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| Sunday, December 31st, 2006 | | 11:32 am |
Day one report
Any time you bring a new animal home you expect a period of adjustment. Coming from a neglectful environment, one generally expects antisocial behavior like hiding, avoiding contact, even aggressive displays of anxiety. This period depends largely on the animal. In the case of our yet-to-be-named ferret, this period was about an hour and a half last night. She wore herself out sniffing every corner of my study (three times), during which she had really no interest in us. After everything was properly sniffed, she lay down in the middle of the floor, allowed herself to be carried into her housing, burrowed into the sheets provided and, by all indicators, slept till morning. When I walked in at 6 o`clock it was very clear she had more or less made up her mind that people are neat. As soon as she was out of her cage she was scrambling at my pantsleg until I picked her up. After a brief inspection of my face (which was apparently satisfactory), she wanted to be put down. We spent about two hours playing chase, taking turns between me chasing her until she decided to chase me. She was pretty disappointed the first time she caught me (I *clearly* didn't know the rules), but I made a better effort the next time, so all was well. The favored toys are all the things we've ever bought for the cats (which they've consistently ignored in favor of the box it came in), an empty aquarium we were storing (imagine a quadrupedal 4 year old on espresso in a sandbox... I found the bottom! YAY!), and a scrap of denim for tug-of-war and "catch" (I throw, she catches, throws back). The one point where progress needs to be made in play is an understanding that my skin is MUCH more delicate than hers. Ferrets wrestle, and until taught otherwise, freely employ their teeth. A bit of research shed a lot of clarity on this: ferret skin is literally as durable and resistant to puncture as boot leather, so when playing with each other they can safely bite much harder than we find comfortable. Many new ferret owners misinterpret this as an aggressive or "warning" behavior, thinking that since this hurts them, the ferret intends to hurt them. An aggressive ferret bite is extremely rare (it takes years of abuse to overcome their natural affection for people), and does not hurt so much as it requires stitches. The countless nips and scratches I've got on my hands and arms are affable play from an animal that hasn't had enough training to know that these hurt. According to the folks who know a lot more about this than I do, training is as simple as consistent feedback (grab em by the scruff of the neck until they "yawn", which is ferret for "uncle") and providing alternatives for play. This seems to be working, but it takes a while for it to really sink in. Our ferret is 6 months old and undersocialized (as far as people are concerned). She's just starting to enter adolescence, and will be settled into adulthood at about 1 year old. The exploration obsession and frantic play in most adolescent ferrets give way to a general interest in mimicry, "assistance" (ferrets like to do whatever you're doing, and will often do their best to imitate movements and gestures), and inventing new games. One thing that's been a bit surprising as I've been doing research is that their functional intelligence is less comparable to a housecat than it is to the high end of dogs and lower primates, partly a product of breeding. Unlike other domestic animals which have been primarily bred for physical attributes, the domestic ferret has largely been bred for intelligence and affability, and has been for a long time. They're not a recent addition to the human home: Aristophanes makes several references to domestic ferrets in his plays. We've made first introductions with the other furkids. The kitties showed great interest for about 5 minutes. Zoe, on the other hand, has been perpetually fascinated. I'm still not entirely sure how to interpret the behavior. She sits, nose to the cage, sitting down and staring. They've gone nose-to-nose a few times with no sign of aggression on either part, and our wee little weasal was kind enough to indulge Zoe with a lick. From all indicators they're VERY interested in each other, and not as snacks. We're going to take it slow for the next week, increasing contact, but the early signs seem to indicate that our hopes of getting Zoe a tiny playmate are going to pay off. Now we just need a name. I'm hoping someone will come up with one before I do. Spayed females are called "sprites", and I've been reading Spencer's "Faery Queen", so if we're not careful the wee furry lady will wind up with some unpronouncable string of middle-english as a name. | | Wednesday, June 14th, 2006 | | 7:35 pm |
Yes, this is really the sort of thing I dream about.
