My math is going to dieeeee of peer negligence.

Ahhhh

As we progress, the fate of human kind becomes more fragile.

In the past where self-sustenance is possible, families/tribes provide for each other. They sew their clothes, hunt for food/rear poultry and grow crops, build their homes and shelters. Yet as we ‘progress’, these tasks get separated. A trip to McDonalds: someone rears our chickens, someone slaughters them, someone turns them into chicken fillet, someone grows wheat, someone manufactures the wheat into flour, someone ships all these to another someone who’s paid to fry those in batter and oil.

You pull out your wallet and where did you get your money from? From your banker job where you handle clients that incidentally include a large shipping company (your main client) and a main slaughter house handling chickens (which only makes use of that shipping company’s service)

In the past, if poultry in a certain farm (subsistence farming, rear chickens for own consumption) is infected with disease, only that certain farm would be affected, maybe a few around it might risk a few strands of disease.

Now, if anything occurs to that large slaughter house, many would be affected, including that shipping company. If that shipping company collapses, it would cost you your job. No more McDonalds for ya.

In the past, everything is chopped up— individual entities. Now, everything is linked and we’re aiming to further link the links together. Once a there’s an interruption to a link in the system, the entire system would be affected— effects large and small.

Once everything is concentrated, just destroy the source.

The easiest way then to destroy the human civilisation is to use a snip from apair of scissors where we’d needed many many more snips in the past.

You dive, like oil on water, skimming.

My love, for you, it clings— down drowning.

———————————

Leave to you to understand it.

And no, I don’t connect to this ‘poem’, poem?

I was writing this for a friend’s musical composition but he found that it didn’t fit!

Ah well, hoho.

I think I can write poems (again), they’ll sound way better than the ones I wrote about a year ago, but I’m definitely not writing poems that bear my heart or soul or you know, something melodramatic.

If I were to, it equates to prying open a chest to find nothing.

 ————————————–

Love is redundant.

But I do not mean that we shouldn’t do redundant things.

For jackie, your words, especially your prose take my breath away and I decided that I could not plagarize your title just like that xD

The sun was late today. It was eight. The sky was lined with threads of darkness. Life seemed to have paused for a breath, only to find there wasn’t any. The lake surface was of a glass coffin, a vast, wide glass coffin that extended across the equator, marking the time when the Great Flood occurred.

It was an unusual day. The sun looked like new, hovering over the beautiful decay. It was just the sun and the water, the water and the sun. Both of which can’t decide who is more alive than the other. The skyline was clear—like the centre of the ocean, a ship sailing towards the sun–

Only to be scalded and burnt into particles, particles—ashes scattered into the ocean in memory of its death—the sea as its beautiful glass coffin, the cabin of eternal rest.

He rubbed his shoes against the drier grounds. It was smudged with mud. Had it been raining though? He didn’t know. Nothing seemed to dry up nowadays.

The sky was bleached, pure white. Peering down into the glass coffin, he felt encaged in a mental ward. It was a pleasant day; pleasant synonymous with a dead sense of calm without a hint of an impending storm.

Quiet heart.

Jim sat down on a boulder.

Caw, caw, caw.

Great, big vultures dotted the sky, signaling their next hunt. He was surprised—with death, it meant the existence of life. He lit up. There was life after all.

He almost leapt up. But in this half-rising stance, he paused. He had witnessed death, a hope that kept him artificially alive. It was dead life. He collapsed back onto the boulder like a fish that died open-eyed on its last breathe while struggling back from the scalded sand back into the water.

He couldn’t cry. A cry was the plea for the better, a sign of hope, like the horizon—you could see but could not reach. There was no hope. No hope anymore.

He looked into the lake, through the reflection, through the water. He tried to conceive which fish would be the first to scour up his inert body 3 days later. Through the fish is water, water and water. And through them all is where he would be.

Resting.

The water was warm that April’s day. He eased himself into his reflection, merging himself into one.

A strange short story-prose piece I wrote. I was attempting to write what Tom gave me. Including the words, ”He leapt the gap”. I think I’ll include this later in the pice. I’m not sure if the lack of plot in is a good thing (appropriate) or not and am not sure if I should continue. Could you tell me about the plot issue? Is the abstraction too great?

The

The mind is an open space- transparent- with a glass veil shielding the fortress. Sometimes this veil is seemingly opaque, but when you hold it against the light, you’ll see what you saw with your naked eye. What I want is a degree of translucency- you see light through the veil, light corrupted by the veil- the veil as the mind’s eye. This is the safest way to gain access to the mind.

Safe, why?

Everything is guarded, what you let in, what you let out. But some things fade out in the process, random memory vacuoles (evicted out) (displaced by ever multiplying new ones) belonging to nowhere- between the veil and the mind, in the subconscious. Your game is to secure these radical vacuoles before the mind does. The mind will not be conscious of their existences until a specific trigger is touched.

