and carried by specially trained couriers from the palaces and the royal scientific laboratories to the dirty bazaars of the the land, in these all the collected knowledge, at the instruction of the cadre of royal advisors and the princess regent, were smuggled with great alacrity into the heaving underbelly of the commonweal. Even though the empire had fallen and the defenestrations, malfeasances, and degredations were going to continue unabated, the royal datapools had been ingeniously transferred to the public's seething hippocampus. Looters and other nogoodniks of various degrees of brokenness smashed the ornate crystalline chandeliers as the royal advisers and the princess regent transferred their consciousnesses from their biological bodies into the tertiary brains of the Pleurg creatures that lives under the castle: the transcerebrephrenization is one way: their biological bodies were left as inactive husks, much to the ire of the barbarian revolutionaries who would have taken great pleasure in their violent deaths. The Pleurg creatures then began their migration to the Yoveal caves, where the royal cadre and the princess regent would be able to get new bodies made out of Vlurfked engineered composite quantum foam: that might take ten or twenty years or so of travel, but it would ensure that on their return to the fallen empire they would be able to weave a new and sensible government amidst the chaos, or at least, if a sensible government emerged despite the depravity of the barbarians, that they would be able to continue their researches on the fundaments of meaning in something as well equipped as the royal laboratories later.

Ulyghow Varvarus swung the sledgehammer into the rococo sculpture. Mathematics? What tripe, he thought. A conquerable people to be conquered. Just another one of them, all in a day's work. One of the barely perceptible Pleurg creatures, housing the consciousness of the Royal Cultural Anthropographer, in its tertiary brain, caught Ulyghow's eye for three sevenths of a millisecond, and in that time Varvarus had the distinct impression that his graves, such as they weren't, had not merely been walked over, but burnt to nuclear ash. 

bumbling through the fields of yore...

"Other than the muon vodka, I'm sure we can come to some kind of arrangement", said the Yalzuleak, its seven eyes kind of vague and red from weeks of sleeplessness and exertion, pausing over the dozens of nearly inscrutable legal documents written in chickenscratch. Literally. The Yospheni polity decided eighteen years ago that all its legal documents would be written in ink by dancing chickens on sheets of the toughest parchment. The legal code was translated into chickenscratch in the course of a concerted five year programme. I can't read the stuff. The Yalzuleak probably can't. Reading chickenscratch is a much sought after skill these days. The Chickenscratch Philologists' Union (CPU), has a dedicated corps of readers of chickenscratch. They squint at the parchment. They peer and ogle at it. They turn it upside down and backwards and view it in a mirror with a green filter while Ormestrio Van Salvwarby's infamous symphony Uzyphreunque dell'Zarathirio plays backwards on a dodecaphonic hyperdigital multistereo deck. The Yalzuleak shrugs, downs some more superfluid helium, and eructates. Getting this contract (with the possible exception of the muon vodka deal) is likely to make the Yalzuleak a lot of ducats, if you know what I mean, nudge nudge, wink wink. And for gambling? Advanced mathematical supersimulations on distributed biological quantum computers of ducks attacking a wombat on a calm midwinters' eve? Nope. More superfluid liquid helium to get drunk on. Your acetyl-CoA habit looks minor in comparison.

anneal me, slabscape

The silent streams of infinity coruscate and collide in incomprehensible combinatoric rococoques, irrigating the misfields of reason with the thin razorcracks of misapprehension and the vain hope of complete understanding. The Gone World rears its nasty hydra of a head and then you're left standing with perhaps less than a clear idea of why you arrived so long ago. with the message printed on that piece of bacterial matting that you had printed at the local confectioners' back office. The absolute desirability of higher order coherence in your self-arrangment of your own mind has led you here, and the things you see and hear here drive the repositioning of massive slabs of mental effluvia. Things which did not fit together because they were too big and too awkwardly edged with complicated internal and external structure have been rotated, stretched, transformed so that what was previously an confused melange of concepts and beliefs now fit together with a precision that you could not have foreseen. You will emerge from this ordeal as it is, annealed, purified, free of the jostling which previously assaulted your apprehension of the world. Your perception won't be perfected, but it will be considerably enhanced. But what is the point of this crusade? Personal salvation? Liberation from the sidereally mundane? If you are still looking for something, then you haven't not found what you weren't looking for. This sort of annealing does not provide all the answers, but it reduces the particularly vile tendency for one to philosophically speculate on pointless eschatological or teleological fripperies and then imbue those illusions with a life of their own, for which you would be just along for the ride. 

Later, much later in fact, when you are sitting by the hearthfire and sipping at a cup of some tisane, with a book halfway open, and some diagram or other with inscrutable remarks annotating it fearlessly nosing itself at you, you might reflect on the other character and his illusory hijinx: you're the one who came through strengthened, and you avoid the mythological interpretation and you grok the diagram. 

rebarbative barbarian barbers

The Transctheres of Golladge? An Imaginarion? What preludes? What unindexed cormorantry! Had I a dither for every voxel the Shtoyn of Cleveril hit with their funny foam sledgehammers I'd be a poor monkey, or else! Oh, what cranthry had the doggerelwauled eigencomedians derived from their rather inglorious routines, their forgotten cabbage dirges and their analytic attentions to the green freedoms that our ancestors deliberately locked away in the notorious catacombs of Saint Freundlorg? Do they demand mustard rights? An abolition of the hominid tax? The decriminalization of the cosine? What madpoliticos are these, ne'er do wells and nellespont crultherists, oh what fetid wondrous catnip do they disregard and then recompense our dipthongwrights with their idolatries. Nay, I say, let us play by the sundry asterisms of York and the moon-drenched shores of the Threltomniville Van Gherkinicide Marchmain Pronouncements, the lamplighters of distant lands, for the precession around the orrery at the promontory by the dancers of Goff-Silvram means that there's just one more tune on the radio.

the first anteriorally ventral star on the left, then sail straight on to morning, you can't miss it.

