“Our logic is full of holes...
I can see the bubbles.”
This part of the website is dead. It is kept online both as a public record and as a dreadful warning. For current content, please consult the root of this domain.
void* Randomness ( )
/* How are you gentlemen? All your James Joyce are belong to us! */
/* May 31, 2002 */
/* <frin> Consider a compact 3-dimensional manifold V without boundary. Is it possi-
<frin> ble that the fundamental group of V could be trivial, even though V is not
<frin> homeomorphic to the 3-dimensional sphere?
<frin> ;) */
/* I slept through most of today. So I have little to say today; except in that I'm up at Dad's.

The Great Fake Bulletin is up as a PDF file now, for those of you who know about it. */
/* May 29, 2002 */
/* Well.

As near a good day as I get, I suppose.

Spent vast chunks of quality revision time doing web design for this site with a friend... and spent lots of the rest of it asleep or trying to think of what to say to people. I've replayed through in my head the e-mail that is to be sent to tie up the ends of my life. Possibly in a noose, but we can hope that that will not be necessary.

I've really buggered this one up, haven't I?

Also been doing some work on NMCS, the commenting system used on this blog. It may, at some point, if I keep up interest, be released as a download or sommat.

Stay with me, brave readers... and enjoy the fireworks. */
/* YAY!

I have now abandoned BlogKomm. Sorry guys, it just didn't work.

I've just spent (looks) five-odd hours writing my own system. Which now, much to my surprise, seems to work.

At least I've achieved something in the last two years... */
/* May 28, 2002 */
/* I'm just about to try to mend commenting, or at least to break it more comprehensively....

Let's see what happens. */
/* May 27, 2002 */
/* {Update : I'm on Google! Wow! }

I wrote this today, a seed of a poem:

Do you want a slice of fruitcake?
There's one here; look at it.

Here, take the gentle knife and
make the cut.

I'll take your hand lest it tremble
And guide it, slowly, in its slicing course;

The blade's caress. the surgeon's art
Came once from here.

It's not hard, remember:
Pain is good.

Sure, it's crap. I know that... but it may turn into better crap. We shall see. */
/* I've been translating Catullus:

Ille mi par esse deo videtur,
ille, si fas est, superare divos,
qui sedens adversus identidem te
spectat et audit

dulce ridentem, misero quod omnes
eripit sensus mihi: nam simul te,
Lesbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi
vocis in ore,

lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus,
flamma demanat, sonitu suopte
tintinant aures, gemina teguntur
lumina nocte.

That's just to make it look like I'm posting something worthwhile.

I have got two sets of hits from Xara Ltd on my hit counter... *waves* greetings, noble <insert relevant gender here>. Woo. */
/* May 24, 2002 */
/* The dream is ending.

Today was my last day at Carisbrooke. There are many people I'll not see again... and never again sitting in the library with Kate and Jenny and Hannah and Ben and Chris and everyone else.... no more real life Perkin Warbeck.

I've put this blog in mourning because this afternoon I said goodbye to somebody who has ruled my waking moments for a long, long time, and will probably continue to do so even in her absence. Love, if you read this: I'm sorry. I really am. A deep deep sorrow eating me from the inside. Nobody has done anything bad enough to deserve my loving them. Sorry.

And that's it, isn't it. You say your goodbyes and leave... and never a touch, never a closeness... never a thing. Life is empty. All I want to do is to crawl into a corner and mourn the passing of something that never would have been, never could have been, and which if it had been would have probably collapsed almost immediately. Loves should be mourned like people; a comment my mother made when my parents split up, and I have taken that to my heart, and I am mourning...

There have been too many tears this year. There has been too much lost; and too much never had. Too much mental hurt... and if there was some way of letting it out, by cutting or percussing or something I could bear to do, then I'd do it; but there is nothing here, and I've no energy for pain, just an endless tiredness....

