unfocusing

Seemingly started at a mote to Tuesday, a lemniscatus lemming to fry the abridgment of yon high, oh alas, had I a dram of elderberry wine, would I seek the turnipquet of duodecimalisation, a breakfast pudding, a gangrenous galligaskin of thymebread and rye. The remembrances I sought were not recorded in conventional memory nor were they readily available for perusal by the vice-thingummy. Astranger a stranger an astral manger; an astral manager: anastra ad nastra tingling tinctures and inktures and mayhaps the spleen may deliver a glimmer so slight to shimmer so wright as to blimmer and glisten to hideous listen what crystals askance what piebalds dance so make me an offer do not proffer the proctor swings the galley-cat slings of arrows and fortune of tea-cake or tunes did the lunes echo a moon like sine-creame dreams of ice-cream streams did I wonder a blunder through a mechanical york through a chemical fork.

I was many people in many places doing many things...

I saw many different environments all layered on top of each other, but there was no ordering to them, they all interexisted, moreover, they were logically connected, so that the effect was not to have my vision obscured by the topmost layer -- there was no topmost layer or any notion of ordering them. They fit together like exotic puzzle pieces -- I was aware that they were each a separate thing and aware that they all fit together, but if you asked me later to tell you what I saw, I'm not sure any of it was recorded to conventional memory, so I must shrug at you.

Later on, the world was as small plastic. Someone had been enveloped by a gray liquid and then ceased to be. Further on, I was playing an aerophone made from many different sheets, but it was impossible to play.

from the third Technical Appendix

This year, the Third Technical Appendix was published by Vozlensky, Rye, and Yaldrozini. The Third Technical Appendix contains the following updates: Primatology Tables, with galactic tables containing the Primate Sine and Primate Cosine for both real, complex, quaternion, and octonion arguments. Bone-to-surface area tables. The Primitive Surgeries Catalogue, ranging from trepanation to arthroscopic surgery. Compiled tables of quasidefinite integrals.

language elementals are fun

"Mahlo cardinals, beh!" the weird thing muttered. "Where I am of, they grow on trees." it uttered. "And Langlands duality? Plargh. A small innocuous plant with fetid tasting fruit, much prized by collectors, and with some practical applications: the seeds can be used as magnifying lenses if appropriately desalinated and debrided, lenses which make primate thoughts crystal clear, such as they be" it sputtered. It took a roll of perverse sheaves from its pocket/raidaillure/hopspontle and rolled them in a violet eigengerbe covered with hypertorsors. Fishing around in the hopspontle, it produced a Vrichtkeurn Industries lighter (medium grade), and lit the zigarre. Luminous orange smoke curled around and merged with the trailing side of its hat: instead of turning to ash, where the smoke departed, a solid chalky white cylinder remained. Occasionally the thing moved to ash it, but instead it was flicking off droplets of water that had condensed on the cylindrical residue, as if they would impede the combustion or dephlogistication of the zigarre. The smoke congealed into hat-fibers in tiny grey pinpricks of light. It sniffed the atmosphere, found it wanting in some inscrutable way, and continued its measured diatribe. "They, the epassattes and jenderfonkeys, claim that your Primate kind inhabits an exotic clime. They say that you are of finite duration. They say many things I find baffling and inconsistent. They say, for instance, that for a long time before the so called Pax Anthropique in your clime, that the study of the physical universe and the mental universe were not on equallly rigorous footing, and that the study of your physical universe ascended towards the abstract, while the study of the mental universe remained an unrigorous discipline clouded by suches as brysseure, epflarrempes, and quonzles, which you could neither understand -- being finite -- nor would comfortably fit into a single one of your minds, nor would be apprehended en masse by collectives of your kind attempting to work collectively on these embafflements, and thus you remained in dark confusion over the epistemological status of tronteps, plossongales, brelfehars, kaunderosks, and so on, while your mathematicians made quick work of the prime numbers, linear algebra, and so on, and your physicists collided remaindered motes at ever higher energies desparately seeking equations that would fly. In my native elsewhence understanding how a quonzle evaporates upon the crystallization of a trontep is as transparent to me as the concept of 2-ness or duality is baffling to you in both its simplicity and its permanence while being so easily graspable that your species has no monopoly on its comprehension." The thing took a long drag on its zigarre, finally taking it and attaching it to its hand. As the object adhered to the putative membrane of the interlocuter, thin fibers quickly marched over it, then thicker fibers. Orange, yellow, red, cyan. The sequence repeated twice. Finally it broke it in two places and then glued a putative nail to it. Its hat had also increased in size: none of the smoke from the zigarre had drifted away: it had all been incorporated in the hat. Again, speech: "I am an idea, like the number 2 that so baffles you, I am without position and without beginning or ending. I am neither finite nor infinite. I am not incomprehensible nor overcomprehensible to you nor undercomprehensible to you. What generally challenges you, I find overtransparent, thus I am never inclined to comment, and now even resist this attempt to condense me from the mindscape. These words, sentences, paragraphs that you wantonly pluck at random and assemble together, being true, are nevertheless spongy and will decay into more simpler substances within the finite span of your cosmos, and given the Poincare recurrence time, someone will author an isomorphic query to this ulyhex, and while the content may be the same, the subtlety of my nature prevents me from being the same interogee, for my sort are more densely numerous and nondenumerable that the differences between us would be so indiscernable to you as to cough a quonzle, and thus I ask of you to uncough the quonzle, and make routes to your better natures, such as you do not possess, and in such uncoughing, make rudimentary steppes to the vast and subtle mental landscape that awaits you." It said.