Arvulgne Derraptranga of the Shels Blarzt, by Tennemery Green, across from the Scoles of the Latter Cellerdet had had enough, of time? No. Of space? Of noughts and crosses or stacks of pleather? No, not that either. Arvulgne twiddled a crithip blongle on her fingers, throwing it against the wall where it shattered into thousands of gaseous fragments. Wisps of craspy and blottongle condensed, sparked, and revaporized into a multicolored plume of self-intersecting smoke. "I am doing this all over again", mused Derraptanga, and thought that the dew was a gut-wrenchingly dumb shade of lilac this morning. An onyx pen had been dipped in a obstreperous pool of ink, and a terrapin monk was just sidling up to the monsterwrights. Derraptanga fumed, plumed, and turned around. "I have just enough alef-tokens to get me to Hfofr, and then I can take the Bleon express to Jaratharab", muttered her mind, undercerebrally as it were. "It's no wonder that Sarango Boutongides doesn't like the uncommonweal here", her mind muttered, transpineally, "with all those careless brocollio scissorettes and the entire economy of Gren Tarragt, they can do better, I think they must. But I don't care if the wharvewrights are undersupplied with constructor nanomachines: they can just make more"

Essay Answer

Aurilysk Calferrallin wrote:


"Arrhengterrapongorin learn to distinguish between amangoa and mahengorve early on. "That idea I had that was an imaginary horror! I recognized it as mahengorve!". They learn that there are different types of good and that the drive for Oggpongkoa is one of the very fundamental motivation that is wired into most forms of life and ramifies as a particular life form ages. They understand that one may not pursue Oggpongkoa by itself, one must focus one's experience on the common bliss, oggrung-goa, and that there is the hierarchy of aliased desire, and the most effective way to ascend it is to focus on the most rewarding use of energy for a particular person/entity. The universe does not reward you for doing what you should not be doing as effectively and piquantly as it does when you do what you should be -- a mathematician in a piano factory will feel stifled. A mathematician in a piano factory who does mathematics while making pianos will recieve more in the way of rewards because they have focused their energies. There is a saying: "Neither vrongling nor vrungling, but shpongling and shrungling," One who has achieved balance between the desire for Oggpongkoa and the necessity of oggrung-goa through balancing their vrungling and shrungling is said to have achieved araspongbence. "

hallmarks of cultural maturity

The Pund culture of the Loraschrelleng Highlands (above the 104th antiparallel and west of Iyt Gallango) got so exasperated with the dozens of cultural anthropologists and various ex-pats that would settle amongst them that Zrillmaya Araspongbent volunteered for the nonexistent position of "ad hoc official cultural ambassador".

The Pund culture is one of the few cultures where "not identifying oneself with one's own culture" is a core value. Araspongbent sez:

"In a culture where members of the culture conflate themselves with the culture, there is the opportunity for unrestricted cultural warfare, viz.: by such a conflation, the person mistakenly percieves attacks on their culture to be attacks on their person. We, the Pund, generally recognize a few hallmarks of cultural maturity. First, in a mature culture, members of that culture do not conflate themselves with the culture, and feel no need to defend their culture from attacks in word. Mature cultures have strong enough internal epistemology that they can weather this kind of interference demurely. Secondly in a mature culture, the culture itself has achieved a sort of cultural self-awareness that is absent in previous stages and one of whose ramifications is that cultural self awareness and personal self awareness are distinct. Thirdly, in a mature culture there is recognition that comparing one's culture to others for the purposes of self-aggrandizement is an ultimately fruitless endeavour. Fourthly, in a mature culture there is recognition that every culture has its flaws, including whichever culture this is.  Immature cultures are very bad at boundary management, and two typical pathologies are being really leaky and amorphous, or being really tight and disciplined. A mature culture recognizes that in order to retain vitality, it must actively shape a kind of fluid mosaic boundary between itself and others. Mature cultures generally prefer a kind of self-deprecatory gatekeeping to an explicitly "ministry of culture" approach, wherein there is some central authority for certifying various cultural arts and products as authentic and marking as deficient those which are percieved by some bureaucracy as inauthentic and invalid"...

"There are reasons that my culture, the Pund, do not participate in the Valpongent Hypercluster Intergalactic Goss Culture competition, and we are heartened that the the recent winner, Gs. Culture 301,309, the Arask of the Cherengerell made a point afterwards by throwing their winnings (twenty grams of memory diamond containing all of Roswep Clandelsky's unwatchable sitcom The Schralang Diaries) into the magnetar K390-2 and then declared that it would never again participate in the competition"

some more Arrhé

Trahec Cla-Alorun had this to say about the difference between thrasmeres and throntears: "The thrasmere resembles the meter, the mile, the gigaparsec, the Planck length, one furlong, the average distance between lion ears for it is a sidereal unit of distance, and of effort. But the throntear is a much more interesting unit of measurement: it is a transcendental distance which counts, quantifies exactly the number of nested metaphors between one conceptual place and another. The thrasmere is purely idempotent: if I travel five thrasmeres and you travel three, the total distance we have traveled is eight thrasmeres. One speaks in hushed tones about 'metathronteareal' or 'transthrontereal' separations between conceptual bulwarks: for while we can say "oh, it was five throntears away", we can also blur the throntear itself, viz.: if we assign a fractional, irrational, transcendental, and or complex or quaternionic number of throntears separation between two conceptual toposes, we are talking about a separation of such depth and magnitude that it cannot be measured by "thras"mere light years."



She goes on to quote Malwavbleom H. Hruncthys, when describing an event pi-sqrt(17)i throntears from Alharhec: "Stunned gelato ribalding? What's the Antialopecianist doing with that hydroxide? Castroglial? I hardly ever took the Cuba'd root of her inflections, expecting an assignation, I removed flecks of dirt from her bodice, oh, which by the way, rolled a seven. Her other bodice rolled a nine. I think her bodices aren't transitive, tho -- and I have the transfers from the streetcar to prove it, though the car top was occupied by a stunning, sunning Opulchst, all bright and swimmy, detailing the underwine of everyone's lasso, snarfing up the Wildebronts and drinking neutrino vodka. This Opulchst laughed of the concretions of centurywork, depositing our disfavor in kind: and when the car had stopped at Biesdboro station and she was required to surrender one of her bodices to the Capstan for inspection, the Opulchst excused her and offered the Capstan some tape, which it tensioned for playing. I think it was some duck tape -- the sort they make from drake feathers."

some Arrhé

Mahengorua, mahengorve: can mean 'fear', 'terror', 'horror', 'avidya', 'abhinevasa', 'bad', depending on context.

amangoa means 'good', but is open ended, and can be compared. There is greater and lesser amangoa

bavpua or bavpué mean 'surprise'

oggpongkoa denotes 'transcendental good'/'transcendental amangoa', which are events or experiences that are good without compare, the bright spots in dreams, the moments in our lives that we covet and are all too brief and fleeting. French translators (such as those who do not manage existence failures) typically call this one "ogg transcendantale". English translators tend to prefer things like "nirvana" or "the pong(u)ent"


oggrungkoa sort of denotes "domestic amangoa" -- or domestic bliss. (there is a glottal stop in between the g and the r", the sort of more sidereal and pedestrian kind of bliss that comes from doing something with repetition and eventually moving from incompetence, to competence, to mastery, to maintenance. This is the mundane, and likewise, French translators of Arrhé render this one as
"ogg mondaine". English translators prefer "domestic bliss" or "the rung(u)ent"

bugaboos of the undermonster.

