some necessary complications of open-mind surgery

The biregimental summons to the ultraparadoxical lamentation of Ippab made headlines today all over Western Nalhanze as Creptakin Navuncular declared that the end of trade sanctions would be accompanied by strange and unearthly moans and other sounds of a highly indeterminate nature, also, various and unseemly portents would be generated by the notional transcendence of the right triangle and of course, because the inner house of parliament recommended moving to a tricameral system last month we are still dealing with the detritus of the old governmental system. Though the chalice of the forgotten lies smouldering and mouldering at the bottom of some mandated dungheap, there is little in the way of suspicion to lay the blame for the space needle's construction and therefore there is much to conclude about the preperemptory naugahyde interregna that both separate the duplicity of the capstan-cloggers and those that provide a diphthongous momenta cluster to the lizards of old: and because of my irrepressible opprobrium I had to provide highly disambiguated instructions in a format that was both terse and cryptic and simultaneously lucid and concrete while being wholly opaque to outside reasoning and because of this apparent contradiction we have had to institute a policy of torsorial laminar flow against the prevailing storm systems

charging the fortress.

charging forth with nothing to say the post-Majorana assbarge had a major notational flutzpah at the cornered nexatrave, did we argue about the crux of the bonhomie that had irritated our interlocutors between the notoriously misgivings of the belaxoplot? or were our interior confusions a mysterious, a sufficiently strange combination that the binary echo of the fourth order was not interred within the beveled edge of the magic dream machine and did we even care: were these the sort of problems that magicians or numerologists or even those god damn clever category theoreticians have a subtle irritation because we had seen the mysterious stranger in the strange galligaskins with our own eyes and reflected that the subtle interior of her irises was written in an as yet undecipherable language that we had no means of translating with our pitiable resources and limited understanding of language in general: oh we were sudden outpourings of woe and misbegotten mudworship because the secondary preparations that we had undertaken were unclever by a half and demanded constant and annoying secondary checks and shekel-free interrogatories delivered by pigeon on the basis of misheard rumors and lemons to pastry, oh have a care and see to it that the nimbulocumb does not stratosphere with the blevveng, make the moxie and the movie from various dithyrambs of celluloid carnivory, for a bleating bee makes a mockery of the cat, out of the bag, prostrate, prostate, proreflective and anal-retentive, awaiting a wadi, a sand dune, an artist, from the chaotic nexus of all slow time to the fast interior of the fusion core did the major mechanical reflect in its erbium coated eyes how many monoliths does it take to surprise us had we seen what we dream did we know that it would snow how many candles did the roger dandle and the hurry with which the slurry left its flurry echoes the reflection subtension did the stent rather random matrix catalogue engine cream, or were we the noxious effluvia that hardened in fear of the metallic apocalypthexis, for our misericordia prolapsed against the inion of the occidental misoxygenated oxidization of the transirritatingly absurd market-cap.

nothing ventured, nothing gained

The preparation of the gondolas leases little in the way of a dynamic addressable method of seeking the undercucumbral astrolabes of reality in doom, like the way that the paradoxical lamination preparation has a nadir and a non nodal substitution paradigm and then leaves us with a notoriety that has variously been attributed to the cormorant of the boxes that we do not claim to understand: I am not the major mandamus or the writ of the afterdeath: perhaps the paradoxical remonstrance of the secondary trillingly incomplete dive nasturtium is the monad by which the neutrino free subring leaves us with a coruscating rainbow of possible aftermaths: a post riddle that sights the neutered iguana at the edge of history and demands that we emplace an implacably inappropriate symplacophore at the endgame of the irritatingly nessertine draw-leader and then perhaps the gainsaying of the priory can be effected with little loss of the nosy negotiation that had me all in a rather gobbrious funk at the nosy and repetetive sequence of some rather unjejune lamentations for which the territorial summations neither offered security or led into uterine asparagine: for this the neutral net tensorial greenfriar commanded us to depart from our station in the noxious nasal lessengue that we had mistakenly called a home for upwards of a million or a billion years and then departed for more crustacean realms to find our rather nasal and salty fortunes because we just had to be that sort of badass

just something to pass the time.

