Contemptuous Contemplation

Blog post # 115:

Wisp Of Consciousness


Perpendicular To Aperiodicity


Of Unspecified Nothingnesses


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The world is collapsing around me. Politically, America and much of the world is literally becoming fascist, to even more of an extent than it was before now. My art website has been hacked, and I can't get that issue resolved. I just got over a cold. I am out of money and have an unsatisfactory income, like so many of us. No one loves me, really. And I basically suck at everything. Yeah, I'm depressed. And you know what? Depression leads to health problems -- so now I am depressed about being depressed, too.

And in any case, I think you all are just an illusion. (I myself may be an illusion to myself, as well.)

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New poll! (Hopefully I will have it up soon.)

Which of these tableaux is your favorite to contemplate?

1) Nuclear blast. Black light. Nautilus.
2) String. Dynamo. Dried blood.
3) Clock. Speedometer. Crumpled paper.
4) Punk-rocker. Aspirin. Wine bottle.
5) Butterfly. Meat-cleaver. Protractor.

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Here is an easy puzzle. No tricks.

In the span of 12 hours (midnight to 11:59 AM), how many minutes (Hours:Minutes) are such that the digits of the minutes form an increasing (from left to right) sequence of consecutive integers? The "integers" may be of one digit or of two digits, but must not begin with a 0. Examples: 2:34, 9:10. Try to answer quickly.

Note: Don't count one-integer "sequences", where the one integer is of the 3 or 4 digits of any particular time. If this was a trick question, I would have you include these, so that the answer would have simply been 12*60 = 720 minutes.

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No poetry today. So happy you are!

If you want more to read, please read some of the back issues of this blog!

Leroy

Madness Of Geniuses

Blog post # 114:

Only two pictures today, but I kind of like them both. (Should I not?)

Inert Mania


Screaming Of Tableaux


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I had a dream the other night about the goth Albert Einstein telling a court room that the case must be thrown out because "everything is an illusion...".
(Then we all started to swirl around and fly in a circle within the room.)

So, I was thinking that goth Einstein would be a good Halloween costume, except... everyone would think you were Robert Smith of The Cure.

Goth Einstein, like me, is a nihilist.
He says: E = MC^2 = 0.

There are really no atoms, no light, no relief from the lies of madmen and imbeciles all masquerading as our gods and leaders.

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Poems. (Yes, I hate poetry. But I will inflict my poetry on you all, because I hate you even more.)

Bidirectionally Inanimate
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An inanimate chunk -- almost a sphere,
Almost amorphous -- upon its midsection, a
Leftward protrusion wraps its half then
Extends and tapers in its roundness to that
Tip unimportant but still made inanimate.
Inanimate is a wiry thing upon the
Upper top; it, however, protrudes rightward
Unto its reach, becoming a slender knob. And
This thing is curved in an inconsistent arc.
But that arc is consistent, if not paradoxical.

Oh, behind this thickness, matter is yet
Nonexistent. But before it, it swirls,
If bidirectionally, and betrays such oxymora.
Yes, it is both inanimate and chaotic; it
Is grandly of glass and of prongs. But surely
It is asymmetrical and inert within this
Manic universe of mental facades, of
Certainty thus mad and irrationally wounded.

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Uncertain Of Helices
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An uncertain helix spins only once, lifts but
Slightly. And its matter is curved and cutting.
Yet it does not impress us. For, that is its
Counterbalance.
From oblate egg, this gouge is thrust. Ah, its
Fins are lengthwise. And its pathways are
Multi-dimensional. But I am uncertain of
Helices and demeaning thoughts implied cursively.
Yes, I write of such typography. Yes, I
Rotate amongst squished spheroids sans their one
Wedge; rotate amongst substances metamorphic,
Metaphoric, and metallic. Yes, I am the unspecified
Idiot of my solitary course, counterclockwise,
Upwards, clockwise, counterclockwise. And this
Shameful dream is shaped as string, is
Shaped as helices each partial, each implicated
In this carousel of resentment and tangents,
Of reverberation and translucency suspiciously
Truthful.

