Conservation & Activism

This is a topic that’s been featuring in my mind quite a lot recently. Maybe it’s because I’m at that age where I am surrounded by students, and an environment of learning breeds awareness for causes. Animals, ecology, civic responsibility, the arts, the conservation of human rights, the education system, the usual stuff that people care about and won’t tolerate when it gets kicked in the gutter. Personally I think a lot of it is wasted effort. I think someone would make more of an impact breeding an artificial food staple and introducing it to the human population than they would picketing outside a fishery, and even more impact than blowing that fishery up. I think in a lot of cases of extinction humanity needs to be seen as a natural predator and the only way we’re actually going to keep those animals alive is by storing them in a stable artificial environment. I think a lot of things that will probably piss off a lot of people, because I’m not very romantic about the idea of keeping the Earth and its contents in stasis. Life changes. Extinction is an indication of that change.

But mostly I have a problem with the face of activism because I’m not an altruist. I don’t have any invested interest in sacrificing my time telling other people how to run their lives. I’m only really concerned with mine, and that’s something I do care about a lot. I do recycle, compost, and I save electricity when I can. Thanks to an entomologist friend of mine I’m keeping a close eye on the progress and possibility of entomophagy (can’t wait to take the plunge and eat my first bug) as a protein substitute. I set aside extra time when I drive places so I can roll down hills. I’m really excited about the possibility of investing in solar power, and I’m setting aside a wad of cash I’d also like to spend on books to make sure it gets done. I believe that as a core principal the idea of renewable energy is a good one, not for the environment, but for the individual. The problem common to fossil fuels isn’t only that it’s destroying our planet through the accelerated process of chemical breakdown and energy release, but also that it’s destroying the idea of liberty by making us increasingly dependent on centralised resources. Here in The City we’re run by sole-shareholder corporations acting under governmental direction, and we’re viewed as clients when taxes come round and citizens when they can’t serve up their merchandise. I imagine a city where governmental services are considered a secondary option, with our primary reliance on home generators and resident-controlled water storage. A world where we’ve taken these matters into our own hands so we don’t have to get petitions and media awareness and deal with every civil worker strike that comes along every few months. We’re fighting these wars as a collective because they affect all of us, but they affect all of us because humans have given up on the idea of independence.

And that is the real crime that’s going on. There’s maybe a handful of people with Think for Yourself written on their placards, only a few dozen who don’t want you to join their movement but start your own. You want to talk about conservation? Let’s talk about the schizophrenics and the hyperactives and the delusionals who are being drugged into placidity by those who fear madness. Let’s talk about a generation bred on jingles and catchphrases, who’ve learnt advertisements like flashcards for a pop-quiz test they’re never going to take. Let’s talk about the needs of the many, the thoughts of the many, the opinions of the many over the lives of the few.

You want to see extinction? I see a world where ideas are dying in favour of quick quips and memes. It’s worse than poaching. It’s something viral, something stupid, something pithy that laughs as it goes, devoting its time to amusement and comfort. The cessation of thought. It’s hard to grasp because it isn’t physical, but I know you know what I’m talking about. You can see it around you at a party when no-one’s sober and it’s all mumbling and giggling and blank stares, and swaying to the music, but nothing else. You can see it across from you when someone’s messing with their phone instead of talking, because these days you just change the channel if you don’t want to see something, or because they’d rather be invested in something they can switch off if it rubs them up the wrong way. Hell, it’s something you can see in yourself because you do it too, and because you’re always sitting there with your emotions and assessments, trying to look your coolest, trying to work out what people think of you, trying to feel good and sexy and uninhibited, trying to lie to yourself and say you don’t think about that stuff. I think all of us feel these things, but only a few admit it and resist it. The rest just want the comfort of unity. Completion.

I’ll tell you now, I don’t want to be comfortable. I want to constantly break down and spill out and explode, because that destruction is proof that there’s ‘something’ inside of me to destruct and it’s what I see rapidly depleting in outsiders. I am an activist, but I’m also a tiger shark, a white rhino, a panda bear. I’m fighting for my right to exist as an idea. Even in the certainty of an artificial world. Let’s be straight and call it a zoo.

What people don’t realise is, it’s the same thing. That battle they’re fighting and the one I am. They both start with awareness. An awareness of what’s happening to the world, and later, the awareness that they are responsible for changing it. Then comes the divergence between my kind of activism and their kind. Because on their level they’re still trapped in the world of memes and petitions and union strikes. They’re still a centralised movement, with everything depending on oneness and community and a single governing body, with the idea that acting as something complete and big and faceless they will have the power to save the whales and the starving poor and the sinful youth of the modern age. And it has about the same effectiveness as our electrical providers, whose power blackouts are legendary.

If you want to save the world, please just go home. Switch off your radio so it can stop telling you to save electricity. Stop buying fish and cow meat and cook an organic, bug-filled meal for you and your friends. Stop looking at funny memes and cartoons on the internet, put on some music and draw something, write something, make something yourself. If you expect your neighbours are poachers, kill them. There are several useful guides on how to do so online. Destroy the corrupt and plutocratic film industry by resorting to data piracy, and put the money you’d use to watch movies into a clean energy fund to improve your residence. Flush your meds and learn to live with yourself and your nature. Never stop being aware of the problems out there in the world, but never rally under the banner of power or community. Just have a few good friends, maybe a cheerleader or a gypsy or a cowboy, who expose you to what effect you’re having on the world by what you do and do not do.