The dream is ending (I'll say it again, it's a good line)... and with it my heart is dying... and I just hope, hope against blind hopeless hope that somehow, through some mystical force of transmutation, when I arrive at the other end of my journey, I'll somehow live again, and claw my way up through the layers of suffocating sleep up to some light again. What is that light? Gentle reader, I know not. I'm just hoping it's there... and that I'll be worthy of it when I get there. Right now, I'm not worthy of any kind of light. I can't even cry, for fuck's sake.

I have one memento of her. To quote Falstaff: "It goes next to my heart. It is my heart. When I die I say you are to bury it with me."

Sorry, Love.

Fuck off, Eros. You've no place profaning this love. You never did. */
/* The dream is ending. The end is dreaming. I'm talking crap. */
/* May 23, 2002 */
/* One day until the end.

There's a piece of art in the school foyer; it's a picture, and to its left is a caption: "And how do my eyes reflect my heart?"

Much as I would like to think that mine do, honesty compels me to admit that they're probably just eyes. Just eyes, nestling behind my lenses; just eyes. There's nothing romantic or dark or alluring about them; nothing at all. Just eyes.

And yet, if my eyes did reveal anything about my heart, that which I would wish to remain unknown until after I'm safely away would become known; and my escape would be pointless. Blessed are the blessed. I wish I were an artist, so that my pain were believable, and so that through some transmutation my mundane base-metal madness would turn into graceful gold; but that's perpetually out of reach. I write what I believe, and what I believe isn't what is real; and what is real isn't what others see...

I see myself as a realist. Toby doesn't. He says I need to come back to reality a little. I don't know what other people think of me.

Love, love, love. I'm sorry.

I needed to hurt today. I hadn't anything sharp, and Jack refused to lend me his pair of compasses for any length of time. So I couldn't.

Love, love, love.

There is no love. I have no love. I cannot love. I wish I believed that. And nothing I say will make any difference.

I wish, just once, I could cry... */
/* May 22, 2002 */
/* Been listening to any Recoil I can get hold of... may even displace U.N.K.L.E as my favourite weird stuff. They're not actually that weird compared to some of the stuff I've got on my hard disc... just dark, or at least all the stuff I've been listening to is.

I have a sense of deja-vu:

<X-Zip> privet
<cheezey> as in the bush?

Has happened to me twice these last two nights! Erk.

My brain hurts. Today I had precisely one lesson: Maths, Period 2. Tomorrow I have more.

Maybe I ought to try and sleep, but my mind's still working too much... no more hunger for pain though, so that's good. All in all, I'm unusually well-adjusted at the moment.

Wow. */
/* I think my degree of mental instability is increasing not decreasing; I shall endeavour to watch this with the same detached interest as a physicist views an experiment. Will the pendulum slow down due to gravity? Or speed up due to the carefully applied and intermittent magnetic fields being applied across it? Or will the string break and the bob fly off and break something expensive?

Come with me, gentle readers, for a jolly jaunt into the waters of insanity, wherein lurk many sharks; with any luck, we will all come back with all our limbs. */
/* May 21, 2002 */
/* Head hurts. Shoulder hurts. Really ought to get more sleep.

If I could sleep enough, that comment would help. As it is, with my current "emotional climate" (as if I am permitted to have such), it's merely trite.

What I actually need is to sort my head out; since if it stopped the endless cycle of recriminations, hopeless hope, and general mental malfeasance, I would probably sleep a lot better.

If I'd kept a tighter grip on my emotions, all this would never have happened. But "all this" does include some good things as well as bad....

One of my friends has what she calls her "dark side", which comes out at night and on occasion does some pretty unpleasant things. I don't have a "dark side" per se; but the personality I prefer in me is the darker one, the one which can feel and be depressive and care so much for someone that I would die for them if they asked me. That can confess feeling the urge to exorcise the mental pain with physical pain... all that is needed is a knife.

And it scares me when I think like that. This blog I hope shows the other side of me from the side I generally display in real life. I hope. And that was a non-sequitur, which means I'm too too tired to write any more.

