I told Miki earlier via Facebook Chat (a bane, itself, to existence). And we have just now decided to instead use either Whatsapp or Viber or, confusingly, both simultaneously since Facebook Chat is a bane to anyone’s existence. In fact, the existence of one who uses Facebook Chat is mottled with decay. These fraught souls wither before others. I, too, am afflicted, obviously, but am stronger in hara and spirit than social wallowing ilk.

Anyone reading even slightly closely has noticed that I used told intransitively in the previous paragraph. The shitstain pedants of the English tongue’d like to spike me to the wall of my grammatic insensitivity. Fuck um. I envision all pedants together as a family, twisted together in a pit, entwined. Their wails rise in unison. It is a perfect fourth between the sexes. My compatriots and I begin to pour the petrol. Michal is laughing as he sparks up a reefer.

Anyone reading even slightly closely has noticed that I used told untransitively in the previous paragraph. The lowly pedants are a shimmering conflagration now, and can no longer murmur hateful stupidities. I told Miki earlier via Facebook Chat (a tool used by the stricken of spirit) of his destiny as a goat farmer. It was a metaphor, actually, as I have been caught up lately in complexities of modern life and once again wish to walk away from them. How possible is it to lead a simple life, in contrast? What is a simple life? I’ve had numerous conversations with Mr Christián M Newman concerning this subject. Idealism usually pervades these conversations. I’m not sure if that is unfortunate, not, or somewhere suffering in the curl of the eleventh dimension.

A hovel in Andalucia? What complications come along with such a simple life?

• Integration into the village
• Property taxes
• Property maintenence
• Land owning bureaucracy in general
• Goats consuming one’s infant spawn
• Infant spawn in general
• The tendency to become attached to local women when hanging out in one location too long
• I’m sure Shambal (the proud non-pedant) can think of others

Climate predictions do not fancy Andalucia doing well. The location is just an example. Such complications would have to be taken care of in any.

One conclusion that patters about my consciousness is just renting for the remainder of my days. Everything is, after all, transient. I don’t have any reason to leave a cottage / hovel / mansion / cave / milk carton to any progeny. In fact, hasn’t one of the primary philosophies of my life been to be rootless?

Live rootless

Die rootless

Fade (or decompose) away

In contrast to more or less everyone else who is not either homeless, an urchin, a coddled child or dead, my ways are already unpunctured by stabbing societal complexity. What I really need is a finer filter to rid my daily motion of particulate matter - material fecal heaps that do not facilitate creativity. Sentiment has no place in the simple life. Remember that time and again.

A bookmark function for Martenblog is a future fruitful idea. As the point of Martenblog is to be reread in intervals to remind my brain dappled with decay of lessons I have learned and ideas I have spawned. I’ll get on it.

You pick up threads and clues, searching for a pattern that explains the whole, forgetting that a great deal of life (and art) depends on chance events.

I just purchased Music for Silenced Voices and perused the first few pages. Thus, the quote. My first thought regarding it is that resultant art is not necessarily dependent on chance events, but its impetus is. I sit down and deliberately work out a piece of music, or write in this blog, or strangle Chritián’s infant spawn. These acts are just the resolution of ideas sparked in my day-to-day consciousness by exterior forces. Inspiration always comes from the outside. Flotsam from the possibly imaginary world’s ocean around me washes up in a rocky inlet. Most is washed back out. I inspect others. I keep fewer. Sometimes I take those few, sit around with a guitar, keyboard, pen or garrotte and fashion them into tangibilities.

The current music singing in my ears is Dogshit on the Shoulders of Giants by Upsilon Acrux. It’s not first date music. Perhaps it could be second date music. My guess is that it’d be music more suited to a dismembering party. That being ascertained, I remind everyone for the first time that Shambal Brambel actually conducted a dismembering party once upon a time.

