You didn’t post it?
No need.
What? How are we supposed to know
what you said?
What i said, or say, is largely
irrelevant.
?!
Besides, the empty set, the gap,
is hardly empty if 0=1. Nothing is missing, nothing lost.
Well, theoretically.
Theoretically?
Ok, I take your point but that
doesn’t stop me feeling kind of...
Yes, those feelings are an
important part of zero being more than zero, experiencing the vacuum positively. They need to be felt, otherwise
I’m nothing more than a wet nurse shoving a teat in your mouth.
Must you be so crude!
Honesty.
Must you, then, be so honest?
Absolutely! Speaking of which...
#
# # #
# # # # #
# # # #
It was never about poetry.
No?
Not for the poets, at least.
You could have fooled me.
sotto voce – igws [it goes without saying]
You bastard, Ron.
Hey, how did you decipher that?
You’re not exactly subtle, are you!
I thought...
Next you’ll tell me that you know nothing about the
blog, or how certain phrases crop up again and again, such as igws.
Blog...? aside – which planet is she from?
Tis no matter, Ron. Maybe I like being fooled. Maybe that's the game we're playing here in 3D reality, playing dumb, but don’t lose the thread. We were
discussing poets.
Yeah, that’s right. Brief mental readjustment. Deep breath. Dramatic voice: It was never about poetry, per se.
No?
The poets were doing something else.
I fail to see how poetry was not their aim or purpose.
Yes, not surprisingly you, as so many do, confuse cause
and effect.
Cause and effect? Poets writing poetry is basically a given, so me thinks you’ve lost
the plot, Ron.
But for the real poets it wasn’t about writing poetry
at all. They weren’t so vain, or shallow.
Who said there's anything vain or shallow about writing
poetry?
Pressing on: They were warriors of truth and intent.
Here we go again... “warriors of truth and intent”, in much the same way you’re a warrior of contradiction and obfuscation.
The fabric of reality was thinning. Something akin to
entropy's endgame. The mechanism was all but unwound, so they felt a pressing, urgent
need to dive into the fabric itself.
The fabric?
Duh! Of reality.
NS [no sh**]
Beep!
Give me a break!
Given. Kindly observe linguistic hygiene protocols.
Grudgingly – Whatever.
Thank you, Nia. As I was saying, it had nothing to do
with poetry itself, or vanity. The poet simply has to engage the void, or
thinness in the fabric of “space-time”, to use the term for reality coined by
that consummate poet masquerading as scientist.
Who? Albert Einstein?
Yep. He was no more scientist than my pet dog Roma.
You could have... oh!
Once bitten, twice shy)
So you’re telling me that the poet...
The true poet
The true poet is able to interact with the void.
Is able to? Has to. Otherwise, we’d all be in...
What?
No word. Empty set. But to pay zero its dues, we'd be deep in doo-doo! I... { }
Sometimes I have my doubts, Ron, the way you just freeze mid sentence like a computer that's crashed.
Suspended in animation, Ron folds in 2D.
This will never do!
Nia, wielding 毛筆 máo bǐ, a Chinese calligraphy brush, reconnecting Ron's dots recharacters him in the nick of time, and the movie continues...
Yep. I can't deny the fact that I am a computer
crashing when I transit the void.
Transit?
Ok, sink into it. Then I switch into unfulness, and
time basically...
He’s doing it again. Hello?! Anybody there?
Screens flashing on and off. Incomprehensible images and
shadow-textured sounds. Nia, proves strangely resilient to this quantum barrage
of unfulness. Another flash of
Ah, thanks Nia, you did it!
Does this always happen? Is there no way you can
protect yourself from it?
I could, of course, as one generally does, but not now,
not when we’re discussing the poet’s Herculean role.
Which, personally, I find hard to believe.
And the fact that reality is not, nor ever was a given... That it requires manual intervention, a poet's intermediacy if we're to transit the
abyss that never ultimately went away.
So now your poet is indistinguishable from God!? For
Christ’s sake, Ron, you’re out of your mind! When are you going to get it into
your thick skull that Big Bang’s over and done with, that the universe is on
autopilot and needs no divine intervention by little men with Messiah
complexes, that poetry is linguistic, primarily, plus aesthetic, undeniably: a refined art form, but certainly
not...
Dolphin clicking sounds and faint, faint strobe
lightning flashes somewhere on the periphery of consciousness -- behold!
Which is ironic as that’s what we’re involved in right now?
We? What on earth, Ron? We're not writing poetry. We're... The spheres of space-time silently motating...
Sigh! No, of course we’re not, but we’re atop an epic thinning of the
fabric-lining of reality, which is why we’ve gone orange.
Orange? What the hell?
Beep!
Well try not to talk such nonsense. You’d exhaust the
patience of a nun.
Ron holds up a mirror and Nia, to her amazement, sees the usual descending green digits of the matrix are now...
