Haphazard

It is the nature of the blog to be momentary; ephemeral. The thoughts you have this minute are not the thoughts you had sixty seconds earlier. It brings into the mind a fleeting sensation of infinity; if I had written this at 11:53 instead of 11:54, how much different would it be? Would my word choice be influenced? My thought process? I was reading about Annie Oakley earlier; would the knowledge of a girl marksman who lived in the 19th century have changed my post any? (it already has, but I read a lot of things this morning)

If the Cuban Missile Crisis had taken place a day later or earlier, how would it go?

The combinations and permutations of the random chaos of the human mind are essentially infinite, but what is perceived to be chaotic is sometimes deterministic: a butterfly's wing a nanometer out of step with the nature of the universe leading to a total waveform collapse, and a storm, perhaps, or a teacup drizzling. If the same butterfly in the same environment with the same variables (air pressure, wind, etc) were to perform the exact same movement, the results, due to the immutable laws of physics, would be precisely the same in every outcome.

In much the same way, a replication (it is assumed) of every single moment of a human life will produce the same thought processes, the same internal consciousness, and the same return output. It's a little tempting to go 'but hang on a minute...' and argue that nothing is truly constant, especially something so vexingly infinite as the human mind, and invoke quantum laws like 'the act of observation changes that which is being observed', but on the whole, I think, it's pretty much constant.




Okay, philosophical random rant over with. I HAVE A NEW FUCKING PC.
It runs team fortress GREAT. Max resolution, texture settings, smooth as butter melting on a Heavy's minigun barrel. I loaded the game up and my brother said 'Go watch that teleporter build' so I stared at a rotating piece of automated metal for ten seconds and we collectively 'oohed' and 'aahed' at the prettiness.

Okay, he oohed. I just went 'nice' and went back to wholesale manslaughter.

While we're on the subject of collaborations, the theater calls once more; although I am significantly more out of touch with the 'scene' than my thespian sibling, a recent open mic gig (The Platform at KLPAC, for those of you who didn't go, hang your heads in shame. Shame!) saw him performing a script half penned by himself and half hammered, slaved, bloodied, sweated, teared, and transformed by me. I felt he did my work justice (so much so as justice can be referred to in theater) and the organizer (one Gavin Yap) liked the 3 performers that night enough that he recruited us to do a collaborative effort for the next month's gig.

Awesomes. Ideas spin, gears form, and the universe becomes, once more, a small place, reducible to the sum of its parts by the vivisection of ideas.

(what the fuck, I thought I left this verbose crap in the first section. Never mind. Boobs guns massive hard drives. Explosions ammo ultraviolence. Backstabs grenades gams beer television superbowl bosoms jugs pillows breasts hooters shakers stonking great TITS)