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Monthly Archives: June 2008

Recollection, intention, sensation, and unconsciousness  §

each lie along their own planes in distinct dimensions. It is, however, undeniable that they also intersect at some point in the mathematical universe of meaning, a point that can be described temporally as lying distinctly in the past—your own past—rather than anywhere in the present.

One spends a great deal of one’s life searching for the little snippets of meaning that forever threaten to become lost amongst the desktop clutter of every today’s business and tasks.

Very, very, very, very  §

bad. 🙁

Some of us  §

are destined to be “the other.”

Our own other, even.

Sigh.

Categorically:  §

Activism is a bad thing and should be suppressed.

I really, really, really  §

cannot stand west coasters. People from California in particular who know everything and believe themselves to be saved. In fact, I am not sure I like anyone who believes themselves to be saved, west, east, north, or south.

But there is no greater cesspool of wrong-headed, won’t-mind-their-own-business know-it-allsists to be found anywhere on earth than in Los Angeles and southern California.

Not only are they idiots—they are idiots that engage in “activistics” to try to impose their unconsidered idiocy on everyone else on the planet. Hopefully that long-prophesied day on which Los Angeles sinks into the ocean won’t be too long in coming.

In fact, we could stand to lose the either west coast and the entirety of the south.

Bin Laden, if you’re listening…

Journeys in congested headspace  §

It’s hot. It’s loud. There are a million things pressing on me for attention, more than half of them without much promise of reward and without much direct excitement. It has been a particularly frustrating couple of weeks at the end of a particularly frustrating couple of months during a year that has not gone as planned.

I have work to do. But it’s hot. It’s loud. We’re leaving in a week. Nothing is settled and nothing will be settled and the dizzying array of people, places, and things to which I have some responsibility (that have little, if any, responsibility to me) keeps growing.

I can tell that my lovely wife is worried about whether or not I will get the work done that I need to get done. She is trying her best to help me to get into the right mental state to progress, but really the problem is that there is just too much stimulus.

I swear to god the fan behind me is pumping out hundreds of decibels and vibrating my teeth but if I turn it off the rivers of sweat that are running down my body are going to carry me away. The elevator alarm is going off because people are moving and it has been ringing over the sound of the fan more or less continuously for twenty minutes. To compound things, there is a jackhammer across the street taking down a retaining wall.

I am not comfortable. My clothes are sticking to me. I haven’t had enough sleep. I have been very frustrated lately by a great many things with precious little outlet.

I recently took a typing exam at which I typed over 100 words per minute with no errors. I feel as though in the past four days that has increased to over 480 words per minute with no errors, maybe even 580. I can type so fast that the keys begin to fragment beneath my fingers, that a hole is worn through the computer and my prints begin to embed themselves in the table below.

But I cannot think of anything to type. I can’t think of anything at all, just the fan and the phone and the elevator alarm and the car brakes and the mail and the paperwork and the scheduling and the projects and the deadlines and the career branches, etc.

etc.

etc.

Fedora 9 upgrade notes  §

Without really intending to, ended up doing a major upgrade to my personal PC, from Fedora 8 to Fedora 9 yesterday. This is not a small upgrade; everything is changed starting with GCC, which means that any customizations that you have to Fedora 6/7/8 won’t be usable or recompilable on 9 without source upgrades.

Had to jump from kernel 2.6.23 to 2.6.25 (2.6.23 won’t compile for 9, and I couldn’t use it because it broke with the new GCC and libraries without first being recompiled). KDE3 is gone and virtually nothing of the “old KDE” frame of reference remains. Basically my entire home folder and dotfiles got moved into “Old_Home” and I am starting fresh.

Not working:

– NVIDIA drivers (nv only for now, until they release a fix)
– Logging out under Gnome (click and nothing happens)
– Most of KDE4 (wow, very unstable, very unusable)
– Crossover Office (fonts completely unreadable)

I guess that’s how it goes with a bleeding edge upgrade.

Summarized opinion? NOT recommended. There is a fine line between “lots of changes, because we’re pushing the envelope, please join us” on the one hand and “congratulations, thanks to our upgrade you no longer have a working PC” on the other. Fedora 9 is far too close to the latter.

Stimulation  §

is missing in the suburbs; flashes of brilliance and twitches in the fabric of being that call out from within the depths those impressions that otherwise are lost to you, sublimated, transfigured, misapprehended.

Fleeting moments are the matter from which the phenomenological universe is made, as well as the recollectable universe, and thus the narrative universe, as well as the spatiotemporal universe. It’s all glimmers and moonshine and fancies and misdirection.

A car stops outside your window; two bars of an ephemeral chorus and a couple of disconnected words; they will stay with your subconscious self forever, will inform your being in some small way on the day that you die. The subway rolls past this time, headed for the shop; it is another data mark, another tick in the tally of universal maintenance. Here is a breeze, it carries with it the scent of something long forgotten. Ocean? Weeping willow branches? Fertile soil? The molecules come from afar and trigger electropulses of conscience and desire that don’t reach the level of awareness, but instead color your smile and your gestures for the next three days, the haunting of your childhood carried through everyone you interact with into the lives of everyone they interact with.

Chaos, chaos, chaos,

the sunset on tropical beaches always a sign for the wisdom you’re not sure you’ve got but that you exercise anyway as a matter of coincidence, accident, and happenstance.

All is wisdom.

All is the reckless, nostalgic flavor of the sweet nothings of your own past whispers, made to no-one in particular, mostly when you didn’t know you were making them.

Sometimes the interminable wait  §

for good news is just that—interminable.

There is so very, very much to be done right now, and so very little in the way of immediate rewards. It is a dry spell, a desert crossing, a period of spiritual fasting.

Okay,  §

I do not like this trend at all.

Growing into mature adulthood  §

is like therapy in reverse: the process of increasingly repressing everything that doesn’t fit into the schematization that you’ve formulated for your life. Repression is the key to success. it is also the thing that makes one most likely to gnaw on glass.

Tonight, despite endless recalibration, I cannot get perspective. I cannot tell what is what. I cannot see up from down. I do not know trees versus forest. I am lost, for a while.

These periods happen in life, and for a few hours you have to cope.

When I was younger, they used to terrify me to the point of lunacy. Now that I’m older, these brief periods of indeterminate resolution don’t quite terrify me so much, but in place of the fear (which isn’t entirely gone) now resides a great deal of impatience, annoyance, and weariness.

Tonight I feel 10,000 years old, at least.

On a humid summer Sunday afternoon
I trace the damp rim of a wine glass,
absent-minded,
watching the lead paint on an old windowsill

crack.

From nowhere,
in a moment of sudden clarity:
consciousness of the motion of my heart—
of an interruption—half a beat—
before the resumption of an apparently endless count
of the moments in my life.
Soul shaken by the unobservable shudder
in the tiny interval of death that ensues,
my hand falls, unsupported
through the rim of the glass.
The shards reach every corner of the room,
carried to their logical conclusions by fate
or unforgiving destiny.

Sometimes a day  §

just blindsides you for no reason that you can identify. What is wrong with today? It started out well. Disappointing. Frustrating. Bewildering.

If you no longer exact your revenge on the world for things that it does to you, is that “growing up” or is it “growing weak?” Sometimes I still can’t decide.