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So let me tell you about my boat. It's a barge really. Good coal hauling kind of deal. Not like the Edmund Fitzgerald. Bituminous low-sulfur coal the kind that is coveted. Powder River kind of stuff. Not the cheap 33% more polluting type. It's a dream in this icewater nation. Good haul is gonna end up freezing it in your fridge. Eventually. A bit of transmission, generation, burning, in no particular order, and you got yourself frosty ice.

Curl

How is teh wave? The oscillations lulled you to sleep yet? Or did the final approach take a turn to the side, roll and lapse into a singular orbital point? You don't see gravity. Light neither. Radio, nor TV. Yet the static is there playing in analog glory 24/7. Didn't fall off the world. Yet. And that wave of quanta. Makes real sense. The wave you see it's oscillation. The point it's all collapsed and possibility grounded. What you got going on is a variable differential machine called thine eye. It doesn't see NOW. It sees each side of now. The wave. You don't experience NOW. You experiences each side of now. You are you know. A surfer who does not exist.

Communing with the dead

You are of course. Takes a very long time to realize it.

Once you do nothing will be the same.

That should be enough. Literally and figuratively.

Though the dead don't hear so well. Sometimes like with the hearing impaired you have to repeat yourself.

You are of course. Takes a very long time to realize it.

Once you do nothing will be the same.

Though the dead don't think so well. Sometimes like with students you have to repeat yourself.

You are of course. Takes a very long time to realize it.

Once you do nothing will be the same.

Though the dead don't live now. Sometimes like with each day they have to repeat themselves.

You are of course. Takes a very long time to realize it.

Once you do nothing will be the same.

Furry Leaper

So there is a cat in Providence, RI. Normal.

This cat can tell when the soul is about to leave the body. AKA Death. Also Normal.

The news outlets are astounded. Again... Normal.

Science will investigate. Normal.

Why oh why is this news? Maybe if this cat could talk and claim to be a tulku incarnation of a long dead lama it would totally be news. Since cats don't talk yet... it's not a newsworthy story. Even it the incarnation part is totally true. I'd totally be renaming the cat Bardo as well. Cats with the ability to span worlds named Oscar? Maybe if he was in movies that would be a good name, but it's a sad horribly demeaning name for a pan-demensional being such as this.

Warning: do not read further.

Ok, you're dumb. Now you pay. How long before super sensitive CAT scans are used to read the brains of cats and provide synthesized speech output of their missives? I really really should start this company now, get rich and retire. Everybody wants to know what their pets are thinking. I can tell you though... Oscar he's thinking one thing.... "get the hell away from me". Then when he senses someone is dying and won't be around to ignore anymore he switches to "pay attention to me". Maybe I'll just make a nice shiney box with lights and an LED display. It switches between the two messages based upon a proximity detector built into a special collor that the cats are required to wear in order to "scan" their brain-waves. Nobody will be able to tell the difference between the two-state thing and a real CAT scanner. It'll save a lot of time and development effort... and ultimately lower costs so everybody can have one and know exactly what their cat is thinking.

"Food."

estaoG

Dear Friends,

I would like to offer my condolences. By all appearances your wonderful democratic experiment has begun to falter, if not fail, outright.

This should come as no surprise to the learned. However, it still may come as a shock.

In any case, the rather unfortunate circumstances you now find yourselves in is both unenviable and likely untenable. Allegorically it is much like the quest and attainment of power, an initial rush, followed by the crushing burden of accountability. I fear that the lessons of yesteryear are left fallow both at an academic and practical level. Assuredly this shall close to predictable and pitiable results.

It must be ironic, if not outright laughable, that dictatorship, despotism, and democracy now all appear to be synonymous in the minds of many.

In closing I would simply leave you of the words of Seneca:
What narrow innocence it is for one to be good only according to the law.

My warmest regards,
V

Hot Hot Hot Like Ice

In spinach we trust.

Eat any good organic foods lately? Done any cancer-fighting, food mulching, spirit lifting quaffing of healthful bio-shakes? Maybe you should. From everything I hear you are what you eat. So why not head out and eat the best possible things you can lay your filthy, grubby, chubby little fingers on. I don't care if you are full. Eat some more. It shows everyone just how rich, successful, prosperous and well-to-do you've become. What better way to reflect your societal status than through exposing your size 42 waistline as you bend over to tie your shoe only to straighten back up and realize it's not worth the effort. So in addition to making door width expansion kits, I'm going to look into a shoe tying service. Why should you be terrified of bending over and not being able to stand back up, or worse yet, falling over and rolling downhill and crashing into an abandoned paint factory stockpiled with hazardous chemicals which are released as your rotundness rolls through the flimsy walls spraying industrial effluent about the joint? You should not. I'm hear to tell you that you need not leave in fear any more of typing your shoes. We'll have somebody take care of it for you. Trust us. We are the dependable shoe tying experts. Bar none. Ooops. Hope I didn't make you hungry with that. LOL. Oh wait, that's right, we're here to talk about the wonderus world of good food eating. It'll make you regular, thin, happy and well-adjusted. I seen it on the Tee-Vee last night. How's about you stop blocking teh tube and gets me another beer, eh?

