Metaphoric Hate....Coroneus, Wake.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 20

As is the wont of the universe, another humourous anecdote evapourated into the vacuum. Stoically framed in pensiveness, Marshmallow Addie shook his head in disagreement. Another humourous anecdote dissolved into a puddle of thin gruel which happened to be the state of his sub-conscious at that particular instant. At any particular instant, actually, without loss of too much generality.

Addie stopped dead in his tracks as he ambled aimlessly towards the feeder and slowly retraced his steps back to the house of cards by the fire place. There was an odd periodicity to the events taking place within and he couldn't just drift past them again:

Dr. Hynshystyr J. E. Allenby's Existentialist Tea Party

Dr. H. J. E. Allenby: Pass me a bun

A piece of crumbled Gorgonzola: The object in question or just the taste?

Dr. H. J. E. Allenby (raises eyebrow contemptuously): Are you not aware dear sir, that no bun can have a taste unless it is bitten into? Taste is not a disembodied entity which can be plucked out of its object at will.

The piece of crumbled Gorgonzola (shifts back comfortably into the warm leather couch while nursing a rather well made drink of peach schnapps. And something else.): Ah, and that is where you err, Jerome. You have an a priori notion of the taste having eaten a bun before, so you are in a position to dissociate the two entities.

Dr. H. J. E. Allenby (raises eyebrow even further, so that now, folds that are forming on one side of forehead actually touch each other. Blasted lard based diet!): Yes, but don't you know that each bun is a separate and whole new entity, independent of the previous bun, just like a coin toss?

The piece of crumbled Gorgonzola (its turn to raise an eyebrow, except that it's out of practice and ends up raising both): Coin toss?

Dr. H. J. E. Allenby (Loosens belt a little bit and settles into a more comfortable story telling posture): Yes, one of the odd paradoxes of probability. If I flip a coin nine times and get nine successive heads, the probability of getting heads again on my tenth toss is still half. However, if I look at the entire sequences of ten coin tosses, the probability of getting ten successive heads in a row is one over toot the tent. But, the point is that the tenth toss is still independent of the past nine, despite the fact that it effects the probability when taken in a sequence. Just like the taste of one bun is independent of the taste of the sequence of buns before it.

The piece of crumbled Gorgonzola (pauses for a moment to gather thoughts but decides to chug drink instead): I see a fundamental flaw in that logic even though I can't quite put my finger on it. And I'm not just saying that because I don't have a finger to put on anything. Or for that matter that I don't usually go around tasting coins. No, that definitely sounds wrong to me.

Dr. H. J. E. Allenby (sneers): Nonsense! You have nothing to say to disprove this. My logic is infallible.

The piece of crumbled Gorgonzola: Just like the house of cards you live in.

Dr. H. J. E. Allenby: Exactly. I construct both with my excellent hands. If you don't like it, suite yourself.


Addie giggled and colourfully coughed out the remainder of his breakfast for some reason. Another humeric anec...

Click.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 19

Odd shapes emerged and weaved through the soft maze of alkaline dreams. Marshmallow Addie asked a strange question which he immediately let go of when his eye fell on a chocolate glazed lincolnberry bun sandwich suspended on a pendulous rainbow ice cream lollipopsickle. Some questions go unanswered. Don't they? Ok, don't answer that if you don't need to feel like doing it right.

The question was, "why is I?". Or quite possibly "how is I?"... the distraction had set in by the third syllable. It was most definitely not,"what is I". That question, as Addie very well knew, had been answered in three part riddles by a dying piece of rather wholesome but stinky goat cheese and had been published in last month's Especial Riserva edition of "Ladies' Home Decoration and Yuletide Fornication Journal for Dummies".

The trick answer to Addie's question was not, "I is because!". Because I is not. The answer was also not,"That's why!". Because that's not why.

The persistence of these trivial Lagavullian escapades was finally throwing its weight around. Questions come and go, answered and unanswered, as two unified apples watched their world go up in smoke from a familiar vantage point. Yellowbottom flinched as the question whizzed past, searing the air around him.

A usually melancholic oyster raised a thoughtful eyebrow and conjectured briefly, which due to the nature of the question, turned out to be both right and wrong at exactly the same time. It said, "I is because Sunday turned left at Elephantly bingo. I is because the smell of freshly sown hay in the first rough draught of winter." Which is later crossed out for a more PG version. "I is also because the sound of everything and nothing both happening at once in disharmony." Toot toot, I think not. Not that I think its wrong... don't get me wrong here. I just don't think anymore these days. That's without the "so", Lumberjack.

Crimorcles: Stupd chylld, whie dinnya spot thu slo'er un?

Pers: Umm... I esspek it comm outta back 'o hand.

Crimorcles: Bleedin' eegit, thassa gogol! How many time's do I haffta telcha? Don takecher eye offta tigyr.

And as usual, Uncle Tallwhisker won in the end as he usually does usually.

Monday, December 11, 2006

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 18

Sandpaper coughter in an unlit room. Flick on: CRT screensaver illuminium. Flick off.

Wake.

Still.

Crimorcles: Be Zwacks.

Pers: Yuss?


Rumour has it. Good.

Rumours are rarely true. That's just a rumour. Which is rarely true. Which is a rumour.

Marshmallow Addie was caught in a horrific infinite loop. Try as hard as he could, he couldn't shake it off. He woke up the next morning to low kettle squeaks just above pit level and broke into a cold sweat of pure gelatin. He was still in the loop. On and onion onion like Lord Alfred Tennysonyon. Then he slept.

Then he woke. And he was out of it. Addie had reached infinity where annoying loops end and other fun things happen.

Outside a new window, a bird chirped nonchalantly, stuck on a single note in between two microtones. Like a scratched record. By his bedside, a scratched record player had stopped.

Addie clicked on another window on the cascaded style sheet and looked outside again to notice that train tracks had finally met, as they were rumoured to at infinity in popular culture. But this is curved space. Are euclidding me? Parallel or not, infinity was just another stopping point.

Rumour had it.