Fizz! A minus majorana major mystery subtrahends aplenty with the charge of the dark brigade just turning out some rather unfortunate spinorial constructions, oh, what alacrity, oh, what celerity, oh, what celery, what sort of proton-donors lead the way for the principal superacids, the bedeviled many-asunders

vague dreams are tremendously important to me.

maybe two bursts of serotonin (and other tryptamines) at night: one at the beginning when exploding head syndrome and k-complexes and sleep spindles happen, and one at the end of dreams as the acetylcholine mediated deep-dream closes. the trippiest dreams which end in the predictable distortion and the melting of the hands accompanied by a weary exhaustion: but the mechanics of such dreams are relatively harmless to me: it might be highly weird, but it's also highly convention: no, what gets me is those distant dreams of high vagary which always have me holding on to some memory that trails off into the seas of wakeful forgetfulness: the dreams that I only barely remember having in which something happens that I keep telling myself I have to remember this, or I know this, or this is something so familiar or some continuing thread, but it all vanishes into the vapor of wakefulness as other concerns of daily existence overwhelm my mind. these dreams bother me more: it's as if there's something I have to desparately try to remember but it gets blotted out. A name. A face. Someone I know. Someone I knew. Someone I've always known: the waking mind never can get itself together for me to coherently discuss what goes on in these deep and peculiar dreams. And my consciousness has nothing except the poor motes to go on and I can never ever recall these during wakefulness. I remembered enough of one to remember that I had to write about them. Someone named Jane? Or was it Kate? Or was I chatting online? Or was I in a lecture hall? The highly weird dreams of later night which are usually richer take second banana to these vague ones, these vague ones seem tremendously more important. I have the feeling that these dreams somehow form a continuous thread, and that memories from one enter into another: but I don't and can't hold on to them. I don't know why. It just seemed important to document this now.

uncoordinated

I vehemently disagree that the most efficient representation of the mardi gras function is expressible in seven complex variables: it has been firmly demonstrated that the sidereal etherealities of the principal latitude might be seven in number

scaphandral waltz

the no-moment is? such vainglorious commentary on the here-now leads one to various topologically isolated cairns and stuttergraces, various charged poles and mountainous momentaries like the understratocumulus of the fibered wing, the vast paradox strewn deserts in between islands of vague coherence, but in this butterslice of a unitary evolution does the grand diagonalization of the eigenworld leave one's drum impressions like the bathyscaphandrae of the intertidal lassitudinous creeping vines making the unesthetics and the vaporous extensions to the reactive theographers like some oft-cast runewright at the edge of reality (or some other parageographic cluster-spoon) trying to approximate the moment of untenable nonesuchness: a crisp moment of nothingness which all sentient beings crave, which is lost in the wind, in the palpable complex chemistry of the water molecule mandanganai, of the interior beth-2 mandalas and chargescapes which belie the propositional consistencies and n-th order logic (whether predicate calculus or category theory), some kind of homotope-homotope-homotope-om meditative glee might tear asunder the langlands sextants and other navigational aids of the other, the void which grinds. Aerophanous and diaphanous probability sheathes echo and collapse between basso profundo and treble shallow, making a mockery of the dithyrambs of the underbirth. Because Here-Major is a plenitude which is forgotten and perhaps and posthaps and mayhaps a gleaning of the tremulous wishes of the minus-ministers might lead some complex not this not that not the other reformulation of Nagarjuna or Chaitin to consider solutions to equations outside of the normal manifold: whither Buddhism's slow climb up Asia Major and the imputed wonderful nothingness which was achieved somewhence but I don't care to talk about because the lambda constructors taste like mint.

some afterthoughts of a transfinitist

the alefs, are not as easily apprehended as the beths. the beths, are easy to grok. it is easy to produce sets, such silly things, that have sizes corresponding to the beths. the alefs on the other hand are confusing, but more to the point they are indirect and marginal. the glossy misapproximations of large and sizeables leads to malleable and vaporous considerations which are complicated and differentially resproinged in each groaling. Between you and me, well, I'm not a believer and I'd rather spend my dzenxvrunx on something more ponderous. A series of qualifications of the quantity of the sizes of sets transmarginalized on the degree of their own unattainability or their imponderability! And then the brain-wrenching stomachaches induced by considering sets of sizes alef-sqrt(2)! Which, considering there's no general construction of sets with alef-sizes, though many a transfinite inductionist might claim that there are such things, I don't believe it. We're still trading here, in sets, herein sets.

drunken vertiginous endive-dime.

