Le Histoire de Bifurcation

Le Histoire de Bifurcation

A Story by Bourbon Key
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Madness in a split personality man who has some vague feeling he has done something to deserve the bizarre nameless Hell in which he exists.

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I got on the tube today, and it didn't work as usual.  My employer, a large government bank is renovating the office but I know better.  M***********s are just f*****g with me.  Mother didn't like that I was not so keen to work on a holiday, but, hey, it's all part of the job. It's a tough job but someone's gotta do it.  So, what's my office now?  A Starbucks cafe right downtown, all the way to chinatown, snuggled between an Ethiopian Restaurant and a bodega that sells Khat and pot, after hours, that is.  So, I get there and order my coffee flavoured capuccino and then, in an afterthought, order a slightly stale croissant, which is a sort of French pastry that French people eat at breakfast with milk flavoured coffee, which is called a cafe latte, when all of a sudden I get a call from that m**********r to whom I hate to talk.  never end a sentence in a preposition.   are there too many to s?  So, averting my eyes away from the luxurious hungarian coffee server, whom I like to call kitty, I feign a deep and interesting discourse, oral that is, into the inner workings of fractal organisational structures at my governmental bank, which, by the way, punishes bad performance with upgrades in title and rewards proactive reactive whatchamcallits with deferred pay in shares that are collateralized by the decaying and wretched central bank from the lifestyle superpower of the world. I needn't say where I'm from or at least in which jurisdiction I work, pay taxes, live, f**k, marry, divorce, a=a etc. 

the deal is this.  I told that m**********r that I INSISTED on being involved in the repartiion of the org chart hierarchy.  I wanted three, not two, not five, not four, just three deputies from whom I can suck information from the minions below and to whom I can bark out orders about this, that, and the other thing. Flummoxed, I, like many times in the past, reiterated my important place in THE INSTITUTION, citing my credentials, pedigree, connections with dangerous people, threats and so and so forth, but the guy didn't get it.  He just didnt get it. 

I eyed kitty, and let out a snarl surreptitiously, and, flourish of trumpets please, she was pleased thank you very much.  Kitty likes me.  I'm sure of that.  But that is neither here nor there.  I need to focus on the org chart.  My org chart.  My pleasure kingdom's bank's staff's org chart.  I need those deputies.  

and he says this. or he said this. "Max, your headcount is 33, with 2 openings for senior analysts, but keep in mind that CC might reverse earlier strategic strategies for building the good solution, with...er, ah, dynamic people."

I say, or said, "What in the heck do you mean by dynamic? and two isn't three. I need three, not two, not five, not 100."

Now kitty is looking at me. heheheh. I'm busy though, and actually, mother just texted me to find out what is going on. Mother. Jesus, why is she such an albatross on my shoulders. She says I'm too much of a hobby-a-holic, but what does she know? Same for kitty. But they both are dear to my heart, despite the fact that this damn job is just overwhelming sometimes. by the way, I should check how the markets are doing. Markets. that's where the action is at. That's the place in which people buy and sell things at a very fast pace. Kitty and mother wouldn't understand. But I do.

Ok.  I admit.  This was a head fake.  I am not Max and it is not true that I am going to work in a Starbucks whilst my bank is being re-tooled.  I suppose it is enough to say that I am not Max.  Or, it is enough to say that I am not going to work in a Starbucks.   I could have inserted an “OR” instead of an “AND”.  The fact is, I am writing, writing, about a fictitious guy called Max who has a hardon for mother and kitty, when the reality is that I am a guy who is writing about a guy called Max who likes some Hungarian Ghoulish dish.  I do like Hungarian Kitties, and I do like my mother, but that is neither here nor there.  Ok, so, from time to time, I may make a farce of myself, in my solipsistic existence, about a reflection of how I see myself, sitting in a world that consists of myself and, well, reflections of myself.

As I write this, I am in fact sitting in a Starbucks café, and it is true that I am being served by a very sexy Hungarian employee of Starbucks.  I am building my next bots that will not only make money for me, but will, in a sense, I hope, be extensions of what I deem to be proper representations of myself.  See, of course the bots will sell a security if they assess that it is rational to do so, and they will buy another security for the same reason.  But, thinking about it, they can, in fact, replicate my other habits, choices, proclivities and so on and so forth. I’m convinced my bots can arouse me, titillate me, serve me up with delectable vignettes, bagatelles, triptychs, septatychs, of some low information, high noise, signal that would be on the one hand, hard to decode and on the other hand, rich in information.

So, yes, indeed, the fact of the matter is, I am not Max, nor am I the person writing about Max, but, haha, I am Szilvia Kalman. The story is this. The guy who is writing about a guy called Max is a bit of a creep. He pretends that he works in a bank as a TRDAER, when, in fact, he is nothing of the sort, cross my heart. He comes to Starbucks every day, orders a croissant and an XXL cappuccino, which, for those who are not familiar with the coffee flavored offerings at Starbucks,is a normal cappuccino. Sort of. It's basically 1 liter bucket of milk mixed with a shot of espresso, but that's the smallest we got.

So, the guy who writes about a guy called Max, let's say his name is Pauli, comes in every day like clockwork and pretends he works for a bank, then he talks into a croissant as if it were a mobile, and then he hisses, yes, hisses, like a cat at anyone who is younger or at least looks younger than 20. He then lugubriously approaches customers and asks their opinions about oil, gold, stocks and so on and so forth, and then, he takes a tally of their views and dials into "his broker" and "trades".

Ok, no more messing around.  Promise.  I am  none of those characters at all.  I am living in a permanent human quantum entanglement of life.  I come from a family of split personality disorderly tangled human beings.  Entanglement is our pleasure, our raison d’mort.  I live a life of swapping thoughts, memes, desires, dreams, Carthaginian pyres of burnt offerings of children, and so on and so forth. What does this mean?  It means that I am in the constant state of not being in a given state.  I live in three cities, have three wives, multitudes of children, several jobs, oceans of  hobbies, floods of degrees and so on and so forth.  I am a mythological monster and an acrimonious angel, I am gleefully generous and morbidly mean, agonizingly aggressive and glowingly gentle, a passionate Christian and a religiously passionate atheist.  I like women who are beautiful little stupid creatures and I want to teach them a lesson in standing up and being somebody.  Or many bodies in my case.  I like art and science and Hungarians and stale croissants and Russian fat bears .  But I especially hate fat bears when they growl.  And I hate them as well when they don’t. For me, up is down, the sky is red, my batches blame me for the  unfact that the sky is blue, and that I’m a b*****d and the best man they’ve ever met.  One minute I’m up a million, no, a trillion, the next minute my minions can’t go to evil Nonian medical school.  One minute I’m watching the Kardashians, then next minute I’m a luddite.  It flips back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and I can’t bloody understand it, because, friends, deep down in the spiraling unquantum, untangled decidedly Newtonian Universal soul of mine, I am one person, and that is my experience, that is my reference point, that is my Feynmannian inside joke that I cannot possibly understand my wavelike, particlelike, emotionally entangled brain because if I said  I did understand it, I clearly would not understand it.  And, of course, I could always admit flat out that I do not in fact understand it.  It’s a lose lose situation, if you know what I mean.  Or win win?  Now, I’m being honest, and you have experienced a few of the characters that have taken over my person, but, I assure you all and myself that they are all me, in some deep entangled, ontological, NumberSixian sense, a sense, a place, a Talebian Ludic fallacio finger flipping nuclearphynancial alternate universe, the third side of a coin in which heads is NP, tails is Yahoo, and fukall is a cyberspace in which price is not a number and probability should be chucked into the Unswan like graveyard of Nonian survivers.

Therein lay my premise.  That is the overture to this tale. 

I only can divulge a piece of this story, because that is all I know.  It would be theoretically impossible, by our current understanding of space, time and information, to know more.  And it goes like this.

I was on the subway from Baker Street to Republic a few days ago, and I underscore the word few, because I have no clue whether it was a few days, one day, one month, a year, a century, a universe age.  It happened sometime in the past and yet there are some times that I truly wonder whether the past actually, truly existed.  I call this “Solopist thought in two dimensions”. It would be tedious to elaborate, but I do ponder, as a reasonably rational mind would, why time has some preferred direction to space.  But maybe it doesn’t and I’m just ignorant.

In any event, so, X seconds ago, X being a constant to be determined at some opportune time, I was on the subway from Baker Street to Republic. It was hot and stuffy and humid and stultifying and I felt like I was in a greenhouse on the outer banks of some god forbidden white sanded gullah island in the South.  My heart was racing.  It was packed. I was late for work, but I was lucky that day because my office was being renovated, so my work was actually in a virtual office;  Ok, it was a Starbucks Café.   We stopped at 34th, then the subway sped on and stopped because of strikes, red signals, or something like that, and then we got to Les Halles, and a wave of angry jelly bean colored people jumped on the train. Many belted out grunts and snorts as if taking a piss on some Semetic God, many hadn’t bathed in years, many were short and dark and equipped with basketballs, and there was an endless parade of annoying teenagers.  The Eastender who was piloting the train belched out a seemingly endless string of apologies for the slow movement of the pathetic tin can of weird humanoid sardines, when all of a sudden I noticed a young, Arabic-Semetic-Swarthy man standing next to me. He had a lilting and lithe trimmed ebony beard,  was well dressed in an unassuming manner with a fall-leave fractal peppered cardigan, some expensive galoshes fashioned from the skin of an animal on whose hides French Fur Traders make a considerable fortune worthy of the financing of intercontinental wars, and he had the look of death in his face.  He was hauling a large backpack, which, in these parts I think is called a Ruck Sack and he was reading some journal that exploded with T&A, page N stuff.  He seemed too relaxed, so relaxed, so ready to, I don’ t know, do something and not care, that I felt the necessity to access that special skill I have, which, I’m a bit embarrassed to admit, is the ability to read minds. 

The deal is this.  He was going to blow up the train.  That was it. I needed to get off, immediately, pronto. At that precise time, I was reviewing an article about Algorithimical definitions of metalife, by one Max Drapov, when I had this revelation that this man was going to kill hundreds of freaks, including me.  Is it possible for a single human being, a single creature, a single lifeform encapsulated by the known precepts of complexity to know, with any given certainty, whatever certainty really means, what will happen in the next 1/googolish second or what someone is thinking, instantaneously, that is?  Information, whether transmited though time or space must adhere to certain laws of which I’m aware, being the well trained Hungarian Physicist that I am.  But, I did know that this man was going to blow up the subway.   I looked at him, he fired a cool glance at me and I did sense that he was ready to raise his hands like some sort of despicable rapper or some other disgusting creature who drinks attention and farts out aggression in return.   So, he’s looking at me, and I’m looking at him, and I look at his rucksack, and I let him know I’m looking at it, and the train is packed and I can feel the heat and I can feel that there is an unquenched thirst eminating in particle form from my person to obey the 2nd law of thermodynamics, or is it the 3rd?  I needed to be the smoke particle that increases entropy, and I needed it pronto.  Actually, I needed to smoke a particle of that nature.  Now, I was sweating so much that thousands of jelly bean midgets and French and English and Africans on the train looked at me as if they wanted to offer me a white towel, when all of a sudden, I barked out: “Allah akbar man, what is in your bag? A bomb?”

The creature then looks at me and coyly and calmly whispers, "I'm 100 percent Italian. What's it to you?"

A thousand nanoseconds have passed and as I survey the standing, withering, sweaty creatures, equipped with basket balls and newspapers and instant coffee, I grab the rucksack. We are approaching Baker subway stop and the train is quickly slowing down and coming to an syncopated halt, out of kilter, rocking back and forth. Sweat is dripping down every mobile denizens body and I can hear the ticking of the bomb's mechanism. A woman screams. I can feel the throbbing tick tick tick. The Swarthy Creature smiles at me and I distinctly hear a muhahahha emanating from his fur lined mouth. The creatures gasp as I pull the bomb sack with all my strength and the train screeches to a halt and lets out a 19th century sigh.

The terrorist then lashes out with fast paced piston fists, punching hard and precisely on my person, my upper person, my face, my eyes and teeth are exploding in pain. He is beating me to a pulp, but in a flash, as the doors open and I'm instructed to mind the gap by some electronic voice with a peculiar accent, I run out of the train with the rucksack in hand and blood is oozing out of the wounds inflicted by the god-fearing monster. There is pandemonium as hundreds of creatures run jump and leap over each other to get out that train that would have been, in another paralllel universe, mechanical toast with char broiled human meat. The bearded terrorist jumps out and I am thinking of some sort of Hollywood movie scenario of a mano-a-mano multidimensional fight scene in which there a fleeting flickering moment of solace, a soujourn in time and space accompanied by EchoSpace, a space in which time has slowed down for him and me, and he is leaping towards me, onward and forward as the train's doors close and it lurches on, as the sound of screams are tweaked to another frequency and he lunges forward to grab the rucksack, and he lands square on me. We struggle for the bomb encased in chemical cloth. I grab his neck and choke him as he continues to punch. A woman is making an emergency call and 100s of creatures are running for their lives out of the train station.

But, er, Ok, let me say something here. I AM that Italian on the train, the person that Max, the crazy man, thinks is an Islamic Terrorist. I am an Italian writer of stories. I am that man on that train and, actually that crazy, schizophrenic hungarian physicist has grabbed my rucksack, which does not contain a bomb, but, rather, a very important piece of evidence that I am trying to unravel. that evidence is an old laptop and it has an important story laying lazily on its lethargic hard drive. I need to crack open that laptop but I can't. That laptop contains evidence of a story that, by it's shear creation, by me, has led me down this path of destruction. I wrote the story and the writing of the story, the actually creation of it, has, well, to be honest, created a new me, a new and decidedly more despicable me. I dream about that story, but I need to read what I wrote and the f*****g laptop has gone, as it were, kaput. Was on my way to a Pakastani laptop doctor, in Soho, when all of this happened.

And now Dr. Drapov, the crazy physicist, has grabbed it and I will give him a good thrashing, a good beating, I'll roll him, maybe even kill him with my bare hands, if he so much as lays his paws on my laptop, my pandoras box. f****r.

