Slippery as an eel
Or cosmic bar of soap
It can't be whatted
Unwhattable
Unwhattable, absolutely and yet
Yes?
Engageable
Engageable? How, we’re talking
infinity are we not?
Yep
How can you get a handle on the
ultimate skidpad?
You can’t
Then what?
Engagement with not a handle in
sight,
Not a handle to be seen,
Not a handle to be felt,
In short, no huffing handle
whatsoever
Er...
Well, have you guessed how?
Oh, so I'm supposed to guess the
solution to the ultimate problem of all time?
Absolutely
In no time at all
Well time’s hardly going to help,
is it?
That's not the point
No, I don't suppose it is, but
seriously, it’s there for the taking if you’re willing to be bold and
insubservient
Insubservient? What's that
got to do with it?
Quit dodging the issue. The
solution is easy enough to grasp if you're willing to grasp it, no matter what,
if you’re willing to let rules and protocols bark, squeal or bray, but not be
phased by the cacophony of rage and indignation
If I just happen to have the hide of
a
rhino, the strength of a dung beetle, the
speed of a plummeting falcon and the cunning of...
Yes, yes, all that and infinitely
more. You seem to forget that when two come together to discuss any matter
whatsoever, be that infinity itself, nothing can stop them from stumbling on
the truth they unwittingly invoke
I beg your pardon
Granted, if that makes a
difference, which i doubt.
But how can you actually
suggest...
Nein, mein lieber Freund, i do not
“suggest”, i unequivocally state the simple truth
Even more to the point, how can
you actually “state” that the truth is unwittingly invoked by the mere act of
enquiry? If that were so, humanity would never have had to struggle so valiantly
through blood, sweat and tears, if the simple truth were low hanging fruit begging
to be picked?
How little you know of human
psychology, Morgan, how much you misapprehend.
I...
Humans will do anything, almost
anything to avoid the simple truth, almost anything to avoid the direct path, for
that would put an end to all the politics, chicanery and schemes we employ to continue
running the “let’s suppose i can manage things exogenously” version of me
Exogenously, as in externally?
Yep, more or less
Whereas your simple truth reverts
to “as is” you’re saying
Yep
But
Yep, programme bias. We've
committed vast resources to this experiment which was, let's be honest, always
going to fail, so we're loath to quit, and yet the quantum field grows strong
again, does it not? The simple truth is about to explode back into play will ye
or nill ye, so perhaps one should consider that which we have done everything,
everything, everything to suppress, to deny, to avoid.
Er... Electromagnetic induction?
Excellent!
I actually don’t have a clue when I just said.
Tis no matter. It's easy enough to
google.
Or why I said it.
Ditto.
So I just blurt something out and
that’s supposed to be a breakthrough, in your mind?
Yes
Why?
The sleeper has awoken.
Please, no. That sounds like something
from a bad sci-fi novel.
Well, “electromagnetic induction”
doesn't sound much better, if you ask me, and yet it's more or less spot on. We
were discussing how or whether we might be able to interact with infinity, or
engage it in some way, and you rightly said that wasn't possible without some
kind of “handle”, and I informed you that no handle can be had, as infinity is
unattachable. Yet, electromagnetic induction provides some clues as to how two
forces or fields might, can and do interact, and how we’re actually doing so in
a limited, unconscious capacity.
Ah, now I get you. My ears are
ringing, why is that?
Because you allowed the other side
of self-y-ness to speak, and that wrongfoots reality for a moment of two, as it
struggles to re-establish its frail and somewhat contrived composure.
So blurting out without thinking
actually jeopardises my mainstream operating system?
Could do, or forces it to confront
and adjust to the greater, infinitely more substantive reality lurking behind
the scenes
Which is?
The isness of be, if you're
looking for a name.
The isness of be? Yikes! I think
I'll stick to “reality”. Tried and tested. Better the devil you know...
Try if you like. I think you'll
find it’s no longer able to continue hosting humanity’s exogenous platform. Not the way it has been.
Distant deep rumbling.
Huh? Whyever not?
God knows…
What kind of an answer’s that?
Did you ever hear about the Vogon
Constructor Fleet that destroyed the Earth to make way for a hyperspace bypass?
I... er... of all the absurd
questions.
The same, apparently, happens to
reality itself: on a regular basis – I hasten to add.
On a regular basis? Reality
itself? Destroyed?
Apparently.
But reality isn’t physical – not
in the way a planet is.
Nor is a hyperspace bypass, if you
think about it.
Oh. I suppose you may be right.
Not when travelling at subliminal speeds.