Dozpadro of the Arschyne Highlands collected two droves, and look man, stop, I've had enough of this. I'm just sitting here at this point in the erf for Herr Mosposio and I can't be bothered to answer every meaningless query the Majordomo Brokvoom issues, in triplicate, written in Basque. I just don't have time. A fiddly one he is. All "I'm the major of the domo!" arigato Mr. Roboto he goes, pointing out naked emperors everywhere he goes. In fact, I'm fairly certain that everyone is a naked emperor to him. It's kind of scary to watch. Yesterday he interrupted a badminton game to loudly and irritatingly call a flock of starlings "a congress of naked emperors!". If he weren't the grandaunt of Lec Vronsitio he'd probably be taken to a rest area and given a hamburger.

the art of syzygy

The Lerispella of Glaunther's Aulk have a practice, they call it "the syzygy" -- it is their form of yoga. I quote from Arhulme Quaensporohenga's book "A Meek Guide to the practice of The Syzygy":

"Many things are encoded into muscle memory, typing, writing, speaking, the expression of language. But also, too, is fear. Our fears and worries are too encoded in our muscles: our muscles serve as memory proxies in a way, for the brain. A muscle perpetually tightened will accumulate scar tissue -- what they call 'adhesions' in the fascia. Memories which produce such things are locked away, not so easily accessible. Which fear is fundamental? Ask someone what they are most afraid of. What do they find themselves thinking about often. Even those without a fear of death may have another sort of fundamental fear that has been encoded into their muscles and which restricts their movement. To free one's movement one must free one's muscles from this restraint.

Furthermore, the concentration of energy in a particular part of the body may be abridged of supernatural denotations: observe that when one tightens a muscle, the body will increase blood flow to that part, therefore increasing the available carbohydrates available to the mitochondria of that part of the body. There is no need to invoke dualistic notions of life-force or whatnot. Now, the concentrations of stress in the body can easily be visualized by taking an x-ray of a person and having them in between two x-ray polarizers in much the same way that the stresses in transparent plastic may be visualized by placing the plastic in between two visual light polarizers orientated at opposite polarizations. The aim of the art of syzygy as we practice is to determine how that stress is distributed and what energy the body is applying constantly to maintain such stresses, and which stresses are superfluous and can, by this art, through careful and coordinated massage, stretching, acts of dexterity, be determined where that stress resides in the body, and how balance can be achieved by noting how the body uses energy asymmetrically, and attempting, as much as possible, organize and structure what was previously incoherent.

Self-knowledge is paramount, as well as self-awareness. Now for the first series of data tables and x-ray polarigraphs of various persons with various life histories..."

Doodles about Greater Arphrungia

Arphrungians, alloyed and annealed, strong like buckycarbon, what a noble breed of anthropomorph. They wield and yield like a mad mother just during the birth of her first child, or a nervous brain surgeon during her first callosumectomy for an epileptic. Never leave your pet news corporation and general paranoia network unaccompanied with an Arphrungian, or they will return in the morning with a more accurate and equitable arrangement more suitable for the ecumenical discourse of the commonweal. Greater Arphrungia is the nation itself, while Lesser Arprhungia consists of most of the West Bluelands in the glorious and peripatetic nation of Orpheon, and most of the Arphrungian exiles who live there live there because they cannot deal with the overwhelmingly and incapacitating level of awesome that permeates Arphrungia, so they have meandered north of the border and peacefully exiled themselves to the less awesome West Bluelands. (as certified by the International Awesomeness Rating Committee).

Arapulskietta and the Darthington Mroab

Oh, Wulsterfloygh, did you not harness the chance of the century? Did you not, in the tonnages of time, with arabesques of the purest iridium, shine like the radiant Aramhac on the fields of Lohaspo by the Arthuygnian? Oh Golloschella and the batterbonds of Cvisse did the sulferfumblers of the gorge get their reptillian revenances in order. It is a last resort of the foolish, a commandment by which our avauntular (avaunt, avaunt, exeunt!) and avuncular vice-cheeses can find solace in the grilled varieties in vacuous victuallers from here to the wilds of Sanhelamon.
If they claim that coherence is the boondoggle of the spiritually bewildered, then I must be like a tree-river on the edges of the Oceans of Reason, because, unlike the dithering lots of the clerestories and the binary enigmas of Sar Argyre, I juggle.

knerst

Aryffhon, Bthegmy & Sons has released a new hypermaterial. It's called "knerst", and is probably the least dense ultrahydrophobic material known. A cube of knerst, if the sides are smaller than 5cm, will float, on one of its corners, on water, because the knerst water interface will tend towards one of minimum surface area.

more random cosines for the Stalk of Graoulk

They are the stealers of dreams, the ribald opportunity cost of a frothy tomorrow, their foamy redoubtable and orange in the scene makes a man like a damned cabbage, oh, did you see? Were you there? Had you your assigned yoghurt and curcumin and riboflavin dyed ceremonial bloaking stoot? Did the Abbess of Prencep offer you some tea and pastries while the Madmarchmain band played its swansong for the everlasts and the thukdam appealers at the Cemetaries of the Green Fog? Oh, I may have pasted my text string on the Grand Concourse of the Schrelleng-Gloats and I may have abridged Stenuel Larancil's great work Methods in Ant-Farming, Volume 123, published by Saint Ardwunt's Press, New Stobbro, Calancishire, West Bluelands, in the great nation of Orpheon, and have made remarks that debrided the great Pustule of Simonk and bloagthrettes to his miss minister, but dost thy yield unregard my clean understumblings? Fortooth, a dental man and a lord of the manor had offered not thrice ducats to the teller, and the gone world unutterably didn't have the mustard message at the right point, I tell you did Salas Gran-Tranthessima have a whit or a wit by the distances? No! Like any good Arphrungian, Gran-Tranthessima made his living by doggerelwauling at the Strident Arms and the Ferestory of Blubitmas, and then his plomongaste did have a free pension to calculuate his infinite series. Oh! Whengfrunct saddened by the funereal dirges of greater Arphrungia.

abridged conversation

The following conversation occured between the human species (H), and the Orrhet (O) between the years of 2341 and 2839. It has been much speeded up and irrelevant material elided

(H) hello? anyone out there?
(O) hey there!
(H) eek! hi!
(O) how far have you come?
(H> sends science.math.status.report.xzr
(O) Hrm. So you've not decoded the nontrivial roots of the Zeta function. Tell you what, don't get in touch with us again until you do. Please.
(H) Uh. Okay.
200 years pass
(H) What the smoking fuck!?
(O) You finally decoded the roots? Congratz!
(H) We're still reeling. We feel that it's hard to know what to do as a civilization once you know that.
(O) We find that civilizations we encounter generally have three responses to it: They either ignore it, much to their detriment, or they embrace it, and it's good for them, and the third one we don't really understand. For what it's worth, we think you're en route to the third, so we'd appreciate it if you give some idea what you're doing as a species if it's even the slightest bit incomprehensible or hard to understand.
(H) oh ah. hold on a moment.
(O) eh?
fifty years pass
(O) you still there
(H) BEEP. We're sorry to announce that we're currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone. This call may be recorded for training purposes. If you are the Orrhet civilization, please decode another trillion zeros. Really. BEEP!

