Nobody has yet connected the recent start of collisions at the CERN LHC, Switzerland with yesterday's mauling of a man by a bear at Berne Zoo, Bern Park, Switzerland.
Quite seriously and astonishingly, the common factor is the earlier published book CERN ZOO as described and illustrated HERE.
This is also connected with recent upsurge of retrocausality TV fictions like 'FlashForward' and 'Paradox' and 'Dr Who and the Waters of Mars' - and the two scientists who recently suggested that the Collider may be sabotaging itself from the future ... and the bird that dropped the beget bread into the Collider?
www.nemonymous.com
Des Lewis - GESTALT REAL-TIME BOOK REVIEWS
A FEARLESS FAITH IN FICTION — THE PASSION OF THE READING MOMENT CRYSTALLISED — Empirical literary critiques from 2008 as based on purchased books.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
The Final Fanblade
Last night CERN turned the crank of the Hadron Collider. In the next days or weeks we shall see, through their spinning smoothly by synchronous chance or clashing with random skewed wings, what they will blow into existence of the Universe’s meaning or meaninglessness. Its demise ... or denemonisation as what? Whether ‘The Inherited Clock’ will bite and snag our curiously poking human finger or will make it new again minute by minute.
I was wondering what is the opposite of ‘collision’. Collusion?
I have long sent my stories around the Weirdmonger Wheel, some in opposite directions to others, others in the same direction as that of yet unwritten ones and head-on towards others never to be written, and vice versa, so as to discover something about ‘a-man-too-mean-to-be-me’ that I call ‘I’. A self-indulgent or solipsistic spin of the roulette wheel, the balls probably ricocheting out into endless space because I spun it too fast.
The world’s single stripe-streamed balustrade of fanblades – flash-forwarded by dint of hindsight into today’s imagined subliminal unison wheeling – is what I call scientifically ‘the last balcony’: a temporal as well as architectural term with many competing meanings of protruding frailty and symbolic strength. Of final welcome or forever’s first farewell.
The immediate bow-wave of far-future’s collision of ‘Never’ with ‘Now’.
The final spellcheck will hopefully alter collision’s first i to u.
I was wondering what is the opposite of ‘collision’. Collusion?
I have long sent my stories around the Weirdmonger Wheel, some in opposite directions to others, others in the same direction as that of yet unwritten ones and head-on towards others never to be written, and vice versa, so as to discover something about ‘a-man-too-mean-to-be-me’ that I call ‘I’. A self-indulgent or solipsistic spin of the roulette wheel, the balls probably ricocheting out into endless space because I spun it too fast.
The world’s single stripe-streamed balustrade of fanblades – flash-forwarded by dint of hindsight into today’s imagined subliminal unison wheeling – is what I call scientifically ‘the last balcony’: a temporal as well as architectural term with many competing meanings of protruding frailty and symbolic strength. Of final welcome or forever’s first farewell.
The immediate bow-wave of far-future’s collision of ‘Never’ with ‘Now’.
The final spellcheck will hopefully alter collision’s first i to u.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
New Fanblade Fable (8)
The living-room felt a sense of its own perfectibility. A Haydn harpsichord sonata in surround-sound, hyper-minimalist furniture and a sculpture of an old-fashioned Compact Disc industrially slit from the centre into fanblades splayed-out for optimum air-resistance when spinning. It set the teeth on edge to imagine it inside a CD Player emitting a damaging clatter beyond even the most avant garde of composition.
There was also an old-fashioned diary or journal upon a near-invisible glass-table. The last entries – on three consecutive days – were found to be:
Zencore
Cone Zero
Cern Zoo
The previous days bore normal entries of events, thoughts, appointments and so forth. Scouring these essentially un-mysterious passages for clues as to the meaning of the three mysterious entries was a pointless activity. The fact that scouring was attempted at all must have served some purpose in hindsight, however. With no further attempts being made, untoward amounts of time were now not to be wasted in doing so by whoever.
Perhaps all entries worldwide were abruptly first left blank on the same day but how many more days were left blank between then and now?
Anything can be downloaded from anything these days, even empty minds. Flashing forward from blog to blog.