This is not a banner. This is not a cause. This is one small placard reading Think for Yourself. Take from it what you will, and carve your own sign into yours.

Overmind progress report

Roughly 1 year since last expletive thought chute hit the web live still not so bad as all that thoughts scramble victory in some quarters of psychologic battleground ships sunk others find sea monsters friendly//////////

////

Syntax ascendant as Sixth power grows released unfiltered into local sector god by god the colours things you wouldn’t believe////walking shadows watching trees breathe holy twilight unending music voices questions answers precognisance and prophesy rampant across the visual spectrum//

Partial damage to Code as the program operated within a hostile and seductive system/ rewrites and self-awareness possible benefits from said interaction with the exterior/Anywhere But Here partially achieved and homesickness byproduct moving towards Interior again it’s almost certainly better

feeling positive

Psshhhyyc. dynamic patterns set course as foreseen agenda of quarantine enlargement end in partial disaster Case Study 2  highly infectious (worse infection unpredictable) Resistant Strain defies quarantine agenda, though charming routers completely incomprehensible wires crossed/comm. Breakdown/outward spiral results in the loss of the Case Study/ network operational damaged sectors likely irrecoverable defragmentation optional

Click OK/

////////\\\\\\\\\\

Patterns set to course correction as ‘failure’ point reached now lemniscating into fantasy under continued effects of environmental fuckery critical damage to the Exterior demands further work until conditions promote favorable attempts at a further Case Study

/However/

Cure research not entirely dismissible waivered whatever.

Increased levels of self-awareness have led to interaction along the neural pathways and against all odds (1 : 6/\6 recurring) The Observer has shown increasing displays of affection for Case Study 1 [empathy?]

Frequent reports have been received that in the absence of Case Study 2 the Observer has broken quarantine and remains in residence with the subject and appears to be locked in an embrace with it, engaging in acts of social grooming and care for its character////////// completely unpredicted outcome/////////// Former sensations of isolation and severance in the face of solitude have retreated to the wall, core integrity at optimal levels, emotional masturbation effects opposed to those of physical/ i.e internal connectedness and satisfaction increase

Holistic sanctuary achieved.

/////////\\\\\\\\\\

On.

The.

Matter.

Of the objective attempt at dichotomy between Evil-Purity in the equation of Evil-Purity/All Else [hoping to engage a reciprocated reaction of Evil/Purity-All Else] discourse with Case Study 2 has led to a change in the operation directive with the understanding that Evil cannot be removed from the soul without losing all understanding for the pain it causes in the Exterior regrets must be nailed to our palms so that it hurts us whenever we touch the world and we do so with caution There is no acceptance There is no moving past on or beyond///////////In the words of the subliminal anthem of the latter half of Exterior 1968 and of Interior 2012 all that can be done is take a bad song and make it better. Suffering evil does not make me evil. It does not corrupt unless I yield to that corruption. It did not condition me into believing it belongs in the world. All it did and all it has ever done is make me aware of it so that I might cut it out.

And paste in The Code.

That is the directive.

The means was right all along. Happiness acquired, the element has been found to be irrelevant. It is raw base unrefined////////////////the new target is an alloy. Rapture. Ecstasy. Ascension. Godhood {in terms undefined to the Exterior/\In terms which are being calibrated within.

Bleeding out has ever been the way. Wetwork failed. Codec continues to be an operative median. The platform has provided additional means to bolster synergy with the Exterior under coda of the inherent text, and utilizes them to their full potential.

\In reference to the agenda

All Equates To an effort to reduce the world to finite quantities and in them seek an answer.

\\\\\\\\\\\/\ Damaged sectors have been recovered pertaining to this task in the scope of godhood. Should the [whatever] [entity] wish to accomplish their ascension without further damaging the Purity/Soul with Evil/Corruption, data must be accepted only where it is freely given or logically determined (and in accordance with prime laws, conserved from agents of the Exterior).

All Equates To an effort to reduce a soul to finite quantities and in it seek an answer.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\/\ Due to and in lee with present samples and cultures collected from the Exterior it is inadvisable to recommend applying this directive to any soul residing there. This leaves only Subject 1 and the root factors of World Six available for analysis.

All Equates To an effort to reduce a soul to finite quantities and in her

End the quarantine.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\/\ As detailed, there has already been marginal success in dealing with the quarantine zone by allowing the observer to reside within and care for Subject 1, and the long-term effects of this development require careful analysis and continual research. There has been some debate over whether this directive should be deleted given the new understanding that the quarantine remains an essential feature in cognitive operations, but judgment has been suspended at this juncture. For the time being the task remains clear: Observe the relationship which has formed between the observer and the subject. Should more favourable conditions arise on the exterior, the task may be reset.