I used to think people who self-harmed were mad; but sometimes I think they've got a point.

And on that cheery thought, to bed. */
/* May 20, 2002 */
/* the shoulder that I leaned on was carved out of stone
but when I'm done freezing I want to be alone.

Well. P3 exam. Well. Nasty nasty vector question. Nasty maths questions. Nasty, nasty, nasty.

And I used "nasty" many too many times in that last line; if I'm not careful I'll wind up in a similar state to Chris, being caught by searches for n0rp.

Um. Kate now has a blog too. Enjoy, people. */
/* I've just failed Pure Mathematics Module 3.

Ow. */
/* May 19, 2002 */
/* {Update} : I think possibly I meant "That which cannot kill us makes us strong." Or maybe not.... you never can tell when I'm in this sort of mood.

The resulting game is a sort of demented version of Kriegspiel.

Maths exam first thing tomorrow. Who in their right minds puts a difficult mathematics exam on a Monday morning? Do they have a special "twisted and sadistic bastards" department?

On a totally unrelated note: I've written before about my different online/real personalities, and how real life is starting to impinge upon my online life... well, this is upsetting me and getting me more angry than by rights it ought; and whereas I normally have two personalities that kind of page in and out, I'm now trying to run two at once and it's tearing my mind apart...

I have set up my coffee machine so that all I need to do is to lurch out of bed tomorrow, and press the big button, and a quadruple espresso will make its way into my bloodstream by way of a cup. That which kills us makes us strong... */
/* May 18, 2002 */
/* I know somebody and they cry for you.
They lie awake at night and dream of you.
I bet you never even know they do, but somebody's crying.

I know somebody and they called your name.
A million times and still you never came.
They go on loving you just the same, I know that somebody's trying.

My music for the day, that is. Chris Isaak - Someone's Crying. It's one of those songs that almost immediately applies to my situation. The one's I've written haven't helped much, they've only aggravated the problem as a rule, so why not try someone else's songs? It doesn't matter. She won't read this.

Have spent most of the day doing P3 maths revision. I'm going to fail the exam. It's on Monday morning which is a bloody silly time to have an exam of any description, particularly a difficult mathematical-flavoured one.

Spent the rest of the day attaching lyrics to Beatles mp3s. I really don't like the Beatles any more; somehow I actually feel guilty about this. Their songs are good fun to play, but they just don't strike any answering chord in me beyond this any more. Especially Hey Jude; to my mounting horror I find this song a great annoyance and absolutely nothing else, since the philosophy espoused therein is the exact opposite to mine own; it's no use being warm and open and loving and happy if the world merely recoils and says "who is this freak?" The only times I have ever opened my heart to anyone, the result has almost killed me. No, the only protection from a cold and uncaring universe is to bugger off from it to as great an extent as possible into abstracts and concepts and the inside of one's own head.

One week left of school. This is the last "weekend" from school ever. It's a time for endings. End of next week I'll probably never see Her again; since I'm unlikely to go out anywhere until I leave the island, and she's not exactly going to come looking for me... people don't, a fact for which I am profoundly grateful. And then I'm leaving the island, and then there's no reason why I should ever speak to her again in the normal run of things.

And I'm going on about the same and the same and the same and the same. Blessed are the blessed. */
/* May 17, 2002 */
/* I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
/* OK, I'll throw this question open to the audience. Audience? As if there is an audience for the caffeinated ramblings of a depressive coder. Am I still in love? Am I? I don't know; if not, this is all just generalised heartache that I've fucked it up again.

I would like to coin a new collective noun: a depression of coders. It certainly fits the bill.

When I leave the island (in July) it's surprising how much I'll have to relearn. I'll have to learn how to eat, how to talk, how to care; I'll even have to learn how to fucking walk again. It's so hard...

I do, however, need to learn to walk on on my own again. Having had this on which all blame for mental instability which needs to be placed can be placed, I've grownunused to the knowledge that, in fact, I am just a miserable fuck.

