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.

searching against the grain

alas, wherever the birds of Orthodise lean, does the poloxamer gleam? where does the cow cry and where does the antelope breed? Are these things illusions or living dreams. I am, er, I have, I'm not sure. Where was I? Seeking something hard to seek, searching for something hard to search for, a pitter-patter of possibilities, a coherent stalk on a gerbe? A mechanical animal? A summons to the xenographers to tell us their stories again. Oh, how the clock chimes and how the timeless entropy summons translates into meaningful stories, whereas the churlish hegemeiad leaves around a feeling of perspicacity and the guffaws and the kerfluffle of the paradox of the goatgrease mainlines the bottomstrass of the neutral lamination. Oh.

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.

developments in post-thukdam decomposition trajectories

Scines? What treblossé did Nyingmen Dzueghchon during the ninth prellinary gamurlchtlychaub archleflunque through the nasturtia of Garabassango? I hear it's in the pamphlet, hold on a moment, ah, here we go: Nyingmen Dzueghchon of Tyemkairo-on-Valvussung achieved a record thukdam of 30 days at the New Urzmire Medical Center, thirty days until she was at thermal equilibrium with the outside environment, a record accomplishment, but the deep meditators of Tyemkairo-on-Valvussung are working on some refinements to thukdam. Their Chief-of-Research, Abbot Vnezmuess Orthoa says: "In addition to thermal equilibrium, we are studying the material disposition of the body: worship of mummified meditators is akin to the worst materialism, exactly the sort of thing that we're stridently opposed to. There are a number of possibilities that we are considering here: we could put the body in a thermal depolymerization machine and spread the atoms over the ocean... for both the energy that sustained the meditator and composed the meditator ultimately derived from the sun, and we believe it shows disrespect as well as not being carbon-neutral to un-fix fixed carbon. While the return of the carbon to an unfixed form typical of cremation appeals to our older elements, we now feel that it is a primitive and disrespectful way of communing with nature: we do not disrespect the work of plants, and to unfix carbon would be doing so. Another way of accomplishing this would to develop a sort of slow fungus, that only finds the bodies of those who have achieved thukdam appealing to incorporate. We admit that the thermal depolymerization scheme is *fast*, but we are interested in finding a carbon-neutral to positive way that is slow and advantageous over decomposition, therefore the notion of a fungal garden of the dead appeals to us. They would slowly become ecosystems".

dsungfruve

Tinjur? A bottle of salt? A purified messenger? A call to arms? Oh dearest me, the pleonasm of the deonticists might have come to be true? There's a campaign that wants large scale changes, whether great or small, and their not gradualists. Their solutions are shocking, rapid, and very risky. The chance of something wrong happening is pretty great, and unless their art is refined to ultraprecision then accidents and malfeasances of a most undesirable sort are likely to occur. On the more relaxed side of things, there are those who want to take little baby steps from here to there, and are not at all willing to go up steep learning curves. It's not so much a matter of being accepting of change or not, but it's about being more able to cope with the learning process, and the willingness to cope with extremely steep learning curves is probably more valuable than a simple allergy to change.

anthroposis

"anthroposis" is the state of being disgusted with humanity, and not sure of either one's epistemology to, or relation thereof with it. In Verdler & Rhynckoff's /Survey of Anthroposis Treatments/ (Vozgfe Press, New Yondroborough), Arnhec Crauille concisely describes anthroposis as: "the disgusting taste that humanity leaves in your mouth, dry, pasty, like pease porridge durian paste, and as a member of humanity you struggle with this once in a while. It's a sad fact that it's a scourge that is difficult to rout out because it's a member of the family of problems that do not easily effervescent solutions, though one must combine a wide variety of syncretic antidotes to oppose it: encouraging citricity, being wetter, eating fresh leafy vegetables, listening to music with a large bass component, being more open to touching people and being touched, being more tolerant of a diversity of opinions, eating a larger variety of foods and opening one to a wider variety of sensory stimuli. In the Internet Age (thankfully over!) the practical memetic currency of anthroposis was "lulz". It is shocking how long it took to recognize the pasty incoherence of lulz, as well as the fact that it is symptomatic of a precessionary nihilism and general disregard for other people. It is interesting how people's cultural radars were initially retargeted after the Second Pax Cultura to the insidious and not easily addressed pathology of lulzculture. We are fortunate to have a wide repetoire of tools to detect anthroposis and treat it. The research of Byzzkjien and Dronderferry has showed that by targeting sex-starvation and anthroposis together, the incidence of cancers in a society (controlling for other factors) can be reduced by three orders of magnitude. Targeting anthroposis in school age children reduces bullying significantly. We are fortunate to live in a day and age when we are lucidly aware of it."