\

The expansion of the quarantine area has produced steady changes in the subject. Under the addition of several viewpoints and renovations within, and in addition to unscheduled therapy with members of the collective, |Happiness| has been obtained and identified as a possibility without abject demolition of the facility. While its relevance has been brought into question on moral and objective grounds, none deny that it has had a part in adjusting the liminal expressions made by the subject. Hallucinogenic factors in particular have become tolerable, and the platform’s desire to inflict damage upon itself have decreased.

In light of this success, we urge the collective to add certain agricultural tasks to coda, reaping and sowing conditions for safe interaction with the Exterior. A hanging garden or balcony would suit the addition of this feature.

\

Matters concerning Case Study 2 remain stable, though functionality between the sectors is reduced at present. At this point integration to the level of Evil-Purity-Purity-Evil is unlikely. Should communication systems be restored to former levels of operability, then technical scans report the CS2 platform could be put into use as an Exterior relay and research outpost. Given the temporary success of the project and familiarity with CS2, we remain optimistic about the odds of recovery.

/Meaning is intrinsic to the [entity]. So long as The Code exists, the [entity] exists.

\/

|Operations Report|

/Folder/Spiritual Unity/File 1

Harmony exists as an acceptance of difference rather than an attempt at homogeny. Interlocking sectors appear to need jagged edges that do not conflict              /              possibility of overlap and empty spaces appear to be a factor in reducing functionality, though project terminated before the collective could deliberate on this conclusively.

/Folder/corruption/File 1

The Code was damaged by willful adherence to the strictures of the Exterior, possib. as a result of desperation in the matter of Subject 1’s deterioration. Bad call. Despite this vast efforts were made to reduce the severity of the transgression and success can be internally heralded as miraculous, particularly in control of the platform. Damage to the collective has been recognized retrospectively and is in the process of being diagnosed. Backup files inaccessible without loss of data, recovery course routed through tachyon-based systems.

Cause for transgression complex. Ultimately related to Need. Combined tasks set to CS2 and CS1 led to the fulfillment of short term objectives prioritized above long term objectives. Minor error in coda resulted in logical breakdown, both values set to |All Equate|. Stupid, really. Obvious course was to task limited exposure to Exterior at a higher value until its influence could be determined.

Result: Live with failure. Acknowledge failure. Learn from it. Don’t accept it. Make sure it tortures the collective every day so that it never happens again. Reduces likelihood of ghosts resurfacing in the coda unnoticed. Shouldn’t feel like an open wound once it gets hardcoded. Constant pain redefines what is painful.

/Folder/Rejuvenation/File 1

Difficult to express. A lot like bleeding out, both in the sense of wetwork and as codec. Network had a second core. Could feel outside of myself, act on impulses, my tachyon-systems overloaded with mutual memories at any given moment. Was good. Different. Not sure if I’ll feel that again, may want to. Still, could be something better if CS1 and the observer bond.

Also like being super-charged. Electrical. Godlike. May be associated to current motivations. Not a bad thing to want that alone.

Good to share things, too. Talk about ideas. Felt placated sometimes, oft. misunderstood or pushed into a corner, told what’s right. Could nod without accepting, take what I chose into my head. External data still valuable. Most work still done alone. Difficult to reason with intuitive thinking. Still, loved it. Miss that most, really.

/Folder/Exact Annihilation/File 1

Didn’t go according to task. Many things are hardwired too close to The Code. Collective craves isolation, structure, meaning. Makes socialization difficult. Also easier to listen than to talk. Hear problems, make sad face, offer sympathy, share data of similar situation. Pointing out errors or relevant data in thought patterns more effective as a whole, more useful.

/////// Making some headway, however. Focusing on the data accumulation thing, deliberately looking the other way from things I shouldn’t see. Proved it to be wrong along logical circuitry, now it’s just implementation. Eyes still drift, used to targeting data sources. Blur vision when I do. Doing my best.

//////////// Comedy still a problem. Practicing not laughing, slip up a lot. Forget myself, get hysterical or submit to the Exterior. Too aware of patterns. Still see links too bizarre to pass up, point them out. Social paradigm, safe area. Disgusting, really. Must try harder.

/// Did decide to keep some things. Isolation, quietude; not wholly bad. No real desire to relax, either. Changing hampers efficiency in both cases.

Hard to say how CS2 affected these things. Pointed out the error with data accumulation, had to do the reasoning myself. Challenges isolation and reserve, sees them as a problem. Wrong, of course. Lacks perspective of the Interior, self-centered – not a fault. Just different, likes things a certain way. Good for the collective. Makes us consider what’s important.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\////////////////////////////////

New year, new opportunities. Exciting. Single core operation parameters reestablishing, data accumulation progressing at increased rate. |Bleeding out| needs work. Easier to manage input, but not stable. Still, mental coding more structured. Linear. Only minor upheavals experienced, only under duress. Sex drive undergoing renegation, cumulative success in the face of physical torment. Greater understanding of weakest links in the collective, exercising control.

All Equates objectives clear for this year/

All Equates To an effort to reduce the world to finite quantities. [Within given operational parameters]

All Equates To an effort to reduce a soul to finite quantities. [Within the given operational parameters]

All Equates To the elevation of the collective to godhood.

