The Life

I must remark at the outset that just getting this post started this AM was a tough slog.  At this moment I have—I took care of the tag now—have some certain websites running in the background, because, the title here is rather special.  When you go to document it, the internet itself, that is, the fans of people, all take off since this is their favorite subject.  Being that that is the case, they run on about it and I can’t simply link a ton of material to right here—there from here.

This is post #531; I know that by memory, without opening a separate browser window I will stipulate that.  It should be prime.  I mean, this is a prime number and all, but, the other times, before learning what ESP does, I’d say a number and think about what units it is in, or, as a junky, talk about what gear the transmission’s got engaged, because, and this is part of “the life”; (its meaning) isn’t a junky living rather steeply?  The last day of life for you is very, very imminent.  There isn’t even any definition for life after death; it is a singularity.

Among those of us living flat from day to day, I will concede the use of a clock.  I do not possess any friendships, so, don’t try and hand me any of your bullshit.  That is, I consider it antagonizing me that were I to denote a time, say, 9:00 AM, if you were to not understand that or put me in check or cobble together a defense.  I want to kill you.

There.  It published at 8:46:02.  A draft saved at 8:44:58, and, a draft was just saving, so, I hit “publish”.  A bare number back in the barn where numbers are stored is cancer, probably because I get cancer.  Cancer’s not contagious, but try telling people that.  They still think it is.  I am a person, so, my existence means nothing to you, beyond an extremely small percentage of the total way in which people are in fact killing you.  You don’t breathe them, see?  They do not make you live.  Could a person be neutrally involved in his own life whilst you are living yours?  No, a human being has a husk ejected into the environment which is toxic.

No, I was just thinking that to warn you that this post was coming out non-materially but electronically at least would give those who had to reconstruct your life from something like a hole in the ground where you were last seen standing, who were working in an association of all such tasked reconstruction, the option of building a time line with my post here, and you here, and you disappearing later on down the road.  You can see how cancer would, in general, be the ultimate implausible effect of one of these causes.  You can smoke one cigarette.  Mary, bring me a cigarette.

I have these websites running (that’s one of them); I was optimistic computers would improve right away, on Moore’s Law, but then I started blogging.  Computer improvement is rare.  I may have to bodily threaten Intel or Google’s principals to actually have that happen, since by now I have thrown my hat into the ring.  I was reading and now I am writing.  Bill Gates, I hate you.  Look at the output from “Paint” as loaded onto this stationary brick laptop:

I can’t write next to it.  I am just glad I can write “write” and someone besides myself will not be hearing, “right next to it.”  How about as you change the size it changes the thickness of the lines, Bill?  Don’t get me started.  You are a pixel in a million pixels of millionaires and the picture is solid red.

You had best not use cat as an intermediate lest someone steal the pound in order to start shooting it up.

Cut to these two people as living the life itself.  Take it as a lesson on what not to do, but enjoy the performances you rubes paid for to listen to some shmuck claim to know more about the business than Sid Luft, or, the female equivalent?  I don’t know.  Their garment sticks to their body and the sequins come off and stick to the flop sweat.  That stuff is composed of the metabolic oxidative by-products from all of the lethal barbiturates oozing out of their clammy white skin.  Judy Garland is the main purveyor of The Life and she sells it.  It came to me in my hovel.  I had a chance.  They’d like me to tell you fine people that there was a chance to make it all work.  The President’s men’s suits got darker and darker toward the close of the Cold War.  Thank you for not ending the world, Ronald Reagan!  I was so afraid he would.  I was paranoid and I don’t care if it is all right now.

Those two pictures cover the post’s title; the second pair is both Richard Farnsworth, who bothers me because he is real, but he has the phoniest Disneyesque dialog put in his mouth.  He was a stunt man, by “real”, as a process towards real, an ideal none of us can attain, more real than Kurt Russell, although dead folks are quite realistic, depending upon how badly they may wish to become totally real and leave behind enough swag to sink a battleship.  The third one is how inexplicably the thread will end up containing a lone DVD cover as soon as I repair to my home office in San Diego, as this is being written from my office in National City, and there’s a line, Division Street.  I store things on Desktop (unless I don’t notice it defaulted to “Pictures”), and my San Diego office has the one I cannot rememeber what it was and therefore comes down to an admission of inexplicability.  However, reverting to psychic belief is binding.  Once a writer has written poorly only collectors or National Picture Day workers will look at it.

I have gone back to ESP in my mind.  I will tell you that right now.  Since that happened, I have silently changed, subtly changed, the rubric guiding the post from my expert-level chemical knowledge of ghettoized manufacturing over into pop-culture knick-knack rooty-poot type of stuff.  Why would it work?