Unfortunately, the foci of the entertainment were already deceased. Shambal had grown tired of one peculiar arm of his Spanish family. Peculiarity, in Shambal’s eyes, is strict adherence to any tradition or ritual without any hint of creative variation. From the Book of Shambal’s Quaint but Violently Enforced Laws, I quote:

If one is so bland to slog time and again through traditional forms passed either by writing or orally generation to generation, one must inject a modern and slightly fantastical wedge into each proceeding. Something as simple as a disfigured child in an oratory role or a cohort donning a mask made from one’s aunt’s kidney will do. Just mix and muck it all up a bit. Don’t be a preprogrammed drone without a mental space of one’s own.

Said arm of his Spanish family ignored this and several other of Shambal’s sacred scripts, directly resulting in their demise. The benevolence of Shambal could only be carried so far. I continue to quote:

Continual breaches of this (admittedly vague) rule will be punished. The meters remotely attached to my living corpse clearly indicate the local average of my irritation level. The readings are on display in the dank basement of my illusory yesteryear for all to fetishise over. Thus, caution can be taken when caution is of importance, meaning when my irritation level, easily determined by one of the multitudinous aforementioned meters esconced in the tenebrous oubliette of my opaque history, exceeds a score marked out and elaborated in another of my bestial dialogues.

Culprits will be forced to drink mercury until their stomachs and intestines are filled. Before the actual poison sets in, they will surely perish of exploded inner linings. Furthermore, their bodies will then be disgraced in front of the remainder of the family, if any remain. Otherwise, their now not-so-living corpses will be disgraced in front of the extended family.

All this talk of family makes me want to retch. Excuse me for a moment while the contents of my hara are ejected forcefully into my porcelain compatriot.

The hotel staff kindly provided me with three porcelain compatriots. I chose to soil the bidet. Fuck um.

I’m slightly surprised that my livejournal still exists. Its last entry is from 2008 and it is incredibly generic. I posted a photo of myself by recommendation of Aimee Estes, a person best left to push up the poppies. Furthering a fruition of opium is something beneficial that her useless bag of flesh could do for humanity. Anyhow, I began going through an entry from Christmas Day 2005 entitled 100 Things About Me a month or so ago. This evening, I am on number 13, which reads

In general, I like cooking better than I like socializing.

To be slightly more abstract, I am quite fond of activities that require both creativity and concentration. For this reason, I also enjoy my job, which is insemenating circuit boards with my prehensile forebrain. Also for this reason, I enjoy composing music. The piece Albahaca is coming along nicely, thank you.

To be slighly more specific, I am more fond of activities that require both creativity and concentration more than I am of socializing when the latter is in an unwelcome context. My definition of unwelcome here is quite broad. Any social event that consists of forced niceties is right out. I am certainly fond of socializing with my mates and I take to it with gusto.

A limp wench might tell me that socializing can also be a creative sport. One can find the cracks in conversations, the narrows in which to slip. One can dart around others’ presentations like one eluding slow motion missiles. One can also be a cunt. One can be a creative cunt. Manipulation is not my aim. Perhaps I went through and discarded that phase during my teens and early twenties. I could be a cunt. I was a cunt. I was a creative cunt. I lost some friends.

Effortless socialization is fastastic and it abounds with my mates. Sadly, I my matie time is limited. It sparsely dapples yearly wax and wane. Of course, my mates are completely to blame and I am innocent. Fuck um. They, too, can benefit mankind by pushing up the poppies. I yearn to be adrift in a haze of opium spawned from the nitrogen-rich flesh of my compatriots.

As far as cooking goes, tomorrow I am on my own. No compatriot will be in my sight-line, nor will my flared nostrils taste the scent of their putrefacation, nor will my ears lap up their wails, nor will my skin sand away their scabs, nor will my sense of balance bother to hurl my unwilling living corpse at their unguarded thorax. I shall cook quinoa with garbanzos and dine alone.

I’ll toast my future poppies.

I began the specifications of a new piece of music a few days ago and it crept into my dreams during the subsequent nights. Out of these somnambulant encounters came a clear structure. This one will be under four minutes, I promise, dear Demi-God of musical composition who forms a dome over me of inquiet, resonant, conscious chambers.