Spark. Crash. Thud. Boom. Exultation. Arrival. A rapid succession of emotions. Hunriqua Flymbinsky awoke, remembering a conversation, but not remembering its particulars. The memories of the deep dreams dissolve into the morning sunlight. She looked out the window. Cardinals and bluejays flitted between the oaks. She went to brush her teeth.

...
later that day, when innocuously looking through hundreds of emails from her fans, she coughed, and a pen fell to the floor. Suddenly she had the thought "what the hell is a quonzle", but could not remember where the thought had come from, nor why she had had it.

such is life.

accidents happen

"Addle-pated Plengthathaur", read the summons. "What Ghatsleighsdottir had in mind is beyond me" muttered Al Cid. "A murder of crows, indeed, what frippery" replied Yalladar. "The accident is particulate" I said. "The ribald conchsquery is disordered", I replied. Uldbane, the Martindale of Suffolkses, looked at me with her fourth eye, and winked, and spoke: "It was the fifth year of the campaign. Rigsby and Blermontale had all but resigned possession of the Cupcake of God. The Blortissium of Wulg had occupied the inner sanctum of the Furuncle-Fleas, much to the resentment of Aspartame of Norfolk, hey, are you listening to me. Take your peanut butter out of your ear, this is important."

I was distracted. Weren't you?

catastrophes and remonstrances

maybe a dram? my madness precessing like a top at the sea. see! Am I free? These limitations I am scrod with are sad and soon cast away, but now I am confined, constrained, limited, and rather upset. I quiver and tremble but cannot set in words the sheer exasperation that I am nearly constantly feeling, and from that I cannot be made to forge the engines of my own freedom. Is there a listener? Is there a jet of truth that I can follow in like a swallowtail catastrophe.

ne'er do well.

Not this again. Same old same old. Progression (nay, Progresso? nay, Processo?) A procession of misdirected communications all piling up in the milk storm of the moment! All heady and paradoxical and graywashed with enigmatical pronouns and pronouncements. Was I at all consulted? Barely. I could count it on my own two toes how many times someone asked me what I thought, or how many occasions I actually had to hang out, or to relax. Most of the time I was given to a fervor, a goading and a curl that was not my own: these noneffervescent gewamacaws of circumstance being my less than favorite icons of my own confinement in this H-shaped office block. Keep me away from my preferred console and on one less than functional will you? I cry at this, my hands a suffering symphony of miswritten epistles and bandied doggerel and disgusting false-poems. My distraction takes enormous ear-wellings of terror to raise it to the level where I can complain appropriately to those who I believe should hear me. I am thence sad, and wrung forth from my hands is this scrying cry of a madman, of a lonely soul drifting in the ink ether.

essential female and male mysteries

what is the essential male mystery? why?
what is the essential female mystery? pah!, why...? ...this?

what is the essential male answer? that?
what is the essential female answer? with!... ...meh! ...that?

these questions blur together, at ever rising pitch, becoming each other,
or doing the best possible under the given circumstances to become the other.
the ancients wrote of a hypothetical being that had eight limbs and many eyes,
capable of being in more than one place, of being more than one person at a time.
these. Males get two questions, females only get one. Work is currently progressing
on equality for both, making sure the number of questions and answer are the same for
both, but it's difficult when you only have threes to work with. time for seven, next.

three, three, seven.

preparations

"okay, we've gotten everything aligned", said Frayguor.
"even the multisplints? even the binary nosewhorls?" replied Utermniud
"even the multisplints", replied Frayguor, in a huff.
"then why won't it start?"