There was also an old-fashioned diary or journal upon a near-invisible glass-table. The last entries – on three consecutive days – were found to be:
Zencore
Cone Zero
Cern Zoo
The previous days bore normal entries of events, thoughts, appointments and so forth. Scouring these essentially un-mysterious passages for clues as to the meaning of the three mysterious entries was a pointless activity. The fact that scouring was attempted at all must have served some purpose in hindsight, however. With no further attempts being made, untoward amounts of time were now not to be wasted in doing so by whoever.
Perhaps all entries worldwide were abruptly first left blank on the same day but how many more days were left blank between then and now?
Anything can be downloaded from anything these days, even empty minds. Flashing forward from blog to blog.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Immortality takes on a new achievability
The retro-causal theme of Cern Zoo has, in many ways, been taken over by the later real history of the Large Hadron Collider as reported in the world’s various media during recent days and weeks. The bird with the beget bread in its beak now leading us, two by two, towards Nemo's Ark. The respected scientists who seriously proposed that the Collider was sabotaging itself from the future. Just symbols, perhaps, but they have given a new dimension that could not have been foreseen when initiating the Nemonymous ‘win immortality’ competition all those months ago: HERE
This unique competition is still open until 31 December 2009. And all its implications have yet to be played out while, even as we speak, new dimensions of the Cern Zoo open up day by day in parallel with real events.
It is not beyond the realms of imagination that the prize to be won now is not simply a fabricated, semi-laughable version of immortality, not simply a gimmick of publicity to underpin a ‘guess-the-author’ competition, but soon to become an immortality that is achievable. A fictionhead. Dr Who’s own water-park of forever. A flashy FlashForward.
After all, Cern Zoo was originally a near anagram of the previous Cone Zero and Zencore books, but it then beget from itself a hindsight destiny when a real professor duly gave a lecture entitled ‘Visit to the Cern Zoo’ on 4 February 1995: as indicated HERE.
This unique competition is still open until 31 December 2009. And all its implications have yet to be played out while, even as we speak, new dimensions of the Cern Zoo open up day by day in parallel with real events.
It is not beyond the realms of imagination that the prize to be won now is not simply a fabricated, semi-laughable version of immortality, not simply a gimmick of publicity to underpin a ‘guess-the-author’ competition, but soon to become an immortality that is achievable. A fictionhead. Dr Who’s own water-park of forever. A flashy FlashForward.
After all, Cern Zoo was originally a near anagram of the previous Cone Zero and Zencore books, but it then beget from itself a hindsight destiny when a real professor duly gave a lecture entitled ‘Visit to the Cern Zoo’ on 4 February 1995: as indicated HERE.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
New Fanblade Fable (6)
Cave Art is supposed to be pre-technological, yet when I entered the underground system beneath the Abbas Chalk Mines as a producer for a TV programme on popular aesthetics, I was astonished nobody had noticed a scratched image in a dark corner that only the strong camera lights (needed for such a venture) could sufficiently illuminate for me to see what I could only describe as a modern domestic cooling-fan complete with electric flex.
Of course, it only looked like one. On closer scrutiny, I could see it was just an accident of chance shadow and my imagination that made the 'whole' from the bits and pieces of expertly dated caveman art. Abstractions as well as cunning representations.
The flex was indeed a queue of what appeared to be animals – two by two – just made out with a magnifying glass. How the cavemen had had the wherewithal to create such precise down-sized figures – with just a stone implement upon a rock wall and in utter darkness – was quite beyond me.
We were the fist TV crew allowed on-site and I had yet to meet the head curator of the Abbas underground system. His girl assistant had led us down – more concerned with her love life, no doubt, than what she was showing us.
Indeed, it appeared she, too, was surprised by what the TV lights and magnifying-glass revealed.
“They are like lemmings slowly heading towards some vast spinning-contraption,” I said.
The adverb ‘slowly’ seemed an odd choice of words in the circumstances, I guess, but I am not a scientist. I am an entertainer and reporter, and sometimes the two became far too close even for my comfort.
Eventually the programme was made. On my instructions, we did not feature the mysterious Lilliputian zoo creatures heading towards their own collision with Fate. It was a great success. One does need to balance truth with secrecy. The showing of the bizarre interesting bits in the corner would have undermined the whole Abbas project, even if those bizarre bits were just as real as anything else we showed. In fact, I later suspected that the only genuine caveman art in the Abbas system was that depicting the zoo animals and their fate while the remaining more believably ordinary images shown on our TV show had earlier been completely fabricated.
