I think some members in the school board must have regretted inviting this band . .
Dense dense science
History shows us that the process of making sausage is remarkably different from the process of eating sausage. Can you think of processes which are:
In your answer, be as precise as possible, preferably employing tools which cannot possibly have been invented.
- a) similar?
- b) different?
- c) sausage?
Co-authoring a novel, the disgust of it.
Written together like the limbs of two corpses stapled. (Look, they spell out words, the shape of letters, my love).
Indeed they do.
Stanley Cup finals.
Fickle like the sea.
And I slowly steal your sand, too.
Steal it and make it
both of those things
Both of those ways.
Instructions, like for machines.
(All the usual questions: what are machines, etc.).
They score and life is breathed into life once again, ten trillion sounds sounding in unison, the depths of the yell evident on their bloody lips and bloodied minds.
One open wing, Max Talbot, everybody is standing at the Joe.
Get it in, get it in, get it in. Keep it in the zone, get it in.
Bad fucking ice, and the boards are alive.
What did I think about today. Thought a lot about group theory, in my shallow way, of course of course. I tried today to explain the transitions from Galois' use of factor groups to explain the general insolubility of the quintic, to the exploration of factor groups in a more general setting, to the eventual production of the abstract group concept which is at the center of group theory today (and the physics, too, but more on that below). I don't know quite how to explain the shift that occurred between applications of groups and the eventual study of groups in their own right. Probably by reference to Cayley's theorem. That is one of my favourite moments in mathematics, but I don't know much. Alright, alright.
Of all the axiomatic structures, in all the mathematical applications in the world, why'd you have to walk into mine?
So fucking close! Get it in! Keep it in the fucking zone!
(Sometimes you clap your hands so hard they bleed pain and you grimace and smile through it until you realize it was false hopes, false false hopes).
Who will step in?
"Those mistakes can turn destiny into misery"
Same old ways, same old ways.
(Yes, maybe, but brand new plays).
((Penguins win, so close old friends)).
He got progressively drunker and shallower as the night went on. She made dinner for the both of us, and I stared at him over the table, my face an inscrutable grimace of irritation, violence, and bad beer. The night was too long, and we came to blows.
Later, as she wiped the blood delicately out of my hair as I sat, wan and expressionless, in her bathtub, I smiled up at her and thought to quote something. But nothing came, and I slunk like ooze into the grey bathwater. Happy and sweating.
"Much later, in Chicago, I realized that I had to understand this strange engine" (SMLAMAB:157)
When you cite, make it inscrutable.
When asked who their greatest hero was, most Americans replied with a shrug. When pushed, they thought a moment, and pushed back.
(The heroic age ended with Archimedes, friend. Don't think too hard or mourn too fast, at least not yet. Surprises lurk in Lydia yet).
Saturday, God's Friday.
"Yes, there they are, still making comments about themselves"
I feel like God would say that if he woke up and took a look around Earth for a few minutes.
"An ontological analysis of things simply called 'mathematical objects' is likely to miss the real point of mathematical existence" -Saunders Mac Lane ("Structure in Mathematics" 1996, p. 182).
It costs nothing much
Still, we've got
just blood drained
the rest of my life
no rhythms but
a week at the high end
100 to 5 in three or four days
a week at the high end.
all that kind of thing
words wearied into the wind
that kind of thing again
hello fair world
still the same fucking fool
clucking their idiots
into my idiot face
he had a face like an idiot
the idiot face of an idiot
Just a bit like that, friends, friends, friends. We, all of us, friends. This one time. Spare the minutes you tried to sneak past.
refrains and the chorus and rondels, arpeggios repeated into the body
one of those fuck you types
swear word afternoons with mint juleps and tongue compressed linen suits linked to the flesh with the sweat of the flesh.
fuck written on the floor boards
but you look at the ceiling for the day
"It's so sensitive, it needs air, it needs to do some living"
busy being grown up, forgot how to smile.
can't talk, ear against the wall.
can't hear, deaf.
"No one's ever escaped"
Face like a thresher, it just tore everything to pieces.
(You need a separate baling face for stacking the pieces into manageable bales)
Face like a salt stain.
Hair like a mastiff.
Eyes like an oil tanker.
Hands like a suicide.
Face like a salt stain.
Run it in the rain.
Leg it, hoof it.
Get the whole thing done.
Advice: Don't pollinate time with your angry insides.
Advice: Your stomach is smarter than your brain.
Advice: The slowdowns come too late to matter.
Life and death in the dust
Floating around and
always in my own skin cells.
