Framework for the perfect conversation with a stranger

Hello.

Hello.

My name is (x)

My name is yyyyy zzzzz.

What?

(slower) yyyyyyy

Oh! Hi!

Hello.

So what do you do yyyyy?

I am a writer. Fantasy and science fiction. Unpublished, I make money elsewhere. And you?

I'm an (x).

Oh? (Possible general knowledge related inquiry) / That must be fun. You enjoy it?

(Answer)

Okay.

You have an accent! Where are you from?

zzzzz. But I grew up in The City. Since I was two, I went back briefly,  but I've always had the accent. Yes, it's weird.

Oh. Wow.
It's so cold / hot! Aren't you cold / hot?

Are you seriously talking to me about the weather?

Um... maybe?

Look, I'm not going to die of cold / heat and neither are you. Yes, the weather will change and we can most make educated guesses about when that will happen. But it doesn't matter. The chances are it will be uncomfortable and both of us will survive it.

That's... true.

So now that that's been covered, how about we talk about something with some actual substance?

(Runs away screaming) / Err... okay?

What kind of soul are you?

Excuse me?

What kind of soul are you? What do you call yourself that best describes who you are?

I don't know. I guess I've never really thought about it.

You can think about it now, if you like.

I'm not sure I understand the question. I mean, I'm me.

Of course you are, but the idea of you isn't necessarily restricted to the time and space in which you live. I mean, here and now you are (x) the (x), but if you lived in a fantasy world, maybe you'd be a warrior or a wizard. Or if you lived in the future you could be a robot or an alien. And maybe when you look at yourself and ask, am I an (x) more than I'm a cyborg, the answer is that you're more of a cyborg, but you're living in a time and space where that's physically impossible, but not spiritually impossible.

I think I get it...

So what are you?

I don't really know. What are you?

I'm a voodoo cowboy.

A voodoo cowboy?

Yes.

What's that?

Someone who sees ghosts. Someone who likes to be a hero, but struggles to be one in a world where outlaws look much the same as the lawkeepers. Someone who fights things that aren't even real to other people.

You see ghosts?

I see emotions. I see people who act like zombies. I fight with my mind all the time. And I'm always on the edge of where everyone else is, walking into the sunset.

I can tell why you're a writer.

Can you? But the Voodoo Cowboy isn't the writer. When I write, I'm the Sixth World Librarian.

Wait - what?

I'm not only a soul, and I don't write with my soul. No more than you (x) with your soul. You (x) with your mind. My soul is the Voodoo Cowboy. My mind is The Sixth World Librarian.

But how does that work? Aren't your soul and your mind the same?

No.

But if not, then how does your soul think?

A soul doesn't think. A soul feels.

Oh. I guess.

Do you know what you are yet?

Uh... no.

Don't you think it's something you should know?

Wait. I mean, I know, I just don't have words for it like that. It isn't that simple.

Isn't it?

No! I mean people aren't just two words like that, people change and grow, the way they feel changes. That's how it works.

It isn't how I work.

But you change your mind, don't you? You can fall in and out of love, or sometimes when you get to know someone you like them more or less than when you started. You can love a song until it gets stuck in your head, and then it annoys you and you can't listen to it ever again.

I change my mind, yes, but just my mind. The way I think about things. Not the way I feel about them. If I love a song once, I will always love it. People too. If I don't like a person when I meet them, we will never connect through anything without dislike. I may spend time around them. I may devote time to thinking about what makes them, and how to understand them, but that initial feeling never goes away. Souls are immortal, aren't they?

Yes. But immortal and unchanging aren't the same.

They are. Change is death. You kill who you are to become something else. Don't tell yourself any different.

That's kind of harsh.

I'm a harsh kind of cowboy.

I still think you're wrong. I'm not one thing like that.

That's okay. You don't have to be. But it must be difficult, not knowing who you are from moment to moment.

I kind of want to hit you. It's like you're insulting me.

I've just agreed with you.

You've just tolerated me. That's different.

Is it?

Yes! Because you still think I'm wrong. You think I'm less than you are.

That's quite an awful lot to think. I've just met you. And for the most part I've been concentrating very hard on me and what I've been saying.

But it doesn't even matter to you. Nothing I do, because you already know how you feel about me. Didn't you just say that?