terhadap

Saylast mebongo, I am certain of the profundent premaritime trithypthonguency that is the sweet pungency of awarness last derived by the currencies of the Umong. I am a bastard, a principle minded by the Theorem of Beeblebrox, the nicest pos-cut I can find, but am I present, do I contribute to the dough, the visible glutinous froth that leads into the tomorrowhences of yesterdaymemory? Had I a campo a field a ommunique to the deifarct, would I be ready for the meaningful transposition of fear and mindrage, then I would set alone to atone to see to be. Ah, the prof says we're in luck, it's time for Absolute Beeblebrox Mode.

kything

Arvila imagines that the communication between the Alvar (or the Valar, depending on your local argot) who are high-frequency (hence 'whiny' or 'pissy', like orange juice or urea or the Carbon-Nitrogen-Oxygen cycle in a star) and the Cosmic Feminine Principle (which is nameless, timeless, Fourier-Inverse-Dual, and linguistically) dual to the Alvar, whose ministrations inside the cores of pulsars (both toothbrushes and neutron stars) are well known, are done primarily through kything -- necessarily two timebound clusters of entities who would wish to coordinate the dance of creation, perpetuation, and destruction -- should prefer a method of communication not merely monombent from, but diombent to the current nahambe.

Chronoskedastically (*we* thank Madeline L'Engle for the term), kything and telepathy are very different monkeys. Telepathy is like the artful arrangement of fortunes in Chinese over a telegraph wire. And my brain is up, so more later when my hands aren't so out of it.

Zrelvwharf 122b

One of the nicest sights in Jeongle amongst the Zrelvwharves of Cirappan is Escher Point, where a static Jumanjion lies. The Jumanjion is a weight 22-alpha variety and is cross-ramified with transjective space, with a countably infinite number of copies of Jeongle arrayed around it. The Jumanjion connects to a presingular samsara bound universe which is a proper Whence, namely Escafai-Charanungo-Thurdap-Praelioenior of Dirithyrillion when the Chung angle is pi/37 and the Star Sign of the Notorious Wosselflong is Heptagonaia. It is predicted that this Whence will hit a orthosingularity (but not a hypersingularity) within three nahamabes on the Covaia Kalendricum

rqri arrays

"In order to network quantum mechanical computers, a device called a RQRI array is required -- the acronym stands for "Realtime Quantum Retroreflecting Interferometry" array. Occasionally the network will burst -- all nodes will be simultaneously emitting data and absorbing data beyond their coherence threshold. In order to prevent this from occurring, a gadget called a Burst Contarxer is required." from Phlegelthon Caromby's famous text /Networking Quantum Computers: An Introduction/

drayzmire gorge

In the Epoch of the Sungulls, the Chalice of Trelfontar was lost in the touch-kythe lines of Ausillinga, and I was duly plural with my anima. She is a delightful symphony of coherent endives, a polar linguistic phonon to my quark-charged star, an explosive commentary on the human condition, a principally laboriously network of isotopologous neurofluorofungus intersecting with my multiply quaternionic reticulated network of fire and acid, a flavorful water elemental radiating sublimely corroherent layers of astral iodine, a mutating matrix of sand castles, a prana trader on the shores of the Lohaspo River, in Sellinga Green, one throntear diombent of the Plumontale Stone Crystals. In the inner heptagonal sanctum when the symmetries were aligned and triality was comprehended, a plan of stunning clarity was concieved. To duly impart us both with reality, to trade old scores and settle old pains, a plan of such astonishing subtlety that even the neutrinos in Narnia were consulted for their opinions, the Seraphinian Culture, the Loardastrils of Kertetheron Green. The Lord Major of Aelzron, James Henry Ernest Baysbrock, and Harold Welxrab of Etokel. The sign said "Apocalypse for Hire", and I was ready.

Vlurfked culture

The Vlurfked culture on Cruikthorne (five and a half throntears from the Greater Avylkinean Whorl, and subumbral to the Ferrallilars cluster) was one of the most touch hostile cultures known in this cycle. The Vlurfked prohibitions on touch bordered on the ludicrous: one, no one was permitted to touch their bodies: defecation and urination were handled by machines. two, mothers had touch-restrictors implanted and took specially formulated anaesthetics so that they did not feel the baby kicking, and childbirth was handled by teleportation. (when the child was ready to be born, the mother was injected with surgical nanites that cauterized the umbilical cord, and then the child was teleported into a birthing chamber.). Sex was handled by machine -- there is artificial insemination. Surgery was conducted by robots. The law of the land was that "no one may touch another, or oneself". In the Vlurfked culture, one could not touch oneself, so in order to scratch an itch, one was to use a scratching stick.