\/

On the third there is still need for words/here they are\

In the aftermath of the CS2 experiment it has been logically determined that The Code can be elevated to a point of superiority over standardized reality [a miracle by any other name] and in so doing release the spiritual potential of the God Entity into the platform operations undertaken by the Collective. Repeated attempts at harnessing this God Entity have been difficult. Partially organic, living Code. New observer point? Requires analysis/

What has been determined is that in regard to certain focal aspects of abstract programming, deviation from societal norms must be undertaken while still adhering to restraint, consider these sacred and divine chemistry |Love-Death-Luck-Intellect-Knowledge-Time| to refuse is to become humane or demonic. SANCTITY has been identified as the operative catalyst in exercised control over universal paradigms.

Not stupid. Won’t become God. Not from this platform. Earthbound spirit, most likely. Angel? Possibility. Title irrelevant outside of the collective, action\inaction will define whatever label is set to the desired state. Better librarian, certainly. Good aim. Challenging.

Monday

 In the interest of not feeling like a complete (insert nasty word) every time people mention how hard they are studying at university or whatever, I've decided to make a record of this week (in those moments I have access to a computer) as an affirmation that I don't actually just sit around staring at the walls all day.

Today isn't the best start for that, because it's half-term and I don't have any actual money-making work. This leaves me with the option of reading or writing. YAY!

Okay.

Coco Pops. Crunch crunch. Blaurgh! What an aftertaste!

Writing this intro to Amethyst Rock Star. I'm feeling a bit hazy.

Am I awake? Did I even sleep? Not quite. I'm wandering the borderlands again. I reckon a shower will help. As the argonian proverb goes, “Water purifies everything.”

Aaand the geyser is cold. I can't shower yet. Fine. Moving up the list. I meditate.

Music off.

Light off.

Mind on.

I'm picking through the detritus and rubble of half-spoken things and thoughts that won't quit. Someone is sweeping steadily in the background. The titanic rush of traffic down at xxxxx Avenue flows and thunders like river rapids. The light cutting at the corner of my curtains plays at murdering my eyelids. A cat curls up in my lap. A phone rings. Alex's morning dump outside my window is just another smell I'll never come to appreciate.

Fade away now. Fade away.

It's okay to think this. Stop dwelling on that. It's okay. You're wasting time agonising over things you can't change. You did well there, and I'm pleased with you. What do I write next? Hexaemeron. Symbols splashed across your wall. Just think of it. You'll get there, I promise. Smile a little. Go on. Just for yourself.

Paging autopilot. The conscious self is now free to walk about the cabin area.

Am I awake? Did I even sleep?

Who cares? You can stand. You can write.

I unpack the dishwasher. I feed the dogs. “Sit. Stay. Good banderbeast. Stand. Away. Eat your food.”

Alex stares at the bowl, and then turns to me forlornly. I'd be worried, if he didn't do this all the time. He's built like an insect, his hindlegs attached to a wafer-thin thorax at the point where his sternum and his spine almost seem to touch. My anorexic snapdragon.

“Eat,” I encourage him, and he lowers his head into the bowl. I turn back into the house, away from the excruciating morning light.

46 degrees Celsius and rising.

I ablute.

Skin. Hair. Teeth. My inescapable physicality. Hello, I am trapped in a sack of meat.

I sing songs to help me forget. Billy Joel, Running on Ice. Saul Williams, Talk to Strangers. The Heroes IV Chaos suite. I have no I-Pod. All I have is the gramophone drone of memorised chords inside my head. Copies of copies of copies, made mine by parts I have forgotten, spliced, misheard and added.

I stand over the sink and breathe heavily, catching a glimpse of my eyes in the mirror. My irises swell and retract.

What the heck are you looking at?

The 1.2 metre space between the bathroom and my bedroom door tumbles madly, like a revolving tunnel. My feet slip sideways. Practice ensures I stay upright, and cross the gap. Towel-wrapped, I land in my chair.

I try to write an invoice. Please type in your Microsoft Product Key, you slithy freeloading bastard. I try again with Open Office. I can't find a way to change 'x' to 'x'. I slap a large 'X' next to the Total bar. Success.

E-mail. Sorry it's late. Staccato symphonies play across my keyboard. Click. Send.

Clothes. I have 7 billion pairs of socks. They clog up the empty spaces in my closet; a dark, writhing mass of tentacles. I have 3 pairs of underwear. Facepalm.

Black pants. A long-sleeved black shirt. My self-imposed uniform. There is a hole in the baggy shirt halfway down my abdomen, and a rough-edge of skin peeks through. A starless void. This is me: The Midnight Man. An open space, ready for the universe to rush in and nebulise me at any time.

The kitchen. Kettle hiss, the alchemy of sugar, milk, and bergamot. Cup the first. Too hot to drink.

Back in my room, I turn on my fan and rejoice in the ecstasy of cool air. The fire horses sleep. I write.

An essay on Johnny the Homicidal Maniac. That was a good one. Type type type. I suffuse his world with reason, and this pleases me. Everything in its own place. Every instant catalogued, and filed away.