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Leroy

Offerings

Blog post # 113:

Entropy's Loci


Anthropomorphic Apathy


Hexadextrous


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Hey, people. Want to save money on drugs that get you high?

Well, if you simply believe you're happy, then you're really happy.
So, consequently, if you believe you're high, you're really high.

(That's why some of us can get high in dreams. I myself had a dream that I was wasted on caffein. Gosh, I was in a good mood in that dream.)

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Speaking of dreams:
Quote:
Dreams are simply offerings to appease the demons of our minds.

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Now I am really going to make everyone hate me. TWO poems today! (Written yesterday and today.)

A Crystalline Thorn
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A crystalline thorn evades its outwardliness; and
Yet its point is transparent. And its thickness
Is hollow; and its depths are made from rain.
Oh, it is as spit or urine in its cutting.
But its purity is weird. Its abstraction is
Immaculate. And its acidic ice is drawn onto
And within such a tender bubble. Yes,
This glassy shard does tempt us to be severed
By its grandiosity, true. But it is a
Foolish knife, ha. Its cusp betrays us, then
Recreates its own desires from our wishes.
And its stabbing anger is beautiful, and
It is surely failing. But of thorns and
Shards, this prong is surely quite a
Conceited cone. It is as our own cursed
Humanity. Yet its anthropomorphism is also
Wounded, is also apathetic about such lapses
Of nature's maddening treachery.

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Zigzagged Spirals
-------------------

Alternating, this course is both a spiral and
It is stratiform; but it is neither. It spins
Rightward, rightward, leftward, leftward between
The gaping angle, between those two rays of our
Human abstraction. And I confuse this
Geometry with numbers twice differing.
But, still, these zigzags are rotating,
Are diminished unto infinite infinitesimals.

Alternating, the triangles become reflections
And inflections and voids completely filled.
Yet, numerous are the wiggles defined
By binary dimensions. Numerous are the
Diagonals once vertical but never horizontal.
Numerous are such designs, each one
Once conflicted by its superposition,
By zigzagged spirals somewhat indicative.

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Finally. A dirty joke that I think I heard before somewhere:

[Warning! Warning! Obscene joke! No kids allowed!]


Did you hear that the cock-ring was in a tough spot?

Yeah, it was caught between two rocks and a hard-on...

(Terrible!)

[PLEASE tell me I did steal this joke. I don't want to take the blame for it!]

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Leroy

Oh, At The Laundry-Mat Of Disease

Blog post # 112:

Let's see if I can manage this....

Emphatic Poison


Tantrum Of The Infinitesimal


Neither Helix Nor Cone


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Okay, I have a cold. I might have heard this before somewhere else, but I compare having a cold to going through the washing machine.

Everything is wet, for one thing, with both colds and washing machines.

And a cold has cycles (sore throat, then runny eyes and nose, and then coughing) just like a washing machine (wash, rinse, spin).

And I hate both to wash my clothes and to have a cold.

It's amazing, they're spittin' images of each other!

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Okay, we've talked about:

Gargling Gargoyles,
Hypno-Hippies,
And
Crypto-Christians.

Now we have , tah duh,....

Ricochet Rickshas.

Don't go crazy while riding one, or you WILL be reverberated..

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Let's go over the poll results before I delete it:

Question: What happens to your consciousness after you die?

I received 9 votes, and, funny, not a one was for Heaven or Hell or Reincarnation (either as yourself or as someone else).
Death is the Final End is the run-away winner, with 4 votes.
These answers each received one vote:
You become unthinking pure energy.
You go where everything is funny.
You'll never die.
Life is an illusion anyway.
Something else entirely.

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No poetry today! Yay!

Leroy

The End Is Near

Blog post # 111:

Completing The Imbalance


Prolate Steam


Obliquely Forgotten


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Okay, this may be my last post ever. Or maybe it won't be. Or maybe the last post ever will be posted soon.

But in any case, I have a warning for you all.

My blogs seem to be fine, but my Prism Of Spirals computer-art website has been hacked! There was a virus put on it by the hacker, plus a lot of other stuff that had nothing to do with my computer art.

So, DON'T visit the site until further notice!