As I have been wont to do since my distant past, out from my hara sprang a sort of chord progression. Initially, it was simple, but then morphed. I am considering now to let that morph happen during the process of the piece. I don’t want to actually play the chord progression deliberately, but let it be subtly pronounced by a snaking, fractured, mostly continuous guitar figure. It will be a semi-arpeggiated line with plenty of passing tones to confuse the listener. Inspiring the bass, rumbling underneath, will be Sunn o))), lengthy and droning, cut apart by quick, syncopated runs at fashionable intervals. There is nothing fashionable about this music. I correct myself. Bass, rumbling beneath, and inspired by Sunn o))), in lengthy and droning phrases, will be punctuated by syncopated runs at arbitrary intervals.

I’ll ditch the mellotron for this one. In its place, I’ll remind any creature tied to a plinth and forced to listen to the album at an intolerable volume that the synth echoes ideas from The Six, though only distantly. The square wave pulse will beat an insistent 1 - 2 - 3

• 4 over the other instruments’ triplety groove, a magical strategem employed by Christian Vander from time to time (listen to Hhaï when you get a break from your toilet training, ingrade).

As for percussion, I am going to start with its part. Again, this echoes my compositional (I laughingly use the word) methods of old, programming my now deceased drum machine, Marcus, to the structure of an upcoming piece (I laughingly use the word) of musical regurgitation. To note, however, is that Tidal Cycles is not a mere drum machine, but a form of programming patterns in real time. I have to inject aleatoric means in some manner and morphing patterns on the fly is as good a way as lynching your brother’s wife with a length of piano wire, to keep things musical (I laughingly use the word). I plan the patterns to overlap the flat four count and the triplety bounce in certain situations, but primarily concentrate on one or the other.

I STARE back at the second paragraph of the Martenblog entry. Join me on your mandolin, ukulele, autoharp or goat bladder as I cycle a progression twice or thrice.

F F/b5 Cmaj7 Csus2 F# Bm7/11 Asus4 E7/bb

As I played with the sequence the other day, I thought it might be wise to destroy some of the tonality by creating the following:

Fmaj7/b5 Cmaj7/9 F#sus4 Gadd9 Bm/G Aaug/#9

As an INTERJECTION between phrases in the piece, I shall opt for these two chords: [f c f# b] and [a bb f c] chugged on the ukulele, perhaps with reverb enough to send them to the absolute backdrop of the sound stage. An air of obscurity will encroach from the ill-lit depths. The growling bass will paint the heavens.

I decided to re-read the Foundation books by Isaac Asimov. I half jokingly write re-read because I don’t believe I have ever read even the initial trilogy in its entirety. Following a suggestion by Isaac himself somewhere near the aorta of the internet, I begun Prelude to Foundation a few days back. It’s puttering along quite nicely. Psychohistory is it its infancy. Or, rather, psychohistory has been conceived and its gestation will crescend during the curve of the story. Or that is what I predict. Another book bridges this one and the original series.

Many a prophecy, by the mere force of its being believed, is transmuted to fact.

Here is a succinct way to state something that even Shambal, swaying strangely, half erect in his slumber in his sessile spot, could believe. The force of rumour is a hurricane. It leaves scorched earth in its wake. Well, at least it leaves modified earth in its wake. It leaves a swath of humans with changed opinions concerning the purpose of life in its wake.

The context in the novel is a conversation Heri Seldon has with the Emperor, whose name I have forgotten. Hari is required by the elite to predict the future with mathematics by employing a system he calls psychohistory. Being a abstract approach, he finds the request impossible to follow. I suppose that will change as the story progresses, but I hope with reasoned steps.

As an aside, I do appreciate Asimov’s style. He takes science very seriously. He is meticulous and I can imagine he revised his work time and again until anything that could be cross-referenced was consistent. Another author of his ilk is Larry Niven. I suppose the appropriated name for this genre is hard science fiction. I’ll harden you, baby.