Maybe I'll get used to it; but I'll always be chasing the Happy Ending. */
/* May 16, 2002 */
/* And I walk away, like I always do...
Still in love with you...
/* It's a lovely day; the sky is azure, and occasional whisps of white cloud are drifting across the sky, as is the occasional aeroplane.

So why am I sitting in here doing ICT?

Just had a coffee with Marc which was nice...

Nowt more to say. */
/* I don't believe in golden ages.

I don't believe in them like I don't believe in fluffiness and romance and the demonic Love; and I don't believe in ideals and idols and models; and I don't, above all, believe in belief.

What do I believe in? God. God and Quantum Mechanics.

It's no use referring to "True Love"; it's an oxymoron. There's no love out there for most people. I know this, and believe me I wish I didn't. But those people who don't know this live as if it were true; and somehow, by belief, they pave the way for it to be and their lives proceed as if it did. Virtual particles. Virtual feelings. Springing into existance just long enough to have an effect, then vanishing before they can be measured, or before anyone can work out how or what they are or from whence they came. Words have an effect on what is.

But those who believe in False True Love, they form relationships that often last; and they expect no more. This is their belief. My belief is simple: I will never be able to have any kind of "real" relationship. I can't believe that anyone would want me enough; and I'm almost sure that I will never settle my mind enough. I've tried the whole "caring" thing, and guess what? It doesn't work. All it leads to is pain, more pain, and final atrophy of the heart.

I am still in love... sort of. */
/* May 15, 2002 */
/* I'm so confused.

Some days I am so much in love I can hardly bear to move. Some days I feel like Actaeon, in pain but unable to express it. And other (admittedly rare) days, like earlier today, I look at her and think, I'm not in love any more, I need nobody but myself, I am nobody but myself.

And somehow that's dreadful and freeing at the same time. I can remember, a long time ago, being happy with that; but now I will always be in search of that pot of gold, the Happy Ending, which I don't believe in really. I'm scarred for life.

That's a pity. But there's no happy endings for people like me... I'm just going to keep playing parts in other people's lives then fading out. Hopefully I will touch them gently, and can be forgotten, beacuse the last thing I'd ever want to do is hurt anyone I care about. Even if I can't tell them.

I tried to be a gentle man; I only succeeded in being a gentleman. Maybe my other self I'm trying to build will have a story of his own. A story yet to be told...

Fiction and reality are more entwined than people like to believe. By imagining something you give it some measure of existance; by naming something you give it power. Words, words, words. Words describe reality. Life imitates art. My life imitates a bad 60s domestic satire.

Or maybe I'm just talking crap. Maybe my mind is so puffed-up and pretentious it sees patterns where there are none. Maybe it's all my fault.

Comments? */
/* May 14, 2002 */
/* Crack out the champagne! Find the puncture repair kit! Let's celebrate.

You see, I can do partial fractions... part 1 of the A2 syllabus. That only leaves *looks* about 25 more excercises to do...

Better go and do it then, I suppose.

I hate this whole copy-protected CD business. I really do. My opinions of the moneygrabbing bastards/bitches (delete as appropriate) who perpetrate this are unspeakable. They're the Mark Overys of the music business. And those who know me know full well how damning a comment that is. I hate them and the philosophy and culture that drives them.

Call me picky picky, but an economy based on at least one of the seven deadly sins does not strike me as an economy to trust anyone's moral welfare to; not even executives'.

It's just that this made me really really angry today. And, for any iMac users reading this, it doesn't actually screw up your firmware; Apple have a page giving instructions as to how to remove the CD once its locked itself into your machine. The first thing to do is the action beloved of all floppy-drive equipped mac users; hold down the mouse button while the machine restarts. This should forcibly eject all drives; the machine won't boot until you do this tho', because it will try to boot of the crap on the CD.

I mean, Celine Dion. Copy protected. Does copy protected == sterilised? (random thought) */
/* May 13, 2002 */
/* When the aching is over, I hope we can talk again...