letter to the editor

And then? And nothing! Look, at this: (points to *this*). Look, at that: (points at *that*). Therefore and logically p implies q. An arrow of implication? Why, in all my years serving tarts and muffins at the dockyards I have never seen such ludicrous misapplication of rope tying techniques employed to protect ducklings from wildebeests. Therefore and heretounder, be it resolved, that we, the oversigned, being of sound mind and untenably unsound body, do duly sign this writ, and deposit in a bottle, thrown either overboard or used to christen the boat, or perhaps even used as firelighters, for the purpose of being foursquare and prudent, for the nonprolonged fork prong, that we do commit our resources to the evanescent fulminations of out own Oedipauses, because dammit, McVerzlens, we have a palladium tonnage-engine and a bottle of the finest Munk and Yorky (vsop) to prepend our van valladges, our arrogances, our pirouettist, and our various skin diseases, because we wish to belabor our own confusions into this statement, which we have printed on parchment and submitted in triplicate to the editors of the Arplemont Clarion, because we believed our cause to be just, and the permitted avenues of redress were stultifyingly unsatisfying, and not knowing where to proceed or precess, we thus compiled our frothy frosted frustrations and exalted, exsanguinous, exasperations into this epistle and then, using what was ordinarily conventional xerox technology, trivided it (or triplicated), and then, using postal technology, fired it off. Whether or not our protest shall be registered or tossed in a dustbin remains to be seen.

pausing only for the pinna

Interruption. Prolongation. Discontinuance? Incontinuances? Blearily, one Forr Amhec wanders away from slumber, accidentally smearing the toothpaste on the mirror and the jam on the toothbrush. The radio alarm clock flickers to life. Forr puts the mouthwash in the cereal bowl after filling it with nutritive iron filings. "...and today Iris McMunney of Travvad Prefecture stated categorically that the University of New Avahthphathan would not be accepting a generous gift of thirty thousand iridium coated bananas from Lord Gyrus Grangshire, partly because the of the current banana and iridium surpluses, partly because of sigatoka, but mostly because nobody would have the foggiest idea of what the smeg to do with them. In further news, Barney Eilery of Cranague Point says..." and so on and so forth. In the distance Forr can hear a flock of bubblegum beetles, the sound of steamtrucks and traffic, the confusing array of early morning partisans and their tarmac gliders. Forr pauses to slurp down iron filings and mouthwash, then to brush his teeth, and wash his hair with mayonnaise.