I did. And it doesn't. But why are you so concerned about what I feel?

Because that's how it works! People are supposed to find things they like about one another. They're supposed to talk about things they have in common. They're supposed to find people they like, and who like them. Otherwise they're just...

Some quiet guy who sits in the corner, waiting for cues?

Yes! And that's what you are!

And what's wrong with knowing what I like?

Because you don't really! I mean, people aren't what they appear to be when you first meet them. Some people don't make the best first impressions, and other people lie to make themselves seem nicer than they really are. If you don't talk to them, if you don't find out, it's like they're empty. And you're filling them up with the ideas in your head. But none of it's real. You're just projecting yourself on to them.

I like my own company.

But that's selfish. It doesn't benefit anyone.

It benefits me.

How?

It gives me time to think more. And time to observe. You're right, people do live to make first impressions, and try to control every impression that comes later. Talking to them is what gives them a chance to do that. I want to see what people really are, so I make them feel alone. Seeing them alone isn't really seeing 'them', but it makes them drop pretense. It's a start. Talking comes later.

You're talking to me now.

You tried to talk to me about the weather. It was a point of desperation.

So you'd prefer not talking to me?

No. This has been quite pleasant. I like to talk about things that matter. Not flavors or likes or anecdotes, though some stories can be good - not even books, or movies. I want to talk about ideas. About how spirituality is like quantum physics. How music isn't just one language, but loads of them. I want to talk about all your thoughts on (x)ing, why you chose it to be one of the largest parts of your life. I want to talk about what souls are and what art is and how to make the world better.

So why don't you?

I get there and I just... can't. I'm not shy. I'm quite articulate when I need to be. But something else stops me. It's reality, I think. Everything is so much better in my head. More alive, more focused, more vital. And then I open my eyes and everything is ordinary. It's small and proper, locked in place by a million laws, like planets whose orbits feel no shock but slow entropy. And the energy, the sheer effort of bridging that gap and moving the heavens makes me shaky and tired. And then I think I don't really need that. Everything I really want is already right here in my head. So I sit. And I think. And when it's too much to contain, I write. And I think that's sad, but I get by. And I think to myself, 'maybe next time.'

But you're doing it now, aren't you? Talking to me is how you want to talk to everybody. So you've done it.

I haven't. You're too perfect. I know you aren't real, stranger. You're just another way to pass the time inside my head while everyone's talking about bands and being drunk and how they're doing in school.

Wait - I'm not real?

Nope. Sorry.

I'm not quite sure how I feel about that.

It's a good thing. Being surreal is so much better. As I told you, it's better in my head than anywhere else.

But I want to be real.

I want you to be real too. I'll keep trying, I promise. Whenever I have the will, whenever I have the energy. Some people are like conductors, and it's easier to connect with them. But it's the other ones I worry about. Because I want to push them out of alignment most of all.

Maybe next time.

Maybe next time.

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...

/

\

/

Done.

Now launching into the blogosphere.

Three

Two

One...

Why did I name the previous post 'Protocol'?

Firstly, because I really like the word. I like several unusual words - and unfortunately many very long ones - like, 'inchoate', 'indigestible', 'demographic' and 'visceral'. This is officially termed a 'lexicon' (another favourite) which means a series of words a specific writer commonly uses. Now I know what you're thinking; inchoate is a easy enough word to slip into a conversation, (ha ha, you so weren't thinking that) but generally people would have trouble with 'visceral' outside of an insult or a romantic confession (I really dare you to tell your boyfriend he invokes a visceral reaction in you). Somehow, I manage it. People don't tend to talk to me for more than a few seconds after I explete the first pernicious conglomerate of striking syllables, probably because it's an intimidating habit. I also suffer the opposite; when I'm not so loose-lipped I transform into a grunting troglodyte who oozes vibes that could make Bambi cry.

Plegh. Enough of my self pity for now.

