Story Tropes

Mistakes: There is more than one browser. Secondly, I am not logged in on the other. I was having one of these perpetual telephonic disasters with one of my (definitively-not-a-juggler)-biocontributor, at the end of the call, I see that the clouds of greenspun birds, I can neither see nor speak of. Thar's a raw ache. I printed and emplaced on my wall, a draft, with your eurythmy, the scars where the poem's paper was taped to the wall as well as the picture still adorn the wall. I'm not sure -- I wrote your nomen anuenue on the notebook page that I first wrote about torrential effervescence. As for breaking and cardiac persimmonery, that I can answer, I think, I'm not wholly sure, though, can't work out the direct product, everything is blurry: what's definite is that far before I could be given a chance to reasonably work out where I stood, I bothered taking what people said at face value, and then afterwards, I was misunderstood by triage, and now? The flocks of birds vanish. Maybe one of them vanishes. Tricky to reconcile the lack of a final proscenium with irregular regularity, falling into cosmic limit cycles, falling over. We made it about two thirds of the way through, associating between each label and the next, what were they labeled with: trees, rainbows, honeycombs, gluons, lattices, galaxies, hyperboloids, bismuth, butterflies, crashing waves, muons, thunderstorms, theta functions, seashells, cabin trunks, fungal gills, lichens, oxidative phosphorylation, CNO cycle, didgeridoo, cough drops, weaving, ginger ale, stroopwafels, froth or foam, iridescence, pizza, lambda calculus, juggling, water, green, fractals, typography, the ocean, sleep, dreams, love. As a result of the algorithm chosen to string the Euler circuit, after each run the last link returns to the last numbered node. The list above is in numerical order. I told a story I had to tell, I think, about letter isomers: that will keep me alive, at least. What do I do? I know not. Do I fret in wait? Will you reappear now only to disappear later, or to editorialize and self-censor so quickly to feel like dancing-make-me-nauseous? Twice? Thrice? Clock chimes? The marigolds twirling in the sunset, is this my emotional netflix? Talk to me sometime, not in delayed asciioscopy, but in phonemes. So, scar tissue? Triage wounds? What's cued? Who is blue and who was violet? Of brush and thresh and green and gerania and spackled gateways, and whatever burnished cast fundamental fear buttressed arches flying like swaying swans perhaps foresquawking futures reliant but marinated by bleary endorphins and incuprient byways blasting forth with, well, I paint the sky with ephemeral abstractions anyway, so dance I won't: if queasy hopes blear into inert contrails baked with ambiguity at 400 kelvin, I'll be having my pizza and doing mathematics where I can at least be assured that my heart, and perhaps yours, will remain uninjured.

Wist Cavalcade

All I ever wanted (feels like Maslow's hierarchy and nitrogen narcosis collaborated on this radical new form of bitter and my claim that I had prior art was drowned in the scuffle) is someone over for pizza and to do math. Thunkthunkthunk. I method act through my own motivations -- I don't trust them insofar as they don't make sense and what else starts with 'lo', anyway? Have me pokin' around at at fossilized thesaurus trying to find closure or New Jersey or the Western Kettles or some other tropane collagen stork battle gimletting the waffle batter of the world, and amidst hoovering from glotip to mysterious nonmentions of fumarase deficiency (makes whatever aing-tii circulatory fluid I might have reach its triple point and then gap-junctioning through bleary rhombs of superannuated emotional supernatant (didn't really need any more incitement to personal paranoia or what have you, and without the desire to cast ingots of bitter and leave them in odd positions in my hippocampus, yes of course I miss! But what's a fastidious accountant of keta to do besides encourage more fermenting and fomenting of my wither-worn and winter-bleary spirit? No final proscenia? Vial of eggnog goes splat. Splut. Velar nasal pith strung against the mire, strung in spider-silk and week-old halvah and dizzyingly cantilevered against the cat tails, here's my hand (usual recitations), here's what I have to offer, smush, so and so forth, froth. With dream memories now that I can't make sense of and adumbrations on my time and attention which mired in a mixture of crestfallen and forlorn like some fastidious psychologist from Brussels in 1928, excuse me, psychoanalyst querulously demanding how I like my cheese stir-fried the Maillard reactions are quite fetching have you managed to get to the shore yet and other burgeoning-on-incomprehensible questions about how many molecules of adenosine triphosphate the mitochondria in my feet have synthesized since I last felt satisfying hygge of any sort, shoo away, shoo away anxious to escape these irritating and unobservant questions, and I feel like interjecting "if you were really paying apropos attention to my current fractious state and have suggested incitements to a waking bilita mpash, I might have listened, but otherwise this mockery of accounting is just more salt on my wounds" I wanted the gazebo in the country, the one where the sky is torrid and yellow with ozone and the rain is from a supercell thunderstorm, and you could smell the geraniums and the tang of tea or ice cream as the comedy played on the laptop with its remaining charge during the power outage. My isolation coping mechanisms have kind of returned with unanticipated ferocity: persist, yes. Thrive, certainly not. Ache: quite definitely: here's more lego using language with no flair or magic, stuck in the same repetends, not ethereal, drab, dry, and I'll ache. I don't know what you feel over there, of the frond, but I feel sadness now and again. Time for the neroli oil, the crushed leaves of sedra, oil of the kernel of the apricot, sage and comfrey while they are still warm, and pizza, and a whole lot else besides, and new math papers, and so many impossibly heartwarming anagrams of 'check a letter isomer: hug'.