Who says crime doesn’t pay? The crime of concealing bizarre truths in favour of boring fabrications.
I wonder how many other projects, artistic or scientific, are dogged by similar considerations. It makes one wonder. I only report this here for my wife to post on the internet when I am gone. It seems right somehow bearing in mind where we first met.
You see, the flex had no plug.
Of course, it only looked like one. On closer scrutiny, I could see it was just an accident of chance shadow and my imagination that made the 'whole' from the bits and pieces of expertly dated caveman art. Abstractions as well as cunning representations.
The flex was indeed a queue of what appeared to be animals – two by two – just made out with a magnifying glass. How the cavemen had had the wherewithal to create such precise down-sized figures – with just a stone implement upon a rock wall and in utter darkness – was quite beyond me.
We were the fist TV crew allowed on-site and I had yet to meet the head curator of the Abbas underground system. His girl assistant had led us down – more concerned with her love life, no doubt, than what she was showing us.
Indeed, it appeared she, too, was surprised by what the TV lights and magnifying-glass revealed.
“They are like lemmings slowly heading towards some vast spinning-contraption,” I said.
The adverb ‘slowly’ seemed an odd choice of words in the circumstances, I guess, but I am not a scientist. I am an entertainer and reporter, and sometimes the two became far too close even for my comfort.
Eventually the programme was made. On my instructions, we did not feature the mysterious Lilliputian zoo creatures heading towards their own collision with Fate. It was a great success. One does need to balance truth with secrecy. The showing of the bizarre interesting bits in the corner would have undermined the whole Abbas project, even if those bizarre bits were just as real as anything else we showed. In fact, I later suspected that the only genuine caveman art in the Abbas system was that depicting the zoo animals and their fate while the remaining more believably ordinary images shown on our TV show had earlier been completely fabricated.
Who says crime doesn’t pay? The crime of concealing bizarre truths in favour of boring fabrications.
I wonder how many other projects, artistic or scientific, are dogged by similar considerations. It makes one wonder. I only report this here for my wife to post on the internet when I am gone. It seems right somehow bearing in mind where we first met.
You see, the flex had no plug.
Friday, November 13, 2009
The New Fanblade Fables
Gunfleet Sands Windfarm: http://weirdmonger.livejournal.com/200992.html
==================================================================
http://weirdmonger.blogdrive.com/archive/189.html
Old Fanblade Fables: http://weirdmonger.livejournal.com/201274.html
Links for the New Fanblade Fables:
First five Fables in comments to this post: http://wordonymous.tripod.com/blog/index.blog?entry_id=2058685
New Fanblade Fable (6)
New Fanblade Fable (7)
New Fanblade Fable (8)
The Final Fanblade
All above by DFL
=================================
A Fanblade Fable - by Bob Lock
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
New Fanblade Fable (4)
As the bird left the vicinity of the Hadron Collider, the beget bread it had dropped in a cooling-unit had created all manner of concertina results – a domino-rally of fanblades toppling upon each other round and round, flashing forward and back in the Swiss sunlight....
Meanwhile, the bird returned to the aviary at Cern Zoo to the sound of resounding cheeps.
And roars and lowings and squeaks and brays ... and silence from the snakes and insects.
Amazingly, one Zoo feature that was assumed to be ever silent broke into what could only be described as the screeching of chalk (or nails?) on an old-fashioned school blackboard. It was the crudely ‘drawn’ giant carved into the side of the limestone hill overlooking the zoo - a priapic landmark that the visitors took for granted as it had been positioned there for years on the upslope of the extraneous glance.
Loaves and fishes went missing, too, as the sound of hollow feet vanished in the opposite direction by which it was thought the bird had flown back. The pity was a drawing couldn’t fly. Even by the skin of its fingernails.
Meanwhile, the bird returned to the aviary at Cern Zoo to the sound of resounding cheeps.
And roars and lowings and squeaks and brays ... and silence from the snakes and insects.