Well, it works on me, and I am susceptible to it.


quantitative measure of the extent to which an electric field applied to a dielectric material causes polarization, the slight displacement of positive and negative charge within the material. For most linear dielectric materials, the polarization P is directly proportional to the average electric field strength E so that the ratio of the two, P/E, is a constant that expresses an intrinsic property of the material. The electric susceptibility, χe, in the centimetre-gram-second (cgs) system, is defined by this ratio; that is, χe = P/E. In the metre-kilogram-second (mks) system, electric susceptibility is defined slightly differently by including the constant … (100 of 225 words)


That’s the first time I haven’t seen a Wiki entry on the top half of the first page from Google for something like that.


The Ensemble Interpretation, or Statistical Interpretation of quantum mechanics, is an interpretation that can be viewed as a minimalist interpretation; it is a quantum mechanical interpretation that claims to make the fewest assumptions associated with the standard mathematical formalization. At its heart, it takes the statistical interpretation of Max Born to the fullest extent. The interpretation states that the wave function does not apply to an individual system – or for example, a single particle – but is an abstract mathematical, statistical quantity that only applies to an ensemble of similarly prepared systems or particles. Probably the most notable supporter of such an interpretation was Albert Einstein:

The attempt to conceive the quantum-theoretical description as the complete description of the individual systems leads to unnatural theoretical interpretations, which become immediately unnecessary if one accepts the interpretation that the description refers to ensembles of systems and not to individual systems.
—Albert Einstein[1]

To date, probably the most prominent advocate of the Ensemble Interpretation is Leslie E. Ballentine, Professor at Simon Fraser University, and writer of the graduate-level textbook “Quantum Mechanics, A Modern Development”.[2]


From ensemble, Wiki.


I lost this part.

1395 (actual).

P.G. Wodehouse, spelling, espionage, Espionage Encyclopedia, this piece of shit computer, “Gwladys”, and finally, Jimi Hendrix.  Note the DVD cover of “92nd Street”.  The other places I post include “Atoms and the Void”.  On skeptics, I think I will give them one plane crash and stop posting, and, there’s been a  plane crash, 90 aboard.  I said “no plane crashes for ninety days”, it has not been ninety days, I only have Oliver Hemmers on Feb. 24, and the date of my death, 2-16-10, left in that queue.  The whole story (an FBI story), in this movie is the one of Mr. Sebold, a fake name.  You have to see it in the dictionary, encyclopedia rather, after you look up your own name, I imagine.

Jimi Hendrix has a song, but “The Life”, for those who dig deeply into it and place Marilyn Monroe and Cobain, etc. in there, okay, synergistically, once you log on here, it should play a Hendrix song.  And, in the upswing to writing this (I said I had difficulty with it), I felt I needed to deal with the following recalled lyric, “(sad, but), the life that lived us is dead”, and this tone or mood of a song, entitled Castles Made of Sand, it comes to me, is now.

You go along thinking that I cannot properly treat this advanced chemistry without taking care of this basic stuff first, and writing (I made it to one year’s worth of posting, with six days incarcerated), causes a blowback of material like laser tattoo removal does.  That feedback is the grave calling to me, so, “basic” or “simple” notwithstanding, I need to get right with it.

Two hours ago I can’t remember Castles Made of Sand.  I can’t put everything into this post until I do.  It is a Hendrix song because Hendrix is the stone poet of LSD, and although I kept getting Led Zepellin substitute.  Cocaine, LSD, and methamphetamine are the experiences I draw from to write this.  But itself, it is a subversive treatise begun in solidarity with James Howard Kunstler, his blog.  His has ‘fuck’ in the title, so, it was okay for me to put ‘methamphetamine’, in the title of mine.

If it is not clear, keep in mind that not writing is always an option when one’s physical survival is only placed in great jeopardy by blogging, and more time will be spent in order to do what becomes necessary in direct proportion to the amount my of psychopathic attacks on society I must remove from Internet in order to gain employment.  I know, and you know, that to challenge me is to receive a bump upward in the cause of your consternation, because some of my life is not negotiable.  What do you want, blood?

There is more than one way to skin a cat, and we all are in a unique place historically when we may rest assured that many fools, not just me, will get their just desserts once the economy fully implodes.  About how bad it should become is that no amount of prayer will save you.  That’s what I want to see.

This is NP-ESP, in which case the known answer can easily be determined to work, but the known answer can never be obtained in real time computationally.

Before nine a.m. this morning I had the answer to what said the life that lives us is dead, a tweak-manifest quotation.  But, of all the dead and dying celebrities out there, only Hendrix would suffice, and it was Hendrix playing.  A web page has 10,000 words, and logging on doesn’t mean you are going to read them.  What happened was this was one of those sites that plays sound when you access it.  I don’t like that; that’s why I keep the sound turned off, but this time I  had it on.  You know how it goes when you are staring the answer right in the face?  That’s what happens here.  No way?  Way. Hold on.


