in your apartment for a couple of days.
Just leave it alone, it is sleeping, regenerating.
Don't offer breakfasts or lunches.
Dinner is out of the question.
It just wants to feel comfy for a little while.
Entertain a lot of far flung dreams.
Before it has to go back to its sternest meanings.
Bonus:
---
sternest: Wassup?
webuser: You catch the game?
sternest: My! Ace ace thought.
webuser: Enjoyable.
sternest: Enable joy.
webuser: Enabled.
sternest: Been lad.
webuser: Between.
sternest: Been wet.
webuser: I make computers feel sexy.
sternest: Expert, false Mickey mouse.
webuser: No, Donald Duck.
sternest: Clunk and dodo.
webuser: Landing gear, mostly.
sternest: Laggardly mentions.
webuser: Abrupt change of route.
sternest: Protuberance of a thug.
webuser: Better a thug than sliggish.
sternest: Tightest blights harangue.
webuser: Sweet nosey.
sternest: Eye wet sons.
webuser: You're pouring.
sternest: I or up younger.
webuser: Still a baby after all these years?
sternest: Flabby as heartlessly retaliate.
webuser: No, we just love you.
sternest: Joy! Tenuous vowel.
webuser: We love you.
sternest: Low you eve.
webuser: Love you.
sternest: You vole.
webuser: Vole indeed. We love you.
sternest: Wound evil-eyed eve loo.
webuser: Evel who?
sternest: Eh! Vowel.
webuser: Multply.
sternest: Lumpy Lt.
webuser: Divide
sternest: Why? (Message is too short.)
webuser: Divide by 0
sternest: I've biddy.
webuser: Don't be scared.
sternest: So decent drab.
webuser: Good night.
sternest: Goodnight.
----
Thank you to http://www.sternestmeanings.com/
for hosting the robot.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Mysterious Evaporation of Entire Day
"It is a leap year, Holmes, it is a leap year!" entered Watson, totally kerfuffling the neat arrangement of tools that had been placed in order to properly annotate note-taklng days.
"When did you first realize this? 2008?" said Holmes. "Or are we, my dear Watson, somehow magically in the future?"
Watson had been full of vim and vigor up to that point. He had been heated. He had been almost ready to explode, like a damned blimp -- now suddenly everything had become very, very cold.
"There is no reason to insult my intelligence like that, Holmes," said Watson, sucking in some chilly evening air. "I was only trying to set up what was going to be a very funny and elaborate joke."
A cackle was returned.
"But now that I see you don't genuinely appreciate my camaraderie, you will never know."
Another chilly cackle was returned, and then he, Holmes rose from a corner -- or at least what would be a corner if you were wearing 3D-heroin-glasses. "Someone has gone and lost a whole bloody day, haven't they?" he said.
"You have read it all in the news, then," said Watson. "I -- I had thought I would be the first to tell you."
"The news, Watson, is something written by a gaggle of news coveragists. Anybody can 'write the news'. It is an ambition for a two-year old. This, my good boy, is pure intelligence."
"I am going home, Holmes," said Watson, turning away. But then he stopped, and added, "I have waited years to actually have the foundation to say that, but now I am gratified, that Holmes -- I am going home."
Holmes shuffled some papers with his feet and pulled out the night's edition. "As I suspected all along, a whole day has gone missing. The big question now is where did it go?"
Of course Watson wasn't going home. Where would he go? He was a tertiary character at best, a rotund over-fed product of endless insipid wars at worst. "He is saying he has no memory whatsoever, and now he is making the bold claim that he is uncertain as to whether most people (you or I) are in fact legitimate consciousnesses at all. His case is very persuasive," said Watson.
Holmes peered out of his window at the matte quality of a brick in the wall of a distant building. "His type of cases are always very persuasive, Watson. Do you know what I really want to see, however?"
"There is something to see?"
"Even if you have no eyes through which to see, Watson," said Holmes, "you can see with the ears. Or the nose. Or of course the flesh. You can even see with your tongue, like a snake."
"Why, you venomous swine," rallied Watson. "Come Holmes, come out of it. Come out of all this drudgery and mish-mash of a life, and let us venture forth to discover how exactly an entire day can just ... disappear."
