The Wikiwater Sports Page

The Wikiwater Sports Page

Controlled Chaos:  My impressions of gas system analysis.

            Expansion, pressure, heat, energy, spontaneity, reflux: Fick!
            Ah me, the transport properties of a perfect gas, Jesus gas, the ideal talking
to Heaven: a perfect system that probably doesn’t exist on account of numerous
repulsive forces.  I measure completely random paths and rates of effusion.
            So me, it’s come to this, do I think about a German restaurant, or some
J matter?  The rate of migration from this world to the next, is it derived from
a single degree?  Constant ‘t’ to an end-point? t₀ à t_∞ ? or the relationship
between a quantity diffusion parallel to axis ‘z,’ by definition: always coming
at me in Cartesian coordinates.  But then there’s also Minkowski spacetime,
temporal isometry, and a pretty little Lie group.  But then I’m getting off topic,
tangent to the plane, field, meadow, or lea.  Must’ve been the J energy drink,
the Jesus juice, what?  Green tea?  That brings me back to chapter six.

How can I avoid equilibrium?  All I can do is fight it, or, more
peaceably, make changes to the system.  This reminds me of the last scene
of “2001: A Space Odyssey,” a glass dropped, shattering, an irreversible change
to the system, a lesser change to the equilibrium of the room, and
(did you know Robert S. Mulliken was born in the same (Essex) county as
John Hale preached? (in Massachusetts)) silence in space,
where no one can hear you scream, “Gas! Witch!” or “Quantum mechanics!”
            Reverend Hale was a Puritan pastor, a prominent figure during
the Salem Witch Trials, as well as a figure in Arthur Miller’s The Crucible,
a play about a closed system used for heating <x> at high temperatures
at constant (atmospheric) pressure.

            I now invoke the Diffusion Coefficient to be set equal to the gas constant
multiplied by |temperature|, and for that product to be divided by the number
of constituent particles in a substance that contains as many elementary entities as
there are atoms in mass <x>, the number six, the ratio of a circles’ circumference to
its diameter, the radius of an individual constituent particle of that substance,
and its ability to flow, meld, or yield.  But that’s all rheology to me.

110112

A saintly sampling, Askari (Arabic for soldier), this year, a standard deviation.  My name at the top left to hand in.  Sacrifice absolutely necessary wastes of time to DMT.  Abstinence is a stretch.  Visualize spillage.  Watch substance scatter geometry across linoleum surfaces.  Failure assumes successful possibilities/time will average the null hypothesis out of existence like Newsweekends.  Chimney Ekibastuz-Kokshetau.  There was a man who was perfect, a god, yet he continued to fear God of the highest order, and applied all he was taught.  He had many children, the numbers 7 and 3, Li₃N.  Everything depends upon the color, the shape, the thickness, the density, the melting point of synthetic rubber vulcanized Olmec disulfur dichloride between two tires are ribbits plastered upon the passenger seat, croaking clearly the first names of Renaissance contributors who were, in their times, one man shows who were subsequently studied extensively for the meaning of truth in complex geometrycal patterns because that’s just what some people do for work or fun.  It’s a strict division between fun and what?  Livin’ in the ‘strict for Chester Young, [the hundredth day Adventist, whose birthday is divisible (by about three and then sum) ] the umpolung script flipper of ill decise.  Poor decisions are limited by price, miles.

Micromice, µm, crawl through the cracks of their home sweet infestation.
Messland.AmateursAmericanIntoLebanonIntoleraTaliban
Blast you low psych coma!  (Damn you dreamless sleep!)
When the going gets tough, those of fit constitution skedaddle.
410. A door slams. µm in-out skin pores. The court jests? A fake mess. 
“Better, you better pray to your god, because we can’t talk to him for you.”
Dietary concerns rationalized, et over.
Jill, Norse head, down a hill in Hot Topics.

The end of an age. The beginning of an era of psychonautic control that will become the
next reawakening challenged to be presented to the numbers of human… recently, Graduate Lee
recounting what it is to Scantron next to you, testing tests with bubble laser graphite matrices,
carbon compost, I didn’t solve it, I lived it, because there’s only one way to learn, experientially.
What goes unsaid behind closed doors in my own simplex mind is disturbing, to say the least,
It also keeps me up at night, contributing intimately to my lack of sleep without satisfaction.

The democratic process applied to natural law, metaphysics, mathematics…
Should we keep the symbols that constitute metaphors? R handy-dandy?
Aspects of importance of thought, a ranking system, favorite of the favorites.
Nihilistic plutocrats come harder and harder to please.  Rulers of a world made
for enslaving have enough made for them.  The enslaved react to the hunger tithe.
A spontaneous process occurs…Feudal lords nationalize communist or capitalist states.
Large landholdings held by large landholders fed up with profiting mere percentages
smell their own injustice and blame the hand-doubter, Oppenheimer, or Fritz Haber, Bosch.
Oil and an industrial process eradicated famine by materializing from the ether, ammonia, NH₃.
Fertilizer, manufactured for the living, and bombs, manufactured for the soon to be dead.

