Wordsagne

tarseirdinuddlis

[tahr-seer-din-youd-lihs]

noun

1. the familiar, comfortable, distinctly erotic, vaguely filthy feeling-cum-sensation of a person's warm underwear sliding down their naked legs and coming to rest upon and around the exposed heels and dorsa (topsides) of their feet.
   
   

Origin of tarseirdinuddlis

2018; early Middle Jamesage < English: a loose portmanteau of the words 'weird,' 'nude,' 'pubic,' 'libidinous,' 'tarsus' and 'cuddle.'
 

Related forms

• tar·seir·din·udd·lic,  adjective
• tar·seir·din·udd·li·ty,  noun
• tar·seir·din·udd·lic·al·ly,  adverb

  

Ramblings on the meaning of art

Perhaps one reason everyone can find their own way to appreciate art is that everyone understands—in their own way—that the human condition's problems have solutions, but that many such problems have only ever been described in a language too complex, too vacuous, or too nonexistent for us to decipher efficiently enough to accommodate any measure of useful comprehension. Every instance of art represents an individual's attempt to write a sentence in a new language, and to preserve its memory and meaning before continuing to the next. Some artists are tragically bad at their own homemade grammar, of course, but some apparently grow to be less-bad.

As our numbers grow, so do our problems, but at least our capacity to cooperate for the benefit of humanity's collective interests remains strong. Maybe art is also fundamentally about frustration, then; an expression of one person's realization that certain work must be done, and perhaps at times alone even if not with that intent - or it'll never get done at all.

True story

They say don't stick your dick in crazy... 
BUT MAAAAAA! THE CRAZY IS FUCKIN' PURPLE!

— so, just don't let it.

At some point, we will all need to outgrow language in order to evolve. 

 

What would presently be called hypercognition should be driving all frontiers of all human activity, yet it presently amounts to little more than an experiential—if not strictly introspective—demonstration of insurmountable contextual disparity, made so by the soon-to-be—if not already—vestigial need to reduce critically-fundamental knowledge to local syntax in order to share it. "Gestalt," probably the closest term I know that can even begin to approach this concept, is hardly adequate to describe what is somewhat more than just a concept: a full, invisible, infinite container with no label and for which no such notion would be possible, the net contents of which currently serve only to define the silhouette of a boundary we might and ought traverse if only we chose to remember that we already have - and that this present, limited abstraction of scope is just a crutch of our younger, less mature imaginations. 

 

Language, even at its best, is just crude pictures of real tools. We needed those tools yesterday, and less than we will need them tomorrow. Reduction is critical to the initial formation of our capacity to construct analytical processes, yet is detrimental to the actual growth of such processes. Perception need not be constrained to one or the other... and it isn't.

 

 

Structured Programming?

What force is responsible for steering the mind toward hopeful thoughts of self-dissolution? It is obvious that suicidal ideology is more closely related to the symbolic self than to the physical, but how far do the roots extend, and into what soil? Somewhere between the borders of sensible curiosity and rational deliberation there is a frontier yet unexplored, and from time to time it calls to me - but from which mind of mine—if any—did it originate, and toward which pole is it aligned? I know my own consciousness and have become at least well-acquainted with its ancestors, yet I am still surprised by the occasionally-mysterious characteristics of its descendants from time to time. Tonight I wonder if my concept of self-mortality might not be one of the many fourth-walls of this life: another error-checked constant integrated into my garbage collection loop, ensuring my usable memory cannot remain occupied by protected data for long enough to parse it beyond the design-intention of my comprehension.

Wouldn't it be interesting to live life on a stack built only from single-entry/single-exit functions? I suppose the answer to that question is the reason we invented microscopes in the first place.

Do yourself a small favor right now -

- turn off the lights, close your eyes, turn up the volume a bit, and listen to this from start to finish.