Post (Gone)

Sinuses stuffy, the wind-salt strewn of the sea perorating as local dioramas -- microcosms of sand surf enjoying misarticulated relationships with one another: how long did the hermit crab spend looking for a new home this morning? There was a beetle on the beach which had an argument with an aluminum drink container: both of them came out on the losing side of that argument. Sand grains chirp to each other about the last time their silica was involved in volcanism. Sea-spray, bromine bromeliads, natural incense precessing around classical unities barycenters (some of them performing remarkably adroit Baryshnikov impressions in the delightful concert of the motion of centers of mass of various dynamical systems, interacting to and fro'). Whene'r I might inherit succour of any sort, I do so in some attempt to sing harmony with what cosmic song I can make out -- if only in a rudimentary way, from these dramas and trioramas, from these triremes and mythological scents ramified in my own mythopoeiome: the sungull, the sandcantilever, the Oxid, the Runnymiid and Balacthener, the Gatesneeper, the Mystereography. the Bedecked En, tales and context froth reference leaps whose epics the beach dramas only hint at: I have a thing to do, as they say, no religious encrustation of misguided deontic motivation, just the construction of a bespoke conveyance for the froth by my own delirious and somewhat essentially immiscible-with-brief-context-span epistemologies of the world: to me, the froth is zany, but I can never be assured that it will even pass the perception threshholds of others too invested in industries opaque to me: no bother, no need for any cognitive prescriptivism and its contrary-to-diversity approach. "I had coping mechanisms prior to, and now, well, I see they're functioning peachily. I tried to put as many of my cards on the table as possible (although I don't particularly like that metaphor, as I do entertain antipathy for unnecessary arbitraries conducted for their own transience, and not to any larger structures which might pass unto the ethereal outside the perception thresholds of the very wary), but I am a juggler, not a dancer: I persist on the basis of anticipated catches and throws, not of unpredictable sequences of pulls and pushes whose second and higher order derivatives resemble elf-Braille and are unfriendly to my eyes. Here is this thing, what does it mean to you? Or this other thing?..." the note trailed off. Did I wander down to the village and purchase a two asulnctoro postal voucher and have it posted to an address in the Sahefepan Prefecture? I can't say definitively.

Far off lands beyond the sea

Cyan cupric overgreen'd, torus rungs and pine night sap, 
future lucent histories, heart and hearth and arrrrh, in teafroth
barycenters, alluvial liquids, ventral plosives, umbral echo consonance,
triply chromophotaic infinite cardinals, from thine to me, mine for thee
connects, structures, reticulates and within, sussurates with harmonies, eppur si muove, along along, amongst amidst, thy deep dream lang
gauges... illumes intertidal serenity.

Permanence? Orders-of-Magnitude-Relatively-Less-Transitory-Than-Life-as-a-Whole-Feels! With allegros and lichen lined fugues, precessing Struve functions
and nougat, bark-birch by grainy sand through a mesh, summery melodies and summae and productae, foliated across grainy sheaves, producing spaghetti, telegrams, intaglio copper-glyph printed towels, hygge: whenever of late life has edged to the forequoted disasters, I have thought of thee edges-of-sleep tiny radiant butterfly warbling leftwards, and plumes of warmth, peace, and safety bloom in me. 

Ahengmoia, beyond, await, Arrivalist

Of course, I have no idea about the next few bars, all a bit blurry and foggy. I think my paranoia's been a little on the heavy, lumbering, ponderous side of late. Maybe a marimba or a xylophone -- the phrase 'bus station marimba metal' always meant a happy point of departure to fanswerving distant sea-eroded piers with ice cream sellers and on-the-spot bearded algebraic topologists (one of the three is definitively artifice: either they're not actually bearded, or they're not actually algebraic, or they're not topologists) willing to sell you a gouda toroid inscribed with math glyphs dusted with paprika

A Maslow wag proffered "But do you lo..", and I interrupted: "Do you know that thing about parallel intents? We shared music: we saw the same things, without prompting, without having to tab-complete years of emotional dialogue about buying the wrong brand of continent or of sneezing out of tune, or rooting for the Blefescu Argumentum-Ad-Authoritarians instead of the Laputan Circumstantial-Ad-Hominems, but I could never get into sports be painful, and no, I didn't play Ferdinand. I wanted to be the Boatswain but got cast as Lord Francisco instead and was unhappy about it. No relationship is perfect, then again, playing that dice game involving cosmic songs played out in microcosm and being mysterious only really works when you don't have so many cards to put on the table, and that form of, ergh 'courting', seems very disingenous: "For I am the Duke of Flaaghai, fated from my origin to be the second worst Slowly-Emplace-Catnip-in-The-Jar-of-Pasta sauce artisan this side of the Orinoco", I usually ache when I hear people voluntarily backing into such life-narratives. "Did you roar?" I'll ask. "Could you be singing more harmoniously your part of the cosmic song?" I'll kvetch. Sure, we've all those messy stone ruins in one's psyche where the life course went topsy turvy hither and thither, but for us? When?.. when we couldn't tell where one of our inner narratives left off and the others narrative started."