I just woke up from a nap. This is what I dreamt: In the near future a small percent of the population is invited to migrate to a massive data center where they will join a digitally simulated utopia. Entrants will undergo massive nanomechanical alteration to prevent personal physiological fluctuations from disrupting the simulation (both for themselves and fellow citizens), which is generally considered a small price to pay for entry into a society free of the petty evils of millennia of unchecked human nature. Once the initial surgery is complete, necessary ports are installed, nanites activated (and intra-mechanical communication established by necessary distribution of the nanites by the circulatory system), one finds oneself in the brighter, better world. It's not some ultrasanitary "Logan's Run", just a slight tweaking of percentages (i.e. how would society be different if the slowest, bitterest, most spiteful 10% were not invited to exist?). This is the new Eden. Inside this simulated world there are further simulations, not unlike a Star Trek style "Holodeck" where limited scenarios may be played. There are additionally games that correspond to the ones we're familiar with. In these simulations, single tasks are, themselves, handled by games, and each step of "nesting" is less complex than that which contains it. All problem solving in the simulated society involves navigating up and down these process trees, moving from game to minigame to mini-minigame and back until the next time a move into a finer, more limited scenario is required. The language of the society reflects this, as one would describe one's activities in the day as a function of "logs", i.e. to solve this problem, I logged into this sim. From within that sim, I logged into this sub-sim. Ironically, this vernacular use of "log" corresponds with its mathematical function as well, as each of these steps DOES constitute a shift in magnitude in terms of complexity. One could express the days degree of activity in the overall aggregate, i.e. the number of times they moved between structures of greater and lesser complexity. These games, sims, minigames, and minisims are actually a real-time programming interface for the nanomechanical web that is integrating with their physical bodies. As the nanites alter and/or replace the body, problems, obstacles, and different redesign options are presented to the user as games or minigames. Their "entertainment" is actually an elaborate design and operation execution process. Citizens are not aware of this. Further, their consciousness necessarily operates on increasingly constrained variables. The entire simulated society, itself, consists of one degree of removal from the complexity of physical reality. Any further activity within the "games" further constrains it: No matter how many or few sub-games they interact with, regardless of the degree of process nesting, the end aggregate will be of less complexity than the start. Each day the range of possible variables for which there are not already defined functions (results of previous games) will get smaller, and each of these decisions brings about direct physical changes. Eventually a persons defined function set will reach a degree of constraint where input from other users is no longer necessary to maintain the simulation, their presence in the "society". At this point they may safely disconnect from the actual social hardware without disrupting other users perception of their presence: after all, their presence and choices have become a mathematically definable function. A simulacra may take their place in the consensual simulation. Similiarly, the necessary range of their own interaction with the consensual simulation has become a mathematically definable function: the people they need to talk to, the places they go, etc. The vast majority of the sim could disappear, and they would not notice. As such, those portions of the sim necessary to maintain their experience may be locally stored for seamless transition when their now-automated physical body (which likely bears no resemblance to what it once was) disconnects from the network. Eventually a point will be reached when the simplest means of preserving their presence within the simulation will be a physical network disconnect to prevent introduction of aberrant data from "new citizens". Imagine a vast plain dotted with all variety of cybernetic beasts. Some graze, some hunt. Their external behavior is simple, determined by necessity for continued function within the means determined by design and preferred method of problem solving. These leopards, elephants, gazelles, and crocodiles were once human, but now are both beast and vehicle. Within is the psyche of men and women who no longer care if their chess partners are actually there. This is the new Eden, the new Genesis. No one promised we would be the new Adam or the new Eve. | | 1:07 pm |
Logging on to the book of Acts...
Saul was farming rep with the Sanhedrin by ganking lowbie Christians, and the Christians made many nerf posts. While walking to Damascus to get the flightpath, Saul was PWNT by the Holy Spirit. Saul feigned death to drop aggro, but got hit with Blind and recieved a tell from Jesus.
Jesus: Dude, WTF? Quit griefing.Saul: /who JesusJesus, Level 60 Son of God
Saul: Guild invite? Decurse PLS.
Jesus: Barnabas can Decurse, and he's LFG. Reroll, and Gank no more.
