markpasc (markpasc) wrote,


In short, [non-fluorescents] lose their ability to play when they reach adulthood. Even worse, they fail to realize it, mistaking mere competition for play. Play in this sense is free interaction for its own sake, where consequences are of little "real" importance, rules are established consensually for the enjoyment of the players, and there is no set goal or real-world purpose to be achieved. ...

Human society as it stands overprivileges reality. This is a matter of custom, not an inherent human tendency.

I'm reading through postvixen's writings on fluorescence, which is a dreadfully appealing concept. Appealing to a fault--for me, I mean--but the actual fault remains to be seen. Beyond that it's keeping me in this (to be honest) rut, I mean. I fight that admission, saying it's only a rut for the summer until school starts again, but it's still there, nagging. Even if I outright say it's a rut like I just did, the sensation doesn't go away, because I don't believe it. Is it that it's hidden in the recurring pattern, the metarutness of my life this far in?

Yadda yadda blah. Am I in college or high school? Not that it matters: either way I'm suffering Ryan and Jacob scale delusion.

I just shared it with muckfolk not too long ago, but here it is again: that Neil Gaiman quote of millennial fortitude from Wired that I've beaten to shreds already.

I'm looking forward to when bioengineering moves from technology to handicraft: biotech on the other side of necessity, where it enters the realm of nose piercing. People with tiny little goldfish swimming in one eye or feathers growing out of their backs. I'd love to be in a world where women grow penises because it is fashionable, or you can have an eye replacement of a different color or from a different species. All the adults will say, "Tut, tut, tut, girls never had penises in my day. We used to pierce our noses and lips. Why don't you do that?" And the kids will say, "Mom, you're so old-fashioned." All good technology should be used to piss off people's parents.

Meanwhile I gnash my teeth unhealthily and slog through muckstuff in other windows. No one much is around, and it's cold in here; praise be to air conditioning, except it contributes to the stereotypical geeky loneliness that doesn't go well with coming unhinged at the jaw, to present effect. I would wonder where everyone is, but after all it's Sunday night.

Some of Nick Mamatas' comments (yeah, straywulf's item is what started all this) on furry kind of sting, and I feel the need to believe in furry--or more accurately in its good attributes--while reconciling it with the problems he names (I wanted to say elides, but that's backwards). I'm inclined to score that for me, as a general willingness to synthesize rather than destroy, but historically people characterize that as indecision rather than consensus-building. So historically, in fact, it may be more habit than either.

As if that weren't enough to stick me in ponderous mode, beyond all that, I'm almost done rereading Gödel, Escher, Bach. A lot of it will apply theorywise when I take our university's AI class next semester. While you waited just now (thanks) I remembered to sign up for it; for undergrads it's labeled "480 Programming Languages," which I wouldn't mind taking anyhow, but it's at the same time and room as. And I'm the only person signed up for it. Only one person (presumably Joshua) is signed up for 580 AI, so... I dunno. I'll be really disappointed if the class is cancelled, since I've taken something like 90% or more of the CS courses the university offers.

I suppose that brings me to the unifying point of this gnashing cold indecisive hopeful thing, which is that I'm having one of those short long dark tea-times of the soul* and inflicting it upon my unsuspecting, likely entirely accidental readers. So there you are.

( * Sorry for the reference; I guess it was postvixen terming Porlocks a characteristic of fluorescence, Porlock being shorthand for intrusions of the mundane on the wonderful and deriving from the intrusion upon Samuel Taylor Coleridge in the middle of envisioning Kubla Khan. At this point I might as well connect that whole experience to the appropriate scene from Memento and get you good and sick of me.)

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