arakonec vharag nymor gnoem

Zorrhaia and the undersulfurily clamorous unhenging of the Framboisse menhirs made a tambourine of an eggnog, oh what hopeful prayers can the Borromoig of Flerehahon dictate to the Theungilles of Trat, a blithering, castigatingly nontransparent requests written in the forgotten languages of the Bloabfarils or the Sketternauts, oh whatever shall the greatest amongst Man or another recidivist against the cobblers who live in the Narhauspian delta, arching and mulling and making the least reprehensible shoes around Frollmep. Bresggchellior and the parhaps of goovmanagh being irritatingly painful. The choosits and their parsnips of the wurst cheese, oh, of the greatest offering which can prelapse the maids, did retell the stories about the whey and the mad mothers who occupied Glorambrulleo? Oh Pheoritte, your tresses and curls inspire madness in my mind. The shape of your closely fitting galligaskins ignites a eon ancient fire in my mind that I cannot extinguish through tea, meditation, or ribald subtractives from the neutrinos.

breaking and bending the etym.

Erekvim and Borostaub had been vacationing. Seeing the sights of the universe. The Vonksella nebula, the supernova of Blereubst +49 204(c), the collision of the gas giants Arapahim and Vlerestory, the barred spiral galaxy Yaradaff. They had seen the ice caves of Jylfrond, the carbon tetramers of Zar Ghoom and the understumblings of the Butler of Whauve Yeeks. They were getting bored. They found a travel agent in a space pod somewhere near the binary pulsars of Ghun and Mnasthar, a Tvy, one Wqa Anm Uqq, who had databases of stars and other biological phenomena, hideous and clean. "There's a yttrium casino three light weeks in the disgusting direction. Currency is yttrium atoms. They've got games of chance and games of skill. A full neuroprosthetic tennis court and a gambling hall. Not your thing? What about the Obscenarium of the Vanfooklement people of Scillio? A museum full of the most obscene concepts and artifices from eighty thousand cultures spanning the Greater Necklace galactic supercluster? You look unenthused. Hrm. What about the Zorgleqaun Voorwerp?"

"What, is a Voorwerp?"

Wqa vollued. "A Voorwerp is some random astrophysical object that we just call a Voorwerp because we don't know what it is. The word 'Voorwerp' means 'object' in some extinct anthopoesical language or other, or so the ravenous etymologists who hang outside the methane refinery tell me."

purifique untrue

imagine a pure cube of completely homogenous single isotope material, diamond, silicon, elements higher than iron being preferable since they are generally only synthesized in supernovae. Now, imagine that we could visualize the source star for each individual atom in said cube, making a complicated pattern of atoms.

astrologica Dunsillica

The Dunsil civilization of Fronthair, fifth orb from the star Lahary in the Cyrellis gigacluster, in the Undergulf of Dhriveorrhe awoke one morning and decided to sleep for a while. Alas, poor threadwright, did you read the planarian's tale, the standard archetypes being written clearly and distinctly, the Utter Woman, the Queen of Celery, The Fool, The Molecule of Benzene, the Usurer. What is your tarot reading? What is the tarot reading of the Dunsil civilization. Let us do an appropriate tarot reading and examine the astrological chart of the entire Dunsil civilization. The One of Strange Quarks, the Mad Monkeyologist, the Drake Equation Card (inverted), the Five of Neutron Stars, the Two of Sex Pheremones. Oh, what is this telling us? That the Dunsil civilization will undergo a three thousand year industrial period followed by a two hundred and fifty year period of technology before it reaches hypercivilization stage and ascends several rungs on the Kardashev ladder. That fifteen minutes before the civilization reaches the third singularity some rather damaging news will be released on the information network about a pop star. Okay, let's look at the star chart of Dunsil -- a couple of nearby blue giants, a mercury manganese star here and there. An uncomfortably close pulsar. Some unremarkable multiple star systems nearby. Nothing special. A few fun comets. An unremarkable gas giant or two. Again, nothing special. Oh, now that's interesting. There's a pulsar that's going to hit it head on in around 2 million years. A hole in one.

dialogos persulptas

Mr. Nephrium: Alack, foul Trongtep!
Ms. Pulmonones: It is a maraschino carrot! It cannot defend itself!
Mrs. Adrenarion: Caste not the Ur-Celery down, like the crasmarius, it is a bee-progeny.

Ms. Pulmonones: I could always bake a pie. Then where would all the Tomatillos be?

Mrs. Adrenarion: But you would not be a mad syllepsiologist! What would become of the disflunksions? Would they not be scattered in the wind like random Arch-Mustards?
Dr. Cerebrontosaur: Oh come now! We've had an antelope for months! We can't afford another misclassification.
Mrs. Adrenarion: But! But! But! But, the eggnunt!
Dr. Cerebrontosaur: If the carrot is celery, then the apple is a bee. Such things are plaintively true.

understudy of a bee...

Bzeud-Morry Arkyle stared blankly at the pericardium, the oozingly disobvious canter-lemper that beguiled and betrothed the Quar-Queen of all Norarstrias to the Kloongfleps of Stuk. Did such things epistle the maniac candelabras of Nozbirrt Candethec? Was such a ritornello not disambiguated by the Lortch of Glop? What did the Custard Mite of Glut have to do with the Lhovanx of Grauling? I can't answer these questions and I'm assured that neither can you. For the ribald antennules and the various tinctures of bombykol provided me by the mad apothecary didn't have a chalice or a chastrodiagostro? What Frenzulmes bide the crathuary of Dorzestro? Oh, if Sarpulmno was buried up to his lopsided cheese trapezoids in gungulf creme, did the Arabitol-Noisoxes litter up the blerebethy of the Gloipfrauds?

dialogues of the understumbled.

Arnestine Munkwine, third in line of the Lower Duchy of North Toronto, is accosted one sleepless night in the midsummer by the eigenghost of Pafnuty Tschebycheff:

ARNESTINE: I am a frond of salt! Befriend not my pants, for they are various, and possibly abscene!

PAFNUTY: Why not enjoy one of my polynomials? They are crunchy and go well with dairy products. cos(n*acos(x))?

ARNESTINE: You bleary wraith! I engender no such arch-fleuronffle! My odgeblearns are not for you understomping!

