Oil & Water, You & I
2002-06-23 - 4:50 p.m.
Got out of work early and drove down to Dexter to check up on the existence of the Kellygirl. Check. But it was more of a stalemate, whot with all the still-in-underwear-rolling-about, but no actual...action, shall we say. Kissing wasn�t exactly as I had remembered it, but it�s been nearly two years so I can�t blame my {rate of the loss of memory concerning sensations over time}. This was all in good funn, but the truth is that we have just about nothing in common, with the exception of graduating from the same high school. She tried to explain to me why people buy tabloids in supermarkets, and I tried to explain to her my underdeveloped theory on what can only be called proprioceptive learning [of course, proprioception itself, similar to allergies, is [currently] theorized in Mynd as an overly vague term, if indeed it describes anything at all]. She�s a movie buff and I�m into making board games. She�s so pessimistic that [in her presence] my [anti-]realistic view was bumped up to optimism. We both paint, which would be a good middleground, if the content of our painting wasn�t so different: I paint little Chinese single-line figures in watercolours, and she paints a burning school dormitory in oils.
The oil sits on top of the water, never really mixing, and if you look close enough, never really touching. And that�s what it was...a series of can�t-ever-get-close-enough hugs, broken by thoughtful, unspoken, questions of would-I-want-to.
She has a diary at freeopendiaries.com, but seems to have locked it before I could read it. This is bad because it means that she�s one of those people that isn�t comfortable with other peo...[expected end-of-statement], but Good because I know I would have posted it *here* as a character reference; and she wouldn�t have seen it that way. Thanking myself now, for not telling her about this diary, just because it gives me something to do later. A way to reinforce her own openness?
�Don�t level the playing field until you can trust your opponent to play fair� -Nemo
In Mynd Today: Luther sits at the Great Rotating Table in the old fortress of Mynd. He�s planning something, building a new soldier. Soldiers are modules to him, the essential proteins used to maintain a system in homeostasis [the ultimate order/law]. Rather, he is constructing a single soldier, an ultimate soldier, one that will forever keep all of Mynd in check, and free from the choas of Goblyn. He promises Omni a �perfect� mental revolution. See how well he makes progress into the impossible, drawing carbon rings. But there is talk in the south, and Mr. Tinker says he knew it was coming: the ferns are growing again in Goblyn�s swamp. Fractal-shaped ferns, born from the patterns of chaos. Such a thing can only mean that Goblyn is alive, and only suggest that he is {free}.
�It seems, my dear Archibald, that we are no longer living a dream, but dreaming a life.�-Nemo
Narrator: And so the Sirs, while experimenting with a new batch of Psudeocrack, accidentally stumbled on a heightened state of mind, free of emotion, classical thought, reason, and matter itself. Of course, to get to this state, they had to be completely relaxed, discon-nected...and hence they lie, in crumpled, collapsed versions of themselves, in puddles of their own uncontrolled defecation that they can no longer smell. So this is Nirvana.
Sir#1: *exiting Nirvana, via stage right* What is the use of knowing that which will be forgotten?...or knowing a feeling that will be lost?
Sir#2: *exits stage left* I would suppose that the relative value of presently-gained information is based on the amount of information that it is related to...past information. In a way, we could categorize the value of a piece of knowledge, based on the amount of neurological connections that would be made...the angram count.
Sir#1: But the connection doesn�t have 100% stability, it�s not permanent in any sense of the word. Already I�m forgetting what I felt like half a second ago.
Sir#2: Well then, by all means, let�s have another hit...if the only way to remember this feeling is to constantly {sense}it. Pass me the straw.
Sir#1: But what�s the value in knowledge, if it�s all to be lost when we die? *passing the straw* We could pass it on to the younger of our race(s), so that they in turn can pass it on...but what�s the use of this process, in the end? And what is the value of passing our knowledge on, if every part of every experience cannot be shared? Your Nirvana is for naught, because it is selfish...you cannot lead another in your path. *thought-bridge pause, less than Golden-Gate-sized* We need to eat our dead, that�s what we need to do. To rememeber. In eating their flesh, we will take in their souls, house the old in the new, and their person will live on in our voices and actions. The Vikings did it, and they brought man into the second dawn of our mental evolution.
Sir#2: *sugar-inhaling noises*
Sir#1: But, as we�ve seen from transporting the dead, the flesh is not usually edible. So the symbolism of the flesh will have to do. A ceremony of ancestor-eating, so to speak. This is the body of Christ, shed for you. This is the blood of Christ, shed for you. Eat, drink, and be.
Sir#2: *{gone}* *loses his bladder*
Sir#1: The greatest faith to swallow, perhaps, is believing that the believer of himself actually exists. You exist. And that is value enough.
New invention: The Outhouse Urinal. Yes folks, now you can piss in your back yard and remain standing! Oh, wait a second...