larango harvest

Irrigation of the larango fields beyond the Stivinert country will be accomplished in three stages: first, mobile metallic gantries will be deployed every five hundred and seventy one meters. Secondly, spores of the water synthesizing bacteria of the species Euterpenia lawrenceofarabiensis will be sprayed onto the entire surface of the gantries using a Hekhitaris Industries Mark J Heavy Duty Bacterial Sprayer. Thirdly (or should it be minus-onely) the gantries will be coated by a nutrient medium made from only the finest of charred paper epistles written by madfolk of the Gorge. Euterpenia lawrenceofarabiensis is so efficient at hydrosynthesis that it can make roughly seven million molecules of water from a single sodium atom if the wind is in a north westerly direction and it is between the hours of ten am and four pm. This highly complicated scheme was designed by T'Lallaceadh Vpkeaseaich, Director-General of Irrigation Operations, New Frankfoord Corporation, New Sunley-on-Vraivargdale, Pun, Divided Kingdom, Lesser Qritain. Mr. Vpkeaseaich is quoted as saying (by the Pun Clarion) “ It is with great sadness that we can't employ the Elephanteer Hydrosyntheticists to the larango fields in the boroughs, provinces, and polities beyond Stivinert Country, as those regions are beyond those specified in the Habitat Preservation Clauses for the Elephanteers, and thusly may be considered as containing potentially lethal trace metals and quasiorganics, therefore the Elephanteers (and therefore their excellent hydrosyntheticists) could not be the water-bearing party for the irrigation projects of the larango fields of these regions. We have consulted with Penvanar Auelhpfe and Zavvak Hrefmaga, the preeminent Elephanteer hydrosyntheticists to come up with an advanced irrigation strategy, and we believe that the use of metal gantries coated with hydrosynthetic bacteria has the best chance of providing those polities beyond Stivinert country with the best water supplies and therefore with the juiciest, tastiest larango harvest that their populations deserve.”

family afternoon

The irreputation of Silas Canvernon is listed in the ninety thousand forbidden types of catnip. For the expulsion of the Doors from Arapfilon did the singing bird dismiss the Ornithonium Chorus: what a waste, I'm sure they had years of birdsong to make. Bleyvang's family sat by the crocus fields eating hot-dogs and beefburgers. Garmanhale Bleyvang sat cross-legged in the mire, watching insects interact on the pavement. Blortissia Bleyvang was tossing a trimarang around lazily, its three wings barely deflected by the faint summer breezes. Their mother, Syneschenta, sat under a Flossuary tree, eating an ollalieberry sundae and reading the inscrutable works of Paracelsus. Further in the distance, Celementhrum Bleyvang lied to the sun about his taxes, the cosmetically irrelevant third liver he had installed last week, and his general disposition. He lay on the ground, blue-green metallic sunglasses reflecting the near ultraviolet. Lazily, he turned on his radio just in time to hear a news report stating that the Vice-Arbonist of Relkekvlar had been accosted by a quasi-sapient banana. Syneschenta finished her sundae and found a trash-receptacle fungus in which to deposit the wrapping. Garmanhale seemed to be distracted by a passing steamfruit truck. Blortissia's tissue-phone rang: it was Leicesteria Wherkansky: her application to join the Muttering Thinkers of Perendrup had been approved. In the further distance, an elephantine chance-ignoring beetroot god minded the citrus lemniscates. Celementhrum sneezed, opening a can of Vodweiler, and generally ignoring the flock of catmites flying above. Then it started raining The Despicable Purple Fluid, as a result of atmospheric Mathieu function contamination, and the Bleyvangs went indoors.

irrigations aplenty

Four and twenty light words, staked in a rhye. A day past eight with five to go. Where did the Muttering bird come to roost. Askance an unasked question in pelargonide fury. Once, deus, twice, deux, thrice flew and then the many monkeyed tree of the everlast had its own excission point. Five four, five eight, how many times did I pause, did I revolve in anterograde motion, did I collect the precious essential oils of the tardigrade. Oh, lo, mayhaps a past prance gave me an unadorned reliance on vegetation and obstreperously mineral material. Clades of Ironmonger and Cheesemonger and Chessmonger delivered me a memory crystal in /tmp/brontosaurus. The source code I was haggling over was penned in Basque on the tanned hide of an Baluchitherium (or was it a Dvandvatherium?). Ask not what you can do for your Borough.

arrugala virescens

No? Were you inquired? Were you forgotten? Did the many toned Besmirch ask you a question? How has the progression erred? Who was inside the icosahedron? Questions like these I do not have answers for.