Amazingly, one Zoo feature that was assumed to be ever silent broke into what could only be described as the screeching of chalk (or nails?) on an old-fashioned school blackboard. It was the crudely ‘drawn’ giant carved into the side of the limestone hill overlooking the zoo - a priapic landmark that the visitors took for granted as it had been positioned there for years on the upslope of the extraneous glance.
Loaves and fishes went missing, too, as the sound of hollow feet vanished in the opposite direction by which it was thought the bird had flown back. The pity was a drawing couldn’t fly. Even by the skin of its fingernails.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
New Fanblade Fable (2)
In those far-off-the-wall days, resistant baffles were built within the inner-tubes of the tyres on bicycle wheels. And the spinning spokes were fantail-flanged to mimic fanblades.
Brian loved pedalling around, thus fanning the otherwise stagnant air in his wake. Summers, in those ancient boyish days, were not only quite endless but also steeped in what sensitive souls like Brian called 'atmospheric doldrums'. Indeed, the sky formed its own version of the Sargasso Sea, reflecting* the sun-scorched countryside through which Brian's bike travelled in a circle to and from his family home.
*Reflections that the sky's intrinsic blueness turned from bleached-yellow into weedy green.
==================================
The world then needed more fanblades at every turn, so Hadron Colliders of various sizes were built all over the land in the same way as wind farms were once built at sea. For many years, there has been one such wind farm opposite where I live. Now derelict as its fanblades no longer turn. Tangled-up as they are in the sky.
Today, at Summer's end, the pedalling silhouettes of various increasingly breathless Brians on bikes gently pedal along the aging horizon of my hopes and dreams.
Not off-the-wall so much, as off-the-earth.
Brian loved pedalling around, thus fanning the otherwise stagnant air in his wake. Summers, in those ancient boyish days, were not only quite endless but also steeped in what sensitive souls like Brian called 'atmospheric doldrums'. Indeed, the sky formed its own version of the Sargasso Sea, reflecting* the sun-scorched countryside through which Brian's bike travelled in a circle to and from his family home.
*Reflections that the sky's intrinsic blueness turned from bleached-yellow into weedy green.
==================================
The world then needed more fanblades at every turn, so Hadron Colliders of various sizes were built all over the land in the same way as wind farms were once built at sea. For many years, there has been one such wind farm opposite where I live. Now derelict as its fanblades no longer turn. Tangled-up as they are in the sky.
Today, at Summer's end, the pedalling silhouettes of various increasingly breathless Brians on bikes gently pedal along the aging horizon of my hopes and dreams.
Not off-the-wall so much, as off-the-earth.
Sunday, November 08, 2009
The Pillowcase
“What counts are the tangible books on one's shelves, whatever the soon-to-be-forgotten chequered-history of their publication and distribution.”
The man who spoke carried a large old-fashioned suitcase, as battered-looking as himself, one with metal spring-loaded catches that could be fitted into the notched slots of each of two fastening contraptions with rather more difficulty than a quick getaway would have required. Or so I surmised. It looked to me as if this individual who called himself Brian couldn’t get himself away anywhere quickly whatever the emergency or the nature of his suitcase!
I imagined it had a number of elasticated pouches inside for compartmentalisation of its luggage load. But before I could speculate further, he continued with a non-sequitur:
“Everyone is the outcome of a patchwork of motives, deceptions, truths, honesty, falsehood, chance luck, deserving fortune... of Toynbeean challenge-and-response.”
He spelt out one of the words because I looked puzzled, before he continued: ”I think this fits in with any observation about adding one's own experience to the melting-pot of history. All reality is a sum of such experiences. Mine. Yours. And everyone who has experiences at all to tell. This is why the internet can be such a useful tool in pooling all such experiences towards the goal of solidifying reality. But, meanwhile, the books are what count. The people behind them sink back eventually into anonymity or rise up to fame, whether deserved or not. They just do. The books remain.”
This looked if it was a chance conversation between strangers much like that time-passing small-talk in which one often indulges when on a train journey. Except we were in the waiting-room, not yet on the train. It was late.
