Land of Diskgrinder

Normal numbers are quite interesting - they have every substring of numbers in them. So an encoding of every book is in them, if you use, for example, ASCII. You'll get a sequence of numbers that encode every book somewhere in the number. They don't know if pi is a normal number, btw. 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 trill...

just checking in after a brief hiatus isn’t it 

Continuing the story. Where was I? Oh yes, up a hill with spiders in tins and talking baboons. Just there. right where I ought to be.

Not gone away. Just resting

Now, just now it clears 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

The gust of belched air comes across the dark green dark of the moor, as does the werewolf. His mouth is spittled and raw, his breath is strong and red. 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 swin...

is some melancholic zone, where yellow acid colours bleed. a corner in an architecture where he can sit and contemplate the stone, and the foundations, that delineate the parameters anyway, see below, because

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 ...

Off of the usual, retracting here

Sometimes I wish I could turn that off And become as one with the mouth breathers To let my inner idiot have full reign To abrogate my moral responsibility to a magic man in the sky A bearded dick on a cloud Expecting and demanding worship from the ants he corrals

Body: 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 contr...

Title: Just nipped back to get my keys Body: 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 That's good.

Title: Cometary lag festival Body: 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.

Stub for continued

More than one quorum. All of them beset by angels and supported by demagogues. Something well said, something not said. Did that answer? No. Listen to some concrete. It is reinforced by a steely disregard for Eric Cantona. And jam.

Counting on things

I'm not religious or spiritual but I am superstitious. I have particular regard for coincidence. I know it's base statistics, however the forward blush of embarrassment forecast is anathema

Stub

whilst i, in my cups, say one thing or another. Perhaps you will listen. My best and oldest friend is ill, and I don't know what to say or do or be or stand off. See, that's the considered and always forefront British irony that gets in the way. Even though he's there. Even though I wished I had that outsider chic (but without one half of family murdered) Passive voice: it's the case that I can't say

Not soft furnishings. What biscuit thought of that? Surely marshmallow cushions or honey cushions, or even cushion cushions were first on the NPD list before pin cushions were put forward as the next wave and buzz, and, er, orkut.