Saul went to Barnabas, who decursed and gave him the link for the guild charter. Saul petitioned for a rename, and became known as Paul. He made many great forum posts. | | Sunday, February 19th, 2006 | | 2:54 am |
My Da is having a fine time of inflicting culture on public school students in the form of music relating to actual people, societies, and events (as opposed to the ravenous demands of TRL). This semester, a tasty medley of traditional Irish songs is on the roster. When I was up visiting, I paged through the sheet music, and commented that it's all pretty grim stuff (if you know the history behind it). He asked me to give him a bit of write-up to give his students to accompany the music. I sweated and strained over a meticulous summary, boiling three millennia of history and culture into a few dozen pages while still leaving room for some insightful commentary on the interplay of colonialism, conquest, and subversive expression in the context of musical history. Then I remembered that I was writing for grade-school students. I went back and tried to trim it down, finding that there wasn't anything I could cut without crippling the integrity of the delivery. I tried to simplify the language and structure, and again found I really couldn't without losing something vital. Frustration set in. I sat down at the keys, banged out a cathartic little ditty, sent it to Da as a joke. He told me that, after tidying up the language a bit, it would be perfect. It has since occurred to me that we have enough Celtophiles present that some of y`all might get a giggle out of the original form of the rant. Here ya go ;) ( The History of Ireland - the short form ) | | Friday, February 3rd, 2006 | | 7:09 pm |
| | Wednesday, February 1st, 2006 | | 4:18 am |
State of Discontinuity
I just finished reading the State of the Union address. Yes, reading: my media habits are as selective as ever. In light of the presented assessment of current events, recent history, and the ideal plans for the country, MY plan of staying holed up in a house a comfortable distance from massive economic centers is looking increasingly sound. Given the points that have NOT been specifically objected to in the numerous responses to the speech, I find myself wishing that I had a shotgun to compliment the large axe, for the days of post-apocalyptic brain-munching zombies seem not far off. When the state of the union includes items like the very suspect comments to the people of Iran (effectively "We respect your inherent right to be occupied by U.S. Troops in the near future *wink*wink*"), a budgetary plan that outlines massive and unspecified cuts to support top-heavy tax breaks, an earnest plea to shovel as many jobs out of the country as we can in order to maintain our international competitiveness (since, after all, the traded stock of those companies are factored into our GNP, rather than the country where the defacto employees actually reside. Don't even get me started on the increasingly relaxed restrictions about a U.S. company having actual U.S. employees), and a lengthy, "moral high-ground" dig at criticism (paired with a very well done back-handed compliment about that criticism), I half expect to hear CNN cut in with suggestions that citizens stay indoors and aim for the head as dramatic foreshadowing to the face mindlessly mouthing my windows in an effort to gnaw on my skull. Mindless consumption, sudden surges of aggression, and a general vacancy in expression DO seem to be a good summary for the plan Ze Prez outlined tonight. I'm not normally one to advocate for gun ownership, so in keeping with that policy, I propose an alternative solution based on years of research in the area of Zombie crisis management. Have a chainsaw for a right hand. Edit: Vote Ash in 2008. If nothing else, I want to hear an inaugural address that begins with the phrase "If any of you primates so much as TOUCHES me..." For vice-prez, his boomstick. | | Wednesday, December 28th, 2005 | | 1:12 pm |
And now, a dramatic reenactment
*ahem* Liindsay, pick up the phone, pick up the phone! Oh! Oh! I'm in Hell! Liiiindsaaaayyyy... Thank you. That was the answering machine scene from UHF. | | Friday, December 2nd, 2005 | | 10:21 am |
| | Tuesday, October 4th, 2005 | | 12:06 am |
A missed anniversary
I just realized that this August marked six years without television. And I owe it all to apathy. | | Sunday, October 2nd, 2005 | | 5:11 am |
DOES THE QUEEN KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING TO HER LANGUAGE?