So, this crazy mofo is grabbing my rucksack on the train, and he lets out a hiss and insists that I’m some sort of suicidal terrorist. He then bites me, yes, bites me and growls at me. The train halted instantaneously and I was sure that someone had pulled some emergency lever that creates pandemonium and instills fear and frozenness in commuters.  The door opened, a woman let out a scream and the Hungarian wrestled the rucksack out of my hands and he let out a muhahahaha, and ran onto the station platform.  I followed suite and let him have it, one two, one two, a right jab, an upper cut, and he was exploding with blood and teeth as I let out an immense fury, even though I am actually a gentle man, a very gentle man. A gentleman. Normally.   Ok, so I am mixing tenses.  That’s a detail.  That was a detail. That will be a detail. But what is Time?

But I did need that laptop with the fried motherboard whose harddrive that some imported laptop doc assured me was still salvageable.  I needed that harddrive and if I couldn’t have it, come hell or highwater, I was going to jump off of a bridge.

It’s been three long years that I’ve spiraled into this weird parallel universal quagmire of running myself into the ground, with my wealth dissipating at factors of 1/2 and all of my past experiences melting into the abyss.  I used to have friends, family, wives, children, and I was the king of my domain.  Not master. King.  Now, I spend countless, uncountable hours, though they seem like hours but they are not, (they are years when time speeds up and seconds when it slows down) trying to find out how this happened.  How did I move to another city, lifetime,  epoch, antipodal existence.  How did I achieve this extreme countenance of crisis? How did I switch lives and live inside of the body of another person?  How did it all start?  When did I stop taking the road more travelled by?   When did the fork in the road in the garden of Nonian delights present its satanic tongue?  And what were the decision making processes?  #

It was all on that harddrive, and the only reason I know that this was the culprit was, well, it was the experiment, the dare, the taunt.  Three years ago, upon the dare of a dear friend who has since died of an overdose of that deadly drug called MELT, dared me to the following.  He presented a coin and said, “heads you will write a novel, tails you will build a trading bot.” I flipped the coin.  It was one of those taunts like being pulled into a fight and knowing the odds and gods and the old sods and the portugues cod were all against you.  Time stood still.  It hung there spinning in slo mo , slowly, not so lowly, that glowingly chiaroscuro-tinged silver medal through the air; tenebrism.  My skull lit up too as my scorpion friend held out his pincers and laughed and then the coin fell on the old wood table of his ancient apartment, lit by dying candles and an old furnace fire.  Heads it was.  Trading bots were out and the story was on.  #

So, I set out to write the tale and as I wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote I noticed that my behavior changed and I was becoming the character in my story.  If I wrote that the character did a certain deed, then I would do that deed. If the character wore certain clothes or ate certain meats or f ed certain women, that that’s what I would do, like clockwork.  Months went by and I slowly lost all interest in anything outside of my little world encapsulated in my brain and instantiated on paper.  No more friends, no more family, no more job, no nothing.  I left it all behind and began shacking up with some broad that was the spitting image of the diablesse who courted the monster, living in the lair with some flair and without a care, without a flaming stare from the Gods who don’t exist but to whom I begged for reasons.  I begged constantly, and, unfortunately, they didn’t answer, because they didn’t exist.  I was my own God and was creating my own reality, and, being the physicist that I am, I do understand that I cannot create my own universe, for, chance is at work.  I do have some ability to change the future, but not the infinite capacity.  Chances are working against me.  Or maybe that’s an excuse?  

It is neither here nor there. These are all philosophical questions.  I need that laptop and, as we speak, that Hungarian is biting it like Mini Me. We don’t gnaw on the laptop [email protected]

By the way, I did find this undated piece of work. Just a snippet of what I'm looking for.

When I opened the laptop, this is what I read.

It was a dark and stormy night.  My scorpion friend with pincers offered the following proposition to me. Flip a coin.  If it lands on tails, write a novel.  If it lands on heads, then build a trading bot.  Candles were burning and a deep cavernous atmosphere pervaded the environs.  Purple prose is in order for this.  The horizon of my thoughts was not functioning properly and I was thinking of the here and now and borrowing on the credit card of rationality, swapping immediate excitement for future emotional, spiritual and mental and physical payback and assured anguish.  I agreed.   The planets lined up and the devils sang as the scorpion took the silver dollar in his hand and flipped it into the air with a modicum of force and it spun and twirled, conserving numerous rules and regulations handed down by posterity concerning how the universe works.  It flipped and changed sign and the candles burned and I reflected on the purple prose nature of life and how everything is a stage and a=a etc and that, well, chance plays a big part of the unfolding everchanging purpuleseqe nature of life itself.  A=a etc. word.  The coin twirled and hissed and rared down and struck the ebony table top that was fashioned by slaves who lived seconds ago in another universe but time is relative and really, in an a=a world it was a lifetime for me to perceive and my heart struck up a rythme and hip hop countenance that conjured up thoughts of African syncopated drum syntactic bullcrap that the Greeks could only dream of in the time of the Sea Peoples and Pharoahas and pre-FDAXian pattern reconginition prepubesemt sundrenched syndrome induced  NPification existence defying something or others.  Or something like that.

The answer, as it were, was heads.  I was to build a trading bot. But the rules changed. The scorpion added an additional condition.  A condition precedence.  Legal shiit. Or something like that.  Entropy measurement is in order, but, I assure you that there is low information content here, which, will make you laugh on the hand and, on the other hand, will make you question basic things.  The scorpion added that I must build a trading bot with the help of a Polish piimp, a Turkish Taxi Driver, two animals, and a Hungarian physicist.  The piimp and the Taxi guy I could work out on my on workings and wants and needs.  But the animals, I protested, how would I choose the animals?  My friend gave me room on this choice, so, after a deep and careful reflection on the fauna of this planet, which has had 12 or so billion years or so to facilitate the  seemingly complex but surprisingly non random evolution of carbon based life and, animal life in particular. I realized that I needed a CAT and a BEAR.  He laughed at my choices and insisted on giving my animals names, and so I thought of how a cat talks, and I suggested RARE.   I wanted to retain the name of BEAR, so I could refer to my animal slaves as RARE and BEAR, but he insisted that I don’t call my animals by their common animal names, so, ok, the bear wouldn’t be BEAR, but, well, since the cat was RARE, then the bear would be GROWL.  RARE and GROWL.  My remaining task was to find a cat called RARE, a bear called GROWL, a Polish PIIIMP, a TURKISH taxi driver and a HUNGARIAN physicist.

We shall deal with the details of the spliced out piece of time in good time.  Time splices are in order in this story.  Trust me on that. 

So, I merrily went about searching for the Hungarian Physicist, the Turkish Taxi driver, the cat and the bear, in that order.  Oh, forgot the pimp.

Let’s first deal with the Hungarian. 

I placed adverts in all the obvious places and sites, squatted in lectures in particle physics, took cabs all over the three main cities of the world (ok, that melds into the Turk), downloaded PDFs and peddled to the pet stores (ok the cat) and the zoos (ok Growl) that mattered.  

Through a bit of happenstance I happened upon a peculiar man, a Hungarian man, who was short and stout and who sported a rag-tag uniform of herringbone and corduroy jackets/jeans or the reverse, and who smoked a pipe and who had a monocle impregnated betwixt the fat  flesh of his corpuscle-popping cheeks and the drooping spider-legged tentacles of some calico-colored brows that exploded in every direction with abandon as if exploring in some sort of Cambrian explosive experiment the test of hypotheses about perception with passed down snippets of information-bearing quadraphonic molecules.  But I’m getting ahead of myself, getting ahead of time. Or something like that.  But I’ll circle back.

He was lodged in an Inn not far from Brick Lane, not far from the Lower East Side, in the 4th district where the f**s are and where the Asians cook meats that taste like chicken spiced with some non-fresh ooze that conjures up smells and colors of the caves of Altamira and that is so tantalizing after 1 or 10 pints of English lukewarm piss. 

 I knocked on his bell, and after I heard some fumbling about and some cacophony that sounded like a kitten engaging in brutal fight to the death with a parakeet, accompanied by the shuffling of ugly, gnome feet through a sea of papers strewn through the floor, I was flabbergasted by just how strange he looked, much stranger than any words I can fathom or think up, even after a hit of Melt.  He didn’t look human.  Ok, I tried, a few nanoseconds ago to explain it, but I’ll explain it again.  He encapsulated every cliché that I held about, precisely what a Hungarian Physicist should be like. Precise.  Arrogant. Ugly. Hairy.  Smelling like garlic or ghoulash or whatever bizarre mix of east meets south meats west.  He was white skinned but dark around the rims of his eyes, he had a smile that could traverse in its curvature the entire spectrum of human emotions in one go, perhaps faster than a speeding bullet or photon.  Evil and goodness could be emitted and were emitted in his expression in a flicker of a moment.  I felt both of them.  He was a hunchback.  He had fangs.  I distinctly discerned sawed off horn stubs on each side of his frontal lobe.  His ears drooped out of proportion by several factors.  He held out his hands,  no!, paws, no! claws like Mr. Burns.  Smithers! The calico hairs on his head, if you wanted/want/will want to call it a head, were sprouting and bending in a complex array of directions but they numbered few;  this dearth of spidery hairs revealed a greasy scalp that was full of craters, as if this ancient head had been hit by some relatively rare, negatively skewed bet of  mini black holes arriving at a very high latency according to the law of Poisson Arrivals, with lambda being some material fraction of this creatures life.  Or something like that. Hehe.

He asked me to come into his lair for a cup of tea,  and I entered but not without some hesitation and reflection about whether I would ever escape.  He was old skool, with meatspace books and ancient paintings (that fat fuks who fuked lesbians and who fought for the Spanish some time ago would call MODERN) and he had a samovar busting to the brim with some b*****s brew that would surely turn me into a cat for a quantum mechanical experiment.  Or that’s what I thought at the time. 

His name was Leo Szlit, and he wanted to make money for a specific purpose that I still, in this present time, cannot fathom; he seemed quite happy in his lair of filth, garlic, books and paintings.  He wanted to prove a point, I guessed, but I wasn’t sure and I’m still not sure.  But he had his ideas, and although I must admit that I felt that he was exceedingly creepy and prone to extreme schizophrenic mood-swings in which he’d take on the personality of a child or a waitress or even, well, even me, I was drawn into his idea.  His idea was brutally simple.  To put it simply, go into the future, get information, bring it back, and trade on it.  Ok, we are not talking Back to the Future here.  It wasn’t that simple, said Leo.  You couldn’t create a perfect channel.  You couldn’t send yourself into the future, or the past, and even the stuff/matter/info/bits that you sent into the future (or past), you had to account for the fact that if that stuff/particles/waves/spoo/pilkers were to actually do anything useful, then they would have to interact with the stuff/spoo/, that there would be noise, quantum interactions/fluctuations/entanglements, and so on an so forth and that the further onward and upward you traveled in time (forward or backward but importantly, according to Godelian spacetime solutions with nontrivial CTC stuff, travels that take you away from where you are and loop back to where you started), the more noise, baggage, shiit, fuk pisss you would be taking it on.  So, the stuff/ooze/info that you beamed forward, according to Leo, would grab important info, interact with it according to relatively simple QM, and then return (with the noise) and give rise to, well, very good predictions of what will happen next.  But, you couldn’t be greedy about this in time or space or money.  Want to send the spoo one year out and bet on markets for a 1 year time horizon, well, that would have so much noise as to render such an estimate as almost being useless.  The shorter the time loop, the more accurate the results about the resulting probabilities of outcomes.  Then again, the shorter the time loop, the more you had to deal with the Jim Simons of the word, and who in the hell was to say that Simons hadn’t already harnessed this technology, which, by Leo’s estimates would cost 10 digits to build if a government or a lazy continent were involved, but, if one took things on privately, quietly, with the help of some greedy friends like the arabs, the Russians or the South Americans, well, then maybe it could be done on a shoestring.    Information from the future, via closed timelike loops around donuts, noise, filters, probabilities, and, no, you don’t need to break the speed of light and no, you wont print all the money in the world, and no,  it won’t take trillions of dollars unless you live in France or Switzerland and yes, you should shut the fuk up or the Hungarian will keel u.  Silently with a Golden Gun and a hideous smile.  Or something like that.

anyway, whilst I was having a sumptious late afternoon tea with Leo, who graciously served up delicate pastries of paprika-tinged milliardafores encasing strange mixtures of meats from I know not where. Nor do I want to. f**k. How to not end THAT in a preposition?  anyway, what was that mixture of meat?  Pyschodelic frog legs that, like everything else due to the obvious cosmic irony of a lazy f**k god who couldn't get the Time Loop Code right?  F****r.  Homage to Matrix, but I agree.  Every meat other than a few meats should NOT taste like chicken.  F****r.  Sorry, F****r is Great.  If F****r is Willing.  anyway, The frog meat pastries were delicious, and I'm saying frog meat but again I'm just guessing but perhaps I already knew or had some strange intuition or something like that.

then, Leo continued with his siloloquey about how the Time Loop Logic rendered much more than just short trips into the future to interact with informatoin, bring the noise-sprinkled information back (I see it as swimming onward and upward, f*****g the b***h of future information, and bringing a medal back to the present, and high fiving my present information friends.  hehe, biatch!), and act on it, ie, make enough money to eat frog meat milliardfores and drink tea (if you're a teatotaler) or Cristal (spelling? if you're a rapper, ie, an aging white banker with some desire to swim in the never ending river of the Quixote.) for the rest of your life on some tropical island with an endless parade of 25 year old models that drum up images of Polynesian Goddesses with lithe bodies, unbotoxed but properly plump lips, lines, curves, curvatures, Dennis Hopper-Blue Velvet_shit with the gas mask.  Sorry. The Quixote. 

anyway, so, Leo mentioned many things and he was frothing at the mouth and spewing out theories/strategies/ideas about how the Time Loop Logic (TLL) could solve NP hard problems in a whisping, willow weeping, pandering of trees to the ghosts of a Dutch past speed.  You deserve it Gatsby's Ghost.  In other words, it could  speed up computation to a level that would make Simons  (a guy who lives near where Gatsby was killed) s**t in his pants, and basically be able to....well, in a word....think.  Think. that's right, that was his Opus.  That was the final way to make a computational machine think, make money, have emotions (but not too many emotions to mess up trading strategies), and so on and so forth.  Says leo.  Sorry. Said. He said/says/will say that Penrose got all this wrong, and that it ain't about gravity waves and microtubles and Godel and Turing and the weird idea that we know things are true but those things that are true cannot be proved to be true by a machine that we think models the brain and which we, reciprocally, use as the ultimate, anglophonic clarity ridden logic of the universal object (all roads point to it, as it were) grand NULL HYPOTHESIS thing/it/object/Johnstonian Topos c**t.  Flourish of trumpets please.   No.  No.  No.  Leo says that we think differently than Turing Machines, Finite State Machines, Neural Nets, Classical Quantum Systems, Chaotic generators, and even, and I must say I was surprised by this....even Analogue computers, which, when I protested and appealed to the obvious idea that the continuum is different than the discrete, he shook his head and laughed so hysterically that large clumps of frog meat (I'm just assuming it was frog, remember) exploded into a Newtonian or Lagrangian (depending on your orienta)tion in respect of the Tale of Two Cities mechanics and it landed after a slow motion path on the Turkish carpet.  He was exalted with pleasure from the the TLL induced ideas/information that was erupting out of his greasy, Nesferatu head and he almost choked.  He explained, again, to stupid me that all humans, whether they know it or not, have the capability of interacting with the future, and this is why we have intuiation, can play chess well, can trade, can build aperiodic tilings of the plane, can understand Mandelbrot sets whilst a computer, in some sense, cannot in some sense, a sense should be made precise at sometime I hope by my oddly charsmatic troll. 