Sitting stiff and stoic,
waiting for meteors and diseases.
(They don't come).
Expected strands of
mid-morning half light,
with their heated, glancing blows
shuffling me awake again,
stuffed and mounted again.
And the motes whistle around,
and they settle down.
And we settle in,
and clench our teeth for the long haul.
Grinding the days and the enamel down,
both, to the bone.
Such narrow means to shape.
Q: "Here you are my friend! And where does the wide world find you?"
First, I'm not your friend.
Sunday, God's Saturday.
Nights spent sweating tangents alone.
No stranger to them, but they're still strangers to me.
Yeah, there's something wrong with me.
"What am I to you?"
Second, the world doesn't find anything. Not because it is chooses not to but because it can't. You put aims into the world like wishes into the clouds, and the world doesn't notice anymore than the God of your clouds does. The world, barren and still, with its laminate indifference to the times we tell each other. That's the world for me, boss. And the science of it, what shine.
"You? You're a disappearance."
She growled silently in the fog, and he clenched her hand with the cold weight of a long walk and a long life, both stuck together, clammy and final.
"Oh stop with the literature," she said finally.
He laughed. "I'll stop with it once we stop being characters in my mediocre novel."
"Yours?" She spit it out. They didn't speak for hours.
Hoo boy what a night.
The kind of things that history brings to your lap like a dog with a saliva soaked paper that you never wanted to read.
Imagine graphing the absorption ratio of particular letters set in times new roman when they interact with particular kinds of dog diets.
"The dog ate a snail today, those Ns are in for a world of hurt" That sort of thing.
You know, I've been straying from the path a bit lately. I remembered today.
I really do hate every person on the planet.
Except for you, of course.
You, you I love. I love you like the way I can't stand being stuck in the bottom of a well, or pinched at the waist in a cave with spiders in my mouth.
I love you the way I can't even tell it to you because the barrage of bare ***** is enough to cave your fucking life in ten hundred times a second and what am I supposed to do then fine fuck. Alright.
Yes. Calm down. Say yes to things and not no to things.
Don't even belief in a thing.
Just philosophy a thing and ask "what is a thing" that sort of thing, you fuck.
Yes yes yes. Ask about life instead of be in life, that sort of life. Alright.
What kind of relationship do you have to your own thought, what sorts of things are worth caring about, or, what sorts of things should you ignore.
I had a dream last night where I killed myself out of spite; my sister had been doing something (I forget what) that I couldn't stand, and I had that impossible-dream feeling where you can't make something happen until you do another thing, and the two aren't all that connected. Anyway, to alleviate the feeling I jumped in front of a train and killed myself. It was the first time I remembered dying in a dream. It was awful and I felt awful when I woke up, but I knew also that I deserved the feeling. Then, 5 minutes later, I was all like "yes, you are an awful person, but... you only think you deserve it because you still believe in sin" and then, five minutes after that, I chastised myself both for my iconoclasm and for my lack of contrition. Anyway, I'm scared to sleep now because I think I've killed my dreams and sullied the good things in me which were left unsullied (there weren't many probably).
I wish I could say I love you in that brutal savage way that I know is waiting and lurking in the corner parts of my veins. But, instead, I say it and it is the song of my weakness, weird and soft, callow, fickle, all of those things alright. One of these future days I'll force it out of you with brutality and the husk of me will molt. Probably probably.
These long days I keep reminding myself that the seconds I steal from you are still the precious ones and that I'm living a second life like a phoenix because everything that is, now, shouldn't really have been because of what I was. A few years lost to idiocy and fake fake fake things, and now scrabbling back into it. Alright fuck.
I feel like a weak man both in the ways that I give in and in the ways that I resist.
What kind of ways are left for me.
What does Buddha tell you to do when you've taken the middle way and it leads you to the same? Oh, right, Buddha doesn't 'tell' you anything. He tells you what you know: life is suffering. And, then, he hints at what can't possibly be true: that it's an illusion. Life wouldn't be suffering if it was an illusion, it's the reality of it that makes it what it is. It'll take another two thousand years for religion to present suffering without exulting or denying it.
"There are things."
What kind of religion is that?
Tuesday, God's indifference
Bergmann: "There are functions. Of course there are."
"Got that sweet pain ache"
feelin' so good, even with them eyeballs bulgin'
we never learnt nothin' that a body could forget
So much in my brain I cannot breathe
The Clouds, the clouds, the clouds.
(Don't let them get you down, old friend).
a world submerged
Do gravity like a drug
How many men it took
Monday, God's hard at work
Life is long enough that nothing you do matters at all except everything you do.
