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...

the long night of the lonely loon

Yes, they're horrors, but they're horrors with history. Until the time should come when you can move yourself off this current biological platform and/or you can reduce the amount of stress capacitated in your system, it's at least good to know they present regular bugaboos: nothing about their pattern is unpredictable, and nothing about that pattern is unexpected. So they can be anticipated: when you need relief, take it. Avoid confrontations with the clueless or the slow. Keep your environment awash in as much serenity and tranquility as possible at all times: you get out of this. Sleep soon.

tranquilidipity

"You say "oh, which future do I want?", and maybe you think of flying cars and rayguns, or what have you, and you never think to ask the question: how is someone in that future going to think? What's their metanarrative going to be? What's their internal mental architecture like? Their mind might be Sapir-Whorved differently than yours, you know. Language may shape their world in completely alien ways to the way it shapes your world. But their operas are not played with devices: if you can speculate how they might see the world, perhaps you can bring in some of their language-spectacles merely by the application of your imagination. So perhaps you figure out how to make yourself a little of that alien memome. I'm not going to belabor you with demographics: suffice it to say there are people who make it their industry of art to perform this sort of linguistic magic show on themselves, and there are those who are comfortable with the narrative of the world they understand and aren't terribly interested in reflecting it to Foofaraw junction. To the latter, I generally have nothing but bewildered incomprehension: "why do you want to stay there? it's so boring! I can, at a distance, perhaps some five kiloparsecs away size up what your mental architecture is like without having to look at marketing research studies. I can predict the sort of beliefs about the world you have and the kinds of relationships you're likely to prosper as well as falter in. And I can do this without an enormously complicated rat-dance. " The former I cannot predict where and how I'll find them: they're the ones looking at the ocean with this perpetual look of astonishment and building castles which levitate as consequences of their architecture because their geometry accords perfectly with general relativity or what have you to make such a levitation possible. I can relate to them. Mostly. Except that I don't just want to look out into the ocean. I want to sail away from this harbor to distant climes, or to discover what ocean-dwelling life there might be. And I start seeming didactic, or pedantic, or hung up on tiny, apparently inconsequential points: heavens to Balthasar, I don't want to lord these over anyone. And I don't want to play language games with low replay value: it's more than just manipulating words and speech, finding the most opportune and elegant way of expressing myself. It's a whole sensory gamut dealie, but it's not alchemy and it's not shamanism, and I run away at the drop of the hat from anyone identifying as either. I know that both the alchemy and shamanism songs after a while start sounding like a record caught in a groove. And I quite loathe the politics which get carried along with them, or carried away with the practitioners of both. I expressly give up trying to tell people about the out of context objects which they're already ignoring because their visual systems are overwrought having been inundated by crazy net stimuli. I stick to ramifications of the classically elegant, as opposed to jumbled messes. I make a sort of ecology of coherence for myself. And on a self-evaluatory note: I remind myself of the dangers of freebasing forgetful functors as a matter of course, because scattering the world into monad-dusts doesn't work, and there's a kind of organic slipperiness to the cosmos which is foreign to rigid intellectual systems: simultaneously, I keep the two notions of the ocean: nonarbitrariness and nonrepetetiveness within easy reach, because, Oh Zarquon, I might run up against members of the Church of the Cosmic Galois Group, who decidedly fall in the first latter category mentioned: I don't want to get too addled by the necessitated memomic-prophylaxis I have made should I have to cope with their ambient quasiproselytized reality model, simultaneously, as the first former category mentioned goes, I am equipped with shipbuilding instructions of a kind, but not shipbuilding knowhow. I can go out a bit with my own conveyances, but these do not ships make. My conveyances can take me places ships cannot probably go. But lo, the night wears on. And perhaps you want some ginger ale" I may have said.

interimaginary philobiblionoi

Screyen Thalannes is the deuteragonist in Thylesma Cholon's Time For Ice. Salasanny Kolonno is the protagonist of Hiet Mo's Sleepy Monkeys Do Not Eat Cheese. That there is a particular Screyen Thalannes, Screyen Matih Thalannes, and a particular Salasanny Kolonno, Salassany Ekinne Kolonno is also, by itself, just peachy. That Time For Ice is a book of fiction in Salassany Ekinne Kolonno's world, and that Sleepy Monkeys Do Not Eat Cheese is a book of fiction in Screyen Matih Thalannes's world, is also, just peachy. That Salassany Ekinne Kolonno and Screyen Matih Thalannes just happen to have fallen vaguely in love with each other probably will give pause to some of you with scant modal realism in your reality models. As it happens, Salassany Ekinne Kolonno and Screyen Matih Thalannes differ from the characters in the novels in ways which precisely accord with their unexpected transcendental consonance with each other. A wag says: "well, they should be finding real lovers instead of staying in the imagination!", to which the technically apropos response is this: 1. neither Salassany Ekinne Kolonno nor Screyen Matih Thalannes's fantasy life can be considered remotely unethical, given that they dream of each other, and specifically each other, on a regular basis. They are not fantasizing about other people nonconsensually. 2. Both Salassany Ekinne Kolonno and Screyen Matih Thalannes's imagination of the other has resulted in decisions which have improved the other's life. 3. For even gnarlier contextual froths for which words like 'universe' and 'cosmos' are around maximally inaccurate, packets with contents other than "I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle" sometimes manage to alliterate across Bifröst from originator to recipient and back and are interpreted correctly by both parties. Now, should a wag want a mechanism whose Schrödinger equation they can write down and calculate potentials and whatnot, and there will be persnickety sorts who will demand that the transmissal of such packets would be impossible without first intellectually understanding the mechanism. 4. Maybe they eventually found life partners in their respective worlds. That's beyond the scope of this post. What isn't is that they kept each other going, and isn't that what love does? Makes survival possible amongst other concordance-of-one's-environment-improving benefits? 5. This phenomenon happens more often than not sometimes. Some transcendents make a very rudimentary attempt to taxonomize it, but being something which is splayed and ramified across differentially tangled Indranets, there'll never be an absolute catalogue of it.