The problem is, just when I was going to pop the question about some subtler details, his pet sauntered in.  A Tabby.  A big fat cat, much larger than any I've seen in the alleys of Soho, near my humble abode.  And Leo went silent.  It was as if Rhianna had entered the room and poured Tequila down her leg for him to drink.  Or something like that.


Now, where was I?

Yes, so, Leo introduced me to his "kitty" whom he called Bathsheba and when he called Bathsheba Bathsheba (and I mean right at the moment) he had a certain lascivious expression and his tongue swiped some oozing froth that suggested that Bathsheba was at once something luxurious and luscious and languid and lilting and lofty and, well, the love of his life.  I thought that at least.  He eyed her with such a profound countenance that it would have been impossible for any other observer to think anything different than what I thought.  But when I looked at the cat, she looked just like a big, very big, fat tabby that was lazily curled up in a half moon shape and catnapping for a flicker of a moment (I wish I could do that at whim myself).  Then, she started sharpening her claws in that ubiquitous  archetypical motion- the motion of a feisty feline preparing for the next kill with rapid strokes, scratch, scratch scratch, which, ensemble and without breaking cadence destroy human property and which precipitate mixtures utterances along the lines of "ah, that's cute" with "f*****g cat, I'll keel you"- on the ancient paisley-patterned sofa pillows but that was not how Leo saw it.  Leo sighed and then let out a laugh but he wouldn't take his eyes off of her; He apologetically explained to me she often filed her nails and feigned an expression of bordom.  He then squeeked out in baby, or shall I say kitten, talk that papa has a guest and we're busy or something like that.  He then engaged her in a long winded conversation about how her day was, and was she still sick and did she need anything from the Pharmacy, perhaps some hair products that the weather was fine today and did she eat well and whether she was a good kitty and she didn't meet any alley cats, black ones especially, and whether she had her period this week and so on and so forth, but, well, for obvious reasons, with each question Kitty (he sprinkled "Kitty" in the enquiries about every 10 seconds) simply replied with RARE, or rare, or  Rare, or raRE. Sorry, English isn't Tonal, so, I'm making up some self-evident rules here. 

I couldn't take this anymore.  I interjected that the cat was, in fact, just a cat and that, well, Leo, you are going a bit overboard, aren't you?  He replied that, on the contrary, that was the reality of the situation and I was at fault and who could not perceive the reality of the situation.  I said that's poppycock. He said prove it.  I said I don't have to.  He said, it's your assertion, the balls in your court and he underscored the ancient philospophical question of perception and this went beyond lab experiments in chromatics and that the mathematics was all there that, well, Pauli, it's impossible to prove that his version was not the right one because of the complexity of the ensemble of states, dynamics, noise, entanglement and so on and so forth.  He said, Pauli, you want a cat on the team, don't you, well, here is the cat and for a fact, whilst you won't believe it, I put that thought in your head.  It's all part of the same principle.  Sure Leo. Sure.  Believe it, Pauli.  I won't Leo, I won't.  Ok Pauli, then how is it I know you wanted to call my little kitty RARE????? muhahahaha!


anyway, again, for the googolth time. where was I? Yes, indeed, just as Leo ceased from his sonorous maniacal guffaws, there was a loud crash emanating from the room behind a wall lined with dusty books wrapped in henna coloured leather bindings. the wall vibrated and a rumbling, grumbling, snarling reverberating din ensued. Leo waxed silent and his smile waned and was replaced by a half smile, half frown, the smile of Smerdyakov stirring the soup, the smile of a mind-f*****g rabble rouser with a several brains. He let out a giggle and put his index finger to his lips, motioning for our collective silence. He then raised his claws and motioned me to follow him into the corridor that was seemingly carved in an askance angle to the wall of book teeth. Kitty obeyed and was quiet, or bored or sleepy. I rose and my heart started beating at a speed that sent tingles down my spine, and I followed him surreptitiously down the dark corridor. He said shhh, but let out a giggle here and there, and I followed but the voices in my mind were telling me to stop, turn around, flip the coin again after I left this lair and hope it would land on tails. Or was it heads? maybe the story was a better bet than The Bot.

The corridor was cold and with each step onward and forward I heard the distinct profound growl that seemed to broadcast its tone to mix with Leo's shuffling feet, his giggles, my breathing and syncopated heart beats in some expressionistic and preposterous polyphony. muhahaha, said he. Leo opened the door at the end slowly and methodically and it squeeked the sound of some strange strange synthetically derived creature that was being fucked for the first time. Squeeeek. Growl. Giggles. Then as the dark room was exposed to us, I could see a large object growling and moving about. Leo turned on a light and there, lo and behold, was a large brown bear encased in a rusty cage. There was a table the middle of the cage with the remains of a laptop strewn about. The bear was pacing back and forth, back and forth, and he did not seem very happy, to say the least.


Yes, of course, of course.  Voices in my head, at this moment, were echoing the things that I said.  Or it said.  The merging of thoughts/memes/bots/dreams in the neverending fractal pattern of impossible complexity that defies quantification and definition and semantics and Four Tet Fornication of N6 mumbo jumbo was the thought that I thought at the moment that the bear was pacing at 2 knots in a pattern of the unknot next to his cot and he was fraught with the thought of doom.  Everything has been thought of before, according to my polish piimp.  We shall get to that, do not think that I am a wimp.

Or something like that. 

 My knuckles were white.  My teeth were clenched and the dreams of losing teeth were fetched from my finite state machine.  I was scared.  I needed the coin.  I needed an out from this place.  Don’t build The Bot, bro, write the story about building The Bot, thought I.

Leo babbled a bunch of things in Russian (I knew it was Russian because I know some Russian) to the bear, firstly softly and then, in western polysonic symmetry, his decibel levels increased in powers of something, I think 2, with each nanosecond.  Compute that .  He barked out gospadi boza moi to the bear and the bear  growled and rattled the cage and then the bear meandered to the central table and smashed the remaining macroscopic piece of the microscopic technologically infused laptop into bifurcating /2 pieces of plastic metal micro chip silicon grains of sand, which is, er, made of silicon maybe.  Leo then shook his head and hobbled to the hyperbolic edge of the room on the opposite side of the cage and opened a door to what appeared to be a closet filled with an endless supply of new laptops.  He pulled out a new laptop and brandished what looked like a stun-gun, the sight of which sent the poor bear screaming in horror and crawling like a cowardly cub to the antipodal side of the cage. Just then, Kitty sauntered in coyly and let out a rare, which precipitated a noticeable hesitation on the part of Leo, as if he had to wet his hand with his tongue, grab a mirror and make sure that the scant dearth of optimally distributed oases of hair on his homotopically nontrivial head were handsomely combed into a vector field of beauty that should, surely, hopefully, invalidate the hairy ball theorem but which, if true, would imply that Leo was not a sphere.  Proof by contradiction, and fuk the constructionists.  If Leo could comb the hairs on his head without creating a cowlick, then leo is not a sphere.  But who is a sphere anyway?

Leo ranted and entered the cage, averting his eyes away from Kitty, but I sensed he also felt proud to show his bravery to his kitten, for I did sense a few fleeting stolen glances from him towards her.  He plopped the laptop on the table whilst the bear cowered in the corner with the thing that looked like a taser pointed at him by Leo.  Leo then giggled in triumph and backstepped his way out of the cage, took a deep breath, locked the cage door, laid down his gun and then he rested and I sensed he was taking in the splendor, the enjoyment of the feat he had just achieved.  He then rose and explained that the bear was his “partner” and that the bear had proposed that pretty much, everything has been thought of before and that the closed timelike curves (CTC) which could be afforded through careful solutions of the Einstein Field Equations, plus Energy Conditions and experiments and so on, ie, the RHS of the equations that relate the a=a etc nonsense (stress, momentum, energy, blab bla bla) to the (n,1) signature pseudo-riemannian metric, and, well, let’s face it, measure theory is just a drop in the bucket in the complex sequence of ideas leading to something so satisfying and brilliant,  billiard ball brilliant,  appealing as, gravity is geometry but, heh, have fun with the right hand side.  The right hand side.  Anyway, Leo said that the bear said that the lifespan of all thoughts in the universe was finite, that the set of all thoughts/ideas/memes/dreams was finite since the universe was finite, would have finite lifespan, that thoughts were information, that information could be quantized, and that, therefore, due to the Copernican Principle of boring middledom that there was nothing important about the spacetime encapsulation of a thought.   I didn’t quite get it at the time, but I finally did and will go through it with all of you at the opportune time, but it basically boils down to Bayesian Statistics and assumptions about things.  Mental Doomsday, basically.  Basically, the bear said that there was very small probability that they had a new idea/strategy, and, when factoring in the possibility of CTCs (the short looped, highly curved CTCS could propogate into the future via an analytical continuation, and, even accounting for the noise, by basic probabilities, all the future thoughts could be brought back to present, rendering any current thought been there done that-ish), that it made new thoughts even less probable.  Leo laughed and asked why is it that everyone from D to T was recreating, for example, the Anthropic principle?  He was mocking the bear, because he didn’t believe it.  Thoughts were unique creations in Leo’s mind; there was a never ending supply of ideas/thoughts/dreams/memes, The Quixote was still alive, don’t give up, no matter whether there is darkness and dark matter and decaying bodies and brains requiring mental versions of viagra.  Yes, indeed, said Leo, and he then spiraled into a tumultuous torrent of speaking in tongues; he commenced in to repeating over and over again that all swans are white, that this is the same as all non-white things are not swans, that the brain interacts with the future, that we operate in a plane of unknowable, possibly inconsistent logical systems, that QM proved that, that disjunctive syllogisms and ex falso quodlibet should be thrown into the toilet of reasoning, that holes in logic could be measured with topological methods, that the worthiness of a logical system could boil down to the computation of certain topological invariants that could be assigned to CW complexes of categories of theorems/semantics/axioms/NumberSixians and entailments and that, in fact, he agreed with Penrose that maybe GUT would boil down to doing math on objects and arrows, and, well (he was working up quite a froth a this point), that he could just keep putting an endless supply of laptops on the bear’s desk and that finally, come hell or highwater, that the bear would simply would understand, as would kitty, and threads could be cross pollinated and everyone would be happy and books would be purchased, Philosophy lectures given, and meaning could be given to the dullness in the life of your above average survival machine.

Now, the disturbing part about all of this was the following "fact".  when Leo fired up the new laptop on the bear's table and the bear finally stopped whimpering and lazily ambled on his hind legs to the new machine, he pryed open the computer like a clam and I did, I swear I did, see the following information written in gothic font....what the f**k?


From there it was a bit hazy, but I do remember running out of the corridor, offward and downward away from the bear's lair, pausing in the cavernous candlelit drawing room of the topologically nontrivial creature (and I don't mean the usual topology of you and me, he was different for sure and I have a simple language- Nonlinear N- to express that, later), tapping my shoes and chanting that there's no place like home, but that didn't work, so I ran out of the apartment, down the ten or so flights of spiralling stairs, out through the aperiodically black and white tiled floors and into the street, which was rain swept since it was a dark and stormy night.  I hailed a cab, and after figeting with my portable telephone machine I was able to retrieve the address of the scorpion friend who taunted me into this trick.  I wanted a second chance.  I wanted to flip the coin again and, well, maybe have a new lease on life.  The cab screeched down the arterie of the gothic city that was replete with tenebristic towers with black toothed windows,  reaching for the sky and into the clouds, as if trying to grab with grubby concrete fingers  for something more, more more and f**k everyone below in this city of devils, this amalgam of Dutch traders with no moral compass and worse English and followed by other people with nothing to lose, ie, Irish and Italians and Jews and Puerto Ricans and special high schools and so forth.  Cartesian arteries sprinkled with Northern European late Industrial Revolution and Modern sensibility drenched facades and funny faces informed me through light and shadows of their presence, fleeting as it was, whilst the drunk and swarthy cabbie drove at egregiously high speeds, right, then left, right angled manuvering in the process and listening to asymetrically constructed music from, I don't know, Greece, Turkey or some other cross roads of Linear X stuff.  But after the Minoans. 