You knew, you bastards. You knew that the MINUTE I started writing anything that saw a public eye, they would come. They start with a compliment. "I really enjoyed this or that or the other thing. Christ, you even fart pretty. Your email address is so expressive. And the way you type your name at the end is totally awesome". Yay, good awesome. Somewhere, in a parallel universe, lives a Ben who writes and never, ever, ever needs feedback. He likes to twirl his moustaches and plans to take over the Enterprise with the help of other evil twins, uppity versions of the usually demure minority cast members. When Uhura wears a black beret, look out. In the meantime, I like feedback, especially when my legs have not yet steadied. The problem is this feedback is invariably but one step in the process. Next comes the obvious. The blatant, painful, hammer to the forehead obvious question: "Do you like to write?" No. I have a rare version of Tourette's that only functions in septameter. If I start using intraline slant rhyme, call an ambulance. And all of this is but a setup for the inevitable suckerpunch: a link to a website, the confession, either shy or bold, that they too are a writer. In some rare cases, I can offer honest compliment, appreciation, and tack on a suggestion for something that could be improved, a bit of polish to help the value of what they've done really shine. Usually, though, I wind up crying. Maybe a bit of shaking and rocking back and forth. And to avoid being an asshole who punishes people for writing him, I try to find a compliment I can honestly pay to the intestinal scrapings spread across a thousand Geocities pages. Everything from verse that looks like someone vomited up a copy of Blakes Songs of Innocence to a BDSM fairy tale in which "She wore boots, and the king was like, woah". Christ, I wish I'd made that last bit up. A little part of me died when I typed that. I'm getting about ten of these a day. Lindsay hit the nail on the head: "Meter? But I'm a vegetarian" | | Friday, September 30th, 2005 | | 5:44 am |
Tis the season
I was talking with someone about old stories and the monsters that lurk therein. They mentioned werewolves, and this sprang to mind. First draft, first pass, typed out at the pace and cadence of the verse. EDIT: tweaked the candle line in V2, and I think it`s done. Oh dear, oh dear. Hungry winds are turning. Oh dear, oh dear. left the candles burning. Now the night will win the light is getting thin and something's scratching at the door trying to get in Child, watch the windows Child, lock the doors because the fog's come in rolling off the moor. Oh dear, oh dear the candle's almost gone. Oh dear, oh dear, the shadow's getting long. hinges start to creak the frame is growing weak and when the candle's burning ends the child cannot speak. Talons scratch the windows Talons scratch the door and they sound so sharp clicking on the floor. Oh dear, oh dear. There's something very wrong. Oh dear, oh dear, All's quiet with the dawn. But where the door stood There's only splintered wood And the whip-por-wills are singing louder than they should. Childs father shaking Childs mother wept because a bed lies cold where a child slept. | | Thursday, September 29th, 2005 | | 9:51 pm |
The day is going very well. I'm just now taking a break after a five hour writing stint. Better still, I actually like how it's coming out. This is the best sort of writing experience: I started with a simple paragraph in mind, and once I got the first sentence right it just flowed. I have no idea where this is going. I had an outline drawn up, but it went out the window two hours ago. I'm taking a bit of a break to let some ideas cook, but I'll be going right back into it shortly after I finish this post. This is a freedom I've long wanted and never allowed myself to believe was truly possible. There is something incredibly liberating about tasting ones desires, about taking a fantasy and experiencing it in the flesh. Few things stir the imagination as well as discovering that those long envisioned yearnings, transformations, and possibilities are even better than they were when we played them through our minds during those late longing nights. As much as living desire brings joy, it gives the self permission to experience joy, and once that floodgate is open there is nothing that can hold back the rushing waters. Some seek to swim, gasping for the dry air they are familiar with. Some clamber to the shore, hauling themselves from the drink with a desperate, scrambling grasp. Some drown, their limbs exhausted from struggling against the current that sweeps them away. But some... Some start to wonder, as the flood starts to rise to their necks, if they can learn to breath water. They open their eyes under the shimmering blue and find it lovely, lovely enough to try. Resigned, nervous but anticipating, they open their mouths and draw a deep breath unlike any they've taken in their lives. We never hear from the ones who try to breathe as the neriads do, living our lives knowing bright sun and dry air instead of warm waters and the glittering depths. We do not hear their stories from their own lips. Perhaps they drown, confirming all we're told of our limitations and mortality, their hubris taking their life down to a riverbed as cold as a masoleum. But perhaps, just perhaps... Perhaps they find the waters too warm, the sights too marvelous, to leave them long enough to tell us of what they've found. Perhaps they try, and find the languages of land have no words to describe it. Perhaps we've already heard this story, but cannot recognize it. Perhaps we know it for what it is, long for it, thirst for it every day of our lives, but fear the drowning. | | Wednesday, September 28th, 2005 | | 11:13 am |
