The past

has become unscrewed from the present.

Today's

question was: What is the single most important thing you can know about another person?

And I haven't a clue anymore. Somehow this question might have seemed important to me a few years ago (how many I'm not sure) but now it just feels faded, irrelevant, stale. Maybe new people just don't matter all that much anymore, and the people I already know, well I already know them. Or maybe new people matter plenty but not for any predictable reason or in any single way. Or maybe its just that I'm not 17 or 23 anymore, and haven't been for some time.

You might just keep going

till one day you think, "I'm playing a losing game". And then its time to change ways.

Discrimination

is the basis of taste.

Not so much

movement. This is not a voyage on a boat. This is not trip of the bicycle, nor a long hike. It is sitting at the desk. Sitting, sitting, sitting. And now for a song:

Six little ducks that I once knew
Fat ones, skinny ones, fair ones, too
But the one little duck with the feather on his back
He led the others with a quack, quack, quack
Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack, quack
He led the others with a quack, quack, quack
Down to the river they would go
Wibble, wobble, wibble, wobble, to and fro
But the one little duck with the feather on his back
He led the others with a quack, quack, quack
Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack, quack
He led the others with a quack, quack, quack
Back from the river they would come
Wibble, wobble, wibble, wobble, ho, hum, hum
But the one little duck with the feather on his back
He led the others with a quack, quack, quack
Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack, quack
He led the others with a quack, quack, quack.

For a more sophisticated version:

Six little ducks that I once knew
Sad ones, happy ones, some like you
But the one little duck with the feathers on his back
Waddled to his mama with a quack, quack, quack

Quack, quack, quack. Quack, quack, quack
Waddled to his mama with a quack, quack, quack

Five little ducks that I once knew
Silly ones, funny ones, some like you
But the one little duck with the feathers on his back
Waddled to the shore with a quack, quack, quack
Quack, quack, quack. Quack, quack, quack
Waddled to the shore with a quack, quack, quack

Four little ducks that I once knew
Jolly ones, bright ones, some like you
But the one little duck with the feathers on his back
Waddled through the water with a quack, quack, quack
Quack, quack, quack. Quack, quack, quack
Waddled through the water with a quack, quack, quack

Three little ducks that I once knew
Old ones, young ones, some like you
But the one little duck with the feathers on his back
Waddled up a hill with a quack, quack, quack
Quack, quack, quack. Quack, quack, quack
Waddled up a hill with a quack, quack, quack

Two little ducks that once knew
Play together, just like you
But the one little duck with the feathers on his back
Waddled by a frog with a quack, quack, quack
Quack, quack, quack. Quack, quack, quack
Waddled by a frog with a quack, quack, quack

One little duck that I once knew
A happy little duck. the same as you
This one little duck with the feathers on his back
Waddled to his family with a quack, quack. quack
Quack, quack, quack. Quack, quack, quack
Waddled to his family with a quack, quack, quack

The tale

wherein a man leaves home, hoping to find his footprints.

After weeks on the road he declares, "I'ts unbelieveable! I've been travelling around, visiting old houses, places I used to spend time, former workplaces, the whole bit... And I haven't found my found them yet. Its as if I haven't left the slightest trace of myself."

You

may have been too hungry to sleep. And perhaps you've been too tired to eat. But what if both happened at once: Can't fall asleep cause you're too hungry, but can't eat cause you're too tired. What then?

Reading fiction

means being transported to other worlds. Does love of fiction imply...?

a) Adventurousness.
b) Proneness to daydreaming.
c) Tendency towards vicarious living.
d) Add your own option.

Scavenger hunt

I am on a private scavenger hunt. The list of items to be obtained is internal, somehow incscribed in me, written in childhood and later. Fragments of songs remembered beg me to obtain a copy of the song; book titles barely remembered to be found, and maybe read; foods I've heard of but not eaten to be tasted.

Next item may be tea from tundra climate.

The goat

walked down the road, eyes on either sides of his head.

"I represent alien perspectives," he says.