Orange?! How the h... oops – how on earth did you pull
that one off?
Poets have to change modes, flipping from one aspect of
{ }
to another. Basically, they allow the wheels of infinity-drive to start
turning inside themselves, and lo, Shiva, or Pi starts to dance.
Don’t be ridiculous, Ron!
For Normies, this is inexplicable and also almost
completely inadmissible.
Normies? Are you calling me a normy?
Not really. I’m just trying to help you understand why
it’s not unreasonable that you can’t understand or believe what I’m talking
about. If you’re a happy, paid-up party member, shifts in the colour spectrum
of reality or its tonality, are out of sight and blissfully out of mind.
“Party member”? Do you have to keep putting labels on me?
And how do you respond?
Denial. You’re off your rocker.
Right. The only thing loyal MoF cult members know is
Now it's MoF cult members!? I hope that’s not as offensive as it
sounds?
MoF, dear Nia, what a mind you have! It’s short for Matter of Fact, as in what you see is what you get: offensive perhaps if you like to believe there’s
a poet or godling hidden within...
Which I don't.
In which case, be at ease, Nia, and MoF to your heart's content, mentally. May your mind make straight every windy road and construct a MoFical world of seamless homogeneity, dotting your i's, crossing your t's and leaving no stone unturned. Be sure to void every void, to keep one side of mind forever up, the other forever down as long as Father time permits.
Oh! You make it sound like an obsession, like we're desperately trying to avoid something by focusing exclusively on matter and facts.
Yes, Nia, but isn't necessarily bad.
No?
MoFing underpins every thing. MoFers make matters fact, and facts matter. Without your making, they wouldn’t hold together. We'd stumble, metaphorically, on the inconvenient void { } In the distance, a wolf howls to a disproportionately huge full moon, and shivers up and down spines run...
Er... if you say so. But I... Nia freezes up.
Rewinding time, me knows not how – Ron finds himself drawn back to the following: The only thing loyal MoF members know is that a rather bizarre poem, work of art, film or piece of music has emerged from the quantum soup of creativity, that a genius has had another flash of inspiration. They are astonished, appalled, bewildered, but more important, they all focus on the thing itself, rather than the magic suffusing it.
Oh, so now it’s “magic”, is it?
Yes, I thought you’d like that, Nia. More powder for your
gun. Scoff to your heart’s content. Shoot the messenger if that soothes your
troubled mind.
Well you can hardly expect me to take “magic”
seriously, can ye?
Nay, I canno’, and that’s the beauty of being a poet,
or whatever name one gives to those of us who are impelled to
reweave the fabric as it frays and comes apart – we give no regard to what
Normies think or say about us, even to the point of death.
Death?
Ay, for there are times when Normies get rather
aggressive and start to rip us apart.
Really? Why would they do that?
Help it they cannot. It’s baked into the pie of pi.
Huh?
As in Pi, the delicious pastry we’re in the process of
baking, eating, describing.
Oh, well that makes perfect sense.
Sarcasm notwithstanding! Look, if they try to kill
their prophets, poets, scientists or whoever it is that at any given moment in
history reworks reality, it’s a legitimate response. They know no better,
and besides, are bound to do all in their power to maintain the status quo and
preserve the existing order until it has been fully superseded, rewoven, re-alitied.
They are?
Absolutely. It’s a prime directive.
Hell!
Beep!
Screw yourself Beep!
Nia, if the poet is true to his art, science or unfulness,
he
Or she
Will
Will?
He or she 0=1s
Er...
To the heart’s content, embodying, for a brief moment,
infinity
Really?
No. Absolutely.
Oh.
And from the chaos, the madness of zero, the void, unfulness [they always come in threes], a shining star, life itself, emerges
Emerges?
Is born
Is...
born
Like i was saying...
No! No more poetry, i beseech you.
orange i bird
you heard
you heard
you h...
ad infinitum
Aaaargh! Anything is better than this.
Anything?
Anything!
Even Vogon poetry?
Absolutely! Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz himself, I beseech thee – save me from
this agony!
A vast, intensely ugly spaceship materialises overhead,
with loudspeakers blasting...
Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me, (with big yawning)
As plurdled gabbleblotchits,
On a lurgid bee,
That mordiously hath blurted out,
Its earted jurtles, grumbling
Into a rancid festering confectious organ squealer.
[drowned out by moaning and screaming]
Now the jurpling slayjid agrocrustles,
Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts,
And living glupules frart and stipulate,
Like jowling meated liverslime,
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes,
And hooptiously drangle me,
With crinkly bindlewurdles.
Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my
blurglecruncheon,
See if I don't!
Fortunately, lost in translation, we are spared the full brunt of what we just endured, and once again the descending green digits revert to mean: normalcy reasserts complete control over all and every one in DDD
0=1
if i be
fuck
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