The self-fulfilling prophecy, to me is like semantic drift. A equally very clever or very daft human begins using a word or phrase in a manner at an angle to it original meaning. His, her or its use spreads to his, her or its local peer group, then exponentially from there. Mostly these turns of phrases stay localised and confound newcomers. They are shibboleths, in a sense. Spreading further abroad in space and time, a whole segment of a dialect can change, however.

If Hari predicts a fecund future and as he does so, possesses sufficient valuation for his message, half-astrology or not, to be believed, the future will come. Humans will work towards it collectively, even unconsciously. The power of hidden desire is a force to be grated up and fed to your cyborg ocelot on a Tuesday evening after guzzling brandy and rubbing the skin of your buttocks raw on your expensive rug bought specifically to impress loose chicks but now serves as the home for countless microscopic insects and dead portions of the aforementioned buttocks.

To know what the future holds, in even the most general and probabilistic way, would serve as a new and marvelous guide for our actions, one that humanity has never before had.

Isaac sums it up with that sentence again a bit more succinctly that I may have in my previous paragraph.

Black Swans that uncurl their necks and open their fetid beaks to yowl are stumbling blocks. As the rush of humanity striving for a singular, even utopian future bounds downhill at a frightening pace, the possibility of strange crevasses wrecking momentum grows. The blunder towards the singularity is mostly unconscious. Our species is the steed and a dream holds us by reins. Dreams shift unpredictably. Mr Black Swan swallows some of us. Those devoured are shat out to stagnate forever on the slopes. Insular cultures sprout from the dung.

Hari will leave certain worlds behind. I am sure of it. These worlds will be the backwaters. They’ll be the Fort Stocktons and Cold Brooks. The shitholes bereft of expansive culture. Mr Black Swan, why have you kicked humanity in the larynx once more?

Fuck the backwaters. I’m sitting on the multi-dimensional head.

Before Shambal knew with any clarity he’d be sessile for centuries, he was a man of ephemera. He’d still be were it not for the condition keeping him tied to a hovel in a wasted land. His own waste continues to churn beneath him to create power and a superficial luxury. Robotic apparati scuttle, clunking here and there, often even tidying up and bringing him required quantities of comestibles. The quantity is immense. In order to excrete enough to power his small hovel, including the ancient batteries on which his mechanical company feed every late evening, he must consume constantly. His gastrointestinal system has evolved quickly over centuries to create dense, fibrous feces full of nitrates. Tubes routed to engines rattle in mock digestion. Shambal himself is a tube. During waking hours, he is acutely aware, even with myriad intellectual distractions, that he is simply a processing plant.

In one infinity of quantum universes, Shambal is from Tanzania. In the one of which I write now, he is a Spaniard. In every quantum universe, he ends in his hovel, sessile. Thank the rings of Neptune for convergence. Like in the Tanzania branch, he was born into a sordid aristrocracy. The vast family spread its tentacles from the nucleus of Almogía, a white and brown pueblo. Their feelers poisoned Malaga and even as far as Sevilla and Cadiz.

A dynasty is similar to a religion. A dynasty is similar to a fundamentalist religion. Shambal’s family indoctrinated him. Shambal’s family burned their legacy into his brain. Any deviation from it was heresy. Devations were blasphemy against the perpetuation of an idea, no matter how ludicrous. And, after time, after his pampered childhood and his elitist adolescence, Shambal saw the whole pattern of life ludicrous. Ludicrous was painted on every path behind him, on the entrace to every corrador backwards, back into the shell.

Perpetuating a dynasty constructs the shell. In parts, it is thinner, in others, thicker. Relations outside of the shell are less or more tenuous, but always tenuous. Even the thickest of cords connecting Shambal to the exterior were easily severed from denizens of the interior. Lasting bonds only resulted by bringing others inside, and never letting them escape. Shambal saw this again and again and the horror and despair from both sides. He finally fled through a crack in the shell that would have eventually sealed him from the outside forever. After a certain point, usually a certain age, the denizens only nurtured those of the interior. Their world was small, but coherent to them.