Also, I am currently unable to send emails. Yahoo thinks I am a spammer. Maybe my email was hacked too.

As a result, I have become a Luddite. F'ck the internet!

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Finally, a poem:
(This was written a couple days ago.)


This Squarish Thing
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A spheroid of four cusps, each symmetrically
Aligned along perpendicular axes, this squarish
Thing is segmented into its dimensions, into
Its realities all postulated. Yes, postulated
Are such numbers and psychoses. But upon that
Squarish thing, extending from one point,
A rod completes this imbalance. It completes
The rotation of the artifact about but
Another apex incrementally stabbing. And
This shape of ambidextrous spinning, it
Is very rectangular and rectilinear. But
It still curves about its intermediacies,
Both midway and laterally formed as
This without matter or situation. Ah,
The spheroid of four knives, it is
Particularly asinine, as if it is cursed
By concavity thusly cylindrical.
But it thinks of its upper-right.
Yes, it ponders the flatness between it
And its exteriors, ponders the certainty of
Its inertia, of its quadratics yet alphabetical.

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Good bye?

Leroy

Mind Twister

Blog post # 110:

Today's pictures:

Contiguously Undescribable


Citrus Tasting Of Iridescence


Astigmatically Calcified


Yes, I know, I know. The word is not "UNdescribable". It is "INdescribable". But I am just being clever in my stupidity.

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Anagrams:

Police = Cop Lie

-

I sit on my profound ass.
=
It's of your mind; so snap.

-

Gluey Inertias
=
I gel; I turn easy.


(Yes, I know, I know. It should be "I turn EASILY." Whatever, never clever.)

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Is It Possible To Imagine The Unimaginable?

Well, I just spoke of it. So, in an incomplete way, I have imagined the unimaginable. And now you are imagining it too.

But, really, is EVERYTHING imaginable? Or are some things absolutely unimaginable? Is absolute nothingness imaginable? Or is nothingness not complete nothingness once you think of it (because within it exists that which is imagined -- so it is not complete nothingness anymore).

Let us say that you can't imagine 27-dimensional space. That doesn't necessarily mean that it doesn't exist. But what do we mean by "imagine" it, anyway? We can talk about 27-dimensional space and discuss its mathematical properties. But that doesn't mean we can see it within our mind.

Are some things not even discussable because they are so weird? Are some things so unimaginable that we can't even think about whether they exist or not? (Even though I just did.)

What if the rules of logic were so twisted by some members of the set of Everything (capital E), that those things were absolutely unimaginable, even though they exist? Maybe they twist logic so much that, even though I am discussing them right now, they are impossible to ever think about.

Oh, things to think about. My head hurts.

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A poem I wrote -- plagiarized, really -- yesterday about the middle picture above:

This Psychedelic Fruit
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Ah, I despised this psychedelic fruit, despised
The spheroid of such a citrus. It peel, oh, it
Is fluidic and iridescent with the colors
Of an artificial spectrum. And its flesh too
Is aswirl with this beautiful torrent,
With the indescribable juice glowing of
Aromatic glass. And in its peel, the images
Flow as quite a euphoric current. But the
Fruit is sectioned into asymmetric wedges.
Yes, it is cut to reveal its inner madness.
And its pulp glistens of geometry. Yes,
This fruit tastes of its syrup now
Depicted. In its transformation, in its death,
It is resurrected. I sip its soup of that
Illumination. And it enlightens me to the
Shapes and flavors beyond us. It enlightens me
To the tastes of all permutations of steam
Thusly thirsty, yet quenched spectacularly
By assumptions of sweetness.

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Leroy

Think Not Of Thinking

Blog post # 109:


Distant Immaterialism


Divergent Unease


Unimagination



By "Unimagination", I mean the part of the mind that imagines the unimaginable.

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Today is 9-11. (Sirens blaring. Wooooo wooooo!
9-11! 9-11! 9-11! 9-11! ...
It's 9-11, 24-7! Woooooooo!)

Okay, I got that off my mind. Let's continue.

Maybe we should play a drinking game today. Every time the news mentions "9-11", drink a shot.

Man, we would end up drunk!