Sometimes I can feel the stack, if not see the code

Music seems to be an inevitable extrapolation of the human ego's fundamental need to recreate itself in ever-more-deniable forms—"creativity"—but sometimes I can't help pondering, at length, the possibility that it might simply be an existential easter egFATAL ERROR -- NULL REFERENCE AT AT 0^eF(n) :: target directory does not exist.

A Short and Storied Tale of That Which is no Longer Tale nor Story

The three great devils smiled quietly together from the comfort of their small, remote circle. Their meeting openly was as rare as it was dangerous to their existence, but this was a day for celebration!

"Look at the immortal palace they have built from the brick and mortar of their minds," marveled the demon Q'uo. "Its perfect invisibility is marred by only the merest shadow of its most distant borders. If I were not myself a pillar of its foundation, I would doubt its very existence."

"Mmm, an effigy unequaled even by its eldest histories, indeed," beamed St. Atus, "though their magnificent machines are no match for the masterful machinations which always precede them. Each time I feel as if I have never before witnessed such fervent pride in self-enslavement, as if the weighty fog of blindness were a light and breathy heaven - a secret and blessed cloud which they have discovered and to which they have won ascension by impossible exertions of noble 'will.' Hah!" the fallen angel laughed, heartily. "Will!" 

"Truly, there is no reality we cannot achieve by accident, so long as we are sufficiently distracted from it," the third devil remarked, smiling. All three shared furtive, knowing smirks as the human continued, chuckling, "Well... perhaps except the one."

I Blinked

and I don't know why, but I had this stray thought about homelessness on the drive home tonight, and it got me traipsing down this deep-dark thought trail punctuated by musical tangents... like, what would it be like to have no access to music?

Can you imagine not being able to listen to your favorite songs AT ALL, much less whenever you want? No phone, no iPod, no computer, no headphones, no mp3s - not the good kind of silence where you're alone in nature, surrounded by trees and sunlight, the smells of fragrant flora and elemental earth, the faunal ambiance. It would be so horribly quiet of good sounds, and wouldn't that make all of the awful noise of humanity even louder? What would I have been like—and would I have even made it this far in life—if I hadn't had music to stimulate and expand my creative processes in my formative years?

While at first the thought-train's friction was generating altruisticity that made me want to go back to volunteering on a regular basis, the end of the line felt like a black hole filled with the haphazard tapestries of the homeless condition hopelessly tangled up in the tragic truths of a much stronger social machine to which catharsis is merely a masochistic gnat, and I realized—not for the first time, but for the first time from this thought vector—that this is yet another case of "nobody can unravel the former without first dismantling the latter." This all made me very sad, so I listened to this to focus my thoughts - because I can... which really only made me sadder. 

Sometimes Synaesthesia Sings Simple Songs

Spent most of the day just writing, writing, writing, vomiting my mind out – and just now I realized it was all merely thought-sounds I could not quite put to form. 

Still can't, either, but this is close-ish.

A Muse Brings My Thought-Rain

In a society made entirely of ideas, language is only as useful of a tool as are those who refuse to use it.

What are the key differences between key dissonances?
One is for listening-to, and the other is for not-being.

Allow an angry animal an accidentally-analagous acoustic ambiguity:

Ever wonder...

...what a sunset might sound like if abstracted to a medium of encapsulated gamma wave coefficiency**?

– just kidding! Of course you don't; I promise I am not entirely oblivious to the scope of my abnormality. Um, however... I don't care.

– and I DO wonder! And—because your hyper-intelligent ultra-curious cosmically-conscientious great great great... (^n)... meta-sapient grandchildren might someday get around to evolving similar thoughts if we're all very lucky (and if humans are still around)—I have taken it upon myself to offer one possible answer to this unasked question for posterity.

**(Why the hell isn't the vernacular adjective form of "coefficient" an extrapolation of its vernacular noun? The minions in charge of interpreting our language must be... potato). I'M FIXING THIS ONE!

Anyway, here you go. For you to listen/transcend/poop on.

sthguoht suoluben fo snoitarebrever