The traditions of Spain struck Shambal as antiquated and stagnant. The world was moving on. That is to say, human culture was moving on. It never could quite regress to a state of olden times, good old days or rural greatness. Those times were the past. They were etched into the past. No matter how humans tried to recapture them, the recreations were fake, as the species’ expansive culture had outgrown them. Shambal knew dynasties were regressive, or at least sessile, ironically enough. They become more and more hefty until their movement both intellectually and creatively could no longer be set adrift.

In his vast lifetime, Shambal never uttered the word adrift with negative connotations.

He mumbled to himself once, during the end of his adolescence in Almogía:

I see the shell of my dynasty like gauze. Time and again, it tightens, or perhaps it is just my perception as my mind grows increasingly curious of the outside. The gauze filters outside stimulation increasingly granular until I catch only smatterings of fragmented scents. The denizens do it unconsciously. I am like the beloved son still connected umbilically to a possessive mother.

He cut the cord.

From the outside, Shambal saw his life before as a stone in an endless ocean. The stone rose magnificently from the waves and was even nearly impervious of them. To the brief lives of most on the outside, it was unchangeable. The ocean’s contrast was stark. As liquid is to solid, the pace on the outside was immense.

Many centuries later, Shambal wrote:

Spain is both alive and dead with dynasties. They pervade and separate, unite and spurn. We were encouraged subliminally, almost hypnotized, certainly brainwashed to create our own. A stone is a cottage or villa or apartment you purchase. A vast ocean of liquid is going from one rent to another, never settling down like in olden times. I wanted to outpace my retrogressive environment. The denizens held me as long as they could, but when I finally broke, I severed the cord for good. My mother shrieked from her grave, as if she’d felt the knife.

As I candidly continue from another curious day:

I try to never order the same thing twice in a row at a restaurant.

I do go to restaurants time and again. I resist mightily the urge to stab contemporary clientele with soiled utensils. Soiled utensils are the best if you go through with murderous intentions since it infuses victims with your silava. This liquid, which flows freely from a crevasse beneath your lolling tongue, is like a tattoo you force upon another person. You can even do without the cutlery, stand erect or slumping slightly on your table, and begin distance spitting. Practising beforehand at home is recommended. The targets you tattoo will be revolted, but, as your spittle soaks into their souls, they come under your control. Soon, after a few weeks of patronizing various cafés, you’ll lead an phalanx of stolen bodies. Victory! The death of this decaying culture is dripping from your moistened lips.

I am not the cunt I used to be, so I don’t insist on ordering radically different plates everytime I frequent a place. The stagnation that is going to Polo every time I attend to my Prague itch wore me down for years and I feel a bit of shame for it. The majority of our evenings there saw us ordering Křidelky. Those severed chicken limbs never seemed to taste better. Tradition it was, time and again. Fuck um. I didn’t even break the ritual last I was in the smoke fouled bar.

Spain is a difficult thorax. Various pintxos scream at you from upon counters. They are naked as your favourite bare-breasted wench you dilly in your dreams. Variations occur, but were I to sit and think of every pintxo place I’d visited in the time stretching out backwards from immediately before I began writing this bit of absurdity to crawling out of the bubbling morass of the ancestral swamp, I’d come up with no more than seven valid genres of the accursed foodstuff. I’m telling you that Spain has been designed to mock freedom of choice. The rulers now die the flame death. I choke on my own vomit gurgling at them.

Whatever comes next in this life, and many things do, some unexpected and some not, I shall remember during my next restaurant visit to order a cream-filled ocelot kidney.

Before you shoot yourself in the face with a water pistol filled with bleach to cleanse the horrors of not knowing the source of the subject of this entry, I shall just start out by telling you. It’s from the wobbly lyrics of the first and title song, Largo, from an album I just acquired by Bill Rieflin and Chris Connelly. The latter sure has a wobbly voice. The record still got made and should show me that I should never be insecure about my singing, playing or flailing away at any inanimate or recently deceased animate object. Fuck um.