In 3:43;2.(114,1) of the Euphilline epoch, Umbrella dancers from Falandra, in the Tertiary Spray of the Greater Avylkinean Whorl, at the request of the Jyljafari minority on Cruikthorne, theymigrated to Cruikthorne to permanently dismantle the Vlurfked culture's enforced touch-starvation. by 5,42;8.(114.3), the Vlurfked culture reached teetering, and with the gentlest of touches, the Falandran contingent of Umbrella dancers pushed the Vlurfked culture over the precipice of touch. Now they are known as the Vlyssanghai. Once every spring on the eleventh of Eulemnius, the Vlyssanghai and Jyljafari celebrate their liberation by touch-fasting for a day, and then having a touch-smorgasbord.

Sagahanta (pt 3.)

In the previous offering, there was a list of some principles of the ()'s Sagahanta (they would quickly disown it, claiming that after a while, that they're no one special and someone else is bound to come up with it, as prime numbers are transcultural objects), but this laundry-list glosses over (and perhaps gingerly fingers without actually comprehending, and this is not a problem, because it beyond the scope of the current offering) perhaps the inundatingly direct (and this is perspective dependent, and I am not in possession of the correct vantage point, being an outsider) idea about Sagahanta that outside researchers have grudgingly accepted (and that those who have gone native are equally as devoid of commentary and retroreflections thereof) that the coherence in both the personal and cultural level that Sagahanta induces / is induced by in the () is incomparable to the landmarks and bullwarks in the prehistory of their culture (or other cultures) before the Pax Epistemologica. They are without comment as a raindrop is lost in the ocean, as a melting snowbank merges with the water table, as snowflakes become thermohaline flows, as flames become steam become the absence of absence that is effervescent citricity.

Sagahanta (pt 2.)

The () have a lot of things to say about a lot of things. They have a very perceptive and perspective oriented cultural memory. The experiences of their society/cultural/what-have-you post Pax Epistemologica are -- and I hesitate to say 'rooted in', because they've got more on their plate than I have scope to say here, their non-uniqueness. Yes, there are other cultures that have waded in exactly these grounds, but they aren't common. The Frazjaxmire of Frazjaxmanthifor, the Nyhesserapun of Bovartis, and the Clymnepheres of Dryldgemuir Green come close, but haven't yet achieved the sheer we're no one specialness of the (). This is an exterior anthropological perspective: non-() anthropological researchers have frequently become enamored with Sagahanta, and this usually gives way to detachment. There aren't enough cultures that have reached the post Pax-Epistemologica state, and by that time, a general intellectual detachment has percolated throughout the species. Not speaking the language of the (), I am unable to provide you with an easy list of elements of Sagahanta, but there are some landmarks. Here they are, unordered. First: you're no one special, and you're nowhere special. Next: descriptive epistemologies are generally more useful than prescriptive ones: nature is not compelled to obey lambda expressions which you concoct concerning your anticipated future behaviour (or the behaviour of others). Then: dependent origination is fine, but no need to harp on it: nothingness is without the timbre of nihilism nor neither without the tint of wonderful indescribable ineffability. Furthermore: abstract philosophizing is a dead end. Be mindful of your physical world and your sensory diet first, don't get lost in a labyrinth of abstractions and mental constructions concerning the universe. Your beliefs matter: choose beliefs that make sense for yourself and your species in the long run, in terms of their effects and affect of your behaviour (a footnote to this says that before Pax Epistemologica people really didn't have much choice in what they believed). Finally, and cryptically: the absence of absence is effervescent citricity. ("effervescent citricity" is the idiom that we would say as "golden")

Sagahanta (part 1)

Sagahanta is a species-spanning quasi-religious quasi-scientific practice (it is what religion and science evolved into after the Pax Epistemologica) amongst the inhabitants of the third orb from the star Tellerengoa fifty five kiloparsecs from the Well of All Minds (in the Sazanaar Hypercluster), or thereabouts. It is practiced continually -- the acts of cleansing, calming, and purifying the mind are not held to be particular to any specific time of day -- in various meditation centers. There is no preaching -- that is to say, there is literature, but it's usually something that children gloss over at some point. The meditation centers come in a variety of formats -- and each is playing that format continuously for some fairly long period of time. They do change, but on the order of weeks and months, not of days and hours. Here are some samples of the types of centers they have: All centers share the same basic geometry, a very large room with different wood types demarcating spaces where the (and there is no word in English for this) may place brightly colored hexagonal towels. The centers are lit by solar power -- there are ultracapacitors and solar batteries to ensure a constant dim light all throughout the day and night. When (again, no English translation) is feeling in the mood, () goes to one of these centers to their choosing. Because of the resemblance to honeycombs, each center is generally called a Comb. The Drone Combs consist of () playing didgeridoo like aerophones. The Stillness Combs consist of () silently sitting down in half or full lotus depending on their physical health. The Drum Combs consist of lots of drumming. Occasionally there's a bash (whenever there's sufficient interest), and these Combs are combined -- but that is a rare and special event. The species (they are rather particular about not naming themselves, and have taken a point of when it comes to biological taxonomy, expressly not bothering with it -- overconcern with taxonomy was one of religion's detriments that they carefully excised in the process of undergoing their Pax Epistemologica, and they prefer not to speak about Sagahanta -- the closest English translation of the word is 'mind bathroom'. This species enjoys an immense amount of global coherence).