saddle promontories fungibilizing their creaking gleam

Can't bring peace, can't bring war, dry gray fronds scatter in the
scintilla of the other-sun, the other story, the aching bringing peace,
whose authorship? Whose story? Lives aren't stories, where does this begin?
Which central drama thus enacted is the distributed collection of
thematic prosodies for which future entanglements are scarred, scorred,
embalmed in love letters and tripthongs and uncertainties about intent and resource providences: I don't know, that calculus eludes me in a 'will you stay around, I've got Rust-and-Abbadonment issues to somehow apply the apropos mix of WD-(n+1) and I think my mimicry of a collection of newspapers rotting in the mud requiring tonics and ichors is becoming somewhat annealed' which I've just past the energy to engage in conversation about. Being direct? Being indirect? Being misdirected? Being misread? Can I close read the text and determine the motivations of the participlants? Or are they particifungal? Or particular? Or grammatical particles being accelerated at astonishing semantic velocities in a linguistic collider? Xenia and hygge scant, scattered to West-Green wind and my emotional accountants are currently being subpoena'd by some (n)-cameral legislative assembly. The honorable Tempublicratic representive from Noshoeno province is convinced that there's emotional self-embezzelment going on and wants those aforesaid accountants to confess their changing a '3' to a 2' on line 2109 of the Galactic Emotional Register, and the accountants, for whom the GER is a vaporous plume, have no idea what the representative is talking about. At least there's no great concern about the muon solenoids in the previously mentioned accelerator: the line items for that would induce a mantis shrimp go to their visual perception allergist and demand a large gray square some eighty meters on a side and guaranteed to be of homogenous color in one part of 10^17th. If I lean against a wall, I'll fall over, and I've been too close to shattering for a very long time: fortunately living situation is improved, and despite, (looks at the Eigenculture and bemoans that it's not 402,091 years in the future), I don't entertain any desire
to fall over and fragment. Alas and alack, light and color and strange patterns are easier for me to cope with than this 'what are your intentions, desires, preferred self-actualization navigation plans for the top of Maslow's hierarchy' shuffle. That kind of attritive flight-planning "one day we had clearance to go to Mynotta, and the next day we had to rehash the language about paragraph 130 of the flight plan about the diet of the symbiotic octagons our conveyance was carrying because the director thought they needed just fourteen more calcium atoms a day and that disrupted the rest of the computations, and the next day we were halfway to Plortmon" drives me to some combination of apoplexy and bonkers.

Gone, Present, Ochre, Salt, Alluvials

Hang my shoulders, my sinews, against the starfish coast?
Och, perorating and cacophanations? This story or that other
story, or some other agglomeration of tropes quickly appears,
occasionally persists, sometimes vanishes, bringing questions,
recriminations, malfeasances, defenestrations, acrimonies,
requests-for-disambiguation to the local Fluid Dynamics Guild
(chapter 490), each of their number equipped with frothy considerations for Courette flow, Reynolds Number Wrap (tiny aluminum particles), and then,
what, dialogues and constructs and wishes and collapsars bridged, bridled,
washed away in the Great Thundereddy of the Year of the Unpolarized Pirahna? Or was that the Ambiguous Storm of the Year of the Defrocked Ichneumon Wasp? My record keeping hasn't been double-entry for a while. I subtract
from the first and add to the second and, no, I haven't been emotionally self-embezzeling. Every meteorological event of significance demanding the local weather station give the storm a name and some customized graphical identity accumulates into a mishmash of memories of their bespoke graphical identities:
I keep confusing the Wood Road Hailstorm with the Attacking Bewildered Tardigrades blizzard of 409,401LE. The Fluid Dynamics guild types just offer me bits of stilton and say "it's just the flux and flow, here, find yourself a good vortex sheet", or some other pithy remark I'm not inclined to follow, and then get all huffy when I proclaim: "I talk to you and you bring up these abstractions, little dizzy teacups, or broken clocks, or wombat machines, but if I go talk to the folk at the weather station, they talk about the interpersonal dynamics of their weather team and how they just purchased Namsalthai-Praihexl Lumbago Graphics 4000 boxes and that their niece's family just had its first thukdam. I don't like these narratives and each of you usually assumes I'm with the other, so, er, cryptic?" and they look at me like I have a tortoise and just continue on.
And what, rattles out predictions for the next star-cycle for my Maslow hierarchy? Every time I've been inclined to divest just a little energy in conventionally sensible strategies, I appear to get met with responses whose nature appears to be that of essential cognitive dissonance: large scale coherence is a hard sell, apparently, bewilderingly, despite its ability to make the universe more transparent and easy to apprehend.

Shore oarred oak rhythms, phalangeal fingerings,
functions on the complex plane, now boarding, have
you been through secur-- scurrity? Mise-en-mouse, drag,
scrabbled, fell, so, no major realignment of belief-structure
inventory (can cope with that), just have to possibly
stretch the pathologies of the already pathological. (I need
to have a word with the author, already), another lime rhyme,
prepared to broadcast the antecedants in hegemony morse code
down the beach. Whenever, wherever, whoever, and however
tranquility might next be availed, meh, where were those
paranoia-generating granules to be emplaced into the
locomotive's engine? Under the potato... I have seven potatos,
and it's under the third.

aches, sprains, and strains

Oh, Limbic System, R-Complex, gleeful and cheery
insurmountable vengeances, issue'd, dissolv'd. Retold.
Innumerably many pardons and reprieves sift and zither and are lost in the
waves of doldrums and cavitation. Cetecean barks and whistles squirrelled
away, lost in the bromine-swerve of the ocean.

Subconscious:oh, you tell a confus'd tale: this valence contradicts that, 
while contradicting another completely differently. How am I to be an 
honest actor when my relationship with you is so frothy. One set of
dreams imply a thing, feel like custard greens and collard pies on the
edge of a picnic on a lanky summer afternoon, another ache gray
obscurity, mucilaginous, baked, dried into the broken voronoi
patterns of dried tempera paint of middle school art class. And then
I meander to interact with whom your immisciblant squealing demands
decoding into proper semantic valences, and I cannot construct those
functorial equivalences in any reasonable way, they march through
the skirmishes of my already contradictory mind armed with 
Fenospoi Corporation Grade-AA+ ambiguators, releasing yottajoules
of feels whose architecture is comprised of ultrastructural uninterpretability
and ambiguity and amphicontraconceptuals impelling deficits of concord. 