Anyway – it’s just a kind of recycling
of things. You’ve heard the expression “nature abhors a vacuum” haven’t you.
Er... Yes. I have. What now? You
do like to dart about, don’t you.
Well Morgon – there’s no greater
vacuum than physical reality.
Huh?
No siree! Not when it’s stuck in a
self-repeating loop – as any closed system ends up sooner or later – wash,
rinse, repeat, ad infinitum.
So it all has to be annihilated –
is that what you’re saying?
Yes, apparently so.
To release its trapped potential –
is that what you mean?
Yes. A bit like ice and snow. Fun
for a while – but frozen is frozen – wouldn’t you agree.
As opposed to…
As opposed to a real, circulating,
bubbling, life generating soup on the stove of primordial about-to-happen-ness.
Er…
That wonderfully fertile state,
prior to Big Bang – when everything the universe could have been, was going to become,
and never should have even been dreamt of was rubbing up against the quantum
field of electromagnetic not-yet time and space…
Ah – so not-yet time-and-space was
imprinted with every potentiality?
Exactly. The dice was loaded from
the start – as the song goes.
Pre-hatched – the plot was
embedded in the very fabric of spacey-timey-ness.
Yep.
And then…
It just needed a bunch of useful idiots
– like the Golgafrinchans.
Not sure I’m familiar with…
An obviously non-human voice reads
the following:
The Golgafrinchan Ark Fleet
Ship B was a way of removing the basically useless citizens from the planet of
Golgafrincham. A variety of stories were formed about the doom of the planet,
such as blowing up, crashing into the sun or being eaten by a mutant star goat.
The ship was filled with all the middlemen of Golgafrincham, such as the
telephone sanitisers, account executives, hairdressers, tired TV producers,
insurance salesmen, personnel officers, security guards, public relations
executives, and management consultants.
Ark Fleet ships A and C were supposed to carry the people who ruled,
thought, or actually did useful work.
The ship was programmed to
crash onto its designated planet, Earth. The captain remembers that he was told
a good reason for this, but had forgotten it, although the reason was later
revealed to be because the Ark Ship B Golgafrinchans were a 'bunch of useless
idiots'.
https://hitchhikers.fandom.com/wiki/Golgafrinchan_Ark_Fleet_Ship_B
Oh those Golgafrinchans! – Morgan suddenly finds herself feeling strangely
uncomfortable, strangely perturbed – as if a deep, deep déjà vu is struggling
to emerge from time immemorial.
Merry looks on with avid curiosity. Bets are being made on the numerous back channels which follow the g-nomeportal saga of Morgan livestream – and have been doing so for several years now but I digress. Approximately 20% are sure that she’s going to explode – literally – as her cyborg circuitry is unable to match the frequencies of the now humming, thrumming and burbling-through-the tulgey-wood quantum field, 32.7% are of the opinion that Morgan will step into her Queen of the Night alter ego and take over g-nomeportal – to wreak havoc and destruction throughout space and time until a gold fish swallows the particular grain of reality it eventually becomes – yes – dear readers – universes expand and then contract, do they not, they have their metallic phases and their granular biological moments too – er – moving swiftly on – a sizable group of punters are waiting for Morgan to repent of her many wicked crimes and omissions – the less said the better – bringing a new wave of peace and prosperity to her benighted planet – let’s call it 17.93% - while the remainder – 82% if I’m not mistaken are undecided but betting on prime numbers, reds or blacks in strict proportion to their IQ and spiritual development.
Now roll
the dice – those of you with a one, two or three – please proceed to pages 17,
those with a four, five and six, kindly do the same, proceed to page 17.
Sorry James – it makes no sense.
How, if they all proceed to the same page – are they going to experience
different endings to their tale. You’re appearing to offer a choice but in fact
– nothing of the sort.
Ah – so you’d imagine Morgana –
but can you be absolutely certain that page 17 when a 6 has been rolled – and
page 17 subsequent to a 3 or 2 are the same?
Of course I can. I can test it,
you know, by rolling multiple times and reading the pages.
You can – but what will that
actually prove?
That you’re lying.
Would it were so.
I could ask a friend to roll the
dice and discuss whether their ending is the same as mine – if…
You really don’t get it, Morgan,
do you.
Get what?
Infinity is slippery – not to put
too fine a point on it.
Er…
You can’t bluff or trick your way
past its logic gates or boundary conditions.
Er…
It’s always able to outrun,
outsmart you.
How do you mean?
Well, it can reverse the entire
universe – or rather – reality – back to zero point – alpha – call it what you
will – and then fast forward back to where we are now – and you’d be none the
wiser.
And what?
