“Our logic is full of holes...
I can see the bubbles.”
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void* Randomness ( )
/* How are you gentlemen? All your James Joyce are belong to us! */
{
/* April 29, 2006 */
/* It's an early summer's evening. Sitting here, on the sofa, listening to Lassus as the sunlight streams through the open patio doors. On one side of the sky, there are high mackerel clouds that blend into flat streaky brushstrokes centrally. The sky above them is blue and clear. Pylons as thin grey lines standing out against the misty hills and blending into the background at the same time. The hedge casting a lengthening shadow against the grass. Distant birdsong.

Madrigals will always be summer music to me.

Every structure I ever build seems weak and wobbly to me, unless it is both independent of time and can be formally proved; and I know in my heart that even this last condition is weak, because proofs can contain errors, and any proof is only valid within a containing logic anyway, and that logic, to be consistent, must be unreal.

I'm crap at proving things anyway. */
/* April 7, 2006 */
/* This. Now, this is beauty.

I'm sitting, crosslegged, on my bed, watching the trees stand, somehow desaturated against the bright grey sky. The sound of rain falling through leaves weaves in and out of the sound of chants from the liturgy of the dead in Gregorian chant, which fill the room. The walls are blue like clear skies in winter, and on the edge of hearing, the server's fan whines. Shadows fall, golden behind the curtains and deepening the greyness of the blue paint on the walls; turning the dark wood of my chest of drawers almost into just a shape; and then the sharp brightness of the cloud-diffused sun through the frosted window, and makes the slotted bedhead cast shadows onto the green sheets. Ivy climbs outside that window, the shapes of the leaves broken up by the leaff-patterns on the frosted glass.

Water drips restlessly. The evening wears on. */
/* April 5, 2006 */
/* "We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered."

If I were to sit down here and attempt to enumerate the list of things that I am afraid of then it would probably rapidly grow to eclipse the length of the concatenation of everything else that I have ever written; indeed, it is quite possible that the task of the preparation of said list would be more fearsome than many of the items on the list, and thus it becomes pleasingly recursive. Both emo and pretentious. Quite impressive a depth.

One thing that recent events have shown is that there was very likely a disaster coming anyway. I thought of it originally as a kind of abstract graph, but I don't think that's alive enough or terrifying enough; I think the whole situation - far broader than originally any of us saw or even can see now - was and is a set of highly constrained springs; I sometimes feel a little like the thrown stone. Then again, maybe it is not the datum itself that causes the - heh - "readjustments" - but the spreading knowledge of it. I don't know.

Another thing I want to think about some more is the parallels between art and parenthood, which Jimmy introduced to me; I had never actually thought about art in those terms before, and I'm not entirely sure I like thinking about it like that now. Frankly, both art and parenthood terrify me, the latter more than the former; this is probably simply because art is something that I have learned to deal with, whereas the idea of parenthood fills me with the gibbering terrors. I don't think this is why I don't like thinking of art in terms of parenthood; to me, though, every piece of art is a word, and whether a word is composed of subsidiary words; and the speaking of a word is not the same thing as parenthood. Although one could argue that in fact it is the necessary precursor and in some ways the general case of parenthood; witness the idea of "creation through speech"; both biblically, for example, in John 1:1, and in other places too... the way that Aslan sings the world into existence in The Magician's Nephew. And while I cannot believe that I should feel anything less than absolute, abject terror for the concept of parenthood; does this mean also that I should fear every word I say, and everything I have ever made?

To me, there is a fallacy there. Somewhere. And it is annoying me greatly that I cannot put my finger on it.

I'm probably either wrong; or it is obvious and I am merely being stupid. Ho hum. I shouldn't post at 3am. */
return 0;
}

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