Had a pair of interesting dreams I want to record. They were odd enough to stay with me once I awoke, and interesting enough (at least to me) that I want to record them. They seem possibly related to my current job situation.
(NOTE: This post is intended more for me — a true web log — than for any putative readership, so you may not find it very interesting. This is your one and only warning!
Continued reading may lead to a why am I reading this syndrome!)
I’m torn over today’s topic. I’m tired (for the moment) of nattering about work (got some thanks, but no thanks messages today, and that makes me disinclined to discuss the distress; nepenthe beckons, I’ll answer the call, now 94 bottles of beer on the wall).
And I’ve spent some time in the blogsphere, which is endlessly fascinating, but time-consuming and a bit draining. After reading about the struggles of others, mine own seem pale and pointless.
So it’s time for something light and refreshing. I realized I haven’t bored anyone with science recently, so, as the good The Doctor would say, “Run!”
You know how, if you don’t visit or call someone regularly, sometimes the longer you haven’t connected the harder it is to will yourself into connecting again? It’s been that way with this blog. I haven’t posted in a while, and the longer it goes, the harder it is to return. I’m not strapped for the ideas or the desire or even the time; it’s something else that makes sitting down to write a lesser option.
Maybe I just have a huge inertia quotient, but I do find I get “stuck” in doing — or not doing — a thing. It can be hard for me to will a transition; it seems better somehow, or maybe just easier, to keep doing whatever I’m doing. Or not doing. If I get really into something, be it reading a book or doing some task, stopping to eat or sleep seems so inconvenient, so inefficient.
Fortunately, one can eat and drink while reading or working. I haven’t managed to do those things while sleeping though.
I had a pair of weird dreams this weekend. They’re worth remembering. I’m not sure what the hell they mean, but they’re also worth considering. (For me, I mean… I’m not sure what your interest is. Consider it another webside tale.)
Now, I’ve never had a nightmare. The one time I did have a nightmare, it turned out to be reality. I don’t mean that in a metaphorical (or even metaphysical) way, as in, “My marriage turned out to be a nightmare.” I mean, what supposedly was a bad dream, wasn’t a dream at all, but a misinterpretation of reality. (Actually, we’re back to my marriage again.)
I mean dreams, literal dreams. When you sleep dreams. I’ve never had a bad one. Except for the time when I was just post infant (headed for postmodern), and I had what I was told was a bad dream about a bird running across my New York City bedroom floor. Except later my rents found a mouse in the house (or something house mouse-like). So that was no bird.
Gourdians are an earthy and generally shameless lot.
I’ve been absorbing (Gourdians don’t read, we absorb), with great interest, this recent bipedal hand wringing over the perceived violent and disgusting end that befalls some Gourdians. “Woe the lot of the poor Pumpkin Person,” they wail, “How awful to suffer the carving knife!” Well, I want to set the record straight; you couldn’t be more wrong. Here’s the deal.
The highest honor that can befall a Gourdian is to enter the proud ranks of The Jack. Few are chosen, but they are the finest of our race. The most unfortunate of Gourdians have only the ignoble future of rotting in cold, open fields: forgotten, ignored, made as mere mulch.
Those of us with more mathematical bent can enter the Brotherhood of Pi; and these are many, some canned, some fresh. Consumption by bipeds is a glorious end; preferable certainly to consumption by quads (consumption by hexes, or worse, is almost as bad as rotting). Certain of our citizens belong to other consumption sects: the Breads, the Cakes or the Cookies. Truly, any fodder status at least fulfills some useful station in life.
But to become a Jack is the ultimate goal of any Gourdian. Those few who make the grade and are selected go on to become the revered of our nation. Each selected by a biped who stooped down to claim one of us for their own. Each transformed into a unique magic creature to guard the bipedal demesnes. It is the highest calling of any Gourdian.
Gourdians Gather!
I’d also like to say a few words about, so called, Pumpkin Porn.
Here, too, the bipedal view may miss the mark when it comes to Gourdians. Remember that we’re born under open skies and live our lives naked under those same skies. For us, when you’re talking about the birds and bees, this is literally the case.
And if there’s one thing you can say about Gourdians, we’re an earthy species. We have no real concept of personal space or privacy; there’s just too many of us sucking on one vine (if you catch my drift).
So remember, for good luck, Carve a Jack! And kiss a Gourdian!
∇
It may or may not be obvious there’s been a bit of radio silence recently. I find myself… stymied, and it has muted my muse.
Part of it comes from looking around and being humbled by the amazing quality work given to the internet by so many. The interweb is a landscape of both common clay and veins of riches.
I feel humbled by the task of contributing anything of worth.
This is a rant about an aspect of Star Trek that always bugged me: the deadly, dangerous, ridiculous Holodeck!
If it seems familiar, you may have encountered it before. I wrote it back when the show (Star Trek: The Next Generation) was still running (1987-1994) and published versions of it then and later in various online venues (FidoNet, USENET, some websites). Long-time friends will certainly recognize the rant if not the writing.
If you were on the net before the web, and you hung out in Star Trek places, you might have stumbled over this.
I recently asked the question, “What is Art?” Answering that one is a real challenge, and the answer may be entirely subjective. This time I’m asking a question that is almost as difficult: “What is Science Fiction?” The answer may turn out to be just as subjective, and just as much of a challenge, but I’ve always thought the tough questions are the most interesting to explore.
I may, or may not, be an artist (but I know what I like!) and suffice to say I have only dabbled in art over the years. Science fiction, however, has filled my life as long as I’ve been picking my own reading material. I suspect that, overall, my fiction reading (and I read a lot of fiction) is at least 80% science fiction. It could be more. Most normal fiction leaves me disinterested, no matter how insightful it might be. I live in the real world; I want stories that take me far, far away, be it conceptually, spatially or temporally (if only temporarily).
Only authors that bring something newly invented to the table really hold my interest.
It’s Moanday, and there wasn’t enough sleep time during the weekend, so this is a good time for a little poem I picked up along the way.
It sums up my feelings on the matter of morning quite precisely.
Nuf sed!
Over on an MLB blog (but it could have been anywhere) someone used the common abbreviation “ppl” for “people,” and it invoked in my head the voice of my high school English teacher ranting about spelling things out.
Mr. Wilson also did not care for the i.e. and e.g. abbreviations of the Latin id est and exempli gratia, respectively. He preferred the less pretentious that is and for example.
And let’s face it, many people misuse i.e. when they actually do mean for example.
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