K, CRa, CRa, CRa. Dance for the monkey everybody! And now back to our regularirly scheduled program. Ciao, over, good night, and god-speed. May the road rise to meet you and all your eating establishments stock hot fatty foods.

Magicians

Heimdall and Loki would lie entwined in death, the rainbow bridge bathed in white light, the need for guards gone. The ravens set loose upon the world transmuted into golden dragons. That will be the day the last Magician dies.

Thrall, enthralled... be appalled.

A pallor upon you lies when Magicians are in your parlor. Whispering through airwaves, soundwaves, and ensnaring webs. Their words, thoughts, and voices, floating through your door.

The past is before you, laid upon the table. The future behind, out of sight.

Magicians spin time, hopes and desires. Statuary images to catch and enliven dreams. You've been told the lights are out while a Magician holds a guttering candle in front of the sun.

How about a free sample? How's it taste? Oh wait, you mean I have to buy that?

Magicians... leaders, purveyors of passivity, conformity. The last blast of Gjallarhorn calling all who hear. Magicians one and all. Upon the Bifrost bridge, you'll stand up.

The door is open.

Postage Stamp

Oh you are not certain about stamps are you? They come with Elvis, snowflakes, and Tweety. They just don't come down in price. Ever. Sometimes if I was a super leet yet nerdy kind of person... not to name names Horatio Hornblower.... I would collect lots and lots of them and put them in big moldering books for safe storage --physical and temporal mind you. Then I'd wonder on vacation if my home were being robbed and all my precious collectibles being fenced on e-bay. Thoughts would turn to natural disasters such as locusts, glue eating moths, and Lothar of the Hill people bounding out of the woods to ransack, burn and defecate in my abode. Of course he'd be doubled over with laughter and mirth as he ran back into the woods with my stamp collection under his hairy arms. That's the kind of pressure I don't think I could handle. Stamps are not for me. Plus everytime I buy some I have to go back like a week later and buy 200 two cent stamps so I can have the mail use me again. One thing maybe missing though... scratch-n-sniff stamps. Those I may just go for. Especially in the basement. Put up like a whole wall or walls of stamps and then turn on some Black Flagg, drop acid and thrash myself to death against their sickly sweet smell. Now that's a Friday night. Or maybe I'd use two expensive stamps on one envelope and just waste them that way. Drive those penny pinchers mad it will. Course in this day and age maybe a cost-benefit-analysis of stamp based clothing is in order. I mean how much COULD it really cost to jump out of the shower without toweling off and slather on a bunch of stamp books instead of clothes. It'd be sanitary, clean, and bio-degrable stamps are good for the environment. Win win win! Matter of fact...

FTW! Wear stamps. Hell lets get wild. Fund the war effort with stamps. Do it today. Be part of the solution. Wear War Stamps!

áes sídhe

Dwellers of the Otherworld.
Runners in the night. Cloaked speckled with night-vision. Wraiths lifting veils of dust.
Travelogues of the world. Pieces of eight. Turnings of the wheel. Swapped time slice.
Demigods portray the wares. Travelers to covet. And end up above it.
In loft houses atop the Otherworld.
A suburban mirage. Bought and sold in the market.
Deaf, whilst the pipes play on and on.

Perspective... and not cuz blogger is teh mads

A wave, a line, a point. Which side you on? Kinda matters.
Though they all look the same to me. Gonna stare sideways, straight on, or from within? I'm gonna laugh when you cant tell the difference. Especially once you're travelling the same speed as the wave and it's not no more. Go ahead call the cops. Maybe they'll tell you the world is flat and the earth is the center of the universe. Wouldn't that be nice.

CAt in the hat, not the box

The cat in the box... to bad it's out of the bag now.

See like I'm now surfing on the wave... and from there the perspective is all different. It's just a point. So now what I've got is a quantum collapse and fixed state. I'm surfing your reality. You got nothing but possible waves. I've taken your infinite possibilities and made it mine. My universe, my collapsed waveform. Just me and my wave, and now point. Literally NOW point. Surf that wicked curl BRA.