PAFNUTY: Oh, the wind on the steppe is a plural gas, and the astronomers of doom do not protect thee from with paramecium of doom.

ARNESTINE: Off with your obstreperous opprobria, foul ghost. I meander hither and thither and undergo a puncture wound on my foot from one of your unhousebroken polynomials.

defend us from the phromaglynn

Zogmunckey didn't return from the Catableps? What was the 'orizontal spoon? Can I be a sheep? Can I trade a sheep for a moose? And what of the Monmouth Mongeeses? Are they even allowed in Drydgebellow-on-Strunn? Were the cantilevers like a bridge to the remember factories or did the grain of sand cereal not include a free toy? Such questions like this do not haunt me at night. Telling the tale of the madman and the ant? The Heegner number and the CW complex.

skene arbuthnot

ANQUILA: But think of the wonderfloonts!

ASPERALDI: The wonderfloonts have no mustard!

ANQUILA: And I suppose so does Oggpongkoa?

ASPERALDI: Oggpongkoa is silent, speechless, reigning in unprofundity

ANQUILA: Do the birds twitter, do the bees google?

ASPERALDI: These things are not as a gargarice, a mouthwash, a priory, a backstabbing elemental. Ask not of them, they do not curry favor with the elementals.

ANQUILA: Then who does the sea froth for?

ASPERALDI: The sea froths for no one, nor do the stars foam for us; Such things are the warp and wooft of the world. 

ANQUILA: Will the heavens defend us?

ASPERALDI: Not from ourselves.

ANQUILA: All hope is lost! We are become our mothers!


ASPERALDI: Only if we have become our hamsters.

ANQUILA: But the ribald sconces do not betroth us to such monoliths!

staring at the sky, madness in my eye.

The Icthyyud contemplates, withdraws its energies into a small fibril of a Antaglan Goat, flies around on a neutrino whose wavefunction is oscillating, and generally not making much of a nuisance of itself, diffracts off a virtual muon in some low probability feynman diagram somewhere not twelve kiloparsecs from Foofaraw junction, splits infinitives once thought impossible, and generally doesn't know what the whelk it's doing. The Icthyyud lies dormant in an unresearched gerbe aeon by damned aeon, content in some high whittled knowledge and not on speaking terms with alef-12. Some virtumaceous claugns iffer frothingly, but the Icthyyud crosses its arms (or what it has that passes for arms) like the grand Akimbo Bimbo of Blothyugn, Naratquad Parsimmina. The Ichthyyud is massless, imaginary, effervescent, and perhaps not the best witness to long term high planning cosmic affairs, for it regards them as folly: only mere motes demand much attention by the Icthyyud: for it certain Planck intervals are desirably favorable to experience, but others are shunned for their loathsome disregard for the Icthyyud's nigh inexpressible aesthetic moieties.

questions, questions

The experimentation is a dense machinery. What is the story you wish to tell in neutrinos? Shall the riboflavin god be appeased?

radio silence for the post-prandial effusion

Nomonsafhge bellowed at the bunion, belied by the Transfurling of Yelmon's Point, at the characters did meander most mellifluously like a wild runion court stellarating the division of the punquossimas into uther yarvhels. Arsenic clepsydra in a mechanidor let me stinking cigar juice effloresce most effervescently on the pages of Prapsandraman, the philosophical guttersnondge scar pressed to the page like fire-ink in a cauldron.

arkwhunkets of floom!

Leurd Dorncil of the Plerehasty Council has this to say about Arpungo Lonsire: "What a fetid numpuam, a ferntiligous blosmothere. I spent one year amongst the Augthn people of the Polsbasi peninsula and upon my return I discover that Lonsire has banned catawhompets for 'public larceny and other flombits unbecoming to a munkweary', and I have to make a passionate public speech about not kowtowing to the degree of idiocy that Lonsire believes will make us better fish. What nerve! What varve! Anyway, we've elected to have Lonsire dephlogisticated publically for its idiotheres"

le phaque francezzie

Ortoupoud de la runcisse en la pontisse c'eci ne'pas une flontique! C'est la plunqique de la anciens est la norpique! Sur toujours plufique en la aujor'dhi est la ploncippe de la valeurs rumdumbants!

undersoul for the oversorority

Jerypt Fruunmoglia nespthered vaciduously at the Orlung of Plopft, neither scherking nor trampfously goodgeflonzeying the othtars of Nopt. For the Berenthfasts of Dloss and the Rielings of the Octept runzied not the Tothchars of the Lopter Gleuss. Such notoriously inept (some might say inapt) advocacy amongst the pransipfeullio might be mistaken for unabrogated suspicion or unaboriginal delactation. Orzphrey and Bibdellious didn't have much in the way of charms, I thought, leaning against the castle walls, staring at the trails of comets and other astronomical obscenities: Gerg B'Phreon and his wallumpset Veroxjre arpled the diphycthemes, the needy mammals amongst the braingrass. The hermit Vardgemyuung norbiferiously untled the remaining strembhjurs while the Lonnok of Totling undershnergled the Lipfenniums of Brozmoar Green: folly and inconsiderate transmicrophonations littered the echoscape of the valley, knoptling and voondling most yercipitously, while the lazy knokkets of Lady Breadwurst Undermuffin did peal against the morning wastrels. Gavvey Thropfaire and Mulndzey Harraur-Neuffbatain didst their cry of derision at the Stratvunsels of Gween, while the Shulley-Trumpfedors of the Wunceponzil uttered demented sighs of deep and inviolate dissatisfaction. Aradzo Trilicon and the Londers of Yulk did their best to ignore the palpable symphony of confusion. Neither did a wheezing bee nor did a galactic mockery didst dissolve their cacophanation!

awaiting the underavatar of north dakota

Arrha! Tertungtissima and Blalange were standing at the precipice, cares in hand, ageless angels masquerading over the void of the world. Collecting sulfur trophies and notating various odd enumerata of streetcar transfer functions, like a dodging dithyramb at the edgeless poet's latter bereavement, yoth!, did such men declare profound purposes in mad manifests and nail such denouncements of reason on the nailboards of burches and cosynagogues (keeping in mind that if you add the square of a synagogue and a cosynagogue you always get unity), such doldrums of patience did not reward nor did they require the constant attentions of Marga and Prisdroop and the crellenations of the underforbegotton. Gudge and McMhorty didn't stand a chance when the shallows-blossoms emerged from Sansalsifar, and I didn't have a boldkeep. We might have wandered for hours in the grassy knolls of Suud, searching for our own dram of the finest gargartive mustard. Tertungtissima said "Playlast the dearmuffin! I was a cardmobile", but the hour had already passed and Blalange was osculating the idyll. Zohogaia Brentherfleunk and the shottoths of Misturea had difficulty acclimatizing to the thin scents and reedy mixtures that composited with the peer pressure mushrooms of Brottondale. Heh. Like a clean cut ass-minstrel perorating around the downtown climes of Berrutagth, or a claimaint reading the will of the Lhere of Bvuungmatar to her kin after the wake, the crescent odor contrails above the swamp leave very little to the miscreant imagination, and for which insalubrious petticoats might wander aimlessly against the sky, one mote in the cosmic network, once lost, now found, now declared as the King of all Arquipa, might be the only defense we have against this symphony of sense.