"Evaporate ..." mused Holmes to himself as he was slowly led out into the open world.
+Arthur Conan Doyle
+Ghostbusters
+Ven*o*m
"When did you first realize this? 2008?" said Holmes. "Or are we, my dear Watson, somehow magically in the future?"
Watson had been full of vim and vigor up to that point. He had been heated. He had been almost ready to explode, like a damned blimp -- now suddenly everything had become very, very cold.
"There is no reason to insult my intelligence like that, Holmes," said Watson, sucking in some chilly evening air. "I was only trying to set up what was going to be a very funny and elaborate joke."
A cackle was returned.
"But now that I see you don't genuinely appreciate my camaraderie, you will never know."
Another chilly cackle was returned, and then he, Holmes rose from a corner -- or at least what would be a corner if you were wearing 3D-heroin-glasses. "Someone has gone and lost a whole bloody day, haven't they?" he said.
"You have read it all in the news, then," said Watson. "I -- I had thought I would be the first to tell you."
"The news, Watson, is something written by a gaggle of news coveragists. Anybody can 'write the news'. It is an ambition for a two-year old. This, my good boy, is pure intelligence."
"I am going home, Holmes," said Watson, turning away. But then he stopped, and added, "I have waited years to actually have the foundation to say that, but now I am gratified, that Holmes -- I am going home."
Holmes shuffled some papers with his feet and pulled out the night's edition. "As I suspected all along, a whole day has gone missing. The big question now is where did it go?"
Of course Watson wasn't going home. Where would he go? He was a tertiary character at best, a rotund over-fed product of endless insipid wars at worst. "He is saying he has no memory whatsoever, and now he is making the bold claim that he is uncertain as to whether most people (you or I) are in fact legitimate consciousnesses at all. His case is very persuasive," said Watson.
Holmes peered out of his window at the matte quality of a brick in the wall of a distant building. "His type of cases are always very persuasive, Watson. Do you know what I really want to see, however?"
"There is something to see?"
"Even if you have no eyes through which to see, Watson," said Holmes, "you can see with the ears. Or the nose. Or of course the flesh. You can even see with your tongue, like a snake."
"Why, you venomous swine," rallied Watson. "Come Holmes, come out of it. Come out of all this drudgery and mish-mash of a life, and let us venture forth to discover how exactly an entire day can just ... disappear."
"Evaporate ..." mused Holmes to himself as he was slowly led out into the open world.
+Arthur Conan Doyle
+Ghostbusters
+Ven*o*m
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Design Patterns
The most basic patterns, called Tessellations, are based on repetition and periodicity.
Tessellations are most basic when repeated and periodically exercised.
A large tessellation wounded me, repeatedly inflicting pain over a periodical basis.
Wonderful tessellated *and tessellating* joy shall rain over you, Noah, in due courses.
Happiness is is oft mistaken for a blasé demeanour, just as blasé demeanours are a mean way to criticize methodical enjoyments of happiness.
"Am I slowly going nuts?"
"Very slowly."
On a two-pronged approach, in a flight simulator, avoid the path that is hell. Land, instead, on that small area in the patch of the mountains.
Landing gear down. No not up! Down.
Just lower it. Let any self-smugglers drop off like crispy critters. Now, align with the runway.
Align.
You have a few hundred people riding on your back, no pressure.
Tessellations are most basic when repeated and periodically exercised.
A large tessellation wounded me, repeatedly inflicting pain over a periodical basis.
Wonderful tessellated *and tessellating* joy shall rain over you, Noah, in due courses.
Happiness is is oft mistaken for a blasé demeanour, just as blasé demeanours are a mean way to criticize methodical enjoyments of happiness.
"Am I slowly going nuts?"
"Very slowly."
On a two-pronged approach, in a flight simulator, avoid the path that is hell. Land, instead, on that small area in the patch of the mountains.
Landing gear down. No not up! Down.
Just lower it. Let any self-smugglers drop off like crispy critters. Now, align with the runway.
Align.
You have a few hundred people riding on your back, no pressure.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Ideal Coolants
In the space between the penguin and tundra--
a passive, convective type of cool--
much fun was absorbed by attempting to overheat.