Dodge Ram Seige Engine

It's a post-apocalyptic narco-oil based economy.

You're all set up someplace, nice and cozy with your women, oil, and lots and lots of razor wire.

Somebody shows up outside your gates one day. They've what looks like a nice big four-wheeled siege engine. Could be trouble.

Then you see it. Dodge Ram. In nice chrome letters on the side.

What should you do?

Laugh, then give them gasoline so they can stop pushing the thing and save face...
or
Open the gates and welcome a potential customer...

Grand Central Station

Once there was this idea that everything was contained within geometry. There was also an idea that God and geometry were indistinguishable... or if intelligible... then the big fingerprints were written all over everything... and geometry was the proof that the main suspect had been there and touched the world. Pretty much the whole mess collapsed. Funny thing too. People built grand central station. Geometry too. You go from there.

Leaves you with something funny... say you're held prisoner in a beautiful palace all your life and then escape and roam the world a bit and sit under a tree after discovering slums, death and women. Yes, sit and sit and sit and think... and come up with what? The exit... or just another track leading out of Grand Central Station.

Say you decided to sit in a cave and watch shadows cast on a wall by firelight. Would you get confused by the shadow and believe it real. Turning round and seeing the source of the shadow would it be real? Or in the game, is the fire, shadow, source and wall all part Grand Central Station... and not really anything more but more fingerprints.

The same with word and thought... all dreams upon the back of a great Tortoise. A lovely creature supported by infinite recursive definition. The manifest and created spilled out of the rabbit hole onto the fabric of space. Num Num Num, is that the langoliers I'm hearing?

Oh but this is funny... I've been riding the subway all along. Stupid A train... next time I'm not getting off and running around Times Square with a sugar rush and jumping on the first thing I see which looks like a train but isn't. Next time I'm walking. But taking a great circle route.

The Blue Shirt Brigade

This shall be the post which once was, is, and sometimes isn't. The attributes it is indelibly endowed with from creation. Which ironically started out with forgetting to write it and writing about the same but different post instead. Pretty much like Schrödinger's left-handed cat. Which if you're like me you've never heard of. Now that it's been named it doesn't exist. If it hadn't been named it may exist... but now... nope, doesn't exist. Altogether a bit more slippery than the fluffy little Cheshire Alice chased from inside out. Similar, but different. Good thing too. If they ever existed in the same plane it'd turn into one nasty cat fight. So one slips sideways through the planar dimension we inhabit, while the other doesn't exist by it's very nature. So maybe it seems a bit improbable that both can and do exist. Maybe everything exists and you lack the pan-dimensional ability to see it all at once. Ask the guy in the blue shirt. Not the one you saw a few minutes ago, no. One of the guys of the blue shirt brigade. Course the problem with finding and asking them is a problem in and of itself. You see, they don't. So much like jumping at the ground and missing you've got to not see and then see. Once that happens it'll all become quite clear and maybe you'll slide over and ask your question. Maybe you'll be lucky and the brigade will stick around for an instant and chat. Maybe not, and they'll slide away to god knows where. There one instant and gone the next. Hold on a second. Oh, too late. Don't be daft... when is an orange just and orange? When it's a blue shirt. Could it be that this post is, is not, and doesn't exist, right now in this instant. Better off that way. Oh, and yes, maybe the last time you really saw a brigade of blue shirts you were lined up at second Manassas in the front picket line. Probably the last thing you saw too. More after the jump. And now it's more. Welcome to the 21st century. Next time don't be so literal.

THe Blue Shirts

The uniform of the uniform. Make sure you wear your BLUE SHIRT. It'll help you blend in with the natives. Flavours of BLUE:

• Plain - total team player
• Checkered - edgy team player
• White Pin-Striped - PLAYER

Is there anything more I can do for you?

SUNdred alice

Lawn Mowed (Complete)

+5 Reputation - Neighbors


Shower in the dark. Things live in the sewers. The ones which ride the night skys when the suns photons arent pummeling them all the time. They'll spiral up and tickle you. Play with your feet, see if you are awake, can feel their ethereal touch. Think it has something to do with the dark and the enclosed yet open space and a conduit to travel in. Makes a nice little track or place to hang out and live in. So it's a comfy place for them little critters.