It's short enough, too, that for most of us the circle of history that spreads out from the little ripples we make eventually ends and we are swallowed up into dust that turns into smaller dusts and eventually into balls of energy that collide and crack apart and cease to vibrate entirely. And then there is calm and the looping of calm indefinitely until the whole thing crushes back into itself and we start the stupid dance again, making the same good choices that lead us to love in the first place.
That is both a nice and an unpleasant thought, mostly a nice one. Mostly a nice one these rain day.
Oh life you wily one.
Life you wiliest one of ones.
(Think really tiny thoughts at night and really immense ones in the morning and nothing in between, except snacking).
Furniture face, knife face, clockwork face, disease face, stealing face, rapid face, hidden face, despicable face, romance face, line face.
Yeah but only the good faces from now on.
Well, and the mean and funny faces, too. (small times for them too)
Group 1 Group 2
What I have and do not have.
Adjoint functor, from the empty set to another empty set.
"What am I doing?"
Doing the same shit, the same ways, the same results.
God is just sitting outside of everything surveying it forever.
What an asshole.
(It's just a picture to Him, who else buys art but assholes).
Even if you see everything, you don't see everything.
"He looks like a fucking lizard"
Leadin' them lives what I want to have stole.
"Yeah, I'm fucking sure"
"It can wait, it can wait."
Things I don't deserve and things I do deserve.
Failings aren't complete, partial things get rewards.
"Me? I get drunk. Alright?"
Stupid face, I got a stupid face. Too hung up on things to see anything but things.
"A dozen different kinds of revenge"
I want to stack the world against you.
Whatever whatever, giving and not taking.
But taking too much, too.
Is it an insane apparition that it will be me in the proper place some day?
(It is, stay in the ditch).
Why do I believe my heart anymore?
Why did I ever?
Such perfect harmony, though, with this beautiful wide world of ours.
fine feathered friends
i could just say that all day long and have a smile on my face
Booklets and Dense Bombs
Just write it on a page
that's what we got
and that's what we crave
Half rhymes for half times
Full shots and no lime
please and thank you
(Canadian bookends, those)
Booklets and dense bombs made of shreds of paper and shards of glass to cut your face and hands when you look in the wrong directions. Kill everything that has more life in it than you.
Like an old shoe
We pass things between us and they slowly diminish from the contact of our hands, the dust floating off other places to live lives more interesting and fruitful. The little stones we keep for ourselves weigh us down at the beginning but slowly let everything go, and we end up drifting into our minds in our old age, which comes young.
"Delay not; swift the flight of fortune's greatest favours." -Seneca
Man, I've been trying to take Seneca's advice for years, but my life is a molasses. Maybe some people are just slow. (Is that an excuse or a fact, is there a difference).
Smooth skin rough skin
The dead lifes
Stupid face, he had the stupid face
"What do you do when the man that you are isn't the man that you wanna be?"
"Then you give the man that you are a swift kick in the ass."
The only value in life is in exploiting and limiting that gap, the gap between what you are and what you should be. The ways you do that are what make you what you are in the real way. If you shrink from yourself, if you leap beyond, if you mull things over infinitely.
Handsome face, he had the handsome face, skin soft and hard and in between too, just when you needed it. A man for all seasons, a ********* without reason.
Question: When is love going to fit into my life the way it should?
(Answer: When I make that my fate and quit delaying everything forever.)
The live lifes.
What sort of brown shirts are we letting run the show.
"He was essentially a naive farm boy who took up with the Nazis; it is said that at one point he attended a Noether lecture dressed in his Nazi "brownshirt" uniform. He knew Noether was Jewish--I'm not sure whether he did this to suppor the eminent mathematician in front of his peers or to antagonize her" (Mac Lane)
Soft devices very very soft.
Soft devices very soft.
Yes it's all soft.
be slow and
and the banjo plucks that draw you near to
the difference between
we're very nominal around here
just names and cloaks for bullets
little dust covers for what you always wanted
I don't care about your friends or the lives you've had.
The world of the bitter man is the world of exhaustion.
I'm sick of waiting for everything but I don't demand.
Never done with anything, we string it all along and dust the edges of the roads when we ride past. Slow, very slow, the crops die from the salt and lead of our tires. Slow, very slow, the habitable spaces choke us to death. Everything encroaches, and the last of us breathes bare relief. A death rattle, just a bit.
Furniture face, his eyes were like a credenza.
They contained movies and old photos that no one ever looked at?
Yeah. Something like that.