Since Dani and I are going to see King Crimson next month and Bill Rieflin is currently a member, I am checking out other work he has been involved in. This introspective album flows throughout my workroom, dampened by an excess of furniture. What ever happened to people loving open inner spaces? Yesterday, I enjoyed an album by the Revolting Cocks and one by Pigface. Rieflin was a member of the latter, but not on the album I found. He only participated on their first, which I shall listen to later today, given time and avoidance of perpetual imminent death.

Now I shall urinate.

Continued from some days ago:

The only things I like to do on a beach are smoke, drink wine and be introspective.

When I lived in San Sebastián, this point was certainly true. I sat for hours every evening on the wall overlooking Playa de Zurriola guzzling bottles of cheap wine out of two litre plastic bottles I’d bought from Lidl just across the river. Introspection was my game, if you don’t count getting quickly incredibly sloshed. I always carried a small, spiral notebook in my bag. In fact I still have it. I’d scribble scraps of blather in that notebook as they drifted past my consciousness. I wrote about the drifters, and I was one of them, I suppose. I wrote about the granularity of the wind as it rose from the beach and blasted a day’s emptiness away. I wrote about murdering the stupidity around me, of which I was most likely a part. I wrote of being ignorantly in love. I say ignorantly in retrospect because I have hindsight for a lens.

(Playa de Zurriola)

Strangely, I don’t recall smoking during that period, though I surely did time and again. I spent September evenings at that beach. I sat infuriated during the daylight in an internet café despising my distance from Praha, perhaps attempting to program, perhaps browsing pages without real purpose.

Some song sang in my ears last night on my evening walk I wasn’t living. I was just whiling away time. Or something like that. September 2002 in San Sebastián was whiling away time. Perhaps a few jots in the aforementioned notebook were constructive. As Sea Song currently sings in my ears, a cover version by Mrs Rieflin and Connelly, I’ll act my part and drift back to the subject.

Were I to live again at the beach, I’d surely walk there at night. During the day, with superfluous sun and humans crowding out any time for dreaming, I’d be ensconsed in a cave, much like this one, in front of my laptop, or holding my guitar, or shaving one of the many rodents I’d captured during the previous night.

I finished breakfast. Were I to say something similar in Spanish, Acabé el desayuno, I’d be routinely criticised in fair La Rioja for grammatical misuse. At worst, I’d be called a panchito and stoned until fragments of bones protruded from flesh. Perhaps I say this because I happened idly upon my ex-spanish teacher last night during an evening stroll. I ignored him, or he ignored me, or simply didn’t notice me in the crowd. I’d prefer to think the former. In my very short lived class, after my stoning, my broken body’d be strung up on one of the myriad classroom crosses. As my life waned, this ex-teacher and the other students’d chant He acabado el desayuno to the rhythm of my failing heart.

Acabo de desayunar is actually best. My ingominy will quickly be forgotten.

I have just finished breakfast. To make my Sunday morning as exciting as possible, I switched from bland oats cooked in soy milk with honey to stiff wasa crackers topped with mustard, ham and cucumber slices. The thrill of this abrupt change in life’s direction reverberates throughout the multiverse. The pulses jar the skies and wipe out all nacent life on Europa. Fuck um.

Yesteryear, ahem -day, I dutifully persued but one of the goals I inscribed into Martenblog with the knife of my insight. What was it? GraphQL absorbed my day. Acabé el tutorial. I began putting together a schema for Martenblog, which, when you think about it, isn’t that complex, you grub. I feel I became sidetracked by a DSL provided by graphql-tools. With this set of tools, I wrote the schema using a more natural language. It went like this:

(GraphQL)
(DSL)
(graphql-tools)

type Topic {
  _id: Int!
  topic: String!
  entries(
    limit: Int
  ): [Entry]
}

type Entry {
  _id: Int!
  createdAt: Int!
  entry: String!
  userId: Int!
  subject: String!
  topics: [Topic]
}

type User {
  _id: Int!
  createdAt: Int!
  username: String!
  entries: [Entries]
}

type Query {
  # page count, vole
  pCount(
    topicIds: [Int], # can happily be null
    search: String # can also be happily null
  ): Int