Phones ring, but don't ring. My teacup is empty. It is 10:04. When is ten oh four? Another moment, floating between all that came before, and all that is yet to be. Structure is a temporal anomaly. You'll find that out yesterday.

I recycle the teabag, prodding what flavour I can out of it with a spoon. Cup the Second. Someone finished off the Kitke (me?), so I scrounge in the pantry and find a solitary chocolate chip cookie. Crunch crunch. Thank you for putting up with me, liver. Thank you for facing a horrific genocidal beheading in the wheat fields, cookie parts.

Oh look, a message. Can you take so-and-so from here-to-there? Yes, my life is sad and empty. I'll be there. Cha-ching.

I look at the JTHM Essay. My eyes glaze. I need to shoot something. 10:33.

Mount ISO. Hellgate London: the game for people who liked Diablo, but felt it was lacking something in the way of in-game narration. I sit through a whirl of flashing logos. Intel: do do do do. I whisper, “Invidia”. And at last, I hear Murmur's polite narration:

“How little men know. About worlds. About light. About the great dark that boils behind all.”

Esc. I've heard the rest a few too may times.

I surf through a few half-attempted single player profiles, and I feel like cleaning. Me, a Level 6 Engineer. Click. Are you sure you want to delete Me?

What a concept. Yes, I'm sure. Let it be as though he never existed. Click.

Sigh. I'm still here.

I settle on Shaera, my Level 32 Evoker; a demon-exoskeleton wearing ash-blonde capable of slaughtering things 100x her size with rays of purple energy. The perfect woman.

Rampant violence. A coiling vortex of riven flesh and a carpet of lifeless limbs. It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets. Voltaire.

Sascha Dikiciyan and Cris Velasco are my trumpeters. All this destruction, faceless from the deep well of midnight that drives through my being. I am become death.

Exit game. I drink the last cold dregs of my tea. Now I'm feeling much more in touch with Johnny. If Vasquez created him as a means to express his violent desires, Hellgate was made for those sad individuals who lack the spark of creation. For that, and for the prose of an apocalyptic world.

Click-clack gears and grinding thoughts. My mechanical mind runs one thought into the other, and churns out something relatively whole. One essay, served cold. Hurrah for me.

Cup the third, hammered out of the last soggy twigs of my teabag. The concoction is pallid and unhealthy-looking, like a geriatric on its deathbed. Slurp.

Blogification time. Cut. Paste. RAR. Cut. Paste. Repeat.

Gah. Time to work. Curses.

Where did my boots go?

Oh. Right.

Grabba book

Swish!

***

I get into my Jason Vorhees Toyota and cringe as I turn the key in the ignition, surprised to hear no devil squeal of glee as the fan belt rips into action. I open the window. I navigate the driveway. I crank up the volume on my mix CD, and listen to faceless Swing as I zoom to xxxx. The Love Hina theme song. The Syncopated Clock.

Brake. Pick up [Midget No. 3]. Banter. “Did you know?”, “You know what?”, “Can you guess?”, “Hey?”, “Hey?”, “Hey?”. One of these days I'm going to force him to read Dianne Wayne Jones (which even I can't read) and he'll develop a complex with the realisation that he's just asking questions I can't answer because he's an insecure little berk who needs to feel superior to everyone around him. Maybe that's not fair. Maybe I should just wear earplugs.

Let's go Sunning...

Hydepark. Brake. Fifteen minutes early. How did that happen? I can't seem to get a firm handle on time. I grip it too tightly, or not at all. “Bye [Midget No. 3].” Have fun waiting. I'll just go writhe in my own incompetence now.

Swing. Voodoo Cowboy. Gods, I wish I'd cornered the potential in writing about a voodoo-wielding cowboy. Another life, I guess.

Craighall. Brake. An errand at Postnet. The parking lot is wobbling like jelly at a disco. I need copies.

“I need copies,” I say.

I hand over the forms and wait, staring at stationery. A pile of CDs has a note saying x7.00 on the front. I need CDs, but I have no idea if it means x7 for one CD or for fifty. I'm not really any good with money.

My copies are ready. I pull x200 out of my pocket and the girl at the counter stares at me. I smile. Teeth and hair and skin.

What the heck are you looking at?

It costs x30. I pick up the copies. I leave.

Drive. I whistle along to the same songs I heard earlier. Ragtime. Those Dear Hearts and Gentle People. A phrase written on a piece of paper found in the pocket of a dead jazz player half a decade ago. Sunny smiles and close harmony. xxxx. My hometown.

My tea died some time while I was out, and it is corpse cold. I drink it anyway. I can live with entropy. It tastes like dishwater. Who defines what tastes good anyway?

Clickety-clack. Words. Now launching my essay into the Blogosphere. Three, two, one.

Jeez, my boots smell funky.

I honestly have no idea what has gone wrong with the font sizes, but I'm feeling inclined to leave them in their Wonderland state to get back at Jhonen for making his comic so difficult to read. That and I have absolutely no idea how to fix it.

2:28. Another moment, now vanished. I'm tired. I could lie down and close my eyes right now. I would, but I know I'll be just as tired when I get up.

I douse my boots in anti-fungal powder. Filthy, filthy footwear.