I replied: “I am with you regarding books, Brian. But the internet! I never know whether to resist it or embrace it. A part of me once used to wait for the postman in the same way as today it waits for the email inbox to open. There's no helping people like that part of me. Actually, most of me wants to escape that bit of me. But, there again, just because communication has been 'oiled' by electronics (just as it was 'oiled' by the printing press in the Middle Ages), why should we destroy it by walking away from it, as I am often sorely tempted to do, as the only means to escape it? Partial, moderate use of the internet is not an option. When things are so oiled it sort of oils you, too. Makes you a different person. And soon you will not be able to recognise that different person because that different person will be you. It’s Hell on earth. Walking away from the internet cannot now reverse that process. That's the frightening thing ... just like the Large Hadron Collider.”
That last reference of mine opened the floodgates. Brian mumbled of the collider being 'the fast-swirling of nightmare’s moat' – 'a crystallisation of candle-dreaming' - 'the erection of a last balcony like a sea-side pier where we all walk towards its end and one by one drop into the sea after waving at the waves'....
“Only yesterday (7 November 2009),” he continued, “there was a nemonymous tweeter escaped from the aviary at Cern Zoo that dropped a white pellet of beget bread into the collider causing it to overheat...”
The train seemed as if it would never come, its steam fried to a frizzle on its boiler, I imagined. Giving up hope, the waiting-room’s benches looked decidedly uncomfortable for sleeping on. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Never fear,” said Brian, “I have something for our heads.”
He tried to unfasten his suitcase.
The man who spoke carried a large old-fashioned suitcase, as battered-looking as himself, one with metal spring-loaded catches that could be fitted into the notched slots of each of two fastening contraptions with rather more difficulty than a quick getaway would have required. Or so I surmised. It looked to me as if this individual who called himself Brian couldn’t get himself away anywhere quickly whatever the emergency or the nature of his suitcase!
I imagined it had a number of elasticated pouches inside for compartmentalisation of its luggage load. But before I could speculate further, he continued with a non-sequitur:
“Everyone is the outcome of a patchwork of motives, deceptions, truths, honesty, falsehood, chance luck, deserving fortune... of Toynbeean challenge-and-response.”
He spelt out one of the words because I looked puzzled, before he continued: ”I think this fits in with any observation about adding one's own experience to the melting-pot of history. All reality is a sum of such experiences. Mine. Yours. And everyone who has experiences at all to tell. This is why the internet can be such a useful tool in pooling all such experiences towards the goal of solidifying reality. But, meanwhile, the books are what count. The people behind them sink back eventually into anonymity or rise up to fame, whether deserved or not. They just do. The books remain.”
This looked if it was a chance conversation between strangers much like that time-passing small-talk in which one often indulges when on a train journey. Except we were in the waiting-room, not yet on the train. It was late.
I replied: “I am with you regarding books, Brian. But the internet! I never know whether to resist it or embrace it. A part of me once used to wait for the postman in the same way as today it waits for the email inbox to open. There's no helping people like that part of me. Actually, most of me wants to escape that bit of me. But, there again, just because communication has been 'oiled' by electronics (just as it was 'oiled' by the printing press in the Middle Ages), why should we destroy it by walking away from it, as I am often sorely tempted to do, as the only means to escape it? Partial, moderate use of the internet is not an option. When things are so oiled it sort of oils you, too. Makes you a different person. And soon you will not be able to recognise that different person because that different person will be you. It’s Hell on earth. Walking away from the internet cannot now reverse that process. That's the frightening thing ... just like the Large Hadron Collider.”
That last reference of mine opened the floodgates. Brian mumbled of the collider being 'the fast-swirling of nightmare’s moat' – 'a crystallisation of candle-dreaming' - 'the erection of a last balcony like a sea-side pier where we all walk towards its end and one by one drop into the sea after waving at the waves'....
“Only yesterday (7 November 2009),” he continued, “there was a nemonymous tweeter escaped from the aviary at Cern Zoo that dropped a white pellet of beget bread into the collider causing it to overheat...”
The train seemed as if it would never come, its steam fried to a frizzle on its boiler, I imagined. Giving up hope, the waiting-room’s benches looked decidedly uncomfortable for sleeping on. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Never fear,” said Brian, “I have something for our heads.”
He tried to unfasten his suitcase.
Friday, November 06, 2009
Sunday, November 01, 2009
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