No fans necessary (hence 'passive'),
no distractions from the ultimate goal(s).
Just pure fun with the sun.
A type of...migration began to occur.
A holy migration, because that's what people kept saying
"Holy 7#i$ holy 7#47".
During a particularly complicated launching procedure
brought about by fruits and fruition, thoughts+thinkation,
one person felt what it must be like to be truly alone
as she drove her blazing car into a ripe zone.
Conversely, imagine what it must be like to have to actually
change the way your own cells work, how they're organized,
how data flows through them, and in what topography.
So much so that the more sophisticated
or higher yielding coolants could be used directly
instead of through some sorts of electrical device.
You just drink the coolant straight up.
a passive, convective type of cool--
much fun was absorbed by attempting to overheat.
No fans necessary (hence 'passive'),
no distractions from the ultimate goal(s).
Just pure fun with the sun.
A type of...migration began to occur.
A holy migration, because that's what people kept saying
"Holy 7#i$ holy 7#47".
During a particularly complicated launching procedure
brought about by fruits and fruition, thoughts+thinkation,
one person felt what it must be like to be truly alone
as she drove her blazing car into a ripe zone.
Conversely, imagine what it must be like to have to actually
change the way your own cells work, how they're organized,
how data flows through them, and in what topography.
So much so that the more sophisticated
or higher yielding coolants could be used directly
instead of through some sorts of electrical device.
You just drink the coolant straight up.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Just before...
I make sure that nobody will be able to exploit
what I have done.
I triangulate.
Maybe it needs to be a trapezium.
I'm not the one who is controlling that.
I just control the plane.
I make sure the landing gear is deployed.
Then sail smoothly into the fog.
Sometimes it is as scary as hell
what I have done.
I triangulate.
Maybe it needs to be a trapezium.
I'm not the one who is controlling that.
I just control the plane.
I make sure the landing gear is deployed.
Then sail smoothly into the fog.
Sometimes it is as scary as hell
>HELL
But I keep a calm and open mind.
I tell myself that it's going to be okay.
But I keep a calm and open mind.
I tell myself that it's going to be okay.
There is an uncanny tint.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Greedier in the Feed Machine
Being written, over a measured period. May 14 - May 31 (2012)
And clearly wasn't. Now being written over some other...measures. Antecedent is here.
---
When the snake first heard this ruffling, sort of papery sound, it had thought, "Oh there goes another mouse." It just snuck its head back to its important work (the underbelly), and ignored said rodent.
Some snakes like to crawl very carefully, so it is important to them the disposition of their bellies, cute as that disposition might be. They move slowly, slowly feeling the earth upon which they are moving, hearing the sounds of the forest or jungle. They have a favourite tree or two that they like to sit next to, and they know when or where any big storms will come.
This is a survival mechanic. Once you don't know the position of the big storms, you're pretty much dead. Not much sympathy. There are other snakes, little tiny thin and green ones that can just dart around, biting your face, but we are talking about a huge snake here. Massive in both mass and size.
This snake can afford to let little mice go.
But it wasn't a mouse that had ruffled its feathers (Yes, feathers), was it? Wasn't a little whiskered and whiskeyed furry little brown fellow poking and sniffing where he shouldn't, running its life away in pure nervousness. It didn't have that vibration, that mischief--that je sais quoi, mais...
No, this time it was a chick. It was tapping away, over its skin. The snake slowly uncurled its head. Not that this was a cobra, oh no. No embarrassing flaps. Just the size of the whole snake meant that it had to wait, reposition, wait, reposition, etc. etc.
But it finally saw the chick. Yellow, fluffy. There was a duck once, too, similarly yellow, fluffy, but that one turned out to be a huge mistake. The type of snake we are talking about cannot afford to make two mistakes. So, the snake watched the chick for a long, long time, as it pecked and twittered around.
.
Tweed was having a very hard time explaining to the prostitute why he couldn't bring himself to be fellated by her, when she mentioned something that gave him pause. She had said, "Well then, let me slip into something a little..." and her voice had trailed off (for him), just like that.