The driver screeched to a halt in front of my scorpion’s den, which was somewhere downtown, past Chinatown, and for now I can’t remember much other than the address was 33 something or other.  I was fatigued and my drunk swarthy cabbie noted that.  He asked if I was ok, and I said I was but was a bit enervated. I was lying and I’m not a good liar; my pulse was racing partially from the odd experience of observing Leo and, complementary, from the seemingly instantaneous ride through the crevices of the city of boundless ambition and filth.  The cabbie looked back at me straight into my eyes and he had kind eyes, they eyes of a stupid survival machine whose genetic structures have climbed onward and upward to and impossibly complex Mount Improbable and have, slightly by chance and slightly deterministically, survived purely because there was the proper mixture of selfishness and altruism.  Prisoners Dilemma.  He wanted to help me, and his help was not the help to stave off death of my survival machine, which encases genes for a short epoch until they can replicate and hop from body to body. No, this was that odd vestige, that odd appendix that simply doesn’t make sense like the inversion of images in the inner workings of the almost perfect but decidedly imperfect eye.  He wanted to help me feel better.  Just feel better, not survive.  He asked if I was alright again, and I rolled my eyes and held my heart in a whimsical and theatrical show of panic, but then I caught my breath and, sarcastically, thanked him for the safe journey but then, I don’t know, for some reason, I felt compelled to unleash the story that was swirling in my head to him.  I mentioned the Scorpion, the coin flip, the Bot, the weird encounter with Leo, the cat, the bear, and the Leo’s ideas about how to make money by travelling not too far into the future and returning with noisy information, perhaps qubit-ized information, riddled with what Leo called entangled something or others, about what will happen in the near, really near future.  And he responded with a curious accent that he thought that was interesting and that he, also, was a scientist before and that he even traded foreign exchange and that, well, it was interesting but clearly it would fail. And I asked why, and he said that it was purely a matter of some simple ideas about time travel itself.  He said of course one could appeal to the Grandfather paradox, which so simply put is the conundrum that if time travel were possible, then it would be possible to travel to the past and kill one’s grandfather.  He laughed hysterically and offered that such a paradox wasn’t necessarily a paradox, by appealing to a many world paradigm in which channels leading from the future to the past give rise to manifold future paths (this is where “probability” comes into play) into new universes from the spacetime point of return.  Or something like that.  He mentioned that in his mind either Time Travel was impossible or the Human Race was, will be, is extinct before the time that, in principle, it would be discovered.  In Principle!  This theorem, he assured me, was insulated from the many world futures hypothesis, as long as one subscribed to a certain reflection principle that there were, on average, as many future worlds that would discover time travel as there were forked paths when the time traveler came back to present.  In a word, whatever the case may be, if a time traveler could come back in time, then many time travelers from many possible future worlds could come back in time, and by general nonsense, it would mean that if we are in one possible world path, that either we should have witnessed such time travel by this point in…er, spacetime or the whole human race would have been killed off, in that path of time or, more precisely, for every forked path of future worlds from that time.  But he then sighed and said, well, it’s not that simple, since it could be that for each future path in which humans, and he corrected himself by extending this to future intelligent beings from Earth or any other planet or, well, let’s face it, universe, might not be so interested in travelling back in time, sorry, spacetime,  to a time, sorry spacetime, less than or equal to the current time (what does less than mean?), in the current reference frame that he and I agree is a suitable frame.  Haha.  Well, yes, he then said that really didn’t make sense as it would imply that for all future paths in which time travel were discovered before the destruction of all intelligent life forms, that none of those future bearers of time travel knowledge and technology would have been interested, interested, in precisely traveling to a time on or before (something is telling me that inequalities don’t make sense by the way) the current moment in time experienced by him and me.  And since there was, obviously, a Copernican, Isotropic 22 principle going on here in respect to the nothing special property of Earth or Time on Earth, clearly that wouldn’t make much sense, would it?  Says he.  I said, suppose they didn’t want to let us know they were here, or maybe they did, but we are such morons we didn’t understand they were here.  Hahahah, nonsense,  he said, and he cited the following argument.  Even if they didn’t want to let us know, then we would have known because they would have tried to avert disasters from the time of the Minoans (Atlantis, tidal waves, volcanos) to the 12 Ceasars to the Spanish Inquisition to Napoleon to Hitler to Stalin to Pol Pot and Number Six.  Now, I was fired up.  That sounds like Grandfather. He said no, it wasn’t.  Their interference would have sent so many signals to us, and we would have had documented evidence, at least of their existence, and it was hard to believe that for the infinite continuum of sprouting future paths that none of those paths helped us avert catastrophe and disaster.  No, it was fuked up, said the cabbie.  He said he had been at once a devout Muslim, but he gave that up because he couldn’t figure out why there was suffering in the world, he couldn’t understand how Allah, who is great obviously if he exists, could punish the innocent creatures that HE created.  Didn’t make sense. But now he was faced with the same dilemma, if he actually BELIEVED in Time Travel. All those motherfukers from the FUTURE A) DON’T WANT TO COMMUNICATE WITH US AND B) DON’T WANT TO HELP REDUCE HUMAN SUFFERING IN THE PAST (for them, not us!).  NO frigging way.  If one believed in Time Travel, then one should believe in God, because the same things that one would have against the existence of God would hold for the existence of Time Travel- no evidence of people from the Future (respectively God) and no indication that those people care about us (respectively God cares about us).  I asked, calmly, where are you from? He paused, after taking a swig from a brown bag and said, “Turkey”.

 
I thought that would divert his attention away from his madness, but it didn't. I was actually calming down and, frankly, was a tad bit hungry.  Turskish sounded good so I asked him where I could get a good kebab, and he quickly barked out a decent place somewhere on the Westside near Republique.  But then he sat up straight and pressed a button to lock the doors.  I was trapped.  He continued with his thoughts/memes/brain clots and dreams.  haha, he said, he thought it was funny that people in the past, at least if you believe hollywood versons of reality or representations of what might have been reality in the past, worshipped their ancestors.  That was all wrong! No! No! No! Why the past?  If you were going to believe in a God or in something that was watching over you and helping you stave off hunger, sickness and evil, then those people from the past should have, ex poste of course, been worshipping their progeny, not their ancestors!  There was a religion for you, he said with a maniacal grin.  The future intelligent race was, for all intents and purposes, God.   That is, if you believed in Time Travel.  And, he added, if they were able to travel back to our time and if, as we may assume, they did evolve to a higher consciousness and understand that it was good to be good, then, well, why didn't they help us? the only reason he reckconed was that, in fact, they are evil, and that since they are evil we are evil and it explained a lot of things.  And if they couldn't travel in time because of extinction, then the whole universe is evil since it would imply that the manifold continuum of future possibilities rendered future paths of destruction prior to the revelation of knowledge about how to travel in time. That is, if time travel were possible.  So, God Willing, said he, time travel isn't possible because the future isn't so bright, however you look at it, if it were.  Evil or Death.  Or something like that.  I was hungry.  I wanted a kebab, but I did understand his point and it did give me an idea for a new religion.  I tried to interject that not only was I hungry, but I also wanted to simply resurface into a field of daisies; please unravel the mess I was in, the deep, spiralling fractal laden mess and, frankly, for me I am fairly lost how far down into the topologically contractable tree of coin flips I have travelled- how many bots and stories and bots and stories about bots and bots that might be writing stories and so on and so forth.  I've only revealed one splice in this tree of death, this hell, this perplexing memento of caravaggio's 23rd century darkness, printed on quantum fluctuating bell-proven EPR pairs that keep me up at night pondering whether Godelian universes could explain quantum mechanics and brain activity and whether....er....can I have a kebab?


Obviously, I can't, couldn't, will not be able to, c**t.

C***s!

Ok, I'll starve. 

I asked the Turk to write down the name of the Turkish restaurant, since I was calm and collected and feeling proud, like a peac**k, and he flinched but succombed to my request and drew a pen that was lodged between his greasy, alcohol drenched head and ears and he subsequently scribbled with anguish and anger the name- Ahmet's- 555-5555, in the 5th district, near the opera house and the Modern.  I took the piece of paper that looked like a miniture flag folded by soldiers in order to properly protect the finest cola this side of the equator.  muhhahaha.  yes.  I then gave him 10 francs, eyed him with strong aggressive conviction and, paradoxically, kindly, with the eyes of an innocent calf, asked him to unlock the doors and unleash me.  He agreed with the slightest gesture that suggested the arm twisting from a mosquito.  Bite me m**********r.

I was out and onward and upward to meet the scorpion, with the pincers that I'd love to boil and eat with garlic butter; m**********r scorpion friend always trying to f**k with me! I'll show him.  So, I ring his bell and he doesn't answer and I ring and he doesn't answer and well, you can see where this is going I can tell, michelle, my bell, f**k.  But then finally that m**********r pincer-hander mini me pink lobster p***y answers the door and feigns surprise when he sees me, and Marvin Gaye is playing in the background and he has this nice exotic bird half naked in the background of crack smoke, cedar wood smoke and the the smell of Rapper's Delight Champagne is meandering through the air in an Ergodic, Erotic cycle of flows, oozing Birdly, feline delights of m**********r pincer lobster unfriendly feckless semi-friends.  Friend, let me flip the coin again, said I. He said why, but only after offering me a glass of sinister sumptious glass of rapper's wine.  He was full of false pretences and he really didn't want me there, since he had his bird, who looked so ravishingly beautiful and I was hungry and hunger and desire sort of mix in my soul in mysterious ways when I'm confused.  And he knew that and I think he planned on that. I think he can read my mind.  I am calm now, but I need to flip the bit switch and get on with things, because the only way to figure out why I am where and when I am is to move on forward and meet those that, by the sheer destiny that has been laid out by my own will, with this guy's suggestion of course, are destined to meet me. Or something like that.

I didn't mince words.  Flip the f*****g coin and make it land on the other side.  The other side!  He said ok, ok, calm down, have a drink.  I said I was calm. He shook his head.  His dish got up with her chalice and gingerly stumbled to the toilet (probably to vomit).  Marvin Gaye was singing let's get it on.  F**k you Marvin, you're right, but don't rub it in. I WILL get it on.  My "friend" brought out red candles and "the coin". 


Now.

22:22 again.

I’ve asked myself how many times have, self sic, I witnessed that time on my time machine.  Should there be a question mark there?  If one enumerates the number of times that one looks at the time and records the/that time in one’s mind to be retrieved in due time for reflection of that snapshot in time, then I suspect that a good proportion of humanity, a sample of humanity, as it were, a statistically significant sample of humanity would think it a bit uncanny that the same time reveals itself, Itself, more often than what would seem to be reasonable from some general principle of uniformity, copernicanity, anthropic principality of how life is as we see it and experience it on this spec of “random” dust in a “random” universe who’s laws “seem” to “obey” “certain” “self-evident” “principles” that are mapped out and morphed in our minds down through the ages, from the dawning of the elemental factories in the globules of light matter called stars, through the glomming together of mass that was drawn to each other in some inanimate sensual abandon, to the invasion of strong molecules to the Lie Group invariance-law holding, Gauge Theoretical sections of Principle Bundles, with Sheaves and Pull Backs and general nonsense formulations of element factors, planets, moons, dirt, comets, replication, mount improbable, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, strands, stealers, crystals, hijackers, replicators, bacteria, complexity, oceans, eyes, emergence, and flirtations with disaster and extinction and reemergence of complexity over the billions and billions and billions of Saganian years fit for some biatch called Jodie Foster to ponder in some field bursting with daisies whilst laying on one’s back and singing to oneself, that old heart beat of constant self-assessment that every living replicating being surely, almost surely, ponders, that is, who am I and what is Time? 

Why do I see 22:22 more often than any other time?  What is special about 22:22?  Can it be that there is something special about this number?  Can this be explained away in the same manner as the crowded locker room paradox, in which no matter how one goes about picking an empty locker, surrounded by empty lockers, that with very high probability, come shower time, you’re surrounded by eight smelly beasts who have their smelly clothes/bodies/thoughts around you? 

This is what I said to the Scorpion, but he wasn’t entertained by it, and I must admit that I , like he, was temporarily mesmerized by the exotic dish who re-surfaced from the ergodic sink of the toilet, probably after vomiting.  I said that before, approximately at 22:ab, a and b being variables to be determined later with some optimization.  Or something like that.  Time and self awareness and even simple questions like who am I not in a deep sense but what is my name and do I have a family were laid to the side and only thoughts of HER, the exotic creature and IT, the Turkish Delight, no, not the sad candy, but the properly grilled KEBAB were weighing heavily on my thoughts, dreams, memes, desires, and all of a sudden mental torture was unleashed, in a crescendo of cadence breaking, superposition of cascading catastrophes, a la Rene Thom et al and all the French Champignon Magique consuming Freaky Champions (Thom, Connes, Mandelbrot, Gromov, aGrothendiek nd their pet No. 6, [being french is a state of mind, especially if you're a mathematician]), propagating through my wirings upstairs, up there in the pinhead penthouse housing thoughts, thoughts, thoughts that would erupt and then dissipate and conserve known laws of physics such as  those that relate to heat and energy (and interact with CTC noise free quantum channels via noncomputational quantum gravity wave theories), and yet, the former is natural and the latter is, let’s face it, not so easy to pin down.  Thoughts of guilt, intrigue, desire, math, sx, food, dolphins, lobsters, and explosions of something or other motherfuckerfucking streams came down, dripping into my loins and lumbering down into my foot, the middle one that is, and then I asked the Scorpion how I could actually meet an Exotic Dish like HER.  He said, let’s flip the coin first, but before we do that, do you, Pauli, have the laptop?  Hmmm? The laptop with the work you did on the Bot?  I said which laptop? He said the one he gave me.  I said I didn’t know what he was talking about. He said I took one the last time we flipped the coin, the time it landed on the side that indicated that Bot building was the path, and that I was to take the laptop and document my work on it, but I said he was crazy, fuking crazy, really crazy.  I had no fuking laptop, and if I did have one, it would be back at the Hungarian’s Den.

And then, 22:22, again!


I won’t bother with the details, friend, pets, and eccentric real humans.  Basically, this is what happened in short hand.   The scorpion was there as was his creature, whom I longed.  I think that is right.  I’ll get back to you in another time and place and space.   Solipsist creatures at work.  Fuk!  Scorpion flipped the coin and it landed on the right side of the coin, despite the yin yang proclivities of one pet called Number Six in my computer simulation.   Yes and NO Number Six, Alphaville French stuff.Scorpion was joking about the laptop, but, he did produce a laptop for me. It was blue and relatively thin, and I did open it, I did fire it up and found this evidence of things that came from me, I think.