Tertungtissima started for the night. Did you too?

bismuth rink shenanigans

The thin neutrino trails skeetered out by the time you'd reach Dvuung or Plerebsty, and Yarweng Apphoabsto didn't have time for counting her blessings: it was that kind of day, righteous, blundering, uncertain, sky-gray and dizzyingly imperceptible, like the sort of torque that might get you in trouble at the bismuth skating rink when your partner is doing a quadruple reverse bucky spin and you've accidentally forgotten to chalise down your galligaskins with goat grease. Yarweng's friend, Klystreung Vraspungtans cheered her on as she accidentally collided with a bispterafb on the trolley, skortling tons of tea-cozies and wunnupts everywhere, though it was obviously the bispterafb's fault for not looking where it was going. The bispterafb said in its mechanical voice: "this unit apologizes for not paying attention to the lagrangians of all particles in its vicinity, and offers compensation in the form of a broiled shank of maluurmsbeest, marinated for 18 hours in zugzwang oil and mrarange". Yarweng kicked the bispterafb's exhaust ports in frustration. What a depressingly non-turing complete mechanical contrivance. Or non-turing test-passing. The bispterafb then made its way to a recharging station at the exterior of the rink. Vraspungtans skated to Yarweng and helped her to her feet. "Stupid bispterafb. Why do they let those machines on the ice at all?" she complained. Admittedly the bismuth rink was forty times the area of a water ice skating rink, and the rink proprieters thought they could make an extra sheyng if they could sell people maluurmsbeest teriyaki and varontlebird kippers. Distantly, a radio steam trolley exploded. It was going to be a bad day...

share and enjoy!

By Nhomogheve, the Star-Foonts of Silla, east of Yelleugue, and thronteareally separated from the Ghossolongs of Myistra, did the shallanj of the Northern Way extend, and did Cyrus Congreve cry at the scryings of the Old Witch Nail Knafclaw, her reedy voice and gnarled hands and her staff made from the wood of the charknife tree, she made pronouncements and prognostications of surreal clarity, if certainly pointed incomprehensibility, to the country-folk and the commonweal. Gellzvwar and Propontes listened for many a nwullug to these strange words and odd messages and decipher them not they did! She etched glyphs and sigils in stone, petroglyphs and stylized symbologies with mystical or transcendental import, though Gellzvwar and Propontes could not decode her meaning. She redirected rivers and convinced snails to reproduce through binary fission. But Gellzvwar and Propontes were ultimately flummoxed.

entropica reductiana

Dreltoro Myan-Vasgathai of Brelfthegn does a lot of loafing around. He's a professional loafer. His loafing productivity comes from an inner talent: when he loafs around, entropy mysteriously dips nearby. Measureably. In nats. Myan-Vasgathai's loafing services are mouth-frothingly consumed by the information industry. He is usually employed around vast optical-quantum-biocomputers where his entropy lowering (they don't know how he does it and they don't care) increases the speed of the computations, or reduces the amount of waste heat they produce, or something vaguely along those lines. The Guild of Professional Loafers endorses his work.

He does have some detractors, though. Arvthugn Q-Porrosit Xerryabe Mulkins believes that the professional loafers are some kind of scam, and Mulkins has gone to great (some would say ludicrous) lengths to discredit him. Mulkins' efforts are somewhat inept: there exist whole battalions of physicists and scores of journals documenting Myan-Vasgathai's effectiveness at reducing local entropy. Mulkins has tried throwing cheese triangles out of a window, inventing a novel type of egg-spoon, defenestrating the Arpuldzy of Micthajn, prepuskulating Gynnup Frazboujgh, but none of these seemingly incoherent attempts make the slightest bit of difference: Myan-Vasgathai's entropy reduction is as inexplicable as it is measurable, and Mulkins's efforts are ultimately fruitless expressions of religious paranoia.

birch-swinnerton dyer

Arpanggestimo d'Lourdazzitor of the San Ulyhius Zogmaneering collective has made one last ditch attempt to disprove the Birch-Swinnerton Dyer conjecture. His attempt involves eight hours of bicycling, along with a variety of physical and mental activities, which, if interpreted appropriately by the Dzoigmuuh of Ploob will result in a concrete and verifiable disproof. Nobody, of course, believes a word of it.

one day in the life of a hyperdimensional pimple

Nerminandorah Fvuungyaraab CSq. (Centromere d'Squalladio, one of the five degrees that requires the electronic digestion of a pancreatic biopsy along with intense review by the Inquisse Fluvhurtoisse for eight months, along with the intense scowling of Lvetvuum Bartandale in order to be conferred by the Prooice Guignuifre of Cherzens, Sahanjelly Sparasticum in an inelegant ceremony involving the molluscan bifurcation of a garnet garlic clove as well as the recitation of the hideous anthem Yrogueflunby d'Fnuntum by the New Yasphrey Amalgamated Choir of Idiots and Other Persons of Less Than Nominal Capacity for three long, gruelling hours, accompanied by the eructation of Sallbrassico Tertungtip for thirty eight consecutive minutes.) stared disconsolately at her spoon, covered in beetles and mustard and gargarice brands that had been illegal for nigh-on forty cycles, and gristened herself to consume the bizarre poultice while Ermandio Vasclepftanh's hideous caterwauling emanated from the more byzantine heteromoronicides of Vor Clarzm. As the beetle legs and congealed mustard mixed fervently with a few remaining unoxidized molecules of cetylpyridinum chloride along her throat, the pustule that had been floating three inches in front of her nose the last five months, connected to the rest of her body by her hyperspacial anatomy, burst most disgustingly, releasing Hypercoccinia tesserensis (Van Mudgeweadge's Very Disagreeable hyperdimensional bacteria), Olroachithoabas brantwongifensis (Little Lady Artentoot's Vapidly Horrible Microorganism), as well as good old Staphy McInfectyou, which she cleaned up with Old Mister Fluorine's Astringent Cleaning Paste No. 22. Ah, the joys of the good life, when mustard gargarice and beetles pop old hyperdimensional pimples, and the symphony of Dvood Mransiber plays on the Sonic Walrus Quad Digital CD system.

heptalogical legal systems

The Blordgemauls of the Ponzifrept Acassuary have one of the most bizarre legal systems this side of Tertiary Orstellenj. They believe that in every conflict, that there are precisely seven contradictory positions which must be appropriately represented for any fair jurisprudence to occur, and that successfully carried out jurisprudence will result in two of those positions to be vindicated, three of them to be neutralized, and the remaining two to be "decolprifated" according to Blordgemaul law. No exact translation of "decolprification" is available in the current language settings for this application, but weather radar suggests it involves quantities of druid fluids, nymph lymph, satyr 'gators, dryad helipads, naiad gonads, and transmythological nose-baz to the ailerons of Plongbleuss, the Rhythm of Bonspirsse. Every five blorsdeps, the Kung of Foongs, the leader of the Blordgemauls undergoes a "polycolprification" at the hands of the underbegotten, which is apparently necessary for their legal system to function.

plorbisse reporte de la sinquini fomblossonge!