It is a supreme act of an arrogant logic to suppose that the central bank is an cultural engine, sweeping and weeping distant grain husks and convex hulls of compact and comatose sets all in various directions: how much striving, strewning, thewing and miscalculating can one perform without a compass: with a Langlands sextant and other more exotic arrhythmia makes the master plan a mistaken maze: an offering made in some dizzying maze of incomprehensible proportions and paradoxical steam engine lined copper cities and some meritorious redoubling of one's resistence to the message of the Cone People. I was not an attendee of said conference and indeed my misdirection laid waste to the transdipthongous sheaf-curling thylakoid-traversal that was planned way way in advance and never had a neologism or a shuck-starrowingly misprecise attribution of cleverness: it was a conic dithyramb that had the master messhuginah geffer chain and then we wondering how many of the thyme travelers had actually accrued relativistic credits to the Bank of Altair (not a reputable bank), because our structs and unions were rabidly chaotic chirugeons of disaster that we had to ask our attendant cleverscapes why we were lost at sea.

flotation gondola

The improbable chalice is just that: improbable, but more to the point it is unprovable and numerous with assertions that the container of the liquid contains nothing of note: it is the end of the sea, the tempest in a teapot that charges the dynamic castellan of the chancellery typefaces, of the major mechanical mysteries of existence like a droll altostratus cloud seething in the pre-storm and then becoming just another queasy and transquotidian lamination of the neutrino-jazz elephantiasis functor cleaning depot at the edges of the metropolitan areas, just another jiva of the surreal brick-moment awaiting the thin babbling rivers of sussurrant orthogonal onions in a great giant locked sea of here-minor.

Behold the Artlepungle!

awaiting the seven pirouettists made the manic xenophobe propose a summons to the prespective perspectives that awaited the inhabitants of Wollorongoa, the tribal village by which Allerengoa and Lord Govvorongoa hail from in the myth-stories that weave the mythopoetic rivulets by which the cavepeople dances happen. It's a charged rhino, an ionized rhinovirus, a hippocampopotamus, a believer, a fire, a backhoe, a probabilistic immersion into the sea of changes, a wishbone, a preparation, a differential probability bearing, a -- did you forget? Did the Stonglevungler come to your antennule and propose a rebracketing of terms only beneficial to its quasimatriarchy? Of what did the many occupants of the Ghost Bus and Velour Dragons make the statement that they could realize the only monomaniac in Paris with a shimmering, cascading sea of fire-changes, and vector-commits to the local data repository. But if I were to enumerate the accidental misapprehensions of the Vunglerwhungles I would have a nine to five job and my name would be "John QSmith QSmithonian", and I would have at least nine fatal and mutually contradictory nasophalangeal diseases attacking my third atrium of my transferior chromoluminescent elf-filtration organ. Bivpuano! It's not as if I can charge the fire to the calculating Mandroborough Onion Depot for a fifth of a millikrill! Bananas!

against the evens: a petrospective

"Why yes", argled Miss Santiva Avvwhongle "I believe in the Chromolune", what lunacy, though the Casterverry of Tossolch, a delightfully wacky substraction of a vanverfoodler, a zovvich-fungler, the Master Of the Arte of the Octopungle, SGNR. Salvorian Sinvessimus. Salvorian Sinvessimus, that confused old goon complicated and complaining about the untranslatable messages that he was given in the last cycle by a robotic beetle, not sure of the pentabular octroplasy, but certain, one might even go as little to say "dead certain" about the votive misaccuracies being provided to the students of the zeitgeist that the mandibular phalanges of the New Kansan Birtvoigler are not polarized according to the local magnetic field or that having a say in where the Tea Knights have their next Confusion Campaign might make one aghast at the thought that one might believe that the Tea Knights and their Confusion Campaigns were some bleary salt-stained excuse for wandering from Toronto to Toledo by the Transhyperborean Conduit that so many of the travellers in this day and age are likely to use because they actually know better. "I so do not believe in the Chromolune: my response is vague and vaporous!"

the multimagic of the interior exterior.

