spent morning meetings
in math, coffee and the shakes from last nights highly refined sugar,
a day of promise and an evening, again.

The usual problems,
he’s raving about talking to her while talking to her,
spine shattered by tumors more precious than any hog sniffed mushroom. A slight pressure, rogue life in the skull,
a million years of begging and trying and dying down the drain in one small error in replication,
we remember things differently and they caution me against imaginary agitators and phantoms in dark suits,
a cloud shaped like a horse remembered as two tiny pill which
makes her vomit over and over, for the pain of
days spent walking in paths worn down through fresh snow in a wind swept Alaskan hole.

An interesting Ted Talk by Stewart Brand, “Information Wants to be Free.”

Dwarf Fortress.

Mr Serious Pants is at a loss.
Somethings are only meaningful in person.

Nothing But Death by Pablo Neruda
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I’m not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

I find there to be something quite endearing about the above. That is all.

Did I sleep?
Did I dream?
Am I sleeping?

wake up to crows caws
something forgotten remember
sleeping with kittens

there’s a confederation of un-happening conversations lounging on the windowsill,
surrounded by potted plant paw prints, they bask in the sunlight
chuckling like crow watchers they lie lazy and fat.
He’d let the blinds down, but his toes  resist approach,
putting off inevitability is delightful, erotic, like willing the earth to spin
and hearing the dervish creek of cthonic machines skipping business lunches as usual,
waves conspiring to wait, sunsets malinger and we watch them all from the windowsill.

The above is funny.
My predilections also go that way.

There’s this person who thinks the above is crazy talk. They say, we need freedom in all things, even the freedom to commit and suffer economic violence. I kind of think one of the purposes of the state is to limit the use of violence, sometimes I worry this is an easy kind of ignorance and a hunger for freedom from.

of inappropriately selected music.

these songs absolutely do not go together…

no sane person would add this to the mix…

this definitely does not belong…

well I always did like a beat you could dance to…

like plaid and stripes…

finally something makes sense…

this sort of makes sense, but is more likely a testament my feelings on redemption.

this may not exactly be your cup of tea.

So have this, and go wisely and well.

What the Tortoise Said to Achilles

The discussion begins by considering the following logical argument:
A: “Things that are equal to the same are equal to each other” (transitive property)
B: “The two sides of this triangle are things that are equal to the same”
Therefore Z: “The two sides of this triangle are equal to each other”
The Tortoise asks Achilles whether the conclusion logically follows from the premises, and Achilles grants that it obviously does. The Tortoise then asks Achilles whether there might be a reader of Euclid who grants that the argument is logically valid, as a sequence, while denying that A and B are true. Achilles accepts that such a reader might exist, and that he would hold that if A and B are true, then Z must be true, while not yet accepting that A and B are true.
The Tortoise then asks Achilles whether a second kind of reader might exist, who accepts that A and B are true, but who does not yet accept the principle that if A and B are both true, then Z must be true. Achilles grants the Tortoise that this second kind of reader might also exist. The Tortoise, then, asks Achilles to treat him as a reader of this second kind, and then to logically compel him to accept that Z must be true.
After writing down A, B and Z in his notebook, Achilles asks the Tortoise to accept the hypothetical:
C: “If A and B are true, Z must be true”
The Tortoise agrees to accept C, if Achilles will write down what he has to accept in his note-book, making the new argument:
A: “Things that are equal to the same are equal to each other”
B: “The two sides of this triangle are things that are equal to the same”
C: “If A and B are true, Z must be true”
Therefore Z: “The two sides of this triangle are equal to each other”
But now that the Tortoise accepts premise C, he still refuses to accept the expanded argument. When Achilles demands that “If you accept A and B and C, you must accept Z,” the Tortoise remarks that that’s another hypothetical proposition, and suggests even if he accepts C, he could still fail to conclude Z if he did not see the truth of:
D: “If A and B and C are true, Z must be true”
The Tortoise continues to accept each hypothetical premise once Achilles writes it down, but denies that the conclusion necessarily follows, since each time he denies the hypothetical that if all the premises written down so far are true, Z must be true:
“And at last we’ve got to the end of this ideal race-course! Now that you accept A and B and C and D, of course you accept Z.”
“Do I?” said the Tortoise innocently. “Let’s make that quite clear. I accept A and B and C and D. Suppose I still refused to accept Z?”
“Then Logic would take you by the throat, and force you to do it!” Achilles triumphantly replied. “Logic would tell you, ‘You can’t help yourself. Now that you’ve accepted A and B and C and D, you must accept Z!’ So you’ve no choice, you see.”
“Whatever Logic is good enough to tell me is worth writing down,” said the Tortoise. “So enter it in your note-book, please. We will call it
(E) If A and B and C and D are true, Z must be true.
Until I’ve granted that, of course I needn’t grant Z. So it’s quite a necessary step, you see?”
“I see,” said Achilles; and there was a touch of sadness in his tone.
Thus, the list of premises continues to grow without end, leaving the argument always in the form:
(1): “Things that are equal to the same are equal to each other”
(2): “The two sides of this triangle are things that are equal to the same”
(3): (1) and (2) ⇒ (Z)
(4): (1) and (2) and (3) ⇒ (Z)
…
(n): (1) and (2) and (3) and (4) and … and (n − 1) ⇒ (Z)
Therefore (Z): “The two sides of this triangle are equal to each other”
At each step, the Tortoise argues that even though he accepts all the premises that have been written down, there is some further premise (that if all of (1)–(n) are true, then (Z) must be true) that he still needs to accept before he is compelled to accept that (Z) is true.

Thank you Lewis Caroll.

Also…

Some of the most insightful commentary on the singularity can be found here. Forewarned is forearmed.