You peer at him with uncertainty, and think, "I always thought their was some sort of occult-goat connection, but now that he mentions it, goats really do have more of an alien, other-worldly look. It's a shame, though, that they are quadrapeds. It really diminishes their impact. A biped goat, now that would really be something... Perhaps that explain Pan, satyrs, and all that. Um, no... satyrs don't have goat faces."

And the goat? He's left.

I sense

time passing now, and will turn around one of these days quite a bit older, and there isn't as much shock in it now, knowing that yes I really will be older. But everything else about it remains unknown, like what the exact circumstances will be like. And so, although there is some sense of inevitability (I will be older) there should be none at all, because I know nothing about what it will be like.

It has long

been my ambition to go North of the North Pole -- that'll show them!

This place

has a few underground tunnels connecting some of the buildings. I walked through them for a lunch stroll. If only they were deeper underground, somehow it would be even better.

The origins

of Sushi are not what you think.

Somewhere in the world is a mountain range of mountains so icy and frozen that the eye cannot tell whether it sees ice or stone. In these mountains is an ice valley, which is home to an ice castle, which is home to the ice king. The valley is also home to an ice lake. The lake isn't exactly liquid, but it's not completely frozen either. No one knows how deep the ice lake is, or how the ice fish got there, or how they survive, or even what sorts of fish these diverse species are. These fish are the sole source of sustenance for the ice king. He eats nothing else, and perhaps he doesn't need to eat anything at all. Hardy travellers were once lucky enough to stay in the ice castle, and observed the king eating his raw ice fish (would the ice king think of cooking, or even tolerate it?). These travellers almost died of ecstacy when permitted to eat the ice sushi themselves. On returning to Japan they refused to eat anything but raw fish, and so sushi was born.

We hadn't

meant to be nomads. It had looked like life was gearing towards settling down. A new move, a baby on the way, and so on. When the baby was born, we expected the usual late nights for a few months, with a routine to follow. We got the late nights at first, but the routine we settled into could never have been predicted.

We noticed that though she cried at home, she never did so when we were away from the house, no matter how noisy or strange the environment. As soon as we were somewhere new, she always calmed down, ready to fall asleep. We thought this was just a fluke, it would change with time. But it didn't. Instead, it became worse. She couldn't stand to be in the same place twice, and especially not the house. On weekends we spent time trying to find new places to visit, new places that were affordable, just so that she would be satisfied. Eventually we were spending more time in strange hotel rooms then at home, so we got rid of the apartment, and hit the road. I couldn't maintain my job with the hectic schedule, but the baby comes first, and so we were no longer tied to the area. And the further afield we went, the happier the baby became. We had arrived at the new routine, the routine of no routine.

Two merchants

travelled together in foreign lands, both engaging in trade. Both kept journals of their travels, and wrote down what they found most noteworthy. One merchant, a fishtrader wrote of the differences between the lands -- differences in the people, their customs, foods, clothes, their homes, and differences in the landscapes, plants, animals, weather patterns, and so on. The other merchant noted how similar all the lands were to one another -- each had its people, with their customs, foods, clothes, homes, and each region had plants, animals, and changes in weather.

Which merchant made the deeper observations?

The unhaunted mind

would make a good title of a book I think. But we could choose what it's about.

The book I've been reading "Riddley Walker" has been a letdown, despite a cult following, despite what I thought was a promising start. That doesn't mean that "The Unhaunted Mind" would be any better.

Oh, and while I'm writing: SCOPE ROMBARD.

Where is your harbor.

Now how old are you?

Quick

wit is not the truth. Nor is charm.

Achbar Echad

The mice worship Achbar Echad, the #1 mouse. Achbar Echad lives in the #1 mousehole, eats #1 cheese, and so on. He is alone among mice and has no equal, because he is the #1 mouse. You and I, we don't know our #s, but we might be the #434,612,938 and #243,942,695 mice.

Achbar Echad is the #1 mouse, but is he the first mouse? Or is there a #0 mouse -- a mouse before mice? Does mousehood precede mice?