Furniture face, his eyes were like a credenza.
They contained movies and old photos that no one ever looked at?
Yeah. Something like that.
Furniture face he had ears like a lawn chair.
He was deaf so they were made of plastic and had spiky parts if you smashed them hard on the ground when you beat him up because you didn't like deaf people.
Alright, jeeze, relax.
Furniture face because you walked in and kicked your boots off and they bounced of his chin and the little bits of rock and salt dusted against his lips but he was silent like a furniture face, his face furnitured. He was a furnished apartment you lived in when you felt like it but no one paid rent because that world was Berlin squatting free for all his furniture face.
I worship your God on laundry days and when I'm sleeping in. That's my way of the ninja.
Whiskey crutch leg hobblers racing to the bottom groveling beneath bar stools looking for quarters nobody lost because it's too early in the day and the sun glints off the brass rail bad enough to blind them. Quit while you're behind, shoulda hadda been deads by now you deads already.
No future because every experience of the present is already memory, at least brainwise no maybe not I don't buy it and I don't buy you. Take me on a date, take me out of town, take me down to the river to pray and I'll pray and mean it because water moving makes me feel the Holy Ghost deep inside me perverted and delight.
Stupid face, his face reminded everyone of the time in class when they said the wrong answer brilliantly wrong like calling the teacher Mom, that sort of thing. His face had a face that reminded you of the worst bad moments like that alright.
History face he had a history face like England the land and soil all caked up in him bloody and hate-filled and blood pudding and blood sausage and bad sausage not even cooked in the right grease. He had a history face like the England. His history face was sour and sad and made you want to start everything over again. Yes it did. We saw him that day he got that face and it broke your heart two ways in two.
He used to be that beautiful but now hes that ugly.
A tale of two furnitures and the faces they were.
I like writing bad today, the difference is that my normal writing is bad anyway but there's a little sliver of effort mixed in there that makes me feel like it shines infinite bright like dust dots in the sky all far away and old and dead by now by the time their lines of photons plunk into mine eyes. The differences there.
He pulled out the end of the screwdriver and he couldn't believe it but the blood made a noise when it shot out. He was covered in scraplets of fur and he felt bad but what was he supposed to have done what do you think he still wanted to be alive. And that was a nice good thing even in the horror of it.
I could never kill someone not in the calculated way, I could and probably would in a war but it would never leave me, obviously. I guess that's an obvious easy thing to say, that's true of most people.
One thing I'd like to understand this week is Skolem's 'paradox' though I guess it's not really a paradox, just an interesting weird theorem.
Alternate chapter headings for Ecce Homo: Why I am so turgid, Why I bake the best cakes, Why I was late for dinner that one time and didn't say anything even when you asked.
Yeah I want to do hug production with you so you are the you that your breasts are pressed up against my chest and I can feel your breath against the tendons and skin of my neck and I'm so nervous because I'm an idiot that can't see when you're so in love with me it makes you dizzy and sick inside and crushes you the few times when I'm so sick inside and dizzy that I can't bear to look at you and you take it as a sleight or lack of interest. But really it's the God you're beautiful I want to never be alive or have been alive because it's so impossible for things to happen and I can't imagine lifting a single centimeter of space to reach out and yell in your face that you're the only reason that life was created and that I'm the only reason we can see just for this one thing so immense and impossible that logic fought against and God lobbied for in the council of common sense. He's alright, God, you and your everything beautifuls, you and you're beautiful perfect perfect, the future that you are, dense dense dense. Alright. I imagine skins of someone against skins of me. Well one skin, two with mine yes. Yes I've felt that brief and poison and it didn't pan out and yes I'll felt that again, felt it like a hat and go mad from the mercury, that's what love is. A beautiful mad rot fermenting and coalescing and world-making in your lungs so that you choke on it deep to death God so perfect that love is. I only want that. Once just. Only once just for a shake and I'll die alone miserable and perfect happy beatific crystal vibrating music of the spheres or down to the dark things and the dark people and the wrongs ways of life even that I'd do for once just having that once. God. Little drops of mad God against logic for love once.
Most days everything recedes Doppler effect redshift. A few days are static like river stones thousands of years silent. Even rarer days than those there are though.
I appreciated that we could think of light and microwaves and radio and x-rays and gamma rays and all the bits in between. If everything moves away from just you you are the center of the universe. Imagine everything moving equally away from everything else what kind of space is that.
Do you know much about Kurt Gödel? He is a very interesting person. Well, I don't know that his biography was all that interesting, he was introverted and really extremely shy, but the life of his mind was fascinating and I would even say profound. Well he was an Austrian logician, I don't know when he died, I will look. Hold.