So now you understand? A transparent glass allows you to have the mind in full view, but at the same time, each and every of your movements are being scrutinized- by the mind. Conduct at the same frequency as the vacuoles- achieve the same degree of translucency, levitate between the 2 mediums. At this degree of translucency, the vacuoles are fully visible to you, as it is, vice versa. But not the mind. That’s when you gain access to the subconscious.

And that’s my game?

Not all. Your job next is to trigger the mind. You need to be fast. Once it recognizes the existences of additional bodies within its entity, it would initiate a series of tests, wavering. You need to watch this closely. This is the mind’s weakest spot. At any point in time the mind might let down its guard and open up. This is where you go in.

Right in?

Yes. And that is what I call a ‘mind game’.

Jeff emerged from the laboratory, still in the white lab coat. Even though its fall, it seemed swelteringly hot. That professor guy was weird, an intense sort of weird. The way he looks at you- you’d think he was decoding the fossilized inscriptions on the wall behind you. ‘X-ray eyes’, yeah.

Was he practicing what he preached?

Jeff shuddered. In the hot, hot, sun. He dared not look into it, it burns into him at the same frequency the professor’s eyes did. An emerald whirl pool, bringing you down, down, down while you close your eyes and wonder why the centre of a whirl pool is the region of peace.

But its true.

THis is is ridiculous, ahhahahahha.

Oh my god, hahhahahahhahahhaha.

FUNNIEST THING I’VE SEEN IN MY LIFE, POSITVE.

Ryan: So what kind of talent shows do you have back home?

Russian Idol: In Russia we have many shows like we have the Quishomill (?) or Northamill (?), We have Survivor Siberia and my favorite show— SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DRINK. I love that show.

Russian Idol: My father won the anti-american Idol in 1978!

Ryan: Say hi to Bab, Randy

Russian Idol: Look at you dressed in Dracula’s coat!

Randy: Oh yeah, yeah!

Russian Idol: Paula, you are so beautiful! I will walk 50 miles to stand in your garbage.

Paula: Oh, thank you.

Russian Idol: And you Simon with your man-breasts. What are you doing! Man breasts and you have a chest, you remind me of my sister! You look gorgeous. You’re beautiful! You’re a beautiful man! (HAHAHHAAHHA)

This is the song that won me the Russian Idol, its Putin’s favorite song and I would like to sing for you

*Howls something undiscernable, LOL*

Randy: Let me just say, it was forcably pitchy

RI: Oh, not BITCHY, but pitchy? (hahahahhaha). And my beauty, my joy? (Paula)

Paula: Nice shirt, nice shirt…. (hahaha)

RI: You know Elton John had a garage sale and I had to buy it.

Simon, what are you thinking?

Simon: I thought you are brilliant (HAHAHAHHHA)

RI: I LOVE YOU RIGHT NOW IN THE BROKEBACK WAY, I LOVE YOU. YOU KNOW, CAN I TOUCH YOU LIKE A MAN TO MAN? (OMG, HAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHA, OMG)

Simon: Please.

RI: I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU

Simon: I love you too. (ROFL)

RI: I ONLY HAVE 1 REQUEST, MY DREAM, IF I MAY SAY MY DREAM, IF THEY’RE OUT THERE WATCHING, BRAD AND ANGELINA, I WANT YOU TO ADOPT ME! (WHAT??? HAHAHHAHAHAA)

Naming my random posts using my daily msn nicks xD

Nowadays it’s wierd— those stuck in the middle kinda wierd. And I can’t get used to spelling its as it’s (meaning it is). Msword has been peeving me off— those auto spelling corrections peeve me off— why not let me have it my way. You see, if I were to create a whole new language that uses the antonyms of english words such that the pretty= ugly and vice versa or mayke it sarch that spelins go by fonics alon— it’s totally acceptable.

It’s definitely a justified language, just that I am the only one using it. Isn’t it similar to fast disappearing languages?

Live— don’t think. You can’t survive in this world.

(I won’t be posting again for a few days, exhausted myself on this post. It’s rather long, but I really want you to read it If you have to, read it in parts for a few days)

I’m in the past century. I’m walking up, queuing for food rations. Someone had slaughtered a bunch of chickens he had caught, cooked it in the fire and thrown it on my plate. I exchanged it for 2 pieces of salted fish I had. I sat on the ground, leaned on a tree trunk and started eating-with my hands.

I’m walking up, queuing for food. The chickens are from the abattoirs, mass slaughtered, frozen, shipped to this place, defroze, fried. I told the lady I wanted the legs of the chickens, nothing else, not especially the wings. I also said I wanted a ‘takeaway’. A guy removed the legs of the chicken from the frying pan and got them into a package. The lady took the package and placed it into a bag made of plastic. She smiled and said thank you, have a nice day.