Hey, I have an idea for a drinking game.
You drink every time someone mentions a drinking game where you drink every time someone mentions a drinking game where you drink every time someone mentions a drinking game where you drink every time someone mentions a drinking game where... ad infinitum.

You get the idea.

Would you EVER take a drink with this game?

No, I'm not a non-drinker.
I just enjoy self-referentialisms.

Forever, it spins,....
E-turn-ity....

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Okay, a poem. The last 3 days I have written three poems, which are all just barely not good enough to post on this blog. So, I will post one of these poems anyway, but which one?.... I think I will post the one I wrote TODAY! Yay!

Asymmetries Of Triangles
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The asymmetries of triangles protrude both
Rightward and leftward; yet they are obtuse;
These asymmetries, these non-existential
Existences are broadly angled, uninterestingly.
And flat upon their topsides, polygons of absurd
Irregularities rotate slightly and despise their
Increments. But they are as spheres of
Nonconforming weirdness -- they explode unto
Madness, mania, and all calculuses. Downwardly,
These apexes are laterally contained. Oh, they
Face their finitudes probably curved and
Certainly numerical. Yes, of the asymmetries of
Shapes without asymmetries, this is a complicated
Postulate made into its inconsistency.

But I succeeded to write of that which is
Unwritten. And I triumph in my contemplation
Of words and forms unimaginable. Because I
Am human -- I am psychotic -- I am an
Atrocious demon. And I am asymmetrical
Within my lobed mind. Yet I am, as such, balanced
As all triangles, despite their geometries,
Despite the circles that describe us each
So figuratively.

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Leroy

Concave Reality

Blog post # 108:

Delightfully Callous


Counterclockwise Inconsistency


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You know about the CERN's supercollider and how it may create micro-black-holes as a result of its high-powered particle collisions? Scientists have said that these black-holes pose no threat to Earth because they will "evaporate" before they grow larger. (They are really really small.) Well, here's a conspiracy for you. Last night I dreamed that the CIA had had all of the CERN scientists lie to us about the black-holes being safe, when in fact these black-holes might very well grow larger and swallow the Earth. You see, the CIA -- according to my dream -- is really behind the CERN experiment and is behind a scheme to destroy the Earth! Of course, this was just a dream. But the CIA is indeed evil that way.

So, for fun -- make this a game -- invent your own conspiracy theories that may or may not be believable to you. Be creative. Scare yourself.

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Let's see: There is the rising world-wide fascist threat. There is the economy, which some say will end up crashing to a point much worse than the Great Depression in the near future. There is climate-change's coming tipping-point. There is Peak Oil. There are many other environmental threats, such as to our water. Wars, some possibly nuclear, are being threatened. (Then there are those possible CERN black-holes...) On and on. We're doomed. DOOMED, I say!

I am depressed about all of this.

Hey, the ONLY way that things won't suck as much in the near future as they are predicted to is if "reality" is all an illusion, and I am really dreaming all of you.
But things would suck even if reality is false. But now I wonder which is worse -- I am just a disembodied brain in a vat somewhere who is hallucinating, or we are all about to REALLY suffer greatly.

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Poem I wrote today: (Shit you, Leroy!)


Such Realities Of Various Radii
---------------------------------

Discarded are the circles themselves encircling,
Themselves returning into oscillation. Oh, this
Was not a game made. For, I denied it my
Thoughts, and I deprived it of my inconsistency.

So, I doodled only circles upon grids. And each
Such loop was unexpectedly round and specious. Yet
Those intersections of arcs with curves, of circles
With tangents and with quanta all square, they
Were drawn as rings of rings onto that paper.
And the paper was folded into fourths. But I
Did not become this particular edifice. No, I
Only resented such realities of various radii.

Oh, I only discarded and disregarded these
Shapes each curvilinear. And they were not as
I suspected, were not of sines or cosines.
For, the circles were my illiterate dreams wrung,
Wound about counterclockwise then ignored
As every cyclic scribble both a tautology
And an absurdity justifiably meaningful yet.