Wow!  I almost did not find it.  It isn’t in Castles; it’s in The Wind Cries Mary, but I was partially stumped.  The clue comes in the sound of the man’s voice singing it.  Nothing is altogether positive or negative.  That’s why I quit drugs.  I am not about to tolerate the taste of cardboard in my mouth from taking acid, like some kind of a queer.  All the Pepto-Bismol in the world won’t get rid of it.

Her is that:


Ah, good.  Undo would work if you didn’t monkey with the buttons prior to trying it.  This word count is genuine that I wrote.











Then you got what they wrote.  Then you got the rightest part of the wrong song in here:


Many moons passed and more the dream grew strong, until tomorrow
He would sing his first war song,
And fight his first battle, but something went wrong,
Surprise attack killed him in his sleep that night

And so castles made of sand, melt into the sea eventually.

There was a young girl, whose heart was a frown,
Because she was crippled for life, and couldn’t speak a sound
And she wished and prayed she would stop living, so she decided to die.
She drew her wheel chair to the edge of the shore, and to her legs she smiled

“You won’t hurt me no more.”
But then a sight she’d never seen made her JUMP AND SAY
“Look, a golden winged ship is passing my way”
And it really didn’t have to stop…it just kept on going.
And so castles made of sand slips into the sea,


Then you got a song called, Another Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Song, not by Hendrix; then you got the song, … no you don’t.  I do hope that in your travels, you encounter something similar.  I can’t find it.  Then, Hendrix, if you search keywords, “life lived is dead” also gives you a song about Jesus, The Story of Life.

It just goes to show you we do not know what is going on, sui generis. Something is contrived here, as well, since I have it written what to end with.  A title doesn’t influence the context though it may be of use to the index.

I have one more song, because I hit my boy, an open hand on the pants, and after I did that I felt a certain way, like being in the car with somebody and you are no longer friends.  Moods or emotions flood in, and some songs address those, like they address the mood and not the precipitation if it is Christmas or if it is raining.  But, mine utilize ESP.  I don’t really know why.  It is a literary device.  I am a nasty person, so, I have to have a tragic device to use nasty words.  Not knowing about it is part and parcel of it.  It is always in situ; can’t be studied apart from its occurrence, is fugitive.  It informs intelligence without becoming part of an agency.

Riding in the car there, at least I put the radio on, and the spanking continued without changing to a sappy come-out-of-it song, in the form of Run, by Pink Floyd.  Unless the void speaks immediately, I have no way of being sure that it is having a talk about what I am talking about.  It could not be five songs down the line, or the probability would only diminish to become asymptotic to zero.


“Run Like Hell”

Run, run, run, run [repeat line four times]
You better make your face up in
Your favourite disguise
With your button down lips and your
Roller blind eyes
With your empty smile
And your hungry heart
Feel the bile rising from your guilty past
With your nerves in tatters
When the cockleshell shatters
And the hammers batter
Down the door
You better run


The Bay City Rollers were a Scottish pop/rock band of the 1970s. Their youthful, clean-cut image, distinctive styling featuring tartan-trimmed outfits, and cheery, sing-along pop hits helped the group become among the most popular musical acts of their time. For a relatively brief but fervent period (nicknamed “Rollermania”), they were worldwide teen idols. The group’s line-up featured numerous changes over the years, but the classic line-up during its heyday included guitarists Eric Faulkner and Stuart Wood, singer Les McKeown, bassist Alan Longmuir, and drummer Derek Longmuir.

Since the band’s quick rise to, and subsequent fall from fame, the members have endured numerous and varied struggles regarding royalty payments, substance abuse, and personal legal problems.


Okay, they were a rock band and not a roller-derby team.  That’s psychic, in the way they threw a dart at a  map to get the name; a place I went to; the people, whom are equivalent to the fingers on your interlaced fingers in the church/steeple sim. piggies toddler game, do not realize that in someone else’s pantheon they amount to a cipher only.  In mine, I  make dope so I am God, the creator.  Woof-woof!  Woof woof woof woof woof woof woof woof!

That’s all, folks!

P.S. That’s one year on the post date/time, but one more year now.  I am in the second year of this blog.  I wonder how you do it.  If there are no data points, events, then the total duration is under a year.  I think it is related to the observable v. calculated mathematical inflection point on a year.  The planet’s events are dense enough to mimic continuity.  Is it the first full day of the new season?  When is the actual solstice?


531 is not prime, being 3 x 3 x 59.



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