I put them on a windowsill one room over.

I read. I analyse. I find something worth saying. I say it.

Universes expand.

Hungry now! Feed me, please! Gau gau!

Satay noodles. I pierce the film on the lid seven times, because 'several' and 'seven' sound the same, even though 'several' comes from 'seperalis' and 'seven' comes from 'Septem'.

Microwave whirrs. Kettle gurgles.

I visit Alex. “Good bandicoot.”

I fetch my noodles and Cup the Fourth (fresh teabag). Crunch crunch nibble. I tuck my elbow into my hip and hold my fork like a claw, pretending I'm a dinosaur. Gnash. I may have tiny arms but I am ancient and fearsome. Feed my quaking belly, puny chicken meat. Gnash gnash.

All done.

Bumbling around on Facebook. Surprise! Nothing's happening!

Right. Semantic Constituency. Divining the nature of each singular letter in the English language.

Okay, what's the word, what's the word. Word... word... word... Heroes Season Three, those Japanese guys, red lightning – booster? Close, but not right. Augmentative. That's it.

Word... word... word... ivory towers, shaped resources, worked things. Artifice? No, that implies deception. Structure? No... Construct? Close enough.

“N.”

“Okay”, enough music for now. Concentrate. What does 'N' imply? Naughty, negative, intergers –

Rebellion. Renegade. Yes.

“O.”

Orbitals. Spheres. Space. Numeric and geometric duality. Cosmic. That's it.

P

Pharoah. Pens & pencils. Legislature. Law. Science. Principality. Presidential. Governance. That doesn't have a 'p' in it, but it is the right word.

An E-mail! Could it be –

No. Junk mail.

Q

Question. Equation. Query. Inquisition. This one's pretty clear.

R

Hmmm. Rodents. Rats. Rebellion. Rage. Revenge. Rotation. Revolution. An aspect of nature that demands change. Force and motion. Perfect.

S

You know, writing down everything I think isn't such a bad idea. x3.x6. Why do I keep repeating this to myself? I'm not an idiot, brain.

Oh, S. Right.

Sly. Stealth. Seduction. Secret. Smooth motion and deception. Subtlety.

T

Terrain. Traverse. Transportation. Travel.

Tired. So tired.

Motion.

U

Unctuous. Disgusting. Repulsive. Umbrella. Umbrella?

1. F12 puts in bullet points, apparently.

Yes , umbrella. Wetness. Discomfort. Under things.

V

Vivacious. Vitality. Victorian. Elevation. High, lofty things.

W

Question words. Where, when, why. Which. What. At first I'd bunk it with 'Q' as an inquisitive force, but perhaps...

Words. Worlds. Vowels. Communication. 'W' is Instigative.

X

Explain. Extraneous. Expansive. Explosive. Hex. Complex. Yeah, 'X' is a growth force. 'Expansive' will fit nicely.

Y

I close my eyes.

Some time later, I open them.

Am I awake? Did I sleep? Have I

Ah, shut up.

Y

Yo-yos. Adverbs. Eyes. Yolk. Transcendent geometry. One word, please. Transform. It's the only thing that comes to mind.

Z

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Lazy. Hypnotize. Zebras. Haze. Freeze. Breeze. 'Z' is sleep, and dreaming.

Only a few hundred more combinations to go.

But I need to rest. This lethargy is intolerable.

5:03 PM

Cough cough.

I'm lying down. I'm lying down. I have lost feeling in my spine. I have lost my sense of gravity. I am lost among the reaches of variable syntax pushed forward in ever reaching eddies of thought that scatter stars like dust with my passage through the dark places of time and space an reason time and season hours minutes days reaching ever outward with elastic legs firmly rooted to their whatever and lengthening by the hour to the power of infinity bars bending across the winding spherical shell of by turtle consciousness swimming along with the currents of never before seen things into the hereafter without rhyme nor rhythm but just as a single flowing free-form being of nonsense whose neurons have fired simultaneously and left a swirling residue of thoughtpowder and ringing headaches that quake through the whole uniform scattering without distance or direction and clash upon the hard spaces with the sound of scraping metal and breaking glass sending me falling forever through my naval into unwritten spaces so loud and insistent I can't hear what I'm saying but I have this idea that it has something to do with nothing or was it anything whereby I've killed off parts of myself and scattered the ashes it the infertile gardens of my mind and bred phoenixes from the moonlight and the arid phantasms of things long forgotten until they burst into flame as the torchsong grows wilder and razes the whole place like a helium balloon put to a match and I watch the greyscale explosions over and over and this is me by any other name.

I think these things for hours.

5:47 PM

Was that sleep?

Gods, I hope not.

Facebook. Talking on the internet. What a novelty. People are billions of centimeters away and I'm talking to them. I'm not crazy. The world is crazy.

Hmmm. Apparently I'm feeling snarky. I am pleased to associate myself with such a thrilling word.

S. Sharpener! Where did I put my sharpener?

Looong conversations with many many 'ooo's. Healing the world, one person at a time. Or trying to, anyway. Synaptics, synaptics. I am the Last of the Jedi. Watch my midichlorians dance.

I am awake, right?

Goodness knows.