  # retrieve all topics
  topics: [Topic]

  entriesByDate(
    y: Int!,
    m: Int!,
    d: Int!
  ): [Entry]

  entries(
    page: Int,
    topicIds: [Int],
    search: String
  ): [Entries]

  # Get the two surrounding dates that are relevant.
  # IE, the ones that also have associated entries.
  alrededores(
    timestamp: Int!
  ): [Int]
}

Normally, I’d just provide a link to the relevant github page, but I’ll soon excise the DSL from my code and go with raw Javascript. Why? Because I’m a luddite? Yup. That’s the reason, you grub. I’ll luddicise the code after this blog entry, you fucking grub.

I’ve also had a few curious dreams of late. To be mostly honest, I’ve tried to avoid the recent electoral campaign. Parts seems to have drifted into my subconscious, however, as much as I skip the multituninous political facebook posts that appear on my ahem timeline. Given the dream I shall describe, perhaps this is not all bad.

Less and less of my dreams take their setting from the village of my upbringing. A few nights ago, during spastic sleep, Mr Donald Trump and I were driving around in a cramped, grunting vehicle. His right arm was broken and strapped to his chest. I was sitting in the driver’s seat, yet he was driving with his unwounded limb. This was possibly symbolic, especially considering that I time and again requested to take the wheel myself since it was positioned directly in front of me and within easy reach of my stubby appendages. We were riding around in the village of my upbringing.

He was amicably chatting about the rehabilitation of the village and his distaste of excess. He did not regret the distraught masses thinking him a maniac, though. He felt his clowning was well earned after a hard life of piling coin upon coin for his myriad offspring. They’ll surely toss it to the clouds with no thought of humanity, he lamented.

At some point, I felt a bit sorry for him and commented that his playactings may have painted him into a corner. He laughed and said Entropy is the measure of the amount of disorder in any system. Any system’s state naturally tends towards higher entropy. I really couldn’t argue with him since, in the end, this was actually my synapses talking to themselves.

We ended up stuck in some sort of road construction under a highway segment that most likely does not exist (nor of its like) in the village of my upbringing. The vehicle tilted crazily and eventually was almost vertical. Trump exited before I could. From my position, poised between a fractured windshield and a dissolved door, I lept to the ground. At the same instant, the beast flipped, landing face down. I was clear, but it clipped Trump’s broken arm, breaking it in a second place.

He howled and cursed. I woke up.

Here, I shall set out a few goals for the coming weeks. I shall accomplish but few of them, if any at all, but I certainly have a grand time making plans for the imminent future.

Before I do so, I shall procrastinate one moment by telling my gentle and teary reader that I am listening to a beautiful album called The Room by Harold Budd. I recommend it to all. Actually, I began it last night as I was winding down from self imposed lessons in the semi-new GraphQL, which so far, toots my muffin mightily. The album itself will wind down soon, possibly just as I am finishing this entry. I shall move on to something more agitative as I continue my lessons.

(GraphQL)

So, goals:

• Rewrite Martenblog using GraphQL.
• Write android / ios app for Martenblog using Cordova.
• Thurk with Tidal Cycles for at least thirty minutes a day.
• Continue with GOAT, which involves at the moment Albahaca and Stone Calendar. This will probably not be possible every day.
• Practise guitar every day.
• Vomit on an infant left in a pram outside of a pub every other day.
• Snort a powdered anvil.
• Stir up a ruckus.
• Fuck um.
• Scribe brilliances.

Let the debauchery begin.

(Cordova)
(Tidal Cycles)

Chirstian is in the toilet. He belongs there, as do we all. I’m sure he . chris does not care for anything.

He is the sociapath.the people who don’’t have a clue are christian’s point of view. i shall care for them until they are corpses. They rot in the fields while we wander in the wastes. That is very chliced.

Chris sits before me as a atomaton of these days. We will die together.