This song is one of those that grabbed me because of one line; it's by Krezip. That's the first line and the line that grabbed me.

When the aching is over... if the aching is ever over...

My leaving is partly an excercise in trying to recreate myself, so that I can feel alive again... so that I can touch people again, can hug people again, and so on... and partly walking away. Walking away with my head turned so that nobody can see me crying. */
/* May 12, 2002 */
/* {Update: I got 21 hits today! And I didn't even do anything! }

Had a very interesting conversation with Alison today about the nature of belief and the nature of the universe. Toby is inclined to believe in Science and Mathematics, and if something is not immediately provable, it's false. Both Alison and I tend to the opposite view, aptly summarised by this quotation from Falstaff: "People have no business saying leprechauns do not exit until they have seen them not existing, which is not the same as not seeing them existing."

The problem for me is how can anyone justify logic? Logic is the preserve of rational beings. What are rational beings? Beings that can think logically. And this effect defective comes by cause. This supreme illogic by the name of logic justifies itself.

Logic is just another faith.

Thus it seems pointless to suggest that pure Science and Mathematics are necessarily any closer to the core of the universe than fairies at the bottom of the garden are. I am not saying they are wrong, merely that there is no way of telling. All we have is models. This is the supreme irony in the universe.

I think. */
/* May 11, 2002 */
/* Today was spent doing very little (prodding Perkin Warbeck, so that Service Status appeared in red ... I broked it once or twice, don't tell them), and very consciously not doing the BBC IQ test. It says a lot about my normal working environment that I feel uneasy typing the letters IQ; they ought to have something between them, to whit an R or a C.

If you don't get it, never mind. Move on, there's little to see here.

sic transit gloria. Poor Gloria... but it's the way she would have wanted to go. Downwards.

But I digress. I also regress, congress, and on occasion progress. I don't undress for anyone.

I saw a hairdresser being advertised with a sign with a man and a girl on a beach in a blatantly sexy pose... saying underneath, more or less, that a haircut will sort out your life. I've tried it before. It doesn't.

But, seriously, how long is it going to be before we find psychiatrists advertised like this? Their profession is the one that does the wash and brush up to the world behind the eyes; how long before we find things like:

Removal of that unsightly ego ............. 20

And so on?

Help! */
/* OK. The great fake bulletin scam.

Yesterday, at 8:15 am, operation Slightly Stunned Seagull went into force when I and two others entered school early, and found the sixth form registers. Looking nonchalant, we "borrowed" the sixth form registers, and took them to a quiet corner. First making sure we were not visible to any CCTV cameras, we opened them up and transferred six or seven spoof bulletins from my bag into them. We despatched the third member of the team to put some up on bulletin boards, and then continued.

Several made their way onto desks of senior teachers. Several were dumped on people's desks. One was pinned up on the head of sixth form's door.

At which point, we dispersed to our relevant classes to see what happened.

The sheer scale of it was what impressed me most. I thought people would just look at it, laugh, and put it in their bags. When I came out of the classroom, I was greeted with grins from people I knew. Then when I came out of the corridor into the area in front of the English block, there were loads of people carrying them, swapping them around, and so on... everyone was talking about it. Eek.

The deputy head went ape; many of the other teachers liked it. But the heads of sixth form and so on went around confiscating copies and being irritable in general. Talk of expulsion; I believe the actual quote was "The person who did this won't even be able to take their exams!" They were incredibly mad.

After a while, when it had become clear (to my extreme surprise) that the Head had liked it, we were granted amnesty on, as I understood it, the grounds that we wouldn't do it again, please? But since they still didn't know who had done it, this was broadcast as a general pious hope.

A group of year 10s were seen fighting over a copy. They were all over the place. Some people were trying to photocopy more just as the management were rounding as many as they could up. There were 93 yellow copies (one shade off the actual bulletin) originally. I know not how many there were by the end of the day, but the Head phoned reprographics to ask them not to photocopy ant more (apparently).

