(no subject)
To state a falsity is one thing, to derive a mathematical formula from your lies is quite another. Provided with means, it goes down to a very bad end on tuesday. Thus informed, perhaps it is a natural faux pas to make eyes out of dust.
IRRELEVANT
More and more, I feel like I've been having to repress certain aspects of my sense of humour. It has been far too long since I was able to comfortably make a joke about Lampreys and Hagfish. Now, I wholly fail to see how a creature that has nothing but teeth where a face should be can be anything but the pinnacle of cosmic beauty, but somehow there is a startlingly large group of people that believes this to be the case.
JAUNT
I took a three-hour nap yesterday, and in the space of those three hours, I had a very vivid dream, which, for the first time in my life, I was able to record the instant I awoke, by virtue of having paper and pencil directly aside my bed. The dream, as I can remember it, goes as follows.
I'm on the Nauset Campus, but it's night time, and they're opening up a new disease center in the middle of the courtyard. Then, I'm in my Psychology class, except the class is arranged in a square pattern, and we have a different, male teacher. Patrick Whittle is sitting to my left, and he is eating bread, which is very crumbly, and is getting all over his desk and lap. To my right is Mariah Fidalgo, and she is also eating bread, but this bread is not crumbly. Then, the teacher lights a cigarette and we all start talking about vice, while we watch classic films on AMC (the only specific one that I remember is One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest). I think at some point Doctor Markovich pokes his head in at some point, but I'm not sure. Then, I'm traveling, exploring somewhere. I've found something like a gigantic ancient relic, a massive room, but it's a scene from a different dream that I had a while ago, in which there was a harbor, and a tall ship in it. In this replica, the ground is stone, though it's obviously quite old, and there's plants coming through the stones. There are little streams of water flowing through the rock, but the most discerning feature of this massive room is the gigantic stone ship that appears to be passing through the wall. Then I travel the end of the room, and when I turn around (because things change in dreams), the room is the same size, but completely different in every other way. I don't think I paid any attention to the ceiling, but the floor was now marble, in a checkerboard pattern, alternating black and white. What is now the discerning feature of the room is a large model of the solar system, made from brass. The planets are rotating in their respective orbits, except the largest planet is on the outside, and it's held up by a very thin brass support, which I find strange. Then, Jess Hossfeld is struck in the head by one of the planets, and falls to the ground, unconscious. When somebody helps her back up, there are shards of glass embedded in her bleeding face. I then start lighting matches for some reason, and muse over the different ways that they burn.
I mean, everybody has their histories, their tales. Everybody has their own story, and it's all like a cosmic book, every bit caught up in every other bit, all joined together somehow, that the universe is writing. Like a Turpentine Volleyball, it rolls to the beat of its own parenthetical devotion...
Someday, Julia will get enough sleep to function properly.
IRRELEVANT
More and more, I feel like I've been having to repress certain aspects of my sense of humour. It has been far too long since I was able to comfortably make a joke about Lampreys and Hagfish. Now, I wholly fail to see how a creature that has nothing but teeth where a face should be can be anything but the pinnacle of cosmic beauty, but somehow there is a startlingly large group of people that believes this to be the case.
JAUNT
I took a three-hour nap yesterday, and in the space of those three hours, I had a very vivid dream, which, for the first time in my life, I was able to record the instant I awoke, by virtue of having paper and pencil directly aside my bed. The dream, as I can remember it, goes as follows.
I'm on the Nauset Campus, but it's night time, and they're opening up a new disease center in the middle of the courtyard. Then, I'm in my Psychology class, except the class is arranged in a square pattern, and we have a different, male teacher. Patrick Whittle is sitting to my left, and he is eating bread, which is very crumbly, and is getting all over his desk and lap. To my right is Mariah Fidalgo, and she is also eating bread, but this bread is not crumbly. Then, the teacher lights a cigarette and we all start talking about vice, while we watch classic films on AMC (the only specific one that I remember is One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest). I think at some point Doctor Markovich pokes his head in at some point, but I'm not sure. Then, I'm traveling, exploring somewhere. I've found something like a gigantic ancient relic, a massive room, but it's a scene from a different dream that I had a while ago, in which there was a harbor, and a tall ship in it. In this replica, the ground is stone, though it's obviously quite old, and there's plants coming through the stones. There are little streams of water flowing through the rock, but the most discerning feature of this massive room is the gigantic stone ship that appears to be passing through the wall. Then I travel the end of the room, and when I turn around (because things change in dreams), the room is the same size, but completely different in every other way. I don't think I paid any attention to the ceiling, but the floor was now marble, in a checkerboard pattern, alternating black and white. What is now the discerning feature of the room is a large model of the solar system, made from brass. The planets are rotating in their respective orbits, except the largest planet is on the outside, and it's held up by a very thin brass support, which I find strange. Then, Jess Hossfeld is struck in the head by one of the planets, and falls to the ground, unconscious. When somebody helps her back up, there are shards of glass embedded in her bleeding face. I then start lighting matches for some reason, and muse over the different ways that they burn.
I mean, everybody has their histories, their tales. Everybody has their own story, and it's all like a cosmic book, every bit caught up in every other bit, all joined together somehow, that the universe is writing. Like a Turpentine Volleyball, it rolls to the beat of its own parenthetical devotion...
Someday, Julia will get enough sleep to function properly.