Munckry Orthasso-Yleubunksius of the Reopter Transparency has condomned J. Arkhiwurst Volshecktigeitz for arpsiscental loonquaftery. The condomnation carries with it some rather stiff penalties: enduring a rebarbative orthelpfy by the Kerzoggers of Blyne, a runcewonsil by the Vice-Pleurongast of Yarguntile, and a deconsultation by the Blunder-Lords of Cozfnugh. Volshecktigeitz's condomnation has sent shockwaves through the communities of Prulhuraiq and Dindrevie, and the Utter-Wongle of Bitumenvlaarb has issued a meaningless memorandum that has something to do with the controversy, though he is legally enjoindered from having any idea what the meaningless memorandum is about. Stalespleen Liverknocket has written a series of articles for the New Flasborough Tunsect blasting the condomnation as a "Righteous Underzortching by the Arbiters of Cruftwhearl" and "Another Accident of the Disaster-Noxious", and so froth and so on. Orthasso-Yleubunksius has been thrown out of a pronoun, and with larger gleanfrostings on the horizon, can expect to be debrided from a prepositional phrase. Ardgejeun Daspluit has this to say about the condomnation: "Oh, why in Werdrew's dispy flonts did the Unterfonglers brolsame the mootch? It is because of this kind of knerverasty that the plumwuncks no longer come the the Greater Asterswesian Knar promontory, and all the charquires have to spend their vacations tumbling through underfumbled sulfur tubules. I don't quench such damnation, and neither should you..."

three three seven (337)

The strange violet sky glowed iridescent in the early morning sunlight, as tiny microparticles diffracted the sun's excrescence in numerous and mind-warpingly subtle ways. A Hortativee Bird flapped lazily in the sky, its massive baleen plates catching the aerial diatoms. It honked uninterruptedly as a metal rainbow slowly coalesced in the sky, a solid ring of indium trisulfide, about three atoms thick. The metallic arc would last about a half an hour then would dissipate. Flocks of aurjecs and nilimasts hid behind clouds and navigated their way to the safety of the cool pools of high viscosity oil in which they'd overday before emerging from them at the depths of night when things had cooled sufficiently to create a tolerable environment for them. A virescent schellengmeuss dived deep under the turquoise ocean to feed for the day. Loud crackling hums ricocheted off the Cliffs of Gelt, while thin spidercracked pit-pats of the tommous ant colonies bedecking the cliffs lost coherence quickly.

I'm fond of special things, but I think I need to make many of them. You know. Less one offs and more generics. If I have something that's supposed to be really special (a one off of one offs), I'll put extra special effort into it. If it's something that I can apply a script to or whatnot, I don't get caught up in the specialness of the specialness of it. It's good to make generic things, sometimes. Just as long as they're elegant.

The Traceless Christina Ricci Tensor and the Cardassian cosmology

Hereptma Sarbivin's genial coughing had attracted the attention of a buzzing noise, a bumbling bee of some repute (or some reeuptake, depending on the synapse of our mutual misattention) in Srelvwharve and Upper Laurasia, Grand Buccy of Sylmorea, and the Pobbobs of Blyvpvana. Aghast at the potential for epidemiological disaster, Sarbivin had quickly meandered to the local apocath and ordered half a dram of Colonel Havvaster Micturub's Famous Spicy Purple Octagon Ointment to take with her tea in order to coat her throat and aid in the commonweal. She had been hanging out by the Western Kettle and had been accosted by some British Bishops (which were neither British nor Bishops -- they were roly-poly men with gin blossom'd faces who tried to sell religions at the bazaar in the Kettle) while old Mrs. Enderflongle Ardgeorge was bartering a bossom of butter for a packet of highly purifed Pantarianism from the Bishops. A fully obnoisome lady, Ardgeorge bustled and hustled and hushed and shushed as the Bishops courted her attentions with wild and fantastic religions from faraway lands and distant clades.

Hereptma avoided the confusion, easily dodging both the Bishops and Enderflongle, obtained her ointment, and headed back to her home.

nonblocking i/o on the booyakashic record

Ibaranga and Stryblins (403:1;1) wrote most expressively about the collapse of Teh Wavefunction, the cosmic sounding board against which no (turnips, blomongales, it's not clear -- for it's written in Low High Middle Fnoomb) walls will fall. Now, Monsieur Xarxy and Lady Amberflow Arheregasty weren't at the party with the collected riff-raff of Mastropunto -- the Majordomo, a pencil-mustachioed dinglebanana with an unhealthily pedantic penchant for protocol stood with perfect posture and made arrogant and salacious claims regarding the conquests (both sexual and otherwise) of his regiment in Avarhek, the Pvemberies, and the various bivouacs and encampments they made by the Ulydes river, two krasmeks north from the Drelyun promontory. Most of the guests smiled and nodded at the Majordomo's salubrious and disastrous claims.

Monsieur Xarxy was at the Spleen barber having some experimental tryptophan synthesizing tissue implanted in his pancreas because that was the thing to do amongst the well-to-do and the up-and-coming jet-setting fashion-conscious in-crowd these days.