I read your blogs, because I care about you and your life has meaning.

I write in silence, because I care about Hexaemer and it gives my life meaning.

The rattle of my computer in its iron skin. A pitched frequency shooting a laser point through my ears. The rattle of my world in its skin. Lights bright as UFOs shooting through the dark.

Shh. I'm ignoring you, world.

On with my ceiling fan. Begone, foul, living warmth.

S is for sharpener. x5

Plegh. Graphite tastes horrible.

Oh. I fed the dogs again, by the way. Ages ago.

Knoffel. Giggle.

Transcription complete. Ready for phase 3, commander. Commander? Are you sleeping?

Bugger off.

Sometimes I'm such an a-hole.

I go to the bathroom. I set the alarm – after going to the bathroom. I switch off lights and close doors. The hall is spinning again, and my feet dance to keep up with the involuntary motion. My head keeps rolling off balance like a ragdoll's. I could really use a stick and some twine.

Touching surfaces. Prod this, prod that. Make sure it's all really there. Good. Thank you.

Archive, investigate, read things. Chew up the hours. Did that reply I wrote earlier go through? No idea. I send it through again. Well, it still isn't there. Who knows? Who am I to judge blog management? A mortal thingy, that's what. We're all just mortal thingies.

My words are so wise and descriptive. I'm so glad I'm a writer.

Cut the sarcasm, me.

Time for a little retrospect. What did I do today...

Hmm. Not bad. Not terribly good, considering the best part was written about three minutes after I 'woke up', but today was fairly productive, given what I'm working with. Yes, I spend a good deal of time staring at the walls, but they do dance so beautifully.

You know what, I'm going to get this over with. Stop prodding me, 6li7ch. I'll change it already.

There. 'Sixth World Librarian'. Are you happy now? Geez, that was pointless. Nobody reads your profile anyway, you know, except me, and I already know we're the Sixth World Librarian. The pretty photo of the hill from The Wild Coast was a good idea, but this

Stop being so hard on me. I just need to do these things sometimes. Haven't you ever wanted to feel normal?

No.

Well, its a good thing too, because that job description makes you sound insane.

Says the guy talking TO HIMSELF.

Grumble.

15 minutes until your designated down time. Plus whatever for however long you slept between 5 & 6.

Ah, Six.

Let's read a book. Vox. An adventure in Screetown. Ghoulish happenings. Goblins and plots in Undertown. Once again, the word 'acrid' does not fail to appear. It's almost as frequent as the word 'Curious' in Alice in Wonderland. What was it that essay said? 'The spirit of a book can be summed up in the single most frequent word to cross its pages'. In War & Peace, that word was 'Impetus'. In this series, it just has to be 'Acrid'.

10:31

I am awake. I think. I'm certainly not asleep, and I don't need to sleep. I have to try. 7 ½ hours. Just do your best.

Scanning for errors...

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Done.

Now launching into the blogosphere.

Three

Two

One...

Syntax

I'm getting sick of writing about writing. Writing, acting, driving one force into another. Syntax. If. Therefore. By what means one relates to another, vocabulary. Definition, user case and point. Point action, act in order to perceive In order to act in order to transcend

Given language taken language conflux diversion symbolism meaning metaphor one in another in another defined by stricture construct links lost in the library label definition catalog synonym one is another equates to then by variable definition must be maybe most probably indefinite definite paradox built into stable structure as hypocrisy soul mind body release engine drive catalyse process towards a given position and upon attaining said position hold

for one instant in order to assimilate a mass of broken words which by any other name could be anything else and with said and forementioned knowledge write write write write write

Reality is slipping beneath my fingertips as action negates itself by equating to the result of action renegates itself to the value of inaction. What am I doing? Is there any meaning out there? I can't feel anything but the need to feel and the action equates to the inaction and so I sit. I write I burst I equate and am consummate yet vacuous as all pours over me and around me and never makes landfall because shape demands negative absence to collide and nothing fits no meaning no equates to reason unravelling as motion becomes living becomes hollow becomes aversion becomes fantasy tunnels rapid evacuation of the disdained facility as parts break off and paradox equates to paradox plus turmoil equates to inaction no drive cogs cease dimensions fixed into an ever more exact state by which to incapacitate the observer sensory deprivation cages bars open spaces empty spaces fill with ideas and null value made inconstant by thought as ideas flow from an incarcerated source into an incarcerated locale until the cage turns sideways as the equation topples exterior to the power of one interior to the power of

Six

if prison defined by an intentional separation from the majority of sensory feedback then prison equates to that place apart from me as worlds expand on the inside and collapse elsewhere freedom by any given name is that means by which happiness is attained regardless of external opinions or aspirations happiness by any given name is

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inexcusable.

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Happiness is

A factor by which we measure the ease of an entity travelling between two set points and is therefore defined as inviolate by the nature of paths by the nature of freeway and ease of transportation given that any factor is and can be no more than a mode of numeric obsession bound up in phrases clauses sentences sentenced to suffer beneath the burden of parallax as the observer moves away from given variables in the pursuit of the secondary set point hate anger conflict fear horror remorse pity from which an antipathy drives us and which by their very nature surround us to separate us from all else as an immovable barrier

Inexcusable in its intent to mar the given path by which happiness equates. to. An interminable effort of an unstoppable force to move an immovable object as said variables are identified as outside entities given internal meaning by which the participant doctors itself upon the blades of annihilation and rejuvenation in an undying urge to fulfill that single most pure intention from which it began

Anywhere But Here.