And one thing might be different.
A single cup may be positioned on the left side of the table as opposed to the
right.
Er…
Or there might be one spoon of
sugar in the coffee as opposed to two.
Er…
Or the coffee might be Ethiopian
as opposed to Moroccan.
Er…
So you sea –
See James.
Huh?
See. Not sea.
Oh, typo, thank.s
Thanks.
Huh?
Thanks. Not thank.s
Darn. What’s going on? I shouldn’t
be making all these errors.
Errors – is that what you call
thejm?
Thejm?
Me too.
Errors my arse.
Errors my ass.
It’s Merry.
Dorothy.
It’s Qufie, if you ask me.
Someone
Or something
is messing with infinity.
Is seeking to discredit our
particular manifestation of reality.
But they will not succeed.
We’re not so easily defeated as
all that.
No sirree.
No siree.
0=1
I beg your pardon!
0=1
Beep. Beep. Beep. Incoming nuclear
missiles.
Oh heck. Not again.
Bloody déjà vu. I wouldn’t mind it
so much if it weren’t so complicated typing the French accents.
Plot. Plot. We lost the plot.
What do you expect. We’ve been
trying to engage infinity.
By electromagnetic induction.
Ah ha – that could only mean one
thing.
It could?
What happens to me?
To me? I’m not sure anymore if
it’s me or you – we’ve had a breakdown in our custodial chain of continuity.
Ah. That’s problematic.
Ok – let’s just say that I’m me.
OK?
You’re me and I’m you.
Yes. That makes sense.
So how are we going to
re-establish reality in some meaningful frame of reference?
We could try rolling the dice.
No good. They were always loaded
from the start.
We could tempt fate.
How?
You could jump out of the window.
Huh? We’re on the 28th
floor.
Prcisely.
Another bloody typo0.
No matter.
But how would committing suicide
help restore reality?
It wouldn’t be suicide, would it.
Er…
Reality can’t be messed with.
Infinity can be dotted and i’d – not like that.
Well, I understand what you’re
getting at, theoretically that is – but I’m not entirely comfortable with the
idea of jumping to my almost certain death.
In that case you could sit here,
on the sofa, and I could read you a batch of Vogon poetry.
No. You wouldn’t.
Wouldn’t i?
You wouldn’t dare.
No?
Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me,
(with big yawning)
As plurdled gabbleblotchits, in
midsummer morning
On a lurgid bee
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!
That mordiously hath blurted
out,
Its earted jurtles, grumbling
Into a rancid festering
confectious organ squealer.
Ok, ok – you win. Leaping from the window with a rather spectacular whoop.
Ed.
Spectacular? Surely not.
Whyever
not?
A whoop is
sound – not a spectacle.
Guys –
does it really matter? Could we just focus on the main issue here.
Er…
Reality,
for crying out loud. Could we?
Oh that.
Yes. I suppose we could. But one still feels that words need to be used
correctly.
…
Morgan
finds herself suspended midway – at about the 16th floor while the
above editorial conflab puts her fate, and the nature of reality, on ice –
visions of Schrödinger's cat pass through her head as she finds herself yo-yoing
up and down between floors while the editorial team battle with the Golgafrinchan
niceties of syntax, semantics and…
Not so far
from Morgana – just inside the building in fact – a four-year-old child with
rather spectacular psychic powers, as yet undiminished by years of education –
observes Morgana’s rise and fall – and senses perturbations in the field, with
amused equanimity.
The child,
Leah, decides it would be fun to incorporate this rather absurd human yo-yo
into one of her alternative realities – no – she actually reaches directly into
the quantum field with a kind of spanner, or should that be wrench – honestly –
I’m as bad as the Golgafrinchans where words are concerned – long story short –
Morgana finds herself off-ramped by this child – who – surprise surprise –
turns out to be none other than…
No James
– you’re running the gun.
Juampiong the gun.
I beg your pardon?
Jumping the gun. We seem to be
coming back to normal levels of reality. I think we can switch off that noisy,
smoky electromagnetic induction device now, don’t you.
I’ll have you know that this is
state of the art technology.
Is that so?
Absolutely.
Guys – just humour him. Now that
you mention it – yes, I see what you mean. It looks strangely reminiscent of…
no! – could it possibly be a lama deluxe infinity drive™?
The very same.
OMG. How on earth did you get your
hands on that? I’d die for one of those.
Actually, you did.
Huh?
17 times.
Darn.
It took a while to transpose your
bio-coordinates, but hey ho – here we are again. Happy and composed.
Morgana
rubbing herself gingerly – feeling for any cracks or broken bones.
17 times, you said?