I'm pretty sure that when I named the post 'Protocol' I was thinking "the standard thing to do right now is to say who I am and give an idea of what this blogs about and (water) just be honest really thats what this is all about so make people feel at home and make them like you stop caring if no one will read this is you make just one person happy it will be worth a million words"
You will have noticed two things from the above:

• I do not punctuate my thoughts. There is just a long rambling line of stuff that crashes around the infinity between my eyebrows and my scalp. If there could be any punctuation mark I could inject it would be the ellipsis (...) because the ellipsis never signifies an end, simply a... continuation of thought with a random pause. Hmm... I wonder what really fills the space above those three dots in my mind?
• I think in very small words. Most of the time, anyway, and only in passive thought. Active thoughts demand I slow down, extrapolate my verbosity, enunciate and punctuate every neuron. I guess that I should find some way to think at a comfortable median, and if any Buddhas are reading this blog, I invite you to tell me how.

I guess that in this instance 'Protocol' simply meant I was doing what I believed I should do to make a blog that seems blog-like. Critics will say, "No true art follows protocol", to which I will reply either, "GRUNT," or "I understand. You mean to proclaim that all artistic endeavor springs from an individual mind that cannot be inhibited by external viewpoints. I disagree, as art relies on perception, and perception will always hold an infinite number of diverse external viewpoints. Individual thought, under consideration, does not exist in a boundless universe. There is only Idea, and art is a manifestation of Idea."

(Slipping into a readable debate format)

Critic: Yes, naturally all art is centred around Idea, but it is the individual take on an Idea that makes the art art. Two men see a cow differently, but the Idea is still a cow. Picasso and Dali could both paint a cow, but their work would not be considered identical.

Avatar (You're really going to love this): I concede, description is the root of all individuality, but you must also consider the nature of the subject. A cow, by common description, is a four-stomached, mammalian, herbivorous quadruped. This is the Idea; the rule on which all variations of the cow spread. Picasso then says that the cow's dimensions are flat, desecrating one of the fundamental attributes of the Idea. Dali paints the cow with a curly moustache, annihilating another sacred tenet of Cow. Individuality demands the alteration of the original Idea.

Now I'm going to revert to my old friend philosophy to ask a personally variant question. What says that Cow as a four-stomached, mammalian, herbivorous quadruped was the original Idea?

Critic: A bloody wellspring of religious warfare lay claim to the answer. By common terms, the thing that names the Idea of cow as a four-stomached, mammalian, herbivorous quadruped is none other than God.

Avatar: Pass the man a banana! The answer is indeed the shimmering protector of Earth, or if it pleases you, giant lizards, machines, The Force, and the heroes of other argumentative religious factions. Or science, for the god damned atheists.

So this Creator invented the basis for all interpretations of his Idea, but we have to admit that his Idea of a cow as a four-stomached, mammalian, herbivorous quadruped is immutably his interpretation of his own thoughts. The only thing that makes people insist that he did not colour the cow with his own fancy is that he created the Idea of Cow rather than corrupting it.

Next I have to point out that God did not make a cow with a moustache. Dali is the creator of the mustachioed cow, just as Picasso is the creator of the flat cow. Their Idea of cow is di

Sweet bleating platypus, I've forgotten the point I was trying to make.

(Sometime later)

Their Idea of cow is based on what God said a cow was, in a fancier term, God's PROTOCOL is the SCIENTIFIC cow. To draw any variation of original cow is to adapt from protocol. My point is that protocol is required. Rules, laws and regulations are required. In the words of the rattiest whiskey-swilling scoundrel known to man, "Rules are made to be broken." In art, this is true.

Every human being has the Creator's Ideas thrust in his face from the moment of her/his birth. We can't help but look. What we can do is adapt. We can break the laws through artwork. Perhaps Art, as a defiance of God's law, should be seen as sin.

(Dialogue over)

To the creator of this Blog site, you have formed a method of creating further Art. That is an art in itself. Your protocol is a suggestion of a certain beginning to one's blog which I think I've kind of stuck to. It is orderly, it makes sense, and it promotes the welfare of the Idea you created. In order to use the instrument you have wrought I followed the given protocol. Beyond that protocol and past the Idea of what a blog should be - that is up to me. Thank you. You are a liberal creator.

I think that's enough fatooting for now. I understand my discourse was circular, and that there was no true victor, but it is through such investigations that I learn. Personally, I see all Ideas as original so long as there is any kind of variation. A cow is not a cow with a hernia is not a cow with a moustache, so to speak.

There was more fatooting after the fatoot comment, so I'll put another fatoot comment at the very end so that it actually makes sense.

I think that's enough fatooting for now.