1978. So that's an idea of when he was alive. Anyway, when he was pretty young, 25 or so he published a paper, in 1930 or 1931 I think, called "On Formally Undecidable Propositions in Principia Mathematica and Related Systems". Now it sounds pretty specific but really it isn't at all. Basically what it proved was that all the attempts to prove the completeness of simplistic logical and mathematical systems of certain types was impossible. When I say 'simplistic' I mean pretty simplistic too, basically his stuff applies to any branch of mathematics that can include the arithmetic of the natural numbers. So stuff like 0, 1, 2, 3 .... with addition only. So not complex stuff. Anyway what he showed in that paper was that given any system like that, with some also really basic logic, it is possible to construct sentences which you cannot ever decide whether they are true or not. Which seems crazy, because it seems like with such a small amount of math, there couldn't possibly be things you could formulate that you couldn't be sure if they were true or not, even in principle. But that's what he proved. He basically undermined the work of thousands of logicians and mathematicians overnight, his achievement was kind've the equivalent of Einstein's introduction of the special and then the general theory of relativity. Later on he also proved a bunch of other absolutely central things in logic and mathematical logic. I just find that neat that he was so young and he basically provided a result that all future systems of logic and mathematics have to accept. He actually proved an equally important though less negative result (the completeness theorem for first order logic) in 1929. Maybe that's not all that interesting I don't know. I also really like a lot of the things that he says about philosophy, he has some interesting things that he never published really in a book of conversations with this other mathematician logician named Hao Wang. He kind of makes me feel religious when I think about his ideas, in a good way that doesn't seem fake or mean spirited or shallow or empty. I like that, I get that from Leibniz too sometimes. You kind've have the feeling of a great soul deigning to enter the world that I also happen to have been thrown into, like a real gift.
It makes me sad at the same time.
Sleeping at a hundred miles an hour
like a bat outta hell
on my new dream cloud stiff board mattress result
the only thing better
I like feeling desire like a pain ache dull ache sharp sometimes madness at night. I like having desires. The un-Buddhist in me is the most me but the least too because not often am I like that. Dust against the grain, loess in the lungs breath it in and it builds up like silt sedimented to get your fighting weight up the only way if you don't eat, fatso.
Becoming frail and weird a welter weight in the maelstrom
stuck on you like eye lash falsies after a late night of whoring for free
Mons Pubis, Olympus Mons.
Little morphisms there little ones meaningless flips.
I would one day like to be an anatomy knowledgeable so that I could use terms like Krause corpuscles and say things like "try and release as much of my 5-hydroxytryptamine as you can, I'm going to contract my the bulbourethral glands. Let's go! Sexual scientism.
I love the very idea of loess. It's so thin and light and everywhere.
Stupid furniture face you were made by a kid and everything is all loose and knobbly and no one wants to sit close to you because you might fall over and crush them, furniture face like your fat refrigerator body lumpy and proletarian in the wrong ways and the right ways like your furniture face that you wedge into doorways to see who is talking about you.
Enforce Enforce Enforce
All I can imagine
is a life like Larkin's
'Talking in Bed'
and all I want
is whatever it is that isn't
That cold brutal disdain,
love corroded into mute bodies
calamitizing into each other,
sex a function of heat and fluid exchange,
a problem for hydrologists.
And not a very interesting one at that.
No. Provincial librarians
dying by candlelight, drinking stuporous
over the slow drift of words
oozing out of the harlotted misery
of friend-level lovelies at some pub
and you hate the stench of it
hate the final sediment you created.
Watering hole handjobs sought and claimed,
pinnacled summits slunk back
into flaccid remainders
and day after makeup smears
that you stroke and pine over.
Not that, not yet, but soon.
God be damned,
it's always too fucking soon
no matter the delay.
God be damned with every one of us, too.
We're not even alone where it counts,
and we've got saints for everything.
Sad truths you can't feel when you're too young.
"None of that for me, then, alright? Alright. Be seeing you, yes."
"You see Brian, God doesn't love you, God despises you. There's no hope."
"I don't know what they want from me half the time. What they start off liking you for they end up hating you for, don't like you if you're strong, don't like if you're weak. Hate you if you're clever, hate you if you're stupid. I don't know what they want."
Bits and pieces for the violence in you, to stave it off just that bit.
Dear convenience store,
Only selling orange juice with no pulp makes no fucking sense.
Juice comes from oranges.
The only thing better than bitter.