I am a human being of Polish blood and I am sitting in a Turkish Kebab shop, and my nickname is the Pimp, but I am not a Pimp, in the banal version of the definition.  I am a pimp in an enlarged system of logic and inference that includes extending the extended phenotype of what it means to be a “pimp”. Let’s mull over that concept for a few nanoseconds.  A pimp is a person who can extract economic benefits from another unassuming person (person being defined in a strict legal linguistical framework that is) by applying methods that cater to insecurities of the target person.   I will go into details later but we are not talking about the usual image of Abel Ferrara films, all of which I enjoy of course, but all of which paint a rather banal view of what we are talking about. Prepositional Endings! Details, details! Fuk!  Anyway, the classical pimp is to me as an integer is to an element of a set that is the recipient of multiplicative and/or additive bonding in the most general manner.  Two regular numbers can be multiplied but so can things that are simple combinations of normal numbers plus multiples of square roots of minus one, in the same way that pairs of piles of numbers can be multiplied by each other or even much more abstract than that, but, hey, do we really want to integrate abstraction with postmodernism? Maybe, maybe not, but it will depend on the parallel universe that is unfolding in the weird world line that is intersecting another world line by one Number Six, on this string of existence, at best and M-brane, at worst, or something like that.Fuk.In any event, we will get to how I got here, with the fractal patterns of organizational hierarchy, the Life Of Brian observation about the complexity of Continental European infinite regressions of meetings about meetings, and so on and so forth, later. Much later, I hope, but I did give you a taste at the beginning of this tale. For now, let me say that I make money by pimping humans out for my benefit, and in the meantime I eat KEBABS and the drink STARBUCKS coffee and think about math and, well, hehe, you know the other thing I think about.  Kittens.  More on that later.This one is for you, my pet, my feckless, freckled point set pet.  Hehe. 

I, Maxime Drapovsky, have a simple proof of Godel Incompleteness.  There are details to work out, but a sketch is like this.  Take a formal logical system.  Assume it can handle normal mathematical reasoning, ie, arithmetic, analysis, geometry and so and so forth a=a etc. basically math as we know it and math that is created by a logical beings. The basic premise is that this logical formal system can handle all of the statements that are within the realm of human mathematics.  That covers arithmetic and I’m frankly not sure if that is a stronger condition than what Godel intended by including arithmetic but, hey, I’m lazy and sometimes the biatches get in the way.  But, basically, the system has axioms and rules of inference to be able to handle math.

Take propositions as elements in a set.  Those are formulae that are grammatically correct statements that are either true or false, but not necessarily provable.  Provable means you can connect an atomic statement, that is, a statement that is composed with very basic prime elements of axioms, to any given proposition by a simple sequence of (If A then B) things.  If you say (If A then B) then imagine connecting a line segment from A to B.  Think visually.  Now there is a skeleton.  If (If A then B) and (If B then C), then by a classical, and I underscore classical rule of inference called Hypothetical Syllogism, then (If A then C).   This means you can glue in triangles where 2 line segments were connecting the simple sequences of things.  Continue and you will get this monster of a multidimensional space in which tetrahydrons are 2 dimensional analogues of the triangles and so on and so forth and, I must admit, this is another strain of thought that will crush my nemesis and dear friend Sir Roger Penrose because it is visual and visual things are not things that you can model with Turing Machines. But that is neither here nor there.

Each proposition is either true or false, but a proposition is provably true or provably false if and only if there is a “chain” of line segments from basic atomic propositions to that proposition.Next, note that a formal logical system has an involution operator. Think of simple symmetry.  That is basically taking a proposition to its corresponding anti-proposition. An involution is an action of a group, a simple group, called Z2, on a space.  In this case, it is that monster space of propositions with line segments, triangles, tetrahedrons and so and so forth a=a etc, and, well, you guys and girls reading this, which is written by some Italian fag, will understand what I am saying, I think.  Note that this operator not acts on propositions by sending A to NotA, but also on “paths” of inference. IN other words, if (If A then B), then (If NotB then Not A), so the involution reverses implication but respects structure of things.  In a word, involution commutes with the natural projection from propositions to truths values, on which the flipping between zero and one acts properly.  Call me if you need a tutorial. Batch.

This property is called orthocomplimentarirty and it plays a central role in quantum logic, which I firmly believe is misguided in its stress on probability valued logical assertions, when it should concentrate on unit normed, complex valued assertions.   Complex numbers with unit length are better extensions of ZERO and ONE, for the obvious reasons of symmetry, but humans are hung up with probability, but I’m not talking about N 6 babble, I’m talking more important things.  But that is neither here nor there

Next, suppose our formal system is consistent.  Then, there are no contradictions.  A contradiction is a pair such that A is true and NotA is true, at the same time, simultaneously, what ever that means, but we know what it means.  But it is clear that this is equivalent to the statement that the aforementioned INVOLUTION has NO FIXED POINTS.

Next, we assumed our system was consistent and handles regular day to day math.  So, consider the proposition, “There is no fixed point to the involution I just described”.   I CLAIM there is no proof of that.  Suppose there were a proof.  Recall that a proof is a chain of inferences connecting atomic propositions to the general proposition.  Consider the image of that statement under the involution.  That statement is “There Is a FIXED POINT TO THE INVOLUTION”.    That would mean there is THERE IS a proof of “If there is a FIXED POINT, then some Atomic Statement is false.”  But if there were a fixed point, then there is a contradiction in the system.    IF, the system could handle math, then the classical rules of inference would apply, including Disjunctive Syllogisms.  But that would imply that every statement were true.  Therefore , ……er, where is that fukin Kebab!Basically, in a word, we would have a proof by connectivity back to the statement that There is No Fixed Point, hence rendering a proof that If There is a Fixed Point, then there is NO Fixed Point, which would mean the system is inconsistent.  Note, I do, mofo, use the fact that the system should handle regular math, including, of course, simple theorems about actions of groups on spaces, topological spaces, posets, a=a etc, and, well, I’m looking forward to my dish, female and kebab-wise, but just then, some nervous looking Italian freak walks in.

but i am right, muhahahhaha, trust me on this. or else.


Now, where was I?

Right.

Oops, there is protocol here.

Pauli, can you tell Max to relinquish existence up to Pauli?  Yes.  Good.   Max, can you relinquish existence for a moment to me?  F**k you, but ok.  What now?  Who said that?  Me. Who's me?  Whom do you think?  You created me, so, I assume you know whom I am.  Is that Max or Pauli?  Are you serious?  Who said that? I said that.  Ok, well, ok, nevermind it doesn't matter since on a consolidated basis, you are both my creations.  Hehe, but I said that, not you.  What?  I said that, not you.  Don't f**k with me! You little son or grandson. How can you tell which is which?  Well, I'm writing this and you aren't, get it? How do you know you are writing this and I am not?  Or maybe it's the other person. F**k you.  I can erase you from this pointless story.  Really? Try.  You've executed that hook before, but it fell flat.  Johnny was the only person who was amused.  Who's Johnny?  And you tell me that you created me?  Look who's talking.  Ok that's enough, sI exact you.  Exact? Hahahahhaah, loser.  No, really, I exact you out of this right nw.  RIGHT NOW!  I'm still here.  Who is still here? Me. Who's me?  I am.  Who are you?  I think the computer is not functioning properly.  What do you mean? You are my creation and live inside of my head. No, You are MY creation and live insinde MY head.  Reallly? really.  Easy peasy lemon squeezy?  right.  Ok here's a test:  I command you to write a few sentances of this story. Now.  But I've already done that. No, you haven't.  f**k you, but, hey, I'll prove you wrong right now. Ok, go!  ......I can't.  Ok, let me help.  Let's start with....See Spot Run.  See Spot Run.  Holy shit! I'm writing, I'm writing.  See Spot Run down the. .....down the road!  Papa! Thanks! Thank you!


Ok, no more monkeying around.  I am here, right now, in Ahmet’s and it is true that I gave a poor alternative proof of the theorem that states, to the general public, that you can’t prove all things that are true within an agreed upon system of things and methods for proving things and, simultaneously, have faith, and I underscore faith, that your things and methods won’t end up giving you results such as I am here and I am not here and time travel is possible and it isn’t and so on and so forth, and, of course, I am cheating a bit since it depends on having a lot of things to prove, more than you can count on your 5 fingers, more than any number to which you can count, more than the Number 6, and so on and so forth.  We will return to the proper proof in good time.  It is correct, trust me on that, and it most surely is on the one hand equivalent to the ideas of Godel and on the other hand deep, profound, and devoid of French Continentalism. 

I am a man in a restaurant.  I am waiting for a man who is not in the best state of mind and I will take advantage of that state.  They call me the Pimp, and yet all I do is allow people to dream their dreams for a price, my price, my endless price.  This man will want to write a story, which is his dream, even though he fools himself into thinking that his dream is to create a trading bot, but I know better because, at the end of the day, this type of person with whom I’ll make the most gracious acquaintance is confused about his own existence; He is a schizophrenic, and schizophrenics by definition have inconsistent notions of what is unassailably true about who they are, when they are, and what it means for time to pass.

I am also a mathematician.  And yet, for all of the glory of understanding objects and structures around those objects, I am a man of sensuality and because of that understanding, I realize that the pleasure of understanding objects and structures is nothing but pleasure.  I realize that the human condition is rife with the never-ending crutch of wanting to feel good about the here and now.  What is pleasure?  It is nothing more than borrowed synthetic happiness.  Human beings, as well as numerous other life forms, are want to leverage up on any emotion and sensation that will decrease their preprogrammed unassailably true understanding that life has an end, that one ends up shriveling into a decaying ball of unneeded waste of carbon based molecule excrement, which, unfortunately, for some seemingly inexplicable reason, doesn’t add value into the mix of the future.   Mount Improbable leaves me feeling unsettled, and yet I accept it, and yet, I want to turn it on its head, as it were.

I don’t need to be good, not for religion, and certainly not for science, whose current shrine of worship is Mount Improbable.I sell dreams, I will monetize other people’s insecurities and I will do whatever it takes to maximize my leveraging up of my future happiness, because, I, like those who have the free options on their profit and loss, will be out the door and clipping coupons on God’s Golden Shore, or Science’s X Y, X and Y respectively being Golden and Shore, thank you very much South Park, faster than you can say Deleuze, loser, you’ll snooze, when I’m in the news, after my Muse, told me what to do….z. fuk! 


Now, he comes in. 

 Is that the right tense?

It is a dark and stormy night.  The lambs are grilling in this cavernous hole in the wall.  I’m waiting for my Sheesh dish, large order, with chips and legumes drenched in olive oil and lemon and salt.  I can smell the burning chemical reactions (which requires QM of course) of some fragrant rosy wood whose smoke particles encase the burning hooved flesh with a sweet foppish dress of sanguine pleasures mixed with spice and measures of hectures of burnt offerings of slabs of primordial salted and peppered fatty fleshy chewy meat.  I am wondering what life would have been like in the time of Hammurabi and one eyed codes of law, during a time that would be measured in present time as being from there to here as it was from the dawn of humanity to there.  I strongly feel that so much in life is hyperbolic, that is, that time and space is measured in a metric in which time goes by with increasingly rapid speed.  If one thinks about the pleasure of a leg of lamb, or some ribs, or long pork spit roasted over a fire of mesquite or birch wood, with the flies and gnats and rats and domesticated cats and dogs and roasting hogs and women dancing around the delicious smoky sumptuous fire, around the grounds where our hounds hound us for succulent morsels of lamb and pork and fish and buffalo and springbok and bear meat that we have speared with our hands and minds and, taking a cat nap, with eyes, blinking in kind whilst the ancients chat over the watery rats that infiltrate the camp of the damp and hot environs of the sirens that haunt the human past, at last, tie me to the mast, in a song before Sisquo sang of theThong, hyperbolically before 6s and Fdaxes and the streams of nonsense.  She serves a sweet Retsina.  She keeps me safe and warm.  That’s just the calm, before the storm. WORD! Linear B rules.  And fuk the rest of you who correlate with crap.Haha.

So, he comes in and he is looking for a place to park his sorry arse.  I am at a table in the steamy smoky den that has, miraculously,  one extra seat right in front of me exists.  Tables are not a number, and contingency, the shear contingency of this timeless thing makes me wonder whether you have a clue?  Who would have thought that?  He orders, looks around pensively, and nervously hobbles his arse next to my table, which, of course, is the size of a matchbox.  He is grabbing a laptop with both hands and looks confused. The perfect target.  He is swarthy and possibly of southern Mediteranean Descent, and he looks familiar. Rather handsome, I’d say, but I prefer women and lamb/pork/fish/legumes, etc.  Hehe.   Before he even considers imposing on me, I motion with my shaved head and nefarious grin to sit down, and he obeys.

As he sits down, he looks at is watch and the nervously looks at the Turk who is slaving over the fire.  He looks and me as his arse touches the white plastic stool and asks if we have met before.  I said no I extend my hand and say I'm Maxime.  He says he's Pauli.  He says he's tired. I ask why. He says he's had a tough night.  I said why.  He said nevermind.  I roll my eyes and continue to eat my charcoaled fragarant flesh.  A few minutes pass, during which time I enjoy with abandon the meat, juices, blood, fat, bread, lemon tinged leaves, humus, shaved carrots, chili peppers, all drenched in fatty bloody, sizzling rivers of lamb ooze.  douceur, rondeur, chante le chanteur, thought I I said what's in the laptop?  He said nevermind. I said, come on, tell me. He said no I said yes.  He said, ok, it contains a method for building a program to trade, you know, he said, trade markets automatically.  I said, really?  he said really. I said why do you want to do that?  He said he needed money and it was a, a way, a path, a road to monetize his ability, to, well, he said, prove that he could monetize his ability.  I said bullshit.  I know why you are tired. He said tell me.  I said he was lost.  He said no way. I said what is your real name.  He said Pauli.  Bullshit. No, it is.  Where do you come from?  silence. Do you have a family? silence.  Do you have a girlfriend? silence.  Do you know where you are?  Ahmets.  Where is that?  Here.  What city is this?  Hey, shut the f**k up.  Ok, ok, Pauli, listen, Pauli, I think I can help you. 


I commenced with the interview.