Signature, butterfly, butterfly, butterflies, reading birdsong, constantly
mutating text beginning with "besides", dream-image...
, tangential shoulder massage, and now drifting
away into blurriness, not seeing, looking at a different depth. A few nights ago
while meandering for victuals a confused person asked "who broke your..." in
the midst of the usual speech of confused people, SUV drivers being cinema
celebrities and whatnot. Retain? Remain? Paraphrase? Phenolphthalein? 
To what extent and topology is this Lethe-array an actual communcation, and
to what extent is it the folly of the synapses? To wit, drifting into wan pan-trapezoidal
pallor and unclear internal unsublimated perfidities, for which, oh to be direct? How do I disentangle the machinery of the Subconscience, which I don't trust, with that of any
forestalled reasonableness of actual interaction. (of which I claim to possess none, but that is another
story).


Thence:

Finally leavened seventh: Entanglements remain. Woof and warp and weft woven and weaves interlaced, stitched, crocheted, like textiles yarned and skeined, hope for the future? Uncertainty prevails: my emotions I don't trust and I'd rather offer clarity rather than whorls of indecision baked in mustard pies and sold for a pittance at the side of the Tenseoreo river five minutes to Yestertuesday. Can't hold on, but the fabric won't let us go. Some filaments of that are just going to tug at heartstrings, either way. I prefer to ask framing questions: "how are you? how are things in your context? is there anything I can do to help?" because they tend to devolatilze and detension those cardiac connections. Direct and cryptic are second cousins at best. [there are linguistics books in the box dropped on the floor labeled 蝶兵器 -- I presume you saw them?]

First and Frist and Grist the gleaning yolks say/suggest "self censor less!", of which I occasionally
must recall. Conversations are hard (and I prefer them soft, round-cornered, and bedecked with grinning armadillos) when every second word (I exaggerate) vaporizes with
millikelvin changes of conceptual stance.

Seventy-eighth: It's fair to say I feel like week old cheddar and brocolli soup at present. I could bathe my brain in ibuprofen for want of a spinnaker, or a trip to Dorset, or Primrose Hill in London. Nursing the self and self-care are the order of the hour, then, for which, oh for which know whatever contentious ill-will which may be harbored by parts of me I have less sway over, I deratify and reject. For as much as I do desire a 'don't let go' hither and thither, and must make do with the
Buddhist overtones, the purely electromagnetic particles and force interaction always is too weak for me, I prefer the strong force, of quarks and gluons. So, inasmuch as I can request, do remain in whatever capacity or name entreats us both greatest and most harmonious concord, and provides ailerons for ascending that Low-Mass hierarchy, seasoned by basil and hygge and without obligations or demands on time or energy allocation.

uneventlessness, or thresh'd swerves' wharves by the quay.

Fell over, falling, star(k)wash and o'er oceans.
I may have whispered "one valence", but like the story
of Eddie Valens and the Cheese Tardigrade, like thin
gray stalks and brains oozing in milky fluid mucilaginously
splaying Boltzmann horrors. I'd wait. Or forgot. Forget?
For south, for sooth, some untempered ruthful pyre at the
edges of the Western Kettle. Deliver engines, manuals in
plays and dramas, for hyperspatial metaphor embankments.
A three four, a three five? Of saltpetre and cetaceans and
protected glissandos and crashes to fragility or crashes of water,
first tiny ungulched ungluable dust fragments lost in the rug(shag),
the second, ephemerant and recurring in grand froths of bromine
and diatoms and deranged oceanographers. For local contravariance
suppurating from frequent transpositions, the eggs and the carrots, or
the penguins and the cotillion, switched for comic effect or
contextual highlighting (where's that dratted marker anyway?), I might
rebring, resing, unsung strung seaspray'd barchans chugging away:
the cosmic begets the absurd: the werks to sapience I bring bread,
cheese, lemons, lichens, whereas for the flat the walls begreen, the
incense purrs and there are ubiquitous hyperboloids. Depth-relativizers
deployed in the shallow alluvials unfurl, their extendable gantries
perorate before crayon orange cantilevers and articulation systems array,
arrange, knowing not to predict or prescribe the fenestrations of the morrowlands,
before hark aegis might bask in Herne's old tales, or pairs of plumbers deployed,
mayhaps  from five imaginaries orange of Ohio might have slumber'd? Sung!
Singing of glee and little surreal insurances etched in round zen stone, ratifying
smoke signals peace (or war, I don't know, I'm not New Jersey)

Western Ket

Onondaga and Klinstyle, and, er, I don't know, maybe half of the Freeheigte had maybe meandered past the Tohoec ruins at the end of the day. Those were quite perplexing times. Zahagte merchants with their noodle spoons and the vosidro vendors offering tiny bits of plasma torched fruit ice-cream. I'd walk the streets and carefully note if any of them had changed configuration. A street might have oscillated freely by a tenth of a milliradian in the night but those of us armed with topological sextants are few and far between. Now, mind me, the world gets runny now and again, and we watch out for this thing. How many different cosmoses does the slant manifold of this world strobe past? Far too incomprehensibly many to count. I'd get frustrated if I were to try to hold it all in one place, burnished tea and all that. What was Kelpinhuet saying about Bristol-fashioned umbrellas and the Old Primate Behaviour Theory. I can never listen to that dribble for more than a tenth of a second and then I crave butterscotch pudding and salted walnuts, although, to be fair to most of the paper vendors down in the art district, I did obtain a Venschiezze certification some five strumming ago. The Getexfiennze should be overflowing its banks within a month, and the seasonal Mandropoan fishers should be migrating in from Pephrongopolis and the Anzidra Conurbation by the confluence of the Sceheb and Monsahanib rivers with the Great Galagoronghai. Perhaps you've met one of them, with their fluorescent orange rain slickers and their quaint little radios tuned to one of the Hoitgehr religious stations, where Mzoht Orbec Cahafune or Mzoht Trunec Fzulxidh is going on about //The Godgeless Antenhumbr of Droat// or //Sannat Granzias'  Amoral Eplisceration// or one of any of the incomprehensible inscrutable "fables" in the Tohhnabm. Oh, and I did see the study by Zr. Kelnius Hohetsgm claiming that the more religious these fishers were, the better their catch was, which Hohetsgm put down to some homomorphism between the belief structure of the fishers and the behavioural patterns of their favorite fish, the essetgok-noruhto.