I tainted the sleeping beetle: the secondary recommendation of the future occupants of all spacetime had a helical twist to the right as the crow flies: the magical moment of the f-i ligature has always happened, and has never happened in this nahambe. By the Cormorants of the Unsung Leratiun Gamvolbotty I had a wonzlo sterling for all of the misquoted piper rainbow nickelodeon campy-kitsch machine blinkenlights interruptors: I was at the bottom of my game, my misaccuracy was the least of my problems at that point: I didn't want to leave new Mandroborough for Flendavar or Bialkenius. The transdiphthongous itinerants who drifted through on various electromagnetic spectral oscillations because we hadn't yet sealed those chance-pleats in the great Pair of The Cosmic Pants: I advocated a relaxed attitude of lazy evaluation and passable water molecule mandanganai at every concievable opportunity: our concierge had made it clear to us that to take the mu bus would require us to surrender a mu token, and this was by far the most reasonable and comprehensible request we had of us for the entire tour, for we weren't instructed to put mustard up our nostrils, or to repolarize the ether, or to vacuum-spark the dynarchy of the ulterior motives, or to perform change of basis multimodular preserving hypertransformations on the local nassgreve germ field: if your eyes hadn't glazed over by this point they would soon glaze over from the sheer amount of incomprehensible information being presented at such a rapid and nearly unbelievable pace: what the hell is a “ semisphenic polychromic G-module preserving Fravxanal transformation on the subsidiary Willings Space”? all about anyway -- it is a mystery to me, and my mathematics isn't bad, either.

transdiphthongous monongahela promontory

There is a language called Arrhé which looks something like this “ Bivpongué da usarnea au ikusifaron ma faron aitenga audurhé na aparnhep da allerengoa na govvorongoé na isirnhe da pilontifar...”. I hear that the University of Cirappan in Cirappany Here-Major is looking for someone to translate a variety of works into the Serafinian language. I really doubt that they're going to find anyone any time soon. The speakers of Serafinian are at least twelve light-metanahambes away from Cirappan.

lord kaptakrates has a prana-moment.

knowing that the interior Tetrahedron of the Delay State had its own transmechanical Congreve Ocean was surreptitious: no one but no one would have suspected that such an obvious location in the Cosmic Memory had been aliased: but it was verifiably and exultantly true, just only so in which a way required discovery by appropriately timed parties made from the proper materials and synthesized in the appropriate fashion by the Engines of Forgetfulness. By the Truth of the Certified Banana, we sow and reap the fields of our ideas, awaiting the Centriole of Belief that we have been promised.

baked potato machine personoid

The view here is amazing. I can see all of the internal organs, the motions, the neutrinos passing through the small brick passages, all twisty and ambiguous. I can see... oh, I can't even make sense of half the things I'm seeing and I'm still at 20 THz and the frequency is still rising. Tea is advised, though I'm taking a Silver Iodide break and listening to the Oxytangent at one of the upper bands. Because of the tertiary malnutrition of the Ponguent Fyrzgoose I have to have just a little dithyrambic diphthongue with my steak and tartare sauce mandanganar engine every half a cycle, but that amounts to nothing too interesting: I mean, it's just a fearful approximation of a much better ignorance class that I had to petition to be a member of, but reducing it to a solved class of problems wasn't that inspiring: it was dragged in the mud and I had to extend what I was saying with such vitriol that it didn't sound like me after a while. Some rotten implementation of the dog or the tentacle or who knows what was involved. And I wasn't relaxed about it. I was such a pile of nerves just trying to get myself settled after a fashion, and that was unfriendly and harsh and when the whole thing finally rolled to a rest it had gathered much in the way of solidified and encrusted proverbs on its surface.

stark those rindwreathes

I am the ghost of moment future, I am the stranger that does not leave a forwarding reality: I am the moment that is neither apprehensible scientifically or religiously. I am the capacity to remove yourself from the embedding reality: I am the pause between moments when you realize that everything has changed, and nothing has changed. I am the mutation, the nutation is shield frequencies when you realize that there is an end to the chaos. That is not to say that I have been without obsessions and particular gyrations of my own: I have had people too flighty or too slow or too dull or too whatever: you are here and I will not try to presume just imagine what things would be like if I wasn't so hard about holding on I think you see that my pause, my personal tropospherir maitresse might indulge your passion and therefore more perfect unity might be derived in this chaotick lemma that we find ourselves suspended within and therefore I am going to ask that at this point that someone concede defeat because all temporaneous delays still remain and now it is time to try the cosmic ascension remix.