What is your name? correct.  Where do you live? Incorrect.  Who is your mother? Incorrect.  Who is your father? Incorrect.  Do you have a wife? Incorrect.  Do you have a “husband”? incorrect, and also correct.  Do you have children? Incorrect.  Do you have a father? Incorrect.  A mother?  Incorrect.  In which city do you live? Incorrect.  What are your interests?  Everything, ie, correct, and possibly incorrect.  What is 7 times 8. Correct, bravo.  What is the best signature of an equality operator in any language? Correct.  What is Time? Incorrect.  What is love? Incorrect.  What do you want?  Silence, ie, correct.  How many angels are there on the head of a pin?  Correct, fuk you.  A Sequence of obvious,  brain twisters whose solutions were readily available on the internet and in bookstores ensued and he got them all right.  Heading in the right direction. Hehe.  What is the length of a piece of string? Loser, incorrect.  If you had to interview a personal a*sistant, what would be the question to ask? Incorrect.  Ok, you are flying to Hong Kong, and you want to return on Friday the 13th, at Midnight.  Give me the years and months in which there is an interesting question to ask, especially considering that your groveling future servant wants the job?  Puzzlement, followed by odd gestures.  Loser.   Ok, a father and a mother have a daughter and a son.  Why is that like a circle?   Incorrect, but, ok.  Added question, for additional pure evil.  The father and the mother have the same mother and father and they spawn a daughter and son. Why is that like a sphere?  I’m getting nervous about this guy.  Ok, if I were in your shoes, what question should I ask you, you being me, of course, if the tables were turned and if I were you and you were me?  Silence.  I underscore that that was the wrong answer.  And he, that lost simpleton m**********r rightfully responded with the right question at the wrong time and which was for me the fait accomplit, please help me spell that, about how I should explain the rules of the game.  The rules were that I was the interlocutor, but that he had the right to turn the tables, if he had the balls to do so, and yet, he did and he didn’t, and I must admit that he failed on a lot of things but got other key things right.  I must admit that I was getting a bit flummoxed by this, and he did have an almost arrogant countenance about this incident.  I continued with the usual puzzles about binary and plain vanilla options and limits, and then I asked him what moral hazard was, and what it meant for the someone to have the option to walk away from something, anything, and then I asked him what was the difference between morality and ethics, and, what was the difference between the difference between morality and ethics and the difference between syntax and semantics?  He asked me what the job was all about, and I, flummoxed by the insolence and insubordination that he leveled on my person, was a bit surprised on the one hand and on the other hand was a bit titillated.  I asked him how to solve the heat equation, and he rightfully didn’t quote Feynmann.   I asked if he was a mathematician, and he retorted, reposted with the “fact” that “we” are “all” mathematicians.  Ok, this was the rope a dope. Hehe.  He was mine.  He felt comfortable.  He felt on top of the world.  I need not include the hundreds of technical, trivial questions that he answered b y reading books on answering questions about how to get a job at a place that caters to humans, and I say that with a certain amount of jest, who  want to express themselves, find themselves, monetize their intellect, their worth, their existence, a=a etc.  hehe.  We are there.  I asked him if he had questions.   He said what is the job?  I said the job is to find yourself, write the story, a*sist me in writing the story that you need to write, but, most importantly, it is to abide by the rules of the company.

Rules.  He asked? What rules?

If you have no essence of no fear, then you have fear, and if you have fear, then democracy is not for you, I answered.  He said he was lost, and hence had no fear.  I said if you work for me, would you agree that there is no freedom?  He said, whilst he works for me, then he’d understand that fact.  I said tell me why?  


Time has been spliced out of this story for some time. 

Nevertheless, it rambles on in my head.

This is, of course, Max speaking.

Hundreds of questions, teching out, as it were, passed, and I really don’t want to bore you with the details about how pimps assess whether someone who is weak and confused and yet has something to offer can rise up to the task.  As it were.I must confess that whilst I did, in one sense, indicate that his job would be about writing a story,  in another  and more important sense, it was conveyed as a mission to a*sist in an effort to build, or more precisely enhance, the world’s first fully functional but purely automated capitalistic framework.   He read that as building a “Trading Bot”.  Haha.  I emphasize framework because program or bot or algorithm or system is a very banal and trivial articulation of what this thing is about. This thing is distributed.  This thing is celled.  This thing is to the dynamics of wealth transfer what Al Queda was to contemporary paradigm shifting concepts of geopolitical warfare.  This thing is all over, everywhere, ubiquitous, all encompassing, evolving, anonymous, and we, I, it, sign up new souls every millisecond.  It is all part of the inevitable process of the evolution of intelligence, and, let’s face it, in the absence of God, would we need the concept of Goodness or Morality or Ethics?  I am a flaneur  and a rake most of the time, but when it comes down to “the business”, I am focused.  I am that I am.

This is my man, this Pauli, this lost soul who has no clue from where he comes or what he really, truly, deeply, cathartically wants.  He is so deeply lost that he has no clue that he actually is a human being, with choices and he could, in fact, stand up and be somebody. But, he won’t. Haha.  And then I presented the contract of employment, with one entity, a corporation that was incorporated by, hehe, yours truly, in Cayman Islands.  This company is called Multiple Access Dynamics, Ltd. (“MAD”).  I gave him MAD’s contract, whilst he was chowing down a deliciously dripping chunk of Halal lamb, skewered in stewing juices worthy of the muses of chefs from the time of Linear A peons who worked for pimps in palaces that were subsequently engulfed in some mysterious calamity that was precipitated by some black earthly tit that erupted most egregiously on an Island in which Homer’s heros languidly sojourned, waiting for the instructions of their master, or maybe it was due to the Sea Peoples from the land of 6 and Phoenician Phlaneurs.  I know not.

That is neither here or there, or then or now.  Or something like that. Nor something like that. Or not, nor not. Fuk, loop me out of my tick, Pauli.

Spacetime is one thing, and it is bubbly.

First, he hemmed and hawed about the various clauses and stipulations and covenants and remedies and rights and representations and warranties and disclosures and, luckily, this contract was not codified under the rule of rules, but under the concept of principles, and principles are tricky but useful.  Pauli had to behave on MAD’s premises.  He couldn’t log into personal email accounts, he couldn’t look at humans in the face in lifts, he use profanity, he couldn’t raise his voice, he couldn’t drink alcohol, he couldn’t confront colleagues about their religious, sexual, dietary or philosophical beliefs, in fact, he could not rattle the cage, as it were, in any way shape or form.  Pauli couldn’t disparage his boss, who was the deputy of the managing director of the division that was headed up by the group head who reported into the DECT committee, which was headed up by the Secretary of the Operational Logistics, who, in turn had duel reporting obligations into the head of Social Compliance as well as Control and Enforcement, who, in turn, reported into three deputies of General Business, Operations, and Systematic Systems, all of which, by the way, and pardon the ambiguity, implies 9 separate entities if you understand arrows and objects and org charts.  Pauli had to behave.  That was contractual.  Pauli lived in a democratic society outside of his place of employment, but, contractually, he still had to behave according to certain principles even outside of his employment. Even if Pauli wanted to chow down some meat at Ahmets, he’d have to think a bit carefully about what he said.  Didn’t matter if the cops or the Crown Court or the DA or the Prime Minister didn’t care what he had to say at Ahmets.  MAD cared, and MAD was going to be there, hehe, trust me, for better or worse MAD would be there before the cops and the politicians and the judges and the presidents. MAD would decide Pauli’s fate, at least that which is measured by the present value of future monetizable abilities, because, let’s face it, there aren’t that many opportunities out there like MAD.  Hehe.  And I am at the top of this fractal, Cellulose tinged, fragmented, network of joint ventures and affiliates and subsidiaries and holding companies and special purpose vehicles and service providers and so on and so forth from Caymans to Anguilla to Antigua to BVA to Malta to Cyprus to Maurilicious to every other motherfuker tax haven and business friendly blue island in every ocean and sea on the planet.  We are in Cayman for the Americans. We are in Maurilicous for the Indians and the Chinese.  We are in Cyprus for the Russians. We are in Malta for the South Africans.  We are in Luxembourg for those pathetic European losers, those citizens of the Lifestyle Superpower of the World, who want to feign some sort of image of honesty and ethics and transparency, as if anyone with a brain would think that there aren’t any moral sewers in anyone’s country or continent’s backyard. But that is neither here nor there.  We let technical people who were schooled in rules pander to our adjectives and adverbs and principled nonsense of contracts.  Commercial Reasonableness, good faith, best efforts, and for the avoidance of doubt, you will have doubt if you deal with us. Pauli would be controlled by MAD. Pauli would suk the corporate dik of MAD in order to plow ahead, I can sense this, and I will take advantage of it, in despicable ways.  AT least that will be your view.  In a word, in return for gainful employment and some hope for finding himself and achieving some goal that he thinks he wants, he will have to live in a dictatorship that is wrapped inside of a myth of economically and socially free society. But most importantly, Pauli’s thoughts would be our property.  Whilst slavery was outlawed in this fine land some time ago, but not long ago enough, for heaven’s sake, I must say that under the terms of Employment that Pauli is about to sign, not only will his thoughts belong to us, but it will be very difficult for him to even think about thinking at another copy of MAD, and trust me there are silly, second rate copies of MaD, out there.  Pauli’s lifeblood, his lifeline, his honor, his allegiance, his every day thought process and spiritual, mental , physical and psychological faith and orientation has to be with MAD, or else.  There is no other way, other than MAD.  And, at MAD, we have a mission statement and a set of principles, which we convey in a most honest way, by way of modern technology that would have made the most hardcore dystopian romantics wish to auger holes in their nonlinear logic of political thought processes.A=a etc.


I won’t bore you with the trite details that ensued. 

Let us just say that he became an employee of one compartment of MAD and as the years rolled by, unfettered by moss on time’s rolling stone, he worked his way onward and upward and was nevertheless unhappy.   He achieved a modicum of success and had at least 1 deputy in his cell, but of course he felt he needed more.  He was in charge of monitoring the behavior of his colleagues, globally, across continents and legal entities and cells and shell games that will be explained later.  What I will tell you is this.

By the time we caught him, he had drafted quite a diary of his times at MAD.  And it went like this, in a rambling stream of thoughts whose interpretation was prone to several linguistically equivalent homonymic utterances/information flow decompositions and reverse engineering.

I started MaD sometime ago and thought that, if I would have put in the proper amount of time that I would have been rewarded accordingly and would have been able to move laterally into the team of scientists who were responsible for the creation of the “Bots”.  But it was not to be.  Instead, what I have learned from my experience is that the organization has plenty to hide; I fear that I am involved in creating methods for egregiously invading people’s privacy, and, frankly, I am quite sure that this entity is slated to take over the world by some very evil deeds.  I will get into that later, but for now I will say that with each day, I become ever more paranoid that MAD is watching my every move and in fact, I wonder if they have not installed cameras in my flat.  But that is not the last of it.  I am quite sure that they have methods, some of which I was instrumental in developing, for actually recording one’s dreams, and I don’t mean dreams in some general sense, e.g., such as I dream of playing the guitar or flying a 767, I mean the canonical, base example of dreaming ideas and images whilst sleeping.  I am quite sure that they are reading, as it were, the dreams that I write, as it were.  And, whilst I am embarking on a journey to build a bot that can automatically generate money, which will automatically monetize my intellect, I must say that I am also inching, day by day, towards a realization of what has happened in my looping, fixed point free, self-folding life.  The dream repeats every few weeks.  And MAD knows about it; I am sure of it.  They know it and they will act, for I’ve signed the contract, know things, and I have no option to go anywhere else.  I’ve written about his before, and I know there are many of you who have read my thoughts on this.   In the dream, there is a dark and looming awareness in my consciousness that I have done something sinister and insane, and I think it points to murder.  In the dream, I realize, upon the flicker of a moment, that humans or other important live beings have been killed by me, that I have buried the bodies in some remote forest, and that the jig is up and they will find me soon.   I try to hurry to that remote location and dig up the remains of my sin, and I sense that the authorities are hot on the trail, but I cannot see them, nor hear them. Nothing like that. It is quite abstract, and yet his ominous feeling of guilt coupled with hopelessness and fear spiral into a crescendo of anxiety.  And then, when there is that titillating and perhaps relieving snapshot of being caught, red handed, I wake up in a cold sweat.MAD knows about this stuff, I am convinced.  But that is a mere bagatelle of a scratch on the surface of madness.  I also firmly believe MAD is building Weapons of Mass Destruction, and they intend to use it.  The fact is, inadvertently, I have met, get this, a nuclear physicist, his son who also is, a nuclear physicist, and the man’s lovely wife.    They all work for MAD, and after a few casual evenings at their lovely pre-Weimer Republic pad, I have jotted down several notes about what was going on in that place.  The son, a large, fat and foppish creature who likes to cite passages from 19th century Russian literature, sits in a dark room with computers and books and it is clear from the screens I’ve seen with my own eyes that he is designing a nuclear weapon.  The father, a strange looking man from Hungary, is constantly checking on his son’s work but he is not a good poker face.  I must say that the Hungarian’s wife is quite a dish; she reminds me of a sleek, green-eyed cat.  In fact, I must say that I was/am, increasingly attracted by her, but I also note that I sense that the Hungarian wants me to be sucked into a vortex of desire for her.  She seems to be a distraction, in both the English and French sense, hehe.  She is lithe and languid and lilting and cool and her green eyes conjure up images of lost feline goddesses from the time when Minoans and Samoans were carving images of beauty in rocks and wood.   She embodies desire.  She emotes and oozes the longing in my loins that has been programmed so deeply into my genetic structure.  She is the head fake to get me off course, not only in terms of finding my way out of this maze, this labyrinth, this unorientable surface with ants traveling nowhere and travelling so forever, but also in terms of achieving my goals of building the bot. But, she is in this document, to be found, ultimately, by MAD in the worst case and by those who will learn a good and moral lesson in the best.  So be it.  The Hungarian, who is called Leo Szlict, is almost surely, with his son, building a bomb that will be used against humanity and MAD will capitalize on its effects.  I am almost sure that they will place the bomb somewhere in the middle of some large megalopolis, perhaps this city or some other center in the world and they will set if off, but before that, they will ensure that that they have executed trades, signed contracts, bought businesses, leveraged upon bets, and so on and so forth to get further up the chain in taking over the world.  That is my view. 