Damnit Damnit Damnit. Don't you just hate it when they're right YEARS before you realize it? Tell that blue prophetic son of a bitch that he's going to get his part. | | Tuesday, September 27th, 2005 | | 6:05 am |
Okay, it's starting. I haven't written a word of fiction in ten years. Ten years ago I was an aspiring novelist and poet, with huge ambitions. Some readings and book talks went sour, some things went very, very wrong, and I just stopped writing. I couldn't bring myself to do it. There were many factors involved, not the least of which being some questionable psychiatric care, but the crux of the matter is this: Nothing will teach you to fear your own imagination like a psychotic break. There was so much grief and fear tied to the act that I wouldn't allow my mind to go there. It was like visiting the cafe where you met the love of your life, after you had lost them. It was years before I could write at all, and in that time I more or less let the dream go. I lived as if none of it had ever happened. One day I was talking to a friend who was having a hell of a time understanding the writing of Locke. The conversation ended abruptly, due to time constraints, and I felt that he still hadn't understood what I was trying to tell him. I started writing him a casual, conversational letter, but it just wasn't working. The ideas I wanted to express just wouldn't fit into that casual tone. I needed detail, to climb into the guts and gears, so I scrapped the letter and started writing an essay. It was the first thing I'd done that hearkened back to that old feeling of writing since I'd put it down. The structure of the ideas, the requirements of the form, made it feel safe, like I had safeguards that would protect me from the fears that had kept me away from the process for so long. I began writing a book that is still unfinished, though the notes choke my study and the pile grows a little every week. A month ago I began actively participating in an online discussion group. One of the frequent topics was storytelling. Many people would post up little vignettes or bits of short fiction, and as much time was spent talking about the process of writing as anything else. After reading these stories for some time, and engaging in a prolonged conversation about the nature and modes of communication, something started to slip loose. An idea was moving behind my thoughts, still too deep for me to see. At the request of one of the people there, I tossed out a bit of descriptive prose. I've been writing almost non-stop ever since. When I'm not putting pen to paper I'm fleshing out ideas, writing stories out in my head (though it's always felt more like shooting a film). So far, I have a handful of short stories, a noir serial (that we've been thinking about recording as a podcast radio show), and the rough framework of a few more. That's in less than a week. I don't know if any of it is good, and honestly I don't care. I don't care if I keep up this pace or just stop abruptly tomorrow. The real point is not that I'm writing fiction. The real point is that I feel I can. | | Sunday, September 18th, 2005 | | 6:52 am |
Yes, Scotch was involved, but don't blame the whiskey. It was an unwilling partner
Some years ago I started a novel. It took me almost 200 pages to realize that the characters were stilted, the plot derivative, and the dialogue awkwardly autobiographical. I might as well have called it Steppenwolf 2: The Goth-ening. Realizing the horrible crime I was about to commit against english-speaking persons everywhere, I scattered or destroyed most of the manuscript and swore by the Muses to never again sully their bedding with my ham-fisted attempts at fiction. If every novelist in the world suddenly dies in the night, their faces stiffened in an expression of indescribable horror by the outraged scream of the creative aspect of the collective unconscious, you'll know why. I'm thinking about fiction again. | | Saturday, September 10th, 2005 | | 5:40 pm |
It has never been a better time to be a hermit. | | Friday, August 19th, 2005 | | 1:43 pm |
Walken MUST run
http://www.contactmusic.com/new/xmlfeed.nsf/mndwebpages/walken%20proud%20of%20dastardly%20cake%20ployCan't you imagine him doing this at a U.N. Summit? Vladimir Putin: Mr. President, you seem sad. President Walken (obviously depressed): Oh, it's okay, Vladimir. I'll be fine. Vladimir: No, really, comrade. What is bothering you? President Walken: It's my birthday, and I'm sad, because I'm alone...and I don't have a cake. But don't tell anybody. Flash forward to mid-afternoon, when President Walken's address on cooperation in environmental reforms is interrupted by Prime Minister Blair wheeling a large birthday cake onto the floor. Hilarity and party hats ensue. Several bottles of champagne later, Walken interrupts a disarmament discussion by teaching ALL the representatives from the Czech schism states the "weapon of choice" dance. Dear God, if Walken were president I wouldn't be able to look away from CNN. | | Thursday, August 11th, 2005 | | 8:09 pm |
