Doctor Sax

                                                                    Transcendentia,

Transcedentia,

We shall dance a mad cadenza!

I found this beast 3 years ago at the antique shop on the corner. I was coming home from school, it was raining and I had my textbooks and knives with me, carried it (quite bulky) on my shoulders, hunched over. The man who owned the antique store made the requisite joke about Atlas.

My Beautiful Babies...

are beautiful.

Just went outside to give the cats their dinner. A hollywood sunset. I counted one kitten missing from the scrum in the kittenbox, called out "Emily.. em-i-lee..." and her little face popped out from under the couch, staring right at me. I was so shocked that she answered to her name that I dropped the bag of cat food, spilling it all over the patio. Which resulted in a cat pinata party.

Guess what.

What?

Chicken butt.

O'er A Shalbaster Tyde..

Language fails. Language will always fail. Even if you both were born at the exact same time, exact same place, you will diverge at some point and language fails where the braid of causality unravels into the chaos of the future. Capitalism, after all, is predicated entirely on exploiting the tenuous energy expended at the task of reconciling the failure of language, the inherent limitations on finite symbologies, from one consciousness to the next. But we keep trying, because we have to live. I throw a scrap of meat to the cat, and the cat eats it and appears to trust me for a little bit longer, and Foucalt gives a speech which is very beautiful to my limited grasp of language... but ultimately, language fails. Conflicting ontologies defeat our attempts at a comprehensive lexicon. These very words on this very page constitute cicatrices unhealed by any genetic contigency plan, gulfs too deep to cross, insults too scandalous to forgive. Language will always fail, and if you take into account the million inhabited planets, with their different races, the billion different universes spewing chaos into the void... well you have no choice but to throw up your hands and sigh and accept that none of us can ever, truly, agree on anything. We call this consciousness. We call this: thinking...

Aaaarrgh, a pyrate be I...