On the other hand Lady Amberflow Arheregasty was at the beach, being ogled by a stick of celery that had been planted upside down in the sand. She was wearing metallic orange sunglasses that had been engineered by a spinoff of Joo Janta.

remarks on the indecency of the coffee bean

Orvomalan sat dejectedly at the tree-stump. Oh, why had Bridgedeer and Gatefoam wandered off past the green whorls of the countryside into the Tetradrachm of Doom? Such questions ricocheted around in Orvomalan's mind as he sat manipulating a tree-stalk in his hand, its shadow in the sand, the sun in the sky, and the thin, coruscating backache that was slowly meandering past his conscious mind like a dewdrop in a hurricane, or a dead pet rock upside down in a terrarium. He took a sip from the decanter and looked blearily at the orange-yellow horizon. Numerous black pin-pricks scattered -- a flock of Vollong birds, in their biennial migration from the Cozzon's Grove to the Ilamtheres of Cruvaung. Orvomalan contemptuously started flicking rocks around out of abject boredom. Bowling nights (and more frequently days) were often like this. The endless listlessness dissolved in the barred contrails of ennui winding their ways through the bleary angst-filled sky of his emotions did not make him pleasant company, but since most of the rest of the populace was conjuring similar mental contrails, he was in what was at least decent company because they all could relate.

shims

Dr. Obsequiousnostrils F. Degravitatingwaspbrains has a new theory. It consists of three thousand pages of incomprehensible material. He's had various theories in the past, such as the Spotted-Tendrils theory, and the Broiled-Octagon theory. His theories are nearly always wrong in some important respect. For instance, his Attacking-Lemons theory, which was two thousand pages long, is completely undone by some early assumptions that it makes: lemons are not capable of self-motion, nor are they animals.

Fictional Mathematics Papers

E. Wiltshire, N. Rangathan, Q. J. X. Thuyere: Why the Riemann Hypothesis took so Long To Prove, Cruithne Journal of Mathematics Vol. 18 pps 334-540. August 2781. Discusses the history of mathematics from the beginnings of the Riemann hypothesis to the controversial (but finally vindicated) proof by Frontega, Mueller, and Gissflon. Recounts the infamous development of differential category theory, X-matrix decompositions, toric eigengerbes, and Ulk Thuntek's kappa functor which are necessary ingredients to the proof. The first thirty pages are mostly biographical in nature, while the rest of the article concentrates on the proof, and what FM&G call 'myopias', various mathematical alleys and bottlenecks which delayed the proof for so long. The last fourty pages of the article are extremely technical, and discuss things like "Nevanlinna-Mandelbrot correspondences", "Ramunajan-Grothendieck catalogues" and other esoterica. Four stars.

N. J. Teltshmire, A. F. Yquem, C. A. Vandersmeck, I. H. K. Malgreave: The Disasters of 25th Century Mathematics: A Retrospective. Vaz-Mundgram Journal of Mathematics Vol 21. pps 1560-1620. September 2781. If 25th century mathematics can be remembered for anything, it was a series of complicated missteps that in retrospective were really hard to avoid. Bandymire and Zhu Chu Shi's relentless stream of counterexamples to conjectures published in major mathematical journals for the first twenty years of the century made everyone on sour feet, but when such powerhouses as George Wax and Fryme kept up the tradition after Bandymire and Zhu Chu Shi retired, it seemed that making any real progress would be impossible. Also discusses to a limited degree the successes of 25th century mathematics: the seminal paper in 2452 by Yratz-Gauthome about knot pleuromorphisms definitely seemed to offer an amazing way of immediately classifying a knot, and that was confirmed by Fryme. Mostly readable. Three stars.

the mysteries of physics

Avrym Celeardth, Yorunnis Tetraclasm, and Julia Metacarpal stood at the corner of the galaxy -- a galaxy -- any whirlpool of stars not too far from the Blomongtale asterism, at least in the conventional argumentation of light years, degrees azimuth, and parallax-seconds. Avrym had three ngogns of walnut cream lugubriously applied to the radiation scars on his hands, and was making a fuss about the piano tuning. Yorunnis was trying to get our location in a better reckoning, and was only moderately successful: he knew which sheaf of which gerbe they were on, and could calculate their first and second cohomology groups, but he hadn't the foggiest idea where they were with respect to either Denver or Foofaraw junction, which made the first bits of information next to useless. They were thirty kilometers from the Exclusion Zone, which meant that they had at least five years worth of freeze-dried biscuits left, assuming that the Exclusion Zone didn't move around, but he couldn't be certain of even that. Julia had been fiddling with the innards of the Machine for nearly two months: the lack of certain irreplaceable components meant that she had to make a lot of hackish adjustments, linking coherence-reduction coils with bits of indium wire, and breaking open sealed glass modules containing heptodes because they contained rare earth minerals that could better be used elsewhere. The Machine was a giant cube, eight meters on a side, and it had gotten them this far: from the Lesser Arcwhirl of Kesser to the Greater Rip of Mossborough, and they still had five throntears to go to make it to the Third Cheese war that was scheduled to commence in half a month on Jeraringard. Julia had sent Avrym out to find motivic conductors. "What do they look like?" asked Avrym. "look for blue metallic shaped used yoghurt containers and check their spectra for warts... we want wart free ones". Avrym shrugged, slung a satchel over his shoulder, and went out in search of Julia's odd minerals. Yorunnis gasped in victory: "We're two throntears from Denver and eighty throntears from Foofaraw junction, I know exactly where we are!" Julia yarfed "which is useless because the wombat-filters are completely clogged by stable bosons. We're not going anywhere!"
Yorunnis looked up at her, tangled by a mess of wires and less comprehensible gizmos. "How do you unclog a wombat filter?" he asked, machinery not being his specialty. "Either you flash it in a two exagauss magnetic field, which we don't have the energy to make, or you dip it in helium dioxide for a week, which we don't have and don't have the equipment to either manufacture or purify it, which means that I've got to bypass the wombat filters, which is going to be a pain because when the Machine moves the wombats will resist our motion...." Yorunnis shrugged, not understanding the physical engineering involved in the Machine, and meandered off to have a sandwich.

Half an hour later, Avrym returned with a bag filled with objects, and asked of Julia "is any of these a motivic conductor?". Julia looked through the objects "that's a zeta function" she said of one. "that's the cosine of Denmark, it might come in handy" she said of a small unruly appearing green pentagon. "this is what we want!" she smiled, pulling a small gray sphere out of the mess of objects. "I don't remember picking that up" Avrym said. "That's because you didn't" replied Julia, taking it and wandering off to one of the nooks and crannies of the Machine.

that's all that's nothing.

“This isn't what I was searching for”, I complained, not aware of the evanescent processes that were gyrating in the mixed Medea, a sharp iron-triangle of contrast, rusted through and jangly like an inquisition, this ribald monotreme made my demagnetized divombent trippingstone emerge from the snailshell of the dreams like unarrayed glances, because the charged-atmosphere of the cookery demanded constant and meticulous attention to the oxidation states of one particular indium atom. Oh, whatever shall we do?

teh milk molecule

Auterne had a reliance, a calculated presumption, because in polytemporality the many acts, the many askances, the multifary lent itself to a certain, shall we say, disregard for the here-now. Alack! Medford McDickwick and William Berthold? Allegra Levenger and Wilbur Thurbold. These are other people, in other times. Auterne is silent, somniferous, calculating, and daft, but deft and apt.