103112

Over the past two days I have become increasingly tangential to the point of origin being observed
within this species.  My body is touching itself, touching me, touching you, so now I’m contaminated.
Ah, what it is to be vivisected and relive the agony more acutely.  What fine punishment for a
narcotic observer chemanthropomorphising Cartwright Kafka, with a rhyme for his illegible scheme.
The treatment plant pukes when the hospital bathes in disaster relief.  Can you handle the comfort?

One banana and I get really crazy! Split personalities divide my schizophrenic house with dry/wall.
Smoke sockets were recently installed for my pipe to smoke me in my skivvies and long socks.
In fetching stockings, she passes me a roach, and we lie attached at hip like the temporary Siamese.
This is no normal hair day.  It’s come to this.  The black leather mask is coming with me to school.

Basking in the ambivalent simplex, T_D Apothecary sells Nerve Ending Ditherer, a transdermal
gel for shaky cigarette hands.  The quest for the Holy Grail of Perpetual Q_i keeps my status Q^o.

Clubbing drugs are like beating baby seals, it takes a lot of nerve, damage, and the satisfaction is sick.
The hot seat is Kelvin’s lofty pedestal.

At the Zee frequency, in the key of Zen, 23 factorial! 26 tilde.  The shepherd’s
scale, logo-light itself, key infinity forever, brought down to Earth in a plastic shed
in the early morning.  Pumpkin seed vitamins are good for getting up.  Cherries
help with enemy fire from master puppets.  Wifi jacks?  Why Fiji, ACK?

Pumpkins with a horizon line cut across narcotic borders in the long blink of an eye
resting beneath the thick lids of the laws of sleep science resting between hard covers,
book binding, and horse glue.  You heard it here first from the force of the source
of the horse. I’m talking about equine labor contractions and Lilly Ledbetter.

Basking in the thing that is ambivalent and simple, elucidative procedure allows ‘to’ to ‘for’ weeks-vacation, just enough to cover each Roman Sabbath with fanfare and confetti.  Life dissolving napalm potpourri plays disintegrating medleys for its curative properties, charting holes in rough topography with war darts aimed at offensive angles, 108º, Flatland MDs know how to integrate Swiss cheese, corpse of milk.
If Joyce contributed one memorable laugh to the whole shebang…
“You use big words like a cute child.”
There was just enough time to draw the leads before the play was cast to/for the ducks.
There was just enough time for “Argo” to fit another scene with just enough time and space at the end of a runway, for a receiver to drop, for a plot to squeeze one more suspense from a group of undeveloped characters.
My main squeeze, it’s unfair, she’s trying to graduate ‘Mrs.’ Without Me, from the state’s (two rubber trust issues from the bald) orthodox art school, BS, UBbing me the Wong way.
My racially concentrated dominatrix is stereotypically painful.
I’m a back-tracking survivalist and a back-packing surrealist.
What is reality but a farce?  Because parody is the highest expression of art:
When the gods laugh, everyone is happy.
Fitful creativity liquidates and solidifies, melts and freezes.  I am a water table, cycling.

092612

--I can’t love myself.  I won’t love myself alone.--

 “But ye have borne the tabernacle of your Moloch and Chiun your images, the star of  your god, which ye made to yourselves.” Amos 5:26

There was an effort brewing in Hokkaido to suppress the infidel.  Already, they had caught him with his pants down masturbating to romance books, (you couldn’t call them novels anymore, they weren’t so new).  He got the rendezvous by the usual method, text *dingh*, not enough to cause too much racket… His lisp really bothered him on audio playback, but he wouldn’t let that bother anybody.  He wasn’t talking now.  Nor would he, no, not under torture or duress.  He had built up a tolerance for pain by bringing himself to the brink of climax again and again until his balls, his scrotum, filled with pus and made him sick.  Any pain now incurred was inversely sexual.  They wouldn’t think to milk him first.  They never do what’s nice and obvious.  Everything exquisite, nothing sacred.  Nevermind.  Microfiche, check, little tablet, check, file datum, double check.  Syria via Japan.