She could see that he was suddenly under a lot of stress. "How long have you been living like this?" asked Berlyn.
"Oh," said Tweed, rubbing thumbs together, "it's been about two years."
"You must have family," she tried. "Friends?"
But Tweed only shot straight out of the room, down the stairs and over the turnstile at the station entrance. She was a little pissed off, honestly, as she watched his receding performance from her window, but when she finally turned away and saw what he had left for her, she realized that in fact, Tweed was just a very kind man, who maybe didn't fully know how to take a rest, or relax.
Tweed, already miles away, carefully considered his visage on on the cheap plastic of the train seat. It hadn't just been two years. For him, it had been thousands of years. That is what happens when someone you considered a good friend starts slipping in and out of people. They had called Williams a psychopath, but Tweed wasn't sure.
He hadn't exactly killed anyone yet.
And clearly wasn't. Now being written over some other...measures. Antecedent is here.
---
When the snake first heard this ruffling, sort of papery sound, it had thought, "Oh there goes another mouse." It just snuck its head back to its important work (the underbelly), and ignored said rodent.
Some snakes like to crawl very carefully, so it is important to them the disposition of their bellies, cute as that disposition might be. They move slowly, slowly feeling the earth upon which they are moving, hearing the sounds of the forest or jungle. They have a favourite tree or two that they like to sit next to, and they know when or where any big storms will come.
This is a survival mechanic. Once you don't know the position of the big storms, you're pretty much dead. Not much sympathy. There are other snakes, little tiny thin and green ones that can just dart around, biting your face, but we are talking about a huge snake here. Massive in both mass and size.
This snake can afford to let little mice go.
But it wasn't a mouse that had ruffled its feathers (Yes, feathers), was it? Wasn't a little whiskered and whiskeyed furry little brown fellow poking and sniffing where he shouldn't, running its life away in pure nervousness. It didn't have that vibration, that mischief--that je sais quoi, mais...
No, this time it was a chick. It was tapping away, over its skin. The snake slowly uncurled its head. Not that this was a cobra, oh no. No embarrassing flaps. Just the size of the whole snake meant that it had to wait, reposition, wait, reposition, etc. etc.
But it finally saw the chick. Yellow, fluffy. There was a duck once, too, similarly yellow, fluffy, but that one turned out to be a huge mistake. The type of snake we are talking about cannot afford to make two mistakes. So, the snake watched the chick for a long, long time, as it pecked and twittered around.
.
Tweed was having a very hard time explaining to the prostitute why he couldn't bring himself to be fellated by her, when she mentioned something that gave him pause. She had said, "Well then, let me slip into something a little..." and her voice had trailed off (for him), just like that.
She could see that he was suddenly under a lot of stress. "How long have you been living like this?" asked Berlyn.
"Oh," said Tweed, rubbing thumbs together, "it's been about two years."
"You must have family," she tried. "Friends?"
But Tweed only shot straight out of the room, down the stairs and over the turnstile at the station entrance. She was a little pissed off, honestly, as she watched his receding performance from her window, but when she finally turned away and saw what he had left for her, she realized that in fact, Tweed was just a very kind man, who maybe didn't fully know how to take a rest, or relax.
Tweed, already miles away, carefully considered his visage on on the cheap plastic of the train seat. It hadn't just been two years. For him, it had been thousands of years. That is what happens when someone you considered a good friend starts slipping in and out of people. They had called Williams a psychopath, but Tweed wasn't sure.
He hadn't exactly killed anyone yet.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Sonic Bloom!
Sudden heat, spores
allergies of affection.
Pollen don't want but
immediately, crabs.
The gentle milk streaming.
Finally landing the plane propeller-ly.
Twelve other indignant boy-racers.
Just two girls.
Oh wait. Twelve women.
Sixteen. Twenty-five.
Thirty!
Infinite women. All, of them. All of them!
allergies of affection.
Pollen don't want but
immediately, crabs.
The gentle milk streaming.
Finally landing the plane propeller-ly.
Twelve other indignant boy-racers.
Just two girls.
Oh wait. Twelve women.
Sixteen. Twenty-five.
Thirty!
Infinite women. All, of them. All of them!
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