I lost a disagreement with myself: fine, fine, I'll learn the stars and the butterflies (their evolutionary tree), and as much as I could know about trees, and lichens, and something about lattices, and tropes, and a few other obscurities, not because I want to be some type of expert, or whatever, but just because when in doubt, I creep (snooky-sneaky) towards the deliriously technical end of things.

hyperportal

Suggested music: Hyperportal (which it was written to)


---
The hyperportals were strange otherworldly pieces of hypertechnology, high sorcery, witchcraft, mathematics, and primitive magic.
the usual rules of each didn't apply in one. their floors were utterly frictionless. the temperature inside was always 'unsettlingly friendly'. one could go between universes or realities in one. almost feels like a dream in them.'this is familiar' you might say.

how far did we travel "impossibly far"
how fast did we travel "impossibly fast"
how many ways did we go from point A to point B: "you didn't go
from point A to point B. you went all possible ways woven in a fabric"
maybe the feeling you get inside one is like a bright darkness, an oily
happy hug groan. your perception is trying to ascribe agency or sentience
or recognizable qualities to the workings of the hyperportal, which
are something beyond both merely biological or mystical or
mechanical or physical or some consequence of the lambda calculus.
a trip between here, and a galactic core farther away than the
current light cone of the visible universe after recombination?


around a day or a week. and it's a lazy trip: no complicated
procedures or preparations for unfriendly hyperspatial environments.
A Steppenquoy conveyance snags the localized context froth zone from
the hyperportal and we're on our way.


the trip feels like being at ocean, but maybe it's a larger ocean
than the one in which our embryos swam when we were embryos, and
that feels odd. and reassuring. luminescent darkness and
ebon surfulgence

 the lighting conditions are strange

luminescent darkness
ebon surfulgence
illuminant tenebrosity


pale, washed out, completely nonreflective total oblivions
of light brilliantly surfulge with manic radiance, almost teasing your
visual system. "is that light? is that darkness? the intensity of what
I am experiencing is transcendent of such concepts. "

beings in such an environment report that their senses are usually
at an acuity they would describe as "stunning clarity": they
can usually give better and more thorough descriptions of their
interactions in this environment, even if the environment
itself foils their language abilities.


keep in mind that this environment is not hyperspace proper,
nor is it hyperspacetime, it's more of a hypercontext of sorts
that the hyperportals can incubate and the Steppenquoy Conveyances
can arboresce safely between here and there.


a week passes. the conveyance informs this context that it is
parting us to the destination hyperportal.

we have (effectively) traveled around 18 yottaparsecs to a planet called
Arzauno-Oblique-Coehenteheororius, second from the star
Lyssiary, in the Glitterswash Galaxy, in the
Lanihimehimehupualine hypercluster.
--------------------------

[astonishment note no. 1134:
I had to go and check that this was, in fact, written before
Laniakea was named:
-rw-rw-r-- 1 user user 2729 Nov  4  2013 hyperportal]

diffracted off a ribosome of an insect in the Cretaceous

(suggested music: Orb: Promis)

Intersecting scales, maybe on a fish, or spanning contexts, wouldn't remove those with a scalar. Vector tensor torsor spinor spinning? Splining? q-cosining? Interarugulated translunar injection brrrr, it's, that's not cold! Longfar Longnear Shortfar Shortnear? Can't find them on a map. Might check a GIS system. Or a fragmenting palimpsest that entered the University of the Discarded as mere detritus and has graduated with a Bachelor's degree in Jetsamnity? Few detail-savvy aortaographers produce readable diagrams and documentation, and details barely discern'd erupted with stark ferocity: a woven geranium flow filament arc'd tricuspidly in arborescent gluon arteries, crosses the blood-brain barrier, and takes a scimitar comprised of pungent anuenue-scented ocean vapor plumes to whatever facility I had for distinguishment of the rational, irrational, anirrational, and transcendental. Backtracing, I could percieveth not how the ash marched across geodesics besides mere rudimentary constructions of satisfactory focal depth and elegant feng shui. Locally chunky, perhaps mechanical, tubular, with inclusions of gneiss and high strontium feldspar and just enough bismuth to make the Director General of All Adjectives uncomfortable while reading the twice-epochal semantological report, but it's an AM station playing just outside the radio silence zone of West Virginia. Maybe my ray-tracing had gone miserably wrong: the tardigrades really like the way the capacitors taste, and when they do the image constructed is usually Nesther Ven Velbuis's The Sacking and Economic Redevelopment of Troy as Witnessed by a Rabid High Frequency Financial Algorithm. 

 (suggested music: The Sunshine Underground)

Maybe one rivulet got through, or, er, a higher dimensional analogue of a rivulet, something reticulated, also in parallel, sloshed Hózhó, how'm I supposed to read this when each character of the script is a 7D projective algebraic variety painted with three splendedly directed movies girding its hypersurfaces? Translating the Langlands programme into Mayan seems easy in comparison to composing messages in this airy-aileron-swash-fog. What's a zephyred wisp? A roiled plume? A foamy spume? A homoclinic tangle category glittering, swervingly evanescent? The quantum states of each molecule of carbon dioxide bearing the imprint of the origins of their nuclei were your smoke signals in this Apheliotic breeze, flowing so quickly that the ventifacts formed within me sounded like the shapes of something being heard. I could not speak such a language with ease, and would reply at once if I could.