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Finally, at least one person has sent me a comment, or so I read, that disappeared before I had a chance to approve it. Please, if you send in a comment, and don't see it within 2 or 3 days at most, then do send it in again!
Update (9-10-2010): Another person said they posted comments, plural, to my blog that I never received.

Thanks,
Leroy

Wuss

Blog post # 107:

Okay, okay, I will post art here again. I am such a wuss for giving in after just one post. ... Wuss!

(This art, especially the first two pieces, is highly plagiaristic.)

Afloat As Postulates


Illusion Of Apexes


Non-Thematic Infinitesimals


Amongst Artifices


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Here is a poem inspired by the 3rd picture above.

Of Fluidic Froth
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Flowing fumes of fluidic froth, of iridescent
Gray, of imagined swirling now beautiful,
Now elongated --
It arcs as reverberation, as a weird
Rainbow of inconsistency. It arches as matter
Quite crystalline, quite crumpled. And in this
Course, it twists into its nexuses; twice it
Converges upon its vanishing. For, those
Necks are infinitesimal. Those oddities
Are non-existential, surely. Yes, they grasp
The substances and deprive them momentarily
Of reality's smoldering portrayal. But they
Are a truthful impairment, ha. They are the
Intermittency of such acid and euphoria.

Then this water returns to its recklessness,
To its encirclement. It recreates its angles
Within that funnel, within that ambiguity of
Direction, within that ambiguousness of
Certainty amongst its disappearances, amongst
An invalidation thematically so.

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Finally, a joke, sort of:

What do you call a big armed heist from a shopping center?

A grand mall seizure, of course!...

(Uggg...)

-----------------------

Leroy

Creativity Nil

Blog post # 106:

Sorry, people. No art today. As a matter of fact, I am thinking about completely quitting the creation of computer art. And I don't think I will make any other kind of art, either. I have very poor artistic technique when I try to draw. That's why I liked Photoshop. Because with it I could finally draw a straight line or a perfect circle. But I realized long ago that creating Photoshop art was unacceptable. Because if I use a computer program, then my art is no longer of my soul, but is heavily influenced by the computer program itself. So, no more of that computer art BS. I don't even like computer art! Why am I making it?

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A simple puzzle (some of you have already seen this puzzle):

Okay, Joe is ambidextrous. All day Sunday Joe writes with his right hand. The next day, all day, he writes with his left hand. Joe continues, writing all day each day with one hand, and every other day switching which hand he uses. Which hand is he writing with on the first Saturday after the Sunday mentioned above?

By the way: He is not writing with no hand. And he is not writing with both hands. The answer is either his left hand or his right hand, so don't try being too clever.

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I tried to anagram "Two Thousand Twelve", since that is supposed to be the "end of the world". And there must be a secret message in there somewhere.

But the best I could do is:

"Thud. We wove not salt."

What does it mean!?... Is it a sign!?

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There are both water pipes carrying cold water and water pipes carrying hot water, and there is "piping-hot" water. So, why isn't there such a thing as piping-cold water?...

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Okay, a poem I wrote a few days ago:


Cursive Made
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Cursive made from amber -- amber plagiarized from
Thoughts -- thoughts seen within my liquid -- liquid
Drawn from images of cursive -- of cursive curled
And intermittent and postulated and inconsistent.

Oh, inconsistently, the cursive's thicknesses vary.
This winding twine loops once as a strap,
Then reflects and twists into a wire, looping
Again in its course, completing its oscillation,
Then existing not but upon its exit. And
The cursive spells a letter of such dreams,
Of such an un-alphabetized alphabet. It is
Drawn upon placid paper, yes. But this page
Is wrinkled and wiggled. And the ink
Is aromatic, and yet it is strange. Yes, this
Fluid stinks of froth, of fruition. But
Its impairment completes the scrawl so
Truthfully. Yes, the cursive, this knot, is made
From quite a translucent sap. But its
Beauty is designed via the angry hand.
And this hand suffocates upon that writing.

For, the cursive is acidic and conforming.
But it is, however, dripped onto its
Smoldering. And, indeed, it portrays us all
As literate, as human flesh contained
Inside paper's flatness crumpled theatrically.

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Leroy