Wednesday, March 06, 2019
If you go far enough along the normal number's digits, you'll get a sequence that encodes any string in subsequent ASCII. For example, 90113 would encode "i am".
Where 9=i, 0=space, 1=a and 13=m
(There's a couple of "artificial" normal numbers that have been constructed. So they exist, and are computable.)
So a question occurred to me.
Say there's a place in the digits of a normal number where the encoding of a book starts. Call that B. For any book, B is going to be pretty big. Say, for example, the encoding of "the catcher in the rye" starts at the ten trillionth digit of this normal number - ASCII translation of the digits after 10 trillion encode that book, in other words.
Now let's define another number: the hopping number.
The hopping number is a step (say 7) you hop over ASCII encodings of letters to get to a new letter. Call that H. So you start at a new place, call that S, and you hop H, multiple times, each time noting the encoded letter to construct the entire book (again). Clearly, this sequence also encodes the book that started at B. So the question is, are there books where S is less than B?
Also, the ASCII encoding of the book must occur a number of times if the normal number is sufficiently large. How large?
It would have to be a function of S, N, B and H. Can we find that function?
Don't know. Do care.
Monday, January 14, 2019
Monday, March 26, 2018
Monday, February 03, 2014
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
And forms are filled in, dry and brittle
The thing finishes
The over, the just gone, the signed away
The bricks of the foundation gone
The groundwork bare again, but now disinterred, showing age and tracks
Where there was a house, now there's weeds
He will eat you, his teeth in you, his hips cracking against you.
So - knowing this - you run headlong through the gorse and bracken.
When you find the road, its gravel outlying, you run that much faster over its hard return.
No good: you may be faster; so is he.
His breath is on your heels, the leap to bring you down a potential that is about to be.
Escaping in a minute.
Get your car up the ramp from the waiting ferry. Customs is passed, and you are very relieved that, the weight of contraband is undetected - a freight of tobacco, a bible-coded prediction of selling in car boot sales, along with lamps, porcelain dogs and bootleg CDs.
Different kind of capture.
There's no win in the motorway: up your arse all the way to junction nine; until you swing a turn and they pass you. The little lights of the exit, as you swing, studded along the way.
You run the last length of road. A memory of a swimming pool, a polystyrene float in front of you, as you look through the chlorinated blue before you; to the end where the dry, tracksuited instructor beckons you on, with cupped hands and mimed front crawl.
Flecks of spit run up your neck. The burn of teeth surely follows.
If only I could pull that water in my hands, and catapult myself up on the tiles, then the teeth would not catch, the claws would not pull me back.
Up the fucking motorway one two many times this month. Leave at shit o'clock in the morning in the polluter (new name for van) when it is dark and cold and cold and dark.
Get there, then spend hours measured in least remembered minutes in a bright office. Looking at people. Wondering if they have an inner life (of course they do) or are they just wallpaper (of course they're not).
I do the thing with work, one pointless thing after another, with both joy and dedication (who are sisters if you believe Christians).
Then I eat stuff burnt in the subsidised canteen.
Then I do more worky work. With diagrams. With bullet points.
And I say some stuff which gets listened to ("I'm going to have a piss now") and other stuff that doesn't ("I hate you, I hate you, is that a doughnut?").
Then I'm back in the van, where first I smoke a cigarette, and then I turn the key in the ignition and the fucking oil light blinks, so I ignore that harbinger of engine death, and then I reverse the big dusty van out of the corporate carpark.
Back down the M42, tackle beamer twats for priority on the M40 interchange, lane swap randomly to the M5.
Evesham, Gloucester, etc. longwave radio 4 cuts out under bridges and whines under stretched wires across from pylons.
Into the Michael Woods services just before Bristol, because of screenwash lack, and the slightly white up-crap from the road is fogging my scratched windscreen.
Back out on the last stretch of M5 elastic for junction 15, 16, 17, 18 and off onto to the A4 (which goes to Bath, which is full of cunts). Portway. Home.
190.7 miles roundtrip according to Google. Every mile one inch longer on the way back (and that accumulates).
It's dark and I turned off all the lights this morning.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Well the yak (who I've named Steve) is really wearing my arse out now, but we're just passing the Knuckle.
It's this big black volcanic glass rock that's off to one side of the road (a mile off, and still fucking huge) glinting in the evening slanting sunshine.
It's called the Knuckle (Shlortsi in the local language, so Fusel tells me) because it looks like this big carpometacarpal joint pushed up out of the stony ground round there. Like a giant is trying to punch her way out of the geology.
Nothing grows there (and you have to say that with a mystery whisper) because, hey! it's fucking rock, there's no soil there. (Fusel glowers at this and sucks on his pipe, which I think is full of ketamine, because he's that fucked up with his big-ass moustache).
I'm a happy smiling tourist with a big camera, a hunk of technology I can't use, even here - there's a super-secret rocket base behind the Knuckle, and occasionally you see the contrail of an X-plane full of volunteer about to explode.
Still and all, I can hear the whiny call of plain warblers arguing about politics in the reeds of a stagnant pond (that smells of diesel) just a couple of close Greeks away.
Before off on the holiday (long tome coming, short time going).
Anyway, before I bugger off. I found this from Bertrand Russell:
Fear of public opinion, like every other form of fear, is oppressive and stunts growth. It is difficult to achieve any kind of greatness while a fear of this kind remains strong, and it is impossible to acquire that freedom of spirit in which true happiness consists, for it is essential to happiness that our way of living should spring from our own deep impulses and not from the accidental tastes and desires of those who happen to be our neighbours, or even our relations
Where the bombs in my head go off, one after the other,
And spouting neurone fireworks (touch blue paper and retire to a Spanish villa dotage where wrinkles conspire to make a map of mars on your face)
That's where, in pleasant green hills grandfatherhood, I will look upon my golden retinue of children and children's children.
The perpendicular gothic of the stone beams and concrete arches will be a part (apart) of the defining way (a road to, an avenue between).
All happy then, indescribable joy descends.
Pick the meaning of the preceding, there's something there for all of you.