 

a message breath robed in Oak, a story for thine cloak

Unperfunctorial glimpses (in apricot oil? sun oranges?) bedeckt by altruistic insomnity, perhaps winding and wreathed might retell scheduling chance tales. I dreamt I wrote your name in my left handed script amidst an array of gorgonzola english, also three encounters with butterflies, a blue morpho on my face, a tiny white one fluttering by, and a flock of electrical violet ones. Of others and evers and nevers and elses I concoct emulacras of permanence, in a sea of transience, in the hopes one might splash mindlong into deep elsetime, marked by geologic chronologues, stratigraphies, karst, a recent transfiguration of the climate calmly passes beyond simple comprehensibility into the immediately ineffable. Aches and moments and affinities and augur’d proximities do crash in frothy complexity. (aside: the ancient soothsayer said the apropos word is ‘uharo’, better than trying to fit into one of two categories, where a third one glosses less worry). Sparks and slips and preforespake of unsundered continuity and congruence amidst signal to noise ratios might blur mine juggler’s frets (though I am unstring’d), but the birdsong is a simpler telegraph. Specifics intrigue: a fire ignited by joy? Why comport thyself to an airy zone? Nary, even my common unique station is wrackt by unstable arrangements and confused phonemes, but by such art persistence beckons, and such queries have no urgency besides the filigrees of native curiosity. I dreamt of gulfs, shores, jetties, flowing rainbow rivers, etherfroth and quintessencefoam filtered through with encrypterosaurs of Planck fluctuations ensconced by thine succor, and I found myself nourished. Though my docket vexeth, scattered gluons ferry arterial lightning and by-and-by borrowed moments earning interest and birefringent trividends upon a glittering silk cantilever vanishing prior to the horizon. Fine rivulets of language alliterated along like the lightning, and in them I heard woven fabrics our home context offering safety, so if mine attention was fractious, I duly offer further spoons.

emotional archaeology

T. Wrienghiemton Balseverrie, Chief Curator of Fragmentaries at the New Salxoxque University Department of Emotional Archaeology wrote an essay describing the profession of Emotional Archaeology in last Orrsday's Amutpsa Gazette.

If you've walked by the train tracks of Asinetpro near the Ochsie divide anytime in the past five star cycles, you've seen the rocking chair. There are popular theories concerning the chair's provenance, bar stories, and party stories. There's even a thread about the chair on one of the threads available on the local datanet. Most can't walk past it without wondering about it.

In the Laboratory for Emotional Quanta deep in the recesses of New Salxoxque University's Eastern Octangle, we have a number of machines designed to explore the cosmic network intertwingularities of fragmentary, sparse, widely distributed, or otherwise ancient and old things, long separated from the people for whom they held great value, emotional and otherwise.

Pictured below (although not in this excerpt), is a Neskaleyene-Garriptro Event Structure Distiller. It masses at two hundred million metric tons -- although most of that's a result of the wee bit of hypercooled glasma which is hyperspatially tethered to the scanning assembly, and as a result it doesn't affect the local gravitational metric tensors. This machine is a beast to use, not so much because it's difficult to use -- the instruction manual is a model of lucidity, but because the extent of incapacitating horrors and abuses to the spirit witnessed through the holographic display is paralyzing.

Maxhuatl Apehfe's Stuffed Animals Project 10 years ago was probably our department's greatest misstep. On the wall in my office I have both press clippings about the project as well as letters from the family members of the researchers.  Apehfe had brought some stuffed animals found in a charity bazaar in Oxfai sold in bulk assortments, and had (quite reasonably, as any young researcher might) thought that it would be interesting to place them in the event structure distiller. Maxhuatl Apehfe, Sineria Achuit, and Hoherxge Greun have been coping with a rather severe form of post traumatic stress disorder as a result. I'm sorry this happened. I'll quote Hoherxge: "People are, er, not, hmm. Stuffed animals are proxies for a parent's affection, and the abjection of hoping that one might hug you back as well as the large scale cultural ramifications of their thingness -- and I've got two, Mr. Confusington, a weregazebo, and Flootm, a cuddly pion which I've had since I was a month old and are people to me -- I didn't think about it too much before we brought the Oxfai Exiles in. Now Maxhuatl, Sineria, and myself frequently quaver with "hug all the quarks in the universe if they'd be okay with it". "

There's Riet Gueithz who does paper pieces research. She went to Oquizbe and ordered 10 tons of Salquirnabron Corporation Recycled Paper, Grade A. She uses the Lehepzfa-Marsillis Contentment-Scry (yes, it looks like an air conditioner with glued bananas that has been dipped in liquid helium and dropped from a very far distance slowly breaking apart in slow motion) and catalogues on-the-cusp dust of peculiar emotions. She's not concerned with joy or pain, but with xylem-uncertainty-not-tainted-by-brickwork, mitochondrial-affinity-marinated-in-colored-pencil-sketches, smiling-superfluid-xenon-waving, and so on.  "Part of the maturation process of any civilization is to have a more detailed and precise emotional vocabulary. Finding name-shy emotions on the saddle hypersurfaces between the binaries of good and bad enables civilizations to be able to better cope with trying times. The scraps of paper I usually deal with are a hundredth of a octagonal millimeter in size. The research papers I submit to the Journal of Emotional Archaeology contain many diagrams about those hypersurfaces, listing rational points and submanifolds, as well as discussing their saddles in poetic language"
Our work is not easy. We produce many maps and tables of discarded subtleties and obscure sublimities, but while doing so, our hearts sag somewhat.

translatory fatigue

Eh, Uncle Greasegears bites his cornstraw and sez things like "The machine's'll be smellier, the gears will be embalmed with ever finer coatings of the smelliest engine greases, the barbershop will still smell of liniment and linseed oil, and the old advertisments for racing cars'll feature famous cinema stars and whatnot."