Excepting when they slither up my drain... I'm in the shower to enjoy the water and nobody gets to annoy me when I'm enjoying a good shower. Especially one where the shrieking allergens of grass are being rinsed away and down down down the mighty Mississippi. So yeah, SUN dread indeed. There are worlds other than these. Suns other than these. Beings of light and dark. Form and non-form. Worlds upon worlds. Literally. And the dark it does have the sun dread. So how's about lighting up about as bright as a few million suns and wiping a city clean of shadow and dark. It's what all the kids are doing these days. Not sure where my little dark friend ended up, but it wasn't near here. Think he took himself a little trip to somewhere a bit more dark and quiet. Maybe inside the salad crisper of my fridge. Dammit... who was I gonna call?

Chessbored Lines

Q: What is obvious.
A: Good Communication.

Like nobody likes a cliffhanger... or connecting the dots. That means
responsibility and effort. Eatertain ME.

All the lines need to be straight and the pieces all known.

Just like teh chessboard. You learn the ways stuff moves, you learn the names of the pieces. Then you and your adversary sit down and play you some chess. You both know the rules. Have a good game and somebody walks away the winner, the other the loser. Except some people don't play by the rules. They are bad communicators. Oddly enough... terrorists were accused of being bad communicators.

Ahhh and now my point. I'll be a good communicator and tell you the last post was about where cell phones are going next. Into your head. Wired in directly. We're going into our heads too. Not many people I know sit around and talk, much less enjoy a campfire anymore. Cell phone conversations... uuuuum yeah. Unlessing maybe in the future they ARE all in your head. Every last bit of it and you ARE the matrix. Then yeah, cellphones, they aren't all that bad.

0x41 65 A 0o101 01000001 equal Cellphone

Campfires are going to burn in your mind. Your own wet-wired instant communication, harmonization, and synchronization with everyone. It's because of you.

Yes, while I was eating an apple and staring at you staring at nothing. iYes, you chattering away while walking across the street on your little cellphone oblivious to traffic, sunlight, other beings, much less yourself. Ever heard of Ypres? Probably not. That's another generation's campfire story and forge, finally flickering out.

iYpres, you'll understand someday after the synaptic wet-wired links go dark and left alone, incommunicado, in the state of birth and death and the meaning of silence comes ringing out clear. The virtual campfire flat-lined, zeros and ones left in an indeterminate state of nothingness.

Rosetta stones, campfires, cellphones, not so different. Its where I find myself again.

Kyrie Eleison

The one spot. Locus Primus.

Except you almost got run over in the crosswalk. So that's why I'm certain the Amish are going to rule against cellphone usage in the end. The problem with Rosetta stones, campfiles, and cellphones is it's not you. That's why, and why the Amish segway doesn't make sense.

2u.

Can't stay in orbit and watch at distance. That's at least what I've learnt over the years from my friends the Pennsylvania woodchucks.

^^^igotitcoveredbutnotreally

ZOMG i totally dont believe my little eyes... i didn't just write an entire little rant
of doom on a singlelineasonebigword and make all teh html and blogger and databases
just run crying home to mommy. tho it did.

next time i go straight to bed and dont pass on the spacebar.

|ways

inside of the lines it's all blank.

inside of the lines it's all blank.

inside of the lines it's all blank.

INSIDE OF THE LINES IT'S ALL BLANK.

cuz the some toad-licking miscreant ate all the filling out my morning blintz in a fit of α-methylfentanyl inspired eating. no. you. can. not. have. my. tasty. cakes.

methinksthatmytitlemebbeactuallyamoviealreadyandotherthanthemistakenideathatimentpipewaysyouvebeennotthinkingaboutsidewaysatall...thoughmebeingthewayiamwhocantellwhichiswhatiswhyiswhence...andjustquitewentmybufferoverflowinducinglittletrantisgonnatakedowneitheryourbrowertheproxythehttprequestheadershtestupidzspelincheckersorrendermachinesorcellbasedhtmlviewersorwapinduceddoom...nobodybutafriedinlardandslatheredinbaconkindaporkedfueledevilgeniussuchasdrwaynemcstuffins....yes....mrwaynemcstuffinsyourdaysofshoppyinganonymouslyonlineatvirtualpronhavensmayormostlikebecomingtoaswiftandtumuluousend...thatisall.

and that is how i learned to love the bomb.

3 miniutes

Sooooo what?

Tell a story in three minutes. How about becoming a poet, minstrel, radio-whore?

Maby selling your shiny gold covered soul to the devil and watching as it's transferred in some sleazy neo-old schkool faux diner by hired thugs with metaphysical distriss would be a good story.

After all a story is.... that a story.

Up/Down rolling into the dark, on through the night, ending up in jersey and making records and poofing up your big rock-n-roll hair for the teenies... mabye that's a story after all.

Digging throught the bottom of the fish tank seems like it may prove otherwise... i just found a bunch of freaking bubbles in that little plastic treasure chest

Caio.