I guess I'll start with part one of the tryptich.  It's better than starting with part two or part three, but, then again, does it matter?  I once had a friend who said that his story was so rich that it didn't matter on which page you started reading; at that point in the story, a story would unfold, and logic and sense could be rendered from a simple read at that point in the story.  Or something like that.  I had a thought like that as well, but my idea was brought to a more thorough conclusion and resolution- could you imagine a story such that any particular permutation of the ideas, thoughts, sentences, words, letters would render it immune to the scrutiny of the sane and rational?  Could you imagine a shakespearean sonnet or play, or a work of Homer, or of Dostoevsky or Proust or Schiller or Miller or Borges or Mishima being invariant under a general permutation of information?  Is that possible?  If a signal of information is permuted and there is still a signal, then what does that tell you about the channel?  The trivial cases are not too interesting, of course, but what about the cases that dazzle one's cognitive abilities?  In any event, I have mentioned several times that I have some serious issues with pinning down my identity and my whereabouts and whenabouts, and in some sense, truly, deeply, my existence is precisely like some unfolding tale that is invariant, in some broad sense to be precised by my manager, Maxime Drapov, but that is, ah hell, who are you? I am writing in a diary. Nobody will read this, other than MAD. That means Max.  F**k you Max.  I will have the upper hand on this.


The first part is the dream that loops.  It reoccurs with frightening frequency.  And each time that it shows in the cinema of my brain, the details get richer.  Last night, and this is a testament to the degree to which it is bothering me, the dream was projected to me as follows.  I'm driving in a car down a highway. 


It is dark, it is always dark by the way, not only in my dreams but also when I'm awake.  I never see the sun in my dreams or in meatspace.  IN any event, I'm driving in a car that is quite old and rusty. it is a convertible and it is night and the air is warm.  I am alone.  I feel this bizarre sense of anxiety.  The radio is on and a Mexican is trilling his rs and advertising something like a monster truck show or perhaps a car show.  The sign post says exit.  I exit right and continue on a long dark highway. 

Sorry.  Satan just entered my room.  I'll have to get back to you tomorrow with the rest of this.  Bye.


I’m back.  Satan rescinded into the darkness.  But all is darkness, other than the lamplight under which I work, and under the lampposts whose shadows are cast wide, and under the feeble light of electronic devices that make all people around me aware that they are not only watching the world go by, but that the world or more importantly, madly, that the world is watching them.  Satan’s defeat can be achieved, even by me, but it will take time, of which I have precious little quantities.  Is Time a MASS NOUN?  I think not.

Now, I was on the stream of the dream of being in a car, ambling down a dark highway, taking a right exit, and travelling straight into the darkness on another smaller, darker highway, in a convertible, with Mexican radio djs spouting purple pontifications about something that surely would be only vaguely interesting to a Hollywood Director with a violent disposition and acute attention deficit disorder.  I am riding along, with my left arm hanging on the left door’s compression of metal, plastic and glass hidden underneath like a cold clear tongue submerged between the black, foamy ooze of some polyurethanic composite from Dupont, which, in turn, is sandwiched by two slabs of Detroit-Executive-Approved (DEA) p***y red metal fashioned up real good from some Chinese magnate’s factory, and yet, I feel nostalgic, not of this world, smoking a Marlboro, and listening to a classical early 1970s glam rock track. 

I am traveling for a few miles, and then another exit sign looms in the distance, and it is coming to get me, as all reference frames are the same under zero acceleration assumptions, ie, under under STR and even true under acceleration under GTR, so, yes, the sign was coming towards me, beckoning me to exit, exit, am-scray, go, get out, exercise my option to just get out of my dream, wrapped inside of a riddle, which, in turn was/is/will be encapsulated in sheer madness.  It is a dream, but, trust me, I have vivid dreams.  I am a lucid dreamer.  I remember every little detail about dreams, and when there are no details in a dream, I will go on record that there were none.  Understandably, you will cite logical errors in this proposition, but they are true nonetheless.  This dream had details.  The first highway had 27 cactuses on the right hand side of the highway, 2 rest stops on the left hand side, there were 43 cars that passed, a gas station on the right, and a diner on the left.  When I took the first exit, there was a horse ranch on the left, there was a stream of hells angels on the other side of the road, with 98 motorbikes, and two minutes down that darker road, on the right hand side, there was a dude ranch with a lit up sign with a sign called PJ’s, the looming exit sign came, I took a right, and there was a horse ranch on the left, there was a diner on the right, a gas station on the left, 43 cars passed me, there were 2 rest stops on the right, and there were 27 cactuses on the left hand side of the road.  Then, a sign loomed and lunged forward towards me.  It beckoned me to exit.  And I did. There was a horse ranch on the left, there was stream of hells angels on the other side of the rode, with 98 motorbikes, and two minutes down a very dark road, darkness having any symmetry or antisymmetry at all, on the right hand side, there was a dude ranch with a lit-up sign called PJ’s, and then a looming exit sign, and just then, I had an ominous feeling that the jig was up.  There was no longer a Mexican dj on the radio.  Rather, there was an important announcement that the “authorities” have now had a key break in a key unsolved murder mystery.  They had some ideas who had done this.  And at this point, as I took the next right and saw the horse ranch on the left, I pulled over to the side of the road. The classic V8 was humming in neutral with that awesome rumbling and grumbling sound, that moh-moh-moh-moh sonorous echo.  I wiped the sweat off of my forehead and broke out another cig, tapped the tobacco against the box, flicked out the zippo, perfected the perfect zippo trick in igniting the flame, rubbed more sweat against my perfecto jacket, glanced at my cowboy boots, spit out of the car then looked at my cool flannel shirt, and then I said, yes, I know I killed them!  Now I know, but I didn’t before!  They are after me!   I knew where the bodies were buried, and I promptly drove across the road and into the dirt path that led to the horse ranch, as I oddly knew that that was the way forward towards the makeshift grave under the ancient stones under which housed the bones of those lonely souls that lay, resting, at peace.  I did it, I was sure.  My heart was beating, time marched on, taking away the moments of a dull day, yes, it was there, this was my fate, the jig is up, this is my salvation, this is my fait accompli! I drove onward and upward through the gravel and brush and dust and windy winding meandering stone ridden cracks and cravices of uninhabited terrain for hours and hours and I knew exactly to where I should drive.  And I finally arrived after driving for an inordinate amount of time and bore witness to the mound, that was……


I then woke up in a cold sweat, viewing a dark shadow being cast from some unknown object in some unknown region beyond my bedroom door and down the hallway.  I am sure this dream will continue with a Sequel just a vivid as the original.

Saturday, June 6th, in the year that is 2 times six plus a year that is divisible by 666.

I note that I befriended the aforementioned Hungarian Physicist today, the day after the first documentation of the dream.  That was two days ago.  We were both in Starbucks, down 6th avenue just a few meters from MAD.  He had horrible skin and looked ancient.  His fingernails were long, yellow and dirty.  I was clutching a paper about topological field theory, a subject I quasi randomly happened upon on the internet, and was surreptitiously, or seemingly so, stealing glances at the dog-toothed paper and sipping the piping hot joe in the process whilst this strange creature asked if he could sit down at my table.  I obliged. 

Just to explain.  I chop up my day into building the bot, writing in my diary, and reading mathematics.   They are all almost surely place holders for forgetting a bad deed that I cannot remember.  These things I do are mere luxuries, mere pleasures of mine.  

On the mathematics, I’m drilling down into Chern Simons theory, but before that I was reviewing Topological Field Theory, and that taste was spawned by happening upon a paper on Cobordism, which was precipitated by  a paper on Categories and Logic, which was happened upon by thinking about Godel’s Theorem, which was related to some papers I came across on Godel Solutions to the Einstein Field Equations, which in turn, were motivated by an interest in understanding how the brain can actually think, which was related again to some work of Godel, and also was related to understanding some basic principles of quantum mechanics, which led me to trying to understand the construction of the Schrodinger’s Equation, which led me to Maxwell’s Equation as well as Quantum Logic, but that was sort of in a forward time direction of things, then I looked back at the assumption of Godel’s incompleteness theorem, and that led me back to understanding the assumptions of logic and proof, which made me question how Quantum Logic differed from Classical Logic, which led me to thinking about how logical systems are like categories, then I realized that a lot of topology is just about objects and arrows and morphisms, and this led me to think about Topological Field Theory, and then I realized that a lot of this was motivated by the intersection of General Relativity with Quantum Mechanics, and this made me think that perhaps we reason in a manner that is logically inconsistent and possibly not sound, and again I was brought back to the Thesis of Roger Penrose, who so boldly posed some silly ideas about how the brain works, and then I thought about the Law of the Excluded Middle on one hand, and, importantly, systems in which the Principle of Explosion doesn’t apply, and then I went back to review some ideas of fixed points and Godel and realized that I had personally had a new and obvious proof of Godel Incompleteness and that my proof was sort of equivariant Z2 actions on an MJ-ifold, but then, I got distracted by the Heat Equation, which, upon some drilling down on the internet, yielded some interesting observations related to the heat equations solutions violating the first and foremost law of relativity- information speed is bounded by the speed of light, and then I researched, and please take this with a grain of salt, I then realized that one way of accounting for this was adding second order time effects to the heat equation, which means that heat, as well as prices, move in waves combined with diffusions in the short term,  and this added some substance to the arms race of bot building, but then after drilling further, I realized that the correct modification of the heat equation to give rise to finite speed heat propogation was only a step away from the Klein Gordon Equation, whose difference from a relativistic heat equation solution was a mere exponential function that it reminiscent of discounting future cashflows, and by the way that special equation is the Telegrapher’s Equation, related to Klein Gordon, which is related to Schroedingers, and, incidentally, is related to Maxwell’s Equations, and, which, by the way, is a blend of waves and diffusions, hence rendering a good wave particle duality out of the box and it doesn’t use imaginary numbers, and then I realized that Klein Gordon, which was related to the aforementioned Telegrapher’s Equation, is actually related to Topological Field Theory, and then I was becoming acutely aware that pretty much everything is related to everything, everything has been thought of before, and a=a etc. 

This is not the Infinite Jest, this is the infinite mental Msterbation Foreplay, the infinite cycle of never ending suspense of never ever getting to the bottom of increasingly complex human constructs/memes/streams/genes/bleams/freams fuk! I could go on for hours with Heyting Algebras and Topological Modal Logic and Floer Homology and finitely presented groups that are recognized by finite state machines, whose monoidal representations admit a wreath product decomposition whose kernel is best expressed as a category that is one component of an adjunction whose geometric realization is easily seen to have a homology that arises very generically from a combinatorial construction that gives rise to homotopy invariant classes of principle bundles over spaces and which are in many cases important in the understanding of gauge theories, which in turn are generalized with topological field theories, which brings us back to Chern Simons, the latter of which is a good fund manager.

Back to reality. The Hungarian, that is.

He stole glances back at my coffee-stained paper.  I tried to ignore him.  He looked at me, then at the paper, then I averted my eyes, and he had an evil grin for some unknown reason.  He finally asked me what the paper was all about, so I gave him the answer. He asked why I was interested in that subject, and I responded that I was generally interested in all academic endeavours.  He responded that he was a physicist by training, but that now he was “asset manager”.  I asked where?  He said MAD. I said I worked for MAD too.  He said really? Which department.   I was embarrassed to say, basically, Staff Spying, which is what it was called, but, in any event, when he peered more closely at my paper he retorted that his student wrote that paper! Fuker. HIS STUDENT? That is why I don’t like reading dog eared disordered clumps of paper in public.  It’s like the thing about lockers in a locker room- intuition and common sense about probabilities don’t work. Some fuk is always getting into the space next to your locker.  Some fuker is always saying they have a student who wrote a paper that, precisely, you are reading in a. What is the name? Oh yes, Starbucks Café.


Ok, let me sketch the proof of Godel one more time. someone please take a look.

I fix a logical system that consists of a set of axioms A, inference rules, and a set of statements that are recognizable, ie well formed. Let's say the system should handle propositions simply about basic topology. the system also has logical operands AND, OR, NOT and Implies. Also, let us assume that that law of the excluded middle applies. that means that a statement is either true or false. that means all well formed statements can be mapped to either 1 or 0 if they are respectively true or false.

Instead of speaking of fixed points, let's talk about consistency of the system in the following way. note that for any statement, including an axiom, if we have P then NOT_P is also a statement and if P is true then NOT_P is false. we can form a topological space out this by gluing in an N simplex every time there is a sequence of proofs A1->A2->....AN+1 meaning A1 proves A2 proves etc. this also implies that NOT_AN+1->....NOT_A1. The system is consistent if the axioms A and the expressions NOT A are in distinct connected components of the space I just described. I also note that Truth is preserved under finite conjunctions (AND) and disjunctions (OR).

Consider Q to be the statement that the space I just discribed has the property that the axioms A and the "Anti Axioms" NOT A are mapped to disjoint components of the space I described. That statement is a well formed statement in the logical system, in other words it IS a statement IN the system I described, ie, it isn't a metastatement outside of the system. that's because it is a statement about topology.

Consider the statement R = there is no integer N such that there exists a path of length N from the set generated by finite conjunctions and disjunctions of axioms to Q. In other words, there is no proof of Q. Another way of saying this is there is no simplicial map from N simplex into the space I described connecting some finite expression of Axioms involving conjunctions and disjunctions to Q. that statement is also a well formed statement in our system.

that is the setup. I'll come back to the proof in a bit, but basically, then either R isn't provable if the system is consistent, and if R were provable when the system is consistent, then Q could not be provable. but the idea is to be able to phrase everything in terms of topology.


ok, look, I took a detour. apologies.  I also got stuck with a serious bout of writer's cramp, but really it wasn't precisely writer's cramp.  It was a cramp related to the muscle that is responsible for combatting IT. What is IT? IT is that which I face every day.  IT sometimes is mathematics, sometimes IT is a story, sometimes IT is a woman, sometimes IT is a bot, sometimes IT is a job, but it is always IT.  forget about me against the world, or, for that matter, any of you against the world.  At the end of the day, I, no, WE face IT.  And IT is a demonstrably powerful foe.   IT also comprises my personalities, of which there are many. IT rears IT's ugly head at the most unopportune time, then IT fades away and flashes back, in another guise, another time, another space, always to haunt me, plague me, bother me.  f****r.