I don't actually have an Uncle Greasegears, but he'd swear by bourbon and bubblegum and the blitz, had I had one. And maybe the GI programme, and a whole smorgasbord of cultural sempiphemeralia which...

seems self-dating, assign-thine-eyes-to-the-prosaic, of yellowed plastic Bakelite and tupperware parties and this wheezing ugly contrail of human drama and nonimmediacy with the transcendent which stretches back (10y? 20y? 30Mya?).

 I got hatched on The Mechanical Universe and TVO's Photosynthesis and cellular respiration, and Tomes and Talismans, and Read All About It, Attenborough's Life on Earth, Tim Hunkin's The Secret Life of Machines, James Burke's Connections, many old Nova programmes, the Horizon Mathematical Mystery Tour, John Baez's This Week's Finds in Mathematical Physics, Douglas Hofstadter's Metamagical Themas, and GEB, various books by Rudy Rucker, and so on... in aggregate, it amounts to thinking in the whirly clefs of an frothy alien language written over the topologies and biology of a iridescent sea.

.
Convincing Uncle Greasegears that, ngojhsfdgokkjt, there's a culture associated with those swirls and biomes, produces translatory fatigue,  because a constellation of memes glossed in "vortex shedding, mantis shrimp, hyperboloid", translates into paragraphs of barbershops and auto engines and congested and fragile trope-structures so ornately ossified that they're crinkling under their own weight.

a forest of Yggdrasills

I'm familiar with C. S. Lewis' The Magician's Nephew, so the concept (modulo Hugh Everett and the multiversists) of the Wood between the Worlds is known to me.

There was Yggdrasill, and Ziggydrasill, and Eh?ggsdrasill, and Lollygaggdrasill, and
Sightgaggdrasill and many others. Combinatory birds sing in the distance.[*] Thor was tending to the binding of Mjölnir, some of which had popular culture damage. Tiny fanfic antilichens had started growing in between the leather, and Thor was with portable scanning tunnelling electron microscope ablating them away, metaphysical particle by metaphysical particle[1] I was, as you might expect, amazed.

Thor looks at me with a knowing glance which might be interpreted as "oh mortal, you again." but feels like Lord Vultan "Gordonnnnnn!" has just given you a very long Thai massage session. Ratatoskr nibbles on some acorns hither and thither (although these fell from trees on these world trees).

Usual clueless human questions: "Where is this place?" and then a tasteless comment about parallel universes and superpositions of wave functions trailing off into astonished muttering.

The forest floor is serene and grassy, almost feeling like more of a zen garden than a forest.
Thor puts his stem rig and Mjölnir on a convenient rock.

"There are many no places, and no times, each one a distant memory like magic smoke signals of muons between here and there. Sometimes arteries of light, like the lightning evinced from Mjölnir, jump from tree to tree here. "

There's the faint scent of quantum mechanics evaporating in the air, somewhat reminiscent of a still chlorinated swimming pool. Also perhaps visions of an umbrella, philately, and the sort of thunderstorm that last for months. A night of sorts meanders by, and I look up at the (what passes for the) sky. Thor "shhh"-gestures at me and I wake from my dream.


[*] Mostly written in an attempt to give some substance, if ethereal vistas and suggestive metaphors, to which forest Smullyan's combinatory birds inhabit. As always, this more the Thor from Adams /The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul/ than recent movies.
[1] And could be heard muttering "Selv jeg har min egen headcanon" in old Norse.

post-move

Sallow? Oh oxides, pentacrete, staccato strobed green viridian flashes,
ess-oh-ess, like H-O-H, with their dissolved cosmotropes and chaotropes,
bifid, trifid (but not triffid), anomalously fast hydrogen ion mobility dovetails
with disturbingly swift ess mobility, three dits lost in the ocean of information noise.
Lengthen the vowel, and insect repellent results (dit to deet), though a dit dah dit, the
wrong vocalic, is an arrr, and perhaps warns of pirates, ror? raar! Respond-to-Signal and
Responses-Protocols-For-Signals lathered like silicone shellac into great barista
art froths and served in venti vidi vici vicious size seventy cubic furlongs volume drinking
vessels with various mythologies carved on (make sure to give it back to the barista
after you're finished drinking!) Probably granite, though who knows what the internal
armatures and buttresses are comprised thereof, likely Hollywood grade unobtanium
haggled from a Vendor-of-Trope-Nouns at the edge of the Gesoy Sea, near the straits of Balvaia for three drachms and a blessed acorn. Here a cue, there a cue, eh-input-eh-input-output? Break.
Seven in the top pocket, the fluorescent one with the led momentum indicator in the bottom stratum.
Apparently there are geologists in the bottom stratum as well, looking at old games and wondering about our physics models in the "what on mars were they thinking?" way, while dusting off old single phase stripes that were abandoned from old games. Fatigue sprouts into hippocampus-spanning lethargy, dicotyledon'd exhaustion embarking on somnilosynthesis. A one-two, one-two, one-SL(2,Z) tango and then sleep(ZZZZZ). All items successfully translocated into new temporary living space, but spoon regeneration continueth.