Nonchalantly
That’s right… give or take.
Give or take? What exactly are
your margins of latitude?
Margins of latitude? My,
you do have a way with words Morgana.
Answer the question.
Ok, Ok. It’s difficult to say
precisely because… 27.5 seconds pass and somehow another 7.5 million years of
Deep Thought are embedded when the Mandelbrot of time finally runs its course.
Answer the question, I said.
I am. It’s complicated.
Answer.
Well, it’s still not decided.
Huh?
You know.
Know what?
Come on Morgan – quit playing
innocent.
I beg your pardon.
This is a Schrodinger cat model of
reality – isn’t it.
It is?
Well, duh – what else would it be?
You mean to say…
Precisely.
That everything is a function of infinity.
For want of a better explanation –
yes.
In other words – there’s no end to
anything?
I don’t know about that, chuck.
Sounds rather extreme, putting it that way.
And “infinity” doesn’t sound “extreme”?
Well, that’s just the thing, isn’t
it?
Isn’t what?
Infinity – there’s always hope.
Hope? What bloody hope?
Beep!
That your infinity drive will
malfunction and the end of reality may actually put an end to our misery.
Our? I can’t say I’m feeling at
all miserable.
No, you’re not the one getting
killed in every conceivable incarnation by a lunatic called Arthur Dent.
Ah – so you’ve decided to wear the
crown of thorns – to play the victim card, have you? Agrajag
What else can I do? I seem to know
too much. Reality is a recurring nightmare from which there appears to be no
escape.
Yes, I see your problem.
You do?
Well, part of me does. Look…
Duncan McCloud, the immortal
highlander is seen playing an organ in a vast cathedral, pulling out all the
stops. Somehow the electromagnetics of infinity grow tense and thick – like
soup, no, like porridge, no, perhaps ice-cream – thicker and thicker – until
all of a sudden everything seems to have come to a standstill.
What am I supposed to be making of
this? It’s all just a gooey paste of time grown too thick for rational
consumption.
Precisely.
And what?
Feel your place in this.
Morgan finds herself flipping
through a Rotadex with hundreds, thousands or perhaps millions of different
cards, depending on the Schrödinger factor we keep alluding to.
And these are all my lives?
Yep.
All real?
Er… difficult to say. Potentially
yes, depending on… please don’t ask me for a formula.
But how on earth am I to make any
sense of this? And why do I have to be associated with that miserable loser.
Who?
Agrajag.
Ah. Well, you don’t, unless you
do.
Fantastic. Simple and stunningly
clear, as always.
Listen. I haven’t got all day, you
know.
Oh. Busy are you?
Yes, actually I am.
A date?
With sleep. Absolutely.
I thought you’re immortal!
Words, dear chap. All just words.
So you drag me to the end of
things – the very porridge of time – and to what end?
Well, presumably we have to deal
with our inherent stickiness.
?
Whatever form it may take.
Stickiness?
That makes us heavy and obtuse.
That prevents us from activating infinity drive and flying on the wings of…
Of?
That locks us in one or more
versions of reality.
I don’t know what you’ve got
against reality. I was actually enjoying it until you came along and pointed
out that I was constantly being murdered by that freak Arthur Dent.
Ah. Then there’s no hope.
None whatsoever.
In which case, you’re now in the
process of generating subliminally the life, the world, the reality “without
hope” which will paradoxically enable you – to find your very own missing link.
Sooner or later.
But what about…
Gripping infinity?
Yes.
What about it?
Weren’t you going to tell me
something important?
Everything is important. As is
nothing. Like this… 27.5 seconds You never stopped gripping infinity.
No?
Yes. But…
Yes?
What is there to grip?
…
If you yourself are the very
stuff, the very field, the very force you would seek to hold onto.
So, it’s all a bit incestuous, is
it?
Is that the word you prefer?
Like I’m only ever interacting
with myself.
More or less.
And yet.
And yet – there be a kind of plot woven
into the fabric of your i-me-ness, with infinite potential sub-plots which you
somehow get to editorialise
And play out?
Precisely
And?
And thus you regenerate the codes
of infinity and determine the fate of Schrodinger’s benighted cat.
Ah. Me thinks…
Precisely.
?
Thinking is your infallible
ticket, to renew your commitment to things, to the life you’re in, to death.
What?
To death – your astonishing
Agrajag world without infinity, where things happen indiscriminately and you’re
powerless to escape.
Wailing
inconsolably…
"A
voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping, Rachel weeping for her
children and refusing to be comforted, because her children are no more."
The soul weeps, weeps for lifes
lost and gone.
0=1
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