The mating habits of mailboxes. Looking to the right as we pass, you�ll see another odd mailbox of Maine, this one with a separate slot for �magazines� and �important�. The trash can nearby reads �bills�, but I doubt the mailman really sorts their mail for them. But as this is one of those odd sorts of mutated mailboxes, it may be of some use to know where baby (mutated) mailboxes come from. Although the increased rate of birth-mutations seems to be higher in Maine, this is left up to phenomenon, and only the actual reproductive process had been researched thoroughly. Basically, it�s a pollination process based on unisex organisms. When a mailbox has mail with which to pollinate another mailbox, it�s flag is moved to the �up� position, allowing it to indicate this without revealing it�s �packages� to anyone who happens to be driving by. It is also worthy of note that although it might seem that mailboxes without flags are infertile, they are usually able to receive pollination and some are simply visited by the mailman regardless of the flag (lookup: �promiscuous mailboxes� OR �forced pollination�). The postal-worker then buzzes around the mailboxes, taking mail from one mailbox, bringing it back to the hive, and eventually carrying it back to a different mailbox. Some mailboxes, through no fault of the mailbox itself, produce occasional infertile mail, which goes out to the hive and then returns to the exact same mailbox (lookup: �mailbox masterbation�). It is still regarded as a phenomenon that the postal worker knows which flower is which and doesn�t re-pollinate mailboxes on another postal worker�s �route� (lookup: �The Queen of the Postal Service�). This method of reproduction is sharply contrasted by the mating process of vacuum cleaners, which mostly relies in the social �sniffing out� of mates at outlets. One vacuum cleaner will leave a slight static residue on the outlet, in hopes that another vacuum may pick it up by using the same socket. These electrical discharges are almost undetectable by modern science, but so intricate that they contain not only a form of identification, but also a short message or command line. The receiving vaccum picks up the electric scent, and responds accordingly. When this process indicates that they are close or this process has failed to result in communication, a slightly more crude method of grunting (a clear vroom-voom sound) is employed. It is unknown what makes vacuums go into heat, but it is know that the average vacuum is sexually active about once each week (lookup: �101 ways to Turn Your Vacuum On�). This grunting process is thought to be analogous to the human behavior of �revving� their engines at stop lights, although it most likely was an accidental coincidence of evolution. Vaccuum cleaners rarely get a chance to physically interact with each other, usually only in dark closets of back rooms after entering retirement. The fertilization event happens. Strangely, no �grunting� is involved in this process when it actually occurs. The baby vacuum is usually delivered several days after fertilization, and the new vacuum usually arrives fully grown in a birth sack of corrugated cardboard.
I like to think that this whole �war� thing doesn�t affect me. I like to pretend that it�s something that�s happening on some other continent. But this morning a Howitzer (TM) rolled past my house, in tow by something slightly larger than a hummer.
Went to a funeral a few days ago, and marveled at the idea that everyone always smiles at me while I�m there. Granted, I open the door for people, so they feel obligated (unless they�re crying or saying �thank you�). But this one guy walked through the funeral home, grinning up a bobcat as me and Wes. This man, this little-spanish-dude, must have had the largest smile I�ve ever seen, pasted on to his all-too-normal-sized head. And then he turned, walking into the restroom, still smiling like a demon. The smile, it seems, walked out of context, making him look like a two-year-old that had just learned how to use the �big peoples� potty�. I had to laugh, I was stepping outside so hard.
The last �weird angel� was supposed to be the last. I did it again today, helped Step-mother with her sermon about the differences between John and Jesus, between Baptists and...the others. Of course, she�s on the Methodist side of things, so the Masons, celebrating St. John�s Holiday-of-some-sort, might have gotten rubbed the wrong way a bitsie.
Says Marcher, the pigeon, to Birdie, the finch. The things that you see around *moving head to indicate the area* is real. The things around *moving head to indicate the area* does not have the quality of the highest order. The highest order {is held by; opposite of �of/from�} the concept. The concept is not *moving head to indicate the �around� area*. The concept is like the reality in your head. The concept permits {someone like us} to change the order of real *moves his head to indicate the things that are real, and �around�*. By changing the order {someone like us} is able to make a new real in {someone like us�s} head. *moves head up and down, agreeing with what he has said and taking a pause to structure the next statements* The real in {someone like us} head is made like {someone like us #2} head when they exchange the concept. The concept is higher than the reality. *looses his train of thought and tilts his head to find it* The concept is in {someone like us} head. The ground is below your feet. *scratches at the ground* *tilts head again* [A capital first-letter symbolizes the concept of the reality. The lowercase first-letter symbolizes the reality of the concept.] The sky *moves his head to indicate �up�* has no color. The Sky is a concept. We only see it as a colour in our head. The real is not coloured. The real *moves head to indicate the area 'around'* makes the sky seem to have a colour in our head. The sky in our head has a colour. The Head is a concept. The Head is where concepts are made. The head is the place where the concepts are made. {someone like us} can exchange the concept of the real. {someone like us #2} can also exchange the concept of the concept. {someone like us} is on a lower order than {someone like us #2}. {someone like us}can fly higher in the real. {someone like us #2} can Fly Higher by improving the concepts of the real. The difference between flying higher and Flying Higher is limits. {someone like us} can only fly *moves head to indicate the highest height*. {someone like us #2} can fly *moves head to indicate a height higher than the highest height*. *moves head up and down, agreeing with what he has said*
Says Birdie, the finch: *tweets to indicate you are silly / I don�t understand / goodbye*
Post Sanctum: �Pigeon�, as a global speech, is hard to translate. No linking words. No here/there or this/that. And we wonder why they move their heads so much.
Post Post Sanctum: That�s what programming languages are missing...the �because�. We have an �if� statement, and an �else� statement, and �and� and �or�, but we do not explain to the computer why we want it to do the things it does, and we don't let it want for itself.