The spy game was easy.  Every tittle could be squeezed into a button and shoved up an anus for safe-keeping.  They never thought to plumb the line first.  In his darker years, (eldest son), he came to hate both sides of every geopolitical event, but as he soon discovered, this indifference to authority brought with it a healthy paycheck.  You see, it’s not easy to play both sides, but when one side wants you to win and believes in you, there is something innate in our nature that makes us want to obey, to follow some order, and he was okay with that, to an extent.  Loyalty to the mother/fatherland, Estonia, back home, they’d be proud.  He tries to think back, to remember something about the homeland in particular, but that wouldn’t help him right now, what, with the mission.  Boof the electronics.  Play the puppet.  It’s what he was paid to do.

He could always bend the minds of one or two confederates, but never the whole group.  The lisp gave it away.  Marked weakness, no group follows a lame leader, but to a simple some, the measurements seemed alright, and those where the ones who he aimed at, the ones with a weakness for weakness.  They would protect him when the group wouldn’t, and from there he could break apart the structure from the inside.  For he knew that what was wrong with him was merely superficial, but he brought out something much more deep-seated in others as a consequence, in their pity for him, they became his confidants.  Fox was no fool. 

It also pays to act domesticated, yet remain wild.  That was a trick he pulled off masterfully, giving half sway to his own feral being, a fully nurtured beast with a mind that was cunning and teeth that were all- together razor.  Women operate the same way.  They’re always trying to figure out something about man, to suss out a weakness and to use it against him, and to eventually break him.  Check Samson.  Fox had discerned this for himself, but unlike Samson, they forgot to blind him.  He could do much more damage this way.  He could get back at the one who betrayed him.  His scorned lover and the others.  He was young and foolish, but he was happy for a while.  But that wouldn’t do.  The war came.  There was always war, but this time it came for him.  They took her away from him (she was in on it).  It was long ago, and that’s how he chooses to remember it, it wouldn’t help to remember it otherwise.  He has his duties now.  His assignment.  Boof and deliver.  Don’t think.  Revenge can always wait.

The UB Bullshitter

                Over the years it has been brought to my attention that the average college student is not angry enough to care enough to pick up a gun and shoot somebody!  That being said, please don’t pick up a gun and shoot somebody.  I say that merely as a reference statement for the state of apathy we realize, but doesn’t allow us to conceptualize what would drive a man to extremes not induced by a sports beverage.  I’m talking about the Fire of God (or the crispy noodles of Flying Spaghetti)!  The Name called upon that inspires us to do things we normally wouldn’t (as we confide in comfort), and that we idealize only alone at night and only as a last resort, assuming things don’t go as planned.

                The exit strategy is something that’s been drummed into our political heads.  Mode of thinking, this: that it is desirable to take an undesirable situation to its fulfillment in the hopes that it will turn around on its own, neglecting any sound math, science, or literature to the contrary, favoring instead the Bull Minimum (big shot) with a plush couch and a semi-conductor for half-hard jollies.

                What I’m trying to say, what I’m getting at is this, there is a social ideal to accrue collectibles, yet never make them your own.  Fuck ‘em.  I watched this George Carlin routine once where he discussed the semantics of fucking vs. killing.  Fucking (used in its verb tense) does not just refer to copulation, but also, as an extension, procreating, and ultimately multiplying.  Killing, (on the other hand) is not just an effort to stop a sentient body in motion, but also to take away the spirit (or the Flying Spaghetti Sauce) of the ego.  What I’m proposing is that we remove more superfluous egoes (while attempting to preserve the body) while being smarter about what we fuck or attempt to call our own.  Moderation.  I think that society is taking the golden ratio (φ=1+√5/2) out of modern living, and I don’t think that it’s just the rich that are taking more, it could also be that the poor are less deserving.  Where is virtue?  I would rather see the PRODIGAL SON (or the Flying Spaghetti Meatwad) out drinking than drugged on plasma.

                Speaking of plasma (TV) suckers, I think you get the best picture when you’re not only wrapped up in the warm glow, but also when you’re fully warped by it.  When you go to the next store and the next because you’re inalterably changed by what you see when you dedicate all the free time of your precious life to somebody else’s programming (who you’ve never even met but you feel like you know) extrapolating statistics (lies, damn lies, and statistics) twaining, coupling, or pairing two or more points together via broadcast towers in tight-knit gerrymandered demographic subset communities with progressively individualized business models intended to divide and conquer you.

                You haven’t seen it all until you’ve lived on the street, until you are street-smart you’re lacking in education, and until you are educated you can’t really know.  Knowing poverty exists without experiencing it is like knowing calculus exists without solving a problem, and it’s hard to know unless you’ve been thrown into a class, class system, or ranking mutually exclusive (statistically) of capability.  Then again, for the first few months I really sucked at being a waiter, probably because I underestimated how (cushy it wasn’t) much physical strength, balance, and endurance can be involved all while thinking on your feet while remaining affable.  And that was before alcohol, energy drinks, and live music were added to the mix of confusion after midnight!  That was the year I read Moby Dick.