Because I am drunk, the dvorak pattern is easier for my mind to grasp: I can write paragraphs in it and will later find myself appalled at how much text I have produced in it and this is the point that I say goodnight.

stranger in the dark, can you spare a moment for me?

awaiting the utter transition from here to there allows one to see that the notable thing about a prescient banana is that the capacity of a prescient banana to map the precincts of reality without having a banana in the sack is not a dynamic that is allowed under the new principles of chaos that were recently published by the Chaos Publishing Group, a wholly imaginary organization founded in Sepab in the Year of the Duck, 1930. It is for this reason that many of the accolades that have been accumulated by the monstrosities that dithyramb in the binary lemon make the stale ribald prose encumbered with chaotic filaments and these filaments are not so insouciant that they are the debators of the significance of feminist literary theory to Mr. Limbaugh's pilonidal cyst and therefore the dynamic momentous parenteral limonene molecules which are deposited by the spirit of the age are rendered incomprehensible at a moment's notice because the spectral authorship clause means that one of the ten menhirs that was deposited at the world's edge wasn't something that was precipitously permitted by the district beadle of Fronsleigh and therefore the monster who had the jannissarry in the sack was not a representative colluder with the....

Bet the transition can occur without warning or warthogs or suchlike and then where will the national symbol party be? I think that the monstrous registration of braless women that the adjuncts perspired in perpetuity made the mastery of the frontispieces bearable and therefore did the castigation of the bananas made good on their promises because the height of the photopolarimeters became a mastery symbol of the silliness factor of the wildebeests and therefore the people whose sexual tastes included riding crops were elevated to a level of authority because they had to ensure the retinal health of their partners without so subtle an assignation and were announcing correct routing tables to the cosmic bgp mapping in the sky because the necessities of precision made the damnable affectation which their kink brought about into a furious act of precision uvularly like a typographical edema that does not subside until the fonts are arranged appropriately and the serifs are made to mechanical wholeness that is required of the finest of documents which is demanded of the greatest appearences which demands that the person composing the document know how typefaces work...

divinity and the chaotic energy field

a breach of the divinity that divides us: wheatstrewn and monomorphic, the attachment to single cultures in the face of religious idolatry no matter how ecumenical breeds violence and microscopic religious warfare on the basis of that person does not follow some arbitrary set of beliefs that aren't my set of beliefs -- the analogy is not to the human memome but to the human phrenome: the (pardon the pun) study of human phrenetics (like genetics, this science is too in its infancy, but unlike phrenetics, there has been no Mendel of phrenetics yet) is not yet off the ground and continues to stay in the paradoxical and chaotic know-nothing realm of quasiscience, and will not resolve into a capacity for the continued improvement of global human knowledge because Occam will cut himself with his razor while contemplating such things. 

That is to say that there are things that science should begin to be curious about but that there is no proper language or experimental framework or appropriate energy level for science to cope with adequately. and thus one cannot explore the universe in its entirety with the tools that are presently available without finding some fractionally distilled element of the cosmos that cannot be adequately parameterized by either the excesses of science or the idiocies of religion, and in this excess I think that you will find some of the most fascinating general questions that are hardest to answer because they presume very little except for some experiences that I am quite certain are universals to some degree and therefore many people will have had them.

Bet I cannot write for a while in dvorak: things are so aspect and situation dependent that I like writing this at the moment because I am writitng everything in dvorak and I am not really thinking about the position of the characters on the keyboard and that is a good thing, I am also listening to a variety of techno tracks at the moment and my eyes are tearing up because there are floaters that are interfering with my vision and that is making it somewhat difficult to see what I am typing although I am trying to write this without succumbing to them.

a common framework

when people think about something like avolokiteshvera or j. random hindu deity, or the western concepts of cherubs and angels, they don't end up putting them in the same framework, which leads to an awful amount of confusion all around: the atheists have their cake and eat it too, the agnostics just drink gin and tonics or ginger ale depending on their countenance: the upshot (or perhaps the downshot) of the phrenomics is that the western angel and the eastern multiarmed deity are two different out-of-reality cross sections of what humans might be seen to do if they could have multiple arms, or their arms could do more than a given thing at a time.