Far Culture value systematics

That quavering oceanic Bardo of abridged interconnectedness? The Pharl? Glistening Gold accumulations as the zenith of wealth embargoed in great vaults thickly covered in dust and guarded by excesses of actin and myosin qua actin and myosin? Functionality becoming some still frozen image of an old, failing music box. We do not trust the Pharl, with its occasional whiffs of geodesic domes in the desert oases. (though, truth be told, we have nothing against geodesic desert-homed domes, it's just the landmark for our apprehension of the Pharl. "thar be Pharl here!")



Nonrepetition, even cosmically, an antidote which succours our discomfort with Eternal Return, counteracting those twisted and entwined genomic fears with cosmic ferocity.  The fringes of the Polynongahela (water and light and rainbows and photosynthesis and muons and didgeridoo sound trailing off into the ethereal distance of the mindscape, interconnected with sturdy metahyperreferences) like zebrastripes or cuttlefish patterns in fronds gently filter feeding on photons are what we quest for.

Paradoxically, the nonarbitrary, but not in the context of a Science classifying entities according to anatomical or phrenomic abstractions and throwing a fit at each anomaly, or Religion's deranged conceptualization of some soul-prototype in a deity's anthropoforge: a butterfly flies without care for the whims of lepidopterists and quibbles of aerodynamics engineers.

Immediacy, drenches, waterlogs, comprehensibilizes, makes manifest, accelerates, produces plenitudes of coherence, makes available. (usually láithreacht)

And the Nagunatakaschelian: I'll take a seemingly gray and incomplete obscurity with semantic completeness and clarity and lucidity of intent over a vivid swirl in crisp appareance and memomic vacuity: the visual and the symbolic are starkly different environments, and where their natures clash, stranger truths lie in snowy crypticity, like the dreams of a butterfly-in-chrysalis in diapause during the winter.

Nonimposition: we're not hegemonizing, or interested in increasing our territory. We have no especial sacrosanctly enshrined identity-conceptualization, either at a cultural or biological or memomic level. One corollary is that our arcologies may be opaque or obscure to you: we've had great contention about it either way: make the vaporous language starfish galaxies available? To whom? To those who would build empires of oppression? To those who would sing cosmic songs with them? Our shibboleth is empathy: there is, we believe a constraint, or a portico, some indeterminate transition between those empirewrights who would leave trails of destruction, and those who would sing cosmic songs. To first, we prefer the Nagunatakaschelian. To the second, the láithreacht. Now, admittedly, this leaves us looking vague and unfocused on occasion, or produces strange highly context dependent remarks from us, but when we are in greater numbers, perhaps, our blurriness may abate.

torrential effervescent rainbow starfire waterfalls

Love transcends, alliterating over remote iridescent crashing galactic seahorse probability escarpments, glittering in starscape cliffs, color-flavor locked quark gluon plasma in rhyming, superconducting dynamos of intercalated energies and forces, unabridged continuances and kaleidoscopic zephyr helices of neutrinos abundant with improbable chance-plume life forms, which collide, babble, anastomose, bedeck themselves in memomic fineries, the thronteareal lambda calculus tryptamine elves grinning at us like sheaves over fractals of theta functions, an orchestral panoply of coruscating harmonious cosmic energies, sublime and ethereal, compose and comprise our interferent Pahoehoe wavefunctions on the great Polynongahela, where we are and have for each other torrential effervescent rainbow starfire waterfalls of love and thought, kythed through and between each other, oscillating intertwining, elucidatory, biological memomic liberation engines exulting in didgeridoo muon love songs, rivulets of hyperorgasmic mutual intercomprehensional bliss effortlessly conducted across Bifrost between us, we irradiate each other with star-currents of philos, eros, agape, and storge, eddying with vaporous tempests and arch-gulfings of realities-spanning tranquility like rivulets of ultraenergetic transhyperincomprehensible wavegrains charged with layers of astral iodine consilligrent with metaethereal waterlogged accumulation of surpsassing-all-possible-universes-scale co-awareness of each other, every quantum mechanical fiber of each other resonating harmoniously and resolving confluently with the other as cosmic rainbow peace engines aware of the other, having drank the Swift Luminescent Energy Drink of the Psyche, and surfulgent in the eurhimde of each other in Where Skeins become Meshes Become Pleats.


Caveats: I wrote this for an imaginary person a while ago (the contrast between the actual and ideal is not lost on me here). I feel the need to share it now -- I've been accused of writing love poetry of late, and would like to illustrate what happens when I set out to do just that. There may or may not be actual people who my mind is moved as above, but I didn't want to edit it, as I think the above piece stands as a unit.) Also, I do not dispute it may be 'too much, excessive, etc.'

signal response amidst resource management seizure

Epr butterflies lying intoxicatorily atop skew manifold caustics that message had a shannon entropy, had I a decoder? A no need to respond immediately chirp a-ok bypassing baroque and necessary filter systems strung like baleen plates in my meme recognition phrenoanatomy. The responsivities, although, are muddled: immediate physical translocation demands various vexingly resource-management-intensive stress configurations which are inimical to more immediately instinctual "attention now would be most propitious however sidereal ambiguities not handled by quantum lepidopteran epistle" scribbled on a postit and forgotten in an ancient office lodged in a Byzantine subsystem of an bivouac three and twelve thirteenths kilometers beneath the surface of a gas giant many fortnights by municipal bus away (transfers are acceptable). Hyperpreparation is en vogue amongst the denizens of this office: the reply has already been crafted, copy edited, consistency checked thirty seven ways to Bastablon: okay, there are some slight issues with broadcast, but the holographic coherence demands that it go out in its present form. so, under such circumstances one of the office Beetles (the people in charge are called Beetles), writes a "request for enzymes", and waits and sees...