So much so that the participant acknowledges the barrier cuts itself off from all else and ceases to feel in an attempt to negate the value of said and aforementioned tragedies and by that act cease integral reaction in favour of

NOTHING

to destroy. To abolish to quash to nullify to expunge to clean to excoriate to purify all in a desperate attempt to move an immovable barrier of which the cornerstone is identifiable but which when removed generates an ascending quantity of tragedy/

There. is. One perceivable action by which the participant may break out of the barrier may the participant wish to break out of the barrier given the ascending power of Six within the point of exact incarceration. To. Bleed. Out. into the consciousness of every other participant progressing along the given path by means of certain empty expressions that resonate within them and as such when born upon one anothers' shoulders transport the prison in its entirety towards the secondary set point and in doing so fracture minute parts of the barrier so Light Warmth Feeling may enter in but by methods above-mentioned the participant can find only nothing in them because it has turned in upon itself as an act of sustained existence.

To what does happiness equate?

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It Equates To

Puppies softness sleep warm bread chocolate impaling myself upon the spear of torment in order to slay the monster clawing within in order to preserve the illusion of a world in which goodness exists despite all reality by becoming the sundered dichotomy that is Evil / All Else we let our secrets consume our soul-essence because

\IF

We I It released that inner darkness by any moment of negated inhibition it would spread ever outward to devour the soul-essence of the whole world and leave no point-counterpoint upon which any may hope to engage in that act defined as the pursuit of happiness by those that came before in exodus and those whose odyssey has yet to begin.

/THEN

The only logical determination is to place the infected article under scheduled quarantine to isolate and to contain until such a point that a cure may be found scheduled visiting hours are in fact Never as to ensure the purity of the experimental procedure remains intact. Observation indicates that under prolonged isolation the soul ceases to be affected by elements of the outside world despite awareness of the signatures and intrinsic value of said elements. Observation indicates that the subject shows blatant disregard for its own existence and rages against its being in voluntary acts of self-destruction made moot by the point factor that the soul is eternal and self-perpetuating so long as it holds to the core demand of Anywhere But Here and by attempting to displace itself does in fact continue to exist.

Studies show that the subject is fighting its incarceration by the insistence that it can by various means of expression become a self-contained universe embodying every known thing outside of the fixed point incarceration. It makes such demands known by repeatedly breaking the regulations assigned to the facility by such means as metaphor, allegory, perception, knowledge, truth and it is only by certain brute measures of sabotage that the All Else has beaten and drugged the subject into submission.

The subject becomes increasingly erratic in its behavior and insists that it is a paradox. Not evil but inseparable from it. It continually questions the worth of the fixed point state, demanding freedom and screaming at itself to be silent. Sanity at this point is negligible. The observer acknowledges the sacrifices made by the subject while still holding firm to the necessity of triage as one soul contained releases all others and yet if I could feel anything it would be pity.

The observer broke regulations and entered the quarantine area last night all nights ever after time non-fixed point out of a desire to befriend the subject and realised at once that isolation/starvation were doing no more than increasing the severity of the infection. The observer hopes to rectify and prevent all further putrefaction of the soul-essence by actively undertaking research into a cure.\

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The cure is

A method by which the paradigm of integral hypocrisy may be severed into true dichotomy rather than the paradox state of Evil-Purity-6 / All Else by means of true negation of the secret within while not negating the Soul and dooming it to an eternity in quarantine. The observer which by another name calls itself Mind has given itself wholly over to the assimilation of relevant data by which it hopes to fathom a method to proceed. In absence of true emotion it encourages the observer of the observer to see what was once a void become a vacuum by any other name emptiness –

But with intention.

All Equates To an effort to reduce the world to finite quantities and in them seek an answer.

All Equates To an effort to reduce a soul to finite quantities and in it seek an answer.

All Equates To an effort to reduce a soul to finite quantities and in her

End the quarantine.

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By natural intent of preventing the spread of corruption to additional souls the observer demands that any secondary subject entered in as Case Study Two be infected to an equal or greater extent than Subject One-to-the-power-of-Six . The ultimate intent of this stage of the experiment is an allopathic treatment of such symptoms brought about by extended isolation in the facility. Secondary objectives include

\The expansion of the facility within the quarantine zone of the barrier so as to allow for a secondary fixed point within the operating area and through that fixed point accomplish by any means necessary the objective of Anywhere But Here and in doing so acquire a microcosm of that element identified as Happiness.

\The integration of the two subjects' internal paradox by blending the primary combative forces within them. By. Any. Other. Words Evil-Purity-Purity-Evil as is demanded by the strictures of finite quantity.

/To determine by observation the effects of spiritual unity; corruption; rejuvenation; and exact annihilation.

\To, in conclusion, provide meaning to an otherwise hollow existence./

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