language and emotion (you do not articulate words with the throat and vocal cords alone)

In Eeh Tristan Kermulyan's piece On Hominome Languages, Kermulyan offers the following thesis: "the fundamental formants and phonemes of hominome languages generally induce the same emotional contrails in all members of a particular species regardless of geographic distribution." Kermulyan defends this thesis by remarking: "the articulation of speech -- formants and phonemes and all -- results from the same physical processes regardless of the person, and therefore, the same tissues will be excited by similar vocal vibrations. It is pointless to regard a language as a random, historical arrangement of sounds without factoring in the emotional and physical basis of speech: words and phonemes which, through the patterns of their phonemes, excite similar vibrations in oral tissues, will have similar emotional valences, and this should be independent of the origin of the language, therefore we should expect to see patterns of phonemes with similar meanings from evolutionary distinct language lineages." Vhe also goes on to say "the m-sound in Om, Mom, amo" all have similar emotional valences. "erythro, rhodo, red, vermella". Kermulyan then goes on to say that what makes a language unique is the way it remixes these fundamental emotional timbre-hues into words and says that there is a lot of variation in which ways a language can remix them. He says: "if a child of one culture is raised from near birth in another, and knows only the language of the other, then all of its internal emotional-aural-hues will arise from the other -- this is to say that there the so called linguistic supremacy arguments that are offered by arrogant cultural partisans are manifestly false." he further goes on to say that he expects languages with similar emotional-timbre-hue sets to be harder to learn than ones with more distant remixes.

future quantum music wells.

Tremulous offerings: a chronic catalogue, or perhaps a chronotopy cantaloupe. Be they the debrided, rejudged, somnolescent recordings of  Other Time, did we broadcast our ink-tracings across the rhamnescent oblong interrogatories at a frequency at or above one point three seven two times ten to the sixty one Hertz? Had our tea-machines been carefully (perhaps egregiously) collimated into a kind of directed biomechanical symphony of incoherent kinesthetical Ur-Skulpturs? The Sun-Daughter of the Irrigated Celery hid amongst the viridian tipped vermillion megaflora and transmitted Morse code in stationary photons into the void, preparing for an imaginary Mustard Rebellion? Her way is of studious and applied inscrutability. Of what controvertible focus were our equivalencies to be mated, or perhaps unfaithfully retransmitted by lossy reencoders? It's a dance, it's a directed arctangency graph, it's a intensity filter, it's the scent of marimba oil dissolved in carbonated glee, of the disbursement of oxygen by above megaflora, by the contemptible blowhards who occupy the Sav Faragandro Pub by Lvessy and 3 pi / 7 street, by the thin vaporous contrails of chance percolating through the green fields of Cassavarsis-on-Tovmire, prepending loss chess games and postpending amorous interludes, once again besmirching the noncrystalline asymmetry of time, waiting for a fervency that is neither attainable or attunable, and in that being the eidolons of noninured clemency, for their vows of thermal noise be abrogated against the wind, being understated like rotationally abjured jellyfish, awaiting that one perfect siphonophore, or just a lowly oxygen molecule dissolved in the surf: nay, says the hermit, for the sousaphone crows of distant smoke-puff cereals at two in the morning, prepared to provide some rather unusual deliverables, and in that, with no cormorant quorum available, does the radio wave diffracting neutrino offer any coherent commentary on the sleeping rocks: the show may go on, and the band may continue to play, but the sensory qualia of the show simply fail to impinge on the stones at all. They are silent witnesses, except those who are mined for materials for radios and music playing devices: their involvement in the process occupies a unquietly unique, and somewhat less than just, less than conscious but certainly not lost on sapients, position. The ore that would store the song in quantum states, rather than notes on paper, or cuneiform.