I don't like it when people are nosy and are reading what I'm reading in a cafe or on a train or anywhere for that matter. I hate that I may be reading a document exposing Hitler's vegetarian tendencies or a little tidbit about celebrity life or maybe a treatise on universal algebra or maybe quantum field theory.  I don't understand all the things I read, mind you, but I don't need someone confronting me with some random and highly unlikely statement such as, I'm an expert on Hitler, or Madonna, or n-ary operations or Donaldson's work.  I don't need that. 

The Hungarian invaded my space.  So be it.  We got to chatting, and we had a lot in common.  He had a funny, maniacal laugh.  He was down to earth, and he seemed smart. I wanted to know what exactly he was doing in the vortex of Mad.  He said he was printing money, so to speak, because he, so to speak, could see into the future, but, he made sure that I understood that he couldn't really see into the future, but, rather, that it was simply a metaphor, and, hehe, that all that this meant was that his models were better than average at predicting outcomes of events, serious events, not run of the mill events that bearded flaneurs scoff at.  No, prediction of the unpredictable, except for the chosen few.  I do admit I suspected immediately something was going on that wasn't quite proper, and, well, this agitated my interest immensely. 

He mentioned he as a scientist by training, and I asked what sort of scientist, and he that he helped on certain projects related to the development of thermonuclear weapons, in the old FSU.  I said go on. He said really, and when he said this with a certain countenance that rendered shivers in my lower spine, near the grape shaped bloated disks that act up when I sense that I must fight IT, in this case, fight to find out what this man is up to, how this man is going to do something horribly aweful.  Nuclear physicist, sure, no, there was something wrong with his story.  I need to get to the bottom of it.


anyway, to make a long story longer, this is what happened.  the Hungarian invited me to his flat.
It was a dark and stormy night that night, but I was anticipating a good sleuth-run in his abode, as
I was sure that I would find the evidence for which I searched.  Syntax, ensues, but under my terms.

I arrived after several twists and turns through the city of darkness and lamposts and gargoyles peering down
at my feeble person. 

I rang the bell.  Am I in Hell?  No.  He answered and beckoned me in.  A warm fire whose heat transformed energy,
which is conserved of course, into a a symmetrical glow of photons of that particular wavelength, lengthy waves but
quick to hit my face, which, of course is also a wave as we all know; photons hit my face, and my blood raced, through the flood of pulsations in my veins, and I, in vane,
unassumingly forced my brain to rain instructions to the waves of sang that is not syncopating with the song of my long dong
or some other mother f****r, er.  But really.  Come on. 

Ok, so, as I walked in
I was faced immediately with the most deliciously beautiful woman, a creature from a feline planet, a feminine goddess
radiating rosy goodness, a fleshy feline with the eyes the colour of rare gems that would take a piss on emeralds, and shit on greenness, encased
in the gentle curving one dimensional manifolds, orbifolds, oragismifolds, epcicanthifolds, no, how do you spell, it?  Epicanthifolds.  The folds,
that hold the eyeballs of white goo in her were lined with gentle black fur, like that of a cat, a cat from another planet.  She was a cat.
A cat, and I must confess that if there were a prison, a torture chamber, in which I were forced to either take a bullet to the head or choose my
nonhuman-mate-for-life, an animal with whom I would be forced to create, under gunpoint forced procreation, a new breed of creature, that animal would be a cat. Cats, slinky cats
not fat cats, cats with attitude and slenderness and.

She had limbs that seemed to be flexible enough to force a 180 spin if I dropped her back down from one nanometer above ground zero.  Check.  She didn't
seem to care that I was there, and yet she gave me a certain flicker of a stare that the suggested otherwise.  Check.  She had a face the shape of some
Platonic solid that is impossible, non repeating, but N fold symmetry, but mostly, seemingly trianglular, but maybe not, it was hard to say. kACHING. It wasn't trivial.
It had substance, there were imperfections in the symmetry as seen and comprhended by mere mortals, as if the gods, science, internally crafted science from the
warped mind of a creature as fucked up as I am, would dream up, not like a caricture of a hollywood actress with a gentle nose and big upper lips, not an avatar, but
but then that by far, she dropped my heart, and my face went ajar, and I was rubbernecked by the heck of a good looking, no, that is too Simonshish, no, she was
impossibly beautiful, worth everything, everything that I had, I would cut off my limbs, all five of them, no! four of them, for her, she had such a glow and a perfectly
languid symmetrical assymetry, with skin that was almost perfectly smooth, but there were some imperfections, and the curvature of her body was supple, of a sort of low
ricci flow, but with some inflection points, oh, the inflection points, especially on the backside, and I could certianly have set a glass of milk on her backside, on her
bum, and splashed a dash of rum, right there, and she, being the cat that she was, would certainly be able to, through an isotopy, contort her limbs and her N fold antisymmetrical head
backwards into a curl, and possibly form a trefoil knot in the process, and lap the creamy milk in the glass on her a*s whilst I licked the rum off her rump, and that, for sure,
would grow grass on my a*s.  oR SOMETHING LIKE THAT.

Now, she did, like the hollywood cartoon character, have full upper lips, not full lower lips like a moron girl/cat.  upper lips are key, very key, and of course lips are key.
Her lips were the lips of an alien catwoman creature that was created not exactly for mankind, but, for mekind. just for me.  I wanted to tattoo her lips with my name. And, perhaps some mathematical
formulae that I often want to recall in the midst of excitment, as I have heard that too much sensual excitement renders the mind and consc...memory.Hisasdfasdfasdf

I need to get out this loop. 

the Hungarian introduced me to the cat, the Kitty. Kitty was his wife. The hungarian was hunched over and ancient and surely lived under a bridge, not here, but so be it.
Kitty was surely young enough to be his grand-daughter.  She was swirling some wine (which looked like milk to me by the way) in a long goblet whose curvature was
commensurate with and certainly worthy of hers. Ok, I stop. His breath smelled like the herbs that gypsies use with garlic wine as he introduced me to her, and I can't remember her name, then, in the future, nor now.
For me, she is Kitty and she will always be kitty. 

As I entered, a large oaf of a man ambled out of some cave towards the farside of the flat.  This man was more than a man; he was a monster, a bear, a huge beast with
no manners, personality, remorse for things he surely did, tact, common sense, humility, or anything that speaks of humankind.  I am sure he was not human.  I hated him
from the first nanosecond I was unfortunate enough to turn U to the other operator.  The Hungarian introduced this bearman as his son, his only son, the apple of their three eyes,
the hungarian being the cyclops.  He didn't growl, but sort of snorted and grunted and he was carrying a small tablet computation device, and the Hungarian nerviously chuckled
and mentioned under a sort of embarrassed countenance that his "son" was a "professional" game player, whatever that means, but I was soon given a quick lecture by the
bear about how he was reaping preposterously large profits by competing in sort of virtual "athletic" and "artisitic" and "military" and "political" realities. I had heard about such
things, but then again, keep in mind that I am from another world; the only technology I'm truly interested in developing is the bot.  This business of using it for pleasure
or highfalutin postmodernistic antisocial alternative reality seeking, er, pleasure. 

But, I will give the bear one thing.  He did have an idea worthy of some merit. In a bit.

Kitty took my arm and led me to a warm soft leather chair.  It was purrrrfect. She offered me a drink.  I said milk, no, a White Russian. hehe.  The Hungarian looked nervous and jealous immediately.
I winked at Kitty, or I thought I did, whilst the Hungarian averted his eyes towards his clumsy bear-son. The Bear seemed to growl, but maybe it wasn't a growl.

The bear sat down and continued with his paws and claws scrapping the window of the tablet, and he cursed at it whilst the Hungarian spoke a few words, not in Hungarian, but in Russian, to him.
The HUnagarian was on the top of the world at Starbucks, but, the his personal kingdom, his flat with the fire and the bear and the kitten, he seemed oddly meek, embarrassed, and jealous. It seemed inconsistent,
and I felt like there was a fixed point in this logic under the involution of the modal operation of mood logic. f**k. shit piss, m**********r I want kitty.

the bear started poking my arm with his paws and he showed me this blog he was writing in a virtual world, it was not a blog in the normal information superhighway, but a blog within a virtual
world that contained another virtual world that had its own information superhighway. it was a world in which time travel was possible not because of weird solutions of the field equations, but rather,
it was some world in which everyone believed that it was possible to travel faster than the speed of light.  but these details are not so important in respect of the context of his virtual blog.
he did underscore that this was all part of a competition, and that in fact he stood to earn serious cash from his efforts, that he was the best,that there was an immense graveyard of losers in this weird game, etc.
a equals a etc.

he force me to read his work, and, I did oblige but I also noted that Kitty was eyeing her son with a certain fascination that made me, and the Hungarian by the way, jealous.  It was weird, but, hey.

his blog concerned a certain global boycott he wanted to induce on the world, his world.  It was a boycott of ALL celebrities, whether they be actors or muscicians or queens or sons of queens or wives of sons of queens
or people famous for being famous or philosophers or journalists or traders or rich people or athletes or mathemticians or despots or anyone, anyone who would be known by millions for some reason and who would acquire
vast wealth, power, influence, notieriety, and have the stamp, not the hollywood boulevard stamp, but the footprint of existence until the end of the min of the death of the sun, the earth, the universe, humankind, or some
dervivation thereof, for, not only would those chosen few reap undeserving rewards on the back of human, or cyber-cyber human ignorance and idiotic cravings for the desire to kneel to some new-age alter of the postmodern substite for religion, but they would also become immortal.  And I thought, is it not sick that Madonna will be known for eternity?  Sick!  the bear is right.
music, films, crackpot philosphical ideas, software, mathematics, athletic and aristrocratic  vicariousity (is that a word?), etc etc etc etc.  It shoudl all be free. 

Or something like that.


f**k. shit. piss. m**********r.  ok, I spaced out.  For the past several hours, days, years, centuries, etc I was in a loop about things.  But, I am still next to the bear and the kitty and the elderly physicist.  Trust me, they are next to me right now, as I speak.  I did get distracted about things.  I travelled down this path within my mind and the path was mathematical.  I'm not even that good of a mathematician, quite average really, in the grand scheme of things, but, for me, math in its most elaborately and impossibly complex and abstract form is like a fractal onion waiting to be peeled, layer by layer, foliation by foliation; an enigma wrapped inside of a conjecture, which in some strange way captivates me like a fantastic parallel universe that is created in the mind, not discovered, surely not discovered. I revisted some mathematical creatures, no, mathematical cities I once knew, or thought that I knew.   I also travelled in meatspace, or so I thought I did.  But perhaps it was a dream, an out of body experience.

The haunting images of the grisly murders still are invading my dreams, whether the be daydreams or plain vanilla night dreams.  That is for sure.  But sometimes, my inner-psyche turns on the mean reverting engine that brings my emotional state back to some bizarre equilibrium, and the medium is math.  During such a reverting vision, whilst I was told about the Celebrity Boycott by this ugly Bear sitting next to the furry cougar of a mother, I had another flashback of the grisly murders, which were certainly, within dreamspace, precipitated by me.  Yes.  I am sure it was me, but I don't know who the victim was, is, will be.  

Math came to the rescue, right in the midst of the Hungarian's ancient drawing room, lined by book shelves that contained books that, coincidentally, seemed to validate the ideas that were swirling in my head- Mathematics for the sake of mathematics.  Mathematics as an alternative soothing universe that could be culled up at whim in times of despair and bewilderment and anxiety. Mathematics as a place and a space and a site and a shape and a civilisation of ideas and expression.  Even emotion!  So, I strolled down the lane of, f**k, doh, mathematical memory lane.  Now, listen, I am sure you have had this experience.  Take London, New York, Paris, Tokyo, Berlin, Madrid, Rio,  Hong Kong, any major city in the world, any city in which you sojourned for a material amount of spacetime, amount being flexible in my poetic license-ridden-drivelesque Sixian m**********r Jean-Phillipe-replyian ecole normale shit.  sorry. Merdre.  Or something comme that.  f**k.  anyway, any one of those cities that you, you, you looking at me, have spent time in, or, well, the thing is, you spend time in those cities and then you fly away and meet new friends, strangers, have new ideas, you settle down, maybe take a wife or two (this is a man's story, sorry), build up a new life in a new mega city, a proper city, and then, after the eons pass by, you go back to that old city that you loved and cherished, and it transformed, evolved, without you, without you, and morphed into something more insanely beautiful and ugly at the same time, beauty being measured by the resonating telegraphic-equation-adherence-prostration-whatevert to the core, canonical, natural understanding of what that city was all about, and, ugly being that to which you abhor- useless sloppy Darwinian mutation for the worst.  Let's say some unexpected mutations fit, and others don't, like the fine balance between white noise and boredom, like the difference between a tiling of squares and Penrose. Or something like that, contravariantly, that is.  Then, you find that all of the beautiful elements and life forces that served as the Gods of seemingly random mutation, but it wasn't random, it was purely emergent phenomena, morphed into something, someone, somewhere, that raced ahead of you, with brilliant colours and textures and interesting context so far ahead of you that you tried to keep up, but, alas, they raced ahead and you could only feel a warm glow emanating from the tracks of the ionized sparks that still conjure up desire and respect for that for which you loved before, in the old times, and you thought you were on top of it all.  Well, that, my friends, is what a little slice of math is like.  And, like a city could be my friend, my only friend, under the bridge, city of angels type of shit, math could also be my friend, my friend ready willing and able to take me in from the insane cold, and ready to sit me down in some ancient apartment with some strange characters such as some sexy beast called physics and some other b*****d called, well, we'll get to that later.  Math, my friend, you sooth me, but please, let me. er. 

time for dinner.






© 2012 Bourbon Key


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Added on January 4, 2012
Last Updated on January 7, 2012
Tags: Elliptical, strange, nonlinear

Author

Bourbon Key
Bourbon Key

London, United Kingdom



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