This started out as a comment to a friends post, providing the following link: http://www.churchofdeepecology.org/It's running a bit long. Out of respect for space and to make it clear I'm responding to the issue and not the person, I'm posting it here instead. Hmmm. Serious and profound Hmmm. At face value, this is good stuff. A great deal of what's on their front page is good, common, acceptable assertions. It reads sort of like a Digest of Walden (which I think is required reading). However, I'm in the habit of looking to the implications of statements. Simple things like the contradiction in "Wake up with the sun. Sleep when you're tired" aren't in and of themselves indicative of much more than a bit of cognitive confusion: not thinking things through entirely. The problem is that this fits a well established pattern: First comes vague, commonly acceptable pop-wisdom. There may or may not be any consistency at this point, as this is often a cobbling together of scraps and phrases from many different schools of thought. A bit of Tao, a bit of Buddhism, a bit of folklore, all things that people who are inclined to investigate this sort of thing are likely to already know or think. In other words, first comes familiarity and identification. It is in the divergences or clarifications on these statements that the reality is demonstrated. It's the specifics that differentiate a given body from the vague pop-ideology they present up front that really count. And that's where we get into implication, and that's where I'm a little hesitant on these folks. Front page is pretty general eco-folk-pop. Getting a little deeper, and setting bits of text beside each other, and the picture looks quite a bit different. By way of example, juxtapose this "The highest and best end is that our death is of value to the Earth and its inhabitants. Only when we are part of the cycle of life in death, is the cycle complete and we are of some final use to the living Earth." with this "The flourishing of human life and cultures is compatible with a substantial decrease of the human population. The flourishing of non-human life requires such a decrease." and this "Direct action is taking personal action to directly improve your life, taking personal responsibility and living deliberately. Think of direct action as self-defense: defending yourself and the Earth against the forces that are destroying nature and wildness." To say nothing of the irony of an antitechnologist website with embedded PDF documents :) I've read through the material they have available on the net. I'm... well, honestly, upset by what I see. I'm not sure how much of this is naivte, ignorance, or intentional reworking of fact. The "First, we are animals" passage indicates the sort of insight into the inner workings of nature that one would expect from the Lion King: the all-sagely, all-just natural world free of the human invention of cruelty, gluttony, greed, and destruction. I revere the natural world, am deeply committed to my place in it, and am dedicated to stewardship of it and its inhabitants. That does not mean I overlook her often bloody lips. That certainly does not mean I advocate that every minute of the day be dedicated to acquiring food and mating privelages (DIRECT QUOTE), that the human being must strive to be bestial in all things. I'm aware of our primal and predatory nature. A quick glance at my skin should testify to that. We are animals. We are also animals that can self-define. We ignore EITHER of these at our gravest peril. I cannot decide whether what I have seen here is willful ignorance or simple madness born of desperation. | | Thursday, May 19th, 2005 | | 1:04 am |
So, I'm up to my neck in a critique of 11th century scholasticism and the effect that it's displacement had on the Catholic reaction to Martin Luther.... And I hear Wierd Al's "Trigger happy". It's since moved on to a polka version of reznor's "Closer". I surrender to the terrible power of the accordian. | | Wednesday, April 27th, 2005 | | 4:44 pm |
A comment on a conversation on dualism and Christianity: "You are facing a round hole, and what you hold is not a round peg, or even a square peg. What you are holding is an angry mongoose that you are trying to shove into the hole backwards. The problem is not that it doesn't fit. The problem is that you are holding an angry mongoose. Just put it down, pick up a round peg, and go to town". The mongoose analogy was continued, mostly because this was happening at 6 am: "You've been invited to the Comparative Religions party. Everyone brought a party hat and noisemaker. You showed up with a cobra trying to gnaw through your skull and a mongoose stuck in your mouth, and the harder you blow it, the harder it's trying to tunnel its way to freedom. Just let it go" |
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