I pushed open the door to get away from the people eating, I wanted a spot of my own.

 I’m walking, I’m eating what has been caught and killed.

 A century later, I’m still walking and still eating what has been caught and killed.

I’m still writing like I did 7000 years ago where I carved pictures into cave where there are walls made of stones— funny it’s called ‘graffiti’ now. I write in many ways, I hold a sharp object and maneuver it around on stones, it was rather strenuous, I hold something that leaks colored liquid out when coming into contact with a texture, it was okay, now I move my fingers around projectiles that allow objects to show up on a slate, it’s what you call— ‘as easy as lifting up a finger’.

I still speak too, though I speak differently. I write differently too, dress differently with what you call more liberal pieces of clothing. It’s still a system, a changing system with a rationale all the same.

Have we ‘improved’?

More like a successful outsourcing of human parts.

I don’t need to catch and kill animals anymore, Someone Else is doing it. Very soon, Someone Else would give his killing job up to Machines. Machines will help him, Machines are very kind and helpful, they are our slaves, Frankenstein-like, because we created them. I don’t need to use a sharp blade to ‘write’ to our Gods, telling them we have killed a pair of 2-year-old twin just for him. I tap my fingers on projectiles telling you how what I’m doing is the same as I did when I carved those drawings, just that thank God, you gave me a much easier job now.

Just that without these projectiles and screens, I would look like weird-sitting on a chair, staring straight at nothingness for hours straight, with only fingers moving about, suspended in front of me, making tapping movements. Am I artificial?

No, because I’m still writing, I’m still expressing what I thought— with a desire for myself to be heard. Just that Machine is my buddy, he helps me— it’s almost like a permanent project thing going on between us. Very soon, I hope he could take over the job of my hands. I could dictate to him and he could pen them down. No more secretaries.

Maybe we won’t walk anymore, we’ll sit on things with wheels and get wheeled about on special tracks constructed everywhere for us. We’re halfway there though. I just sat on a car today and it wheeled me around on the road. Maybe the difference is that my dad won’t have to drive anymore. No more road accidents or drunk driving, wayyyy cool.

But we’re still walking— we’re transporting ourselves from one place to another. Just that we aren’t using legs right now, we’re using wheels. Outsourced— Machines.

But it seems that problems have surfaced, with increasing temperatures and seas threatening to swallow us all. Did the dinosaurs know that an asteroid is going to crash and cook them all up one day? Did they know that maybe the sun refused to heat up one day— one day turned into months, years and finally, everyone’s dead? I don’t know if they do, I don’t know if they had had a similar fate as us and because of what they did, the Earth got back at them and burned them all up.

Earth thought she could do better with us, but we failed her. Greenhouse gases? She’s gonna down ‘us all up with water, torrents of water, like pills flushed down her throat. I hope she’s gonna get better after that.

The past is our Achilles heel. It’s a delusion. It’s what has driven the human civilization so far, it’s what has given us the innate will to ‘improve with the generations’. Are we?

The ideal is that the past does not exist, it does not exist Actually. We’re still walking, eating, writing and talking— we think we’ve improved because what you call the Quality of Life has improved. We start at the baseline with each generation and our nature drives us forward. The rate we’re improving is the same as how the ‘I’ two millenniums ago improved. The rationale is still the same, just that what we’ve created has improved.

What we’ve created are made from the same resources the Earth had ever since she was ‘born’, what the Earth was made of was what the Universe was made of, what the Universe was made of was what the Universe’s Universe was made of. It’s a small part of this huge Game we’re playing.

I originate from the Universe’s Universe’s Universe’s…, the same place from where greenhouse gases, doomed to kill us all originated. We are blood sisters and brothers with anything and everything. We didn’t have so much of that killer stuff in the past perhaps, but we have improvised with what we have and turned something else into greenhouse gases that threatens our existence. Nothing is conjured out of nowhere, they are only transformed, transformed, transformed.

That’s what we do all day. Life is a problem to solve, we live to solve problems, showing how we are better than the past, and our Future would solve the problems we didn’t, proving how they are much better than us. We are being kept preoccupied. Honey, do you feel like you’re in a Game?

Everything harmful, useful and helpful is made from what we already have. We’re playing with Lego  Blocks, conjuring up different objects that might prove to be either harmful, useful or helpful, both, or all three. We never know. We didn’t know with steam power, we didn’t know it would create carbon dioxide that could microwave the Earth, expand the seas that would flow inland and drown us all. So much a gas could do.

But it is a part of us, like how we are part of the gas. From the long, long time ago when the Universe’s Universe’s Universe’s was born.

School forum.