It rather proves chaos theory; that very small causes can cause great effects. The spoof bulletin took about 3 hours to write; the register stuffing and so on took about half an hour to an hour. The resulting chaos was truly magnificent.

186 sheets of yellow paper.

It was a good laugh. I am now (to my mounting horror) more than a little of a celebrity amongst those who know I did it... I don't want to be. I did it so that I could have the last laugh on the institution that has made my life utterly miserable over the past five years.

I've not exaggerated to the best of my knowledge, but I wasn't there for all of it (being in hiding while the deputy head was baying for blood), so I had to hear from friends... one nutter went up to officials saying "I like your new style bulletin" to see what they said.

It worked. It was good. Life is sweet sometimes. */
/* May 9, 2002 */
/* Another new blog... another new Perkin Warbecker. Here. Go there.

Dunno why I'm bothering, not as if anyone actually reads this. */
/* May 8, 2002 */
/* ... suicide is painless ...

OK, I promised myself I'd never be suicidal again. But this runs it a close second.

I'm just so... tired. It's an effort to write on here, and my muse (if indeed I ever had one) has almost completely deserted me.

I've not written anything worth shit these last three weeks. Except of course IT coursework, and that's not artistic in the least. Then again, nor am I really. There are 4207 lines of code in that project. The compiled source is about 1.53 megs. When compressed in an installer, it's 0.99 megs.

Now, get this. As a Word file, my writeup is 38.5 megs long. When ZIPped, it's 3.87.

That's four times the size for the writeup. Hell's teeth.

I want to die.

And she didn't read the letter. *cries quietly* */
/* May 2, 2002 */
/* {Update: OK, I'm scared now. My chest is hurting to the extent it's difficult to breathe; my head is hurting; my appetite for food has gone (for dinner I had a doughnut, a coffee and a slush puppy and I'm still not hungry); and my heart is aching. I think. Dunno what's causing this... I've heard of being lovesick but this is totally ridiculous. }

An open letter aimed vaguely at somebody I care much too much about and who probably will never read it:

It's hard to think what to say. I don't know how to talk to you, I don't know how to reach out to you, in fact I can't make any kind of meaningful contact at all. Trapped in my head, looking out through my eyes, I can't touch you or do anything externally for you. Yet today, especially, my heart is heavy and trying to fall through my ribcage, and I wish there was something I could do for you to show how much I care. But that's not allowed me. I've got to keep going, to keep walking, to shoulder my bags alone. It's hard to do, but I know my attention, my care would be unwelcome. It's something I've had ample time to get used to.

But to my surprise (and probably yours as well) I have a heart... it feels like it's been deep-fried (black, crenelated, and crunchy), but it's there. Every so often I want to cry, but can't. Every so often I have the urge to hug you, just once, and can't... because there's no way for me to do so. No way out.

I wish that the words you said in jest could be said in truth; and I wish I had said what you thought I had said once. That's in the past. Too long for happy endings now.

I shall sign off now... and I'm signing out of your life in a couple of weeks. I can't pretend it isn't going to hurt me, but it's really not important. In a couple of weeks you'll be safe.

This is, as they say, the metaphorical It.

I remain,
Ever yours
Rob */
/* May 1, 2002 */
/* The problem is this:

How does one know the difference between reality and story? When I say something and believe it does that make it true? Or does it just mean I'm lying even to myself? If a reality is shaped by words, and the words are words you believe and yet may not be true, does that make it fiction?

It's too late at night for philosophy. But this is playing on my mind. */
/* By the immortal Gods! My Candelabrum! Oh wretched I!

... two perfectly good legs who has never ... a comparison involving Nazis or Hitler approaches ... dropped
a large wooden bomb. ~ On ... him be roadkill himself." ~ "*snort* I ...

There's not much I can say to follow that.

Ben has just informed me that the Barathrum is the imperialist monarchy. Quite. */
return 0;

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