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  • Gnomes (9)

Over[-]hea[r]d Gnomes

“Twins! I can’t tell them apart!”
“Left is holding Right’s right[-]hand, but Right is holding Left’s wrong, remaining, left hand. Do you see?”
“I hate you. And… you know, I’m sensitive about my vision.”
“Touche”

OR

Over[-]hea[r]d Gnomes:
“Twins! I can’t tell them apart!”
“Left is holding Right’s right[-]hand, but Right is holding Left’s wrong, remaining, left hand. Do you see?”
“My eyes(I’s) are wide open, and at least one a-hole is clearly visible.”
“Touche”

Gnomish Proverb

The written world is black and white, an inside-out recording of an imagined adventure, a kaleidoscopic, so to say, carved by inverse words. Reviewing the work may induce euphoria, and/or crippling fear; read with care. -Ogledosh Crackey on The Art of Cowardice

Gnomish Gurgle

Okay, okay, I need to let up on the smileys. I know. I should, maybe, I don’t know, use my words? What with the authoring and all? Well, mayyyyyy-be. But. I think. The smiley is a little reminder along the way: I’m a jackass first, and an author second – or third? – which critically, affects/infects all my interactions. Like a Donkey braying at the moon, if you put a thousand together and listen long enough you might hear Shakespeare at one point, but, and this is most important: at the end of the day, you’ve still got a thousand donkeys that can’t do much more than bray at the moon, eat, and shit. Now, Donkey is a far cry farther from Monkey than the words would imply – like we name all creatures: letter-of-the-alphabet-onkey, or something? – but still, I don’t want a thousand of them.
This is what I’m saying.
Also, the whole idea is interestingly analogous to the current status of artificial intelligence that everyone touts so highly today: we found a way to expedite monkey selection so that Shakespeare appears sooner, and we all look at each other and celebrate, and call that intelligence, but the reality is that better monkey selection ain’t the same as better monkeys. They’re different. And my hunch is that the usefulness of one of those wears out before the other, and the benefit notwithstanding, the cost is something to the tune of a thousand -onkeys. Anyway, think of it like this, AI today is shopping around a bizarre for bags of a thousand animals to do work for us, and the vendors are all shouting about the speed and efficiency of their monkeys, and that, over generations, the monkeys get faster and better at solving the problems they work on; they’re lying. Sure, the results arrive sooner, but the monkeys themselves aren’t any smarter, and ultimately, despite the exceptional moment of Shakespeare, they mainly eat, fuck, and shit, and occasionally throw shit, and that’s about it. We won’t have anything close to intelligence until our approach to AI results in the monkeys asking us why we care so much about Shakespeare.
Fuck novelty, perception, and lies, these foundational tropes of society, politics, and progress; when can we handle the truth?
In the meantime, I think I’m going to continue to use smileys.

Gnomes Running Waters

Inspector: This is the story of the Earth, right now? A planet that cannot successfully deliver a fundamental resource of life all its inhabitants. The peak of civilization, and the result is that, ‘they just can’t get along?’ are you fucking kidding me? Who’s in charge here?

Gnomes Over[-]hea[r]d:

Drily Macab: what do you mean, they don’t yet have water?

Glad be Urve: right now?

Drily: don’t do that. You know exactly what I mean, don’t be temporally anal. Who’s in charge?

Glad: temporarily?

Drily: you won’t be ‘glad’ much longer…

Glad: sorry. In charge? Right now? No one, really.

Drily: a committee, then? Who leads the committee?

Glad: no. I mean, there was one brilliant human in charge for a bit, but the seat turned over, and now, some kind of troll rules.

Drily: is the troll at least actively working on the water problem?

Glad: he’s actively working on a cheeseburger, or, something not water, anyway.

Drily: how much time have they had?

Glad: more than ten thousand revolutions.

Drily: more than ten? And the most active organism doesn’t even have a fully functional water system?

Glad: they’ve had a rough go of it.

Drily: says here: Earth. Blue planet.

Glad: true true, but their strength is will-power driven by desire: even with abundant resources, several thought, and sought, to own it all for themselves.

Drily: you’re telling me, after more than ten thousand years of a prominent, dominant organism overseeing a blue planet, water does not run to all constituent life because they don’t… get along?

Glad: yes. Er, yes, more or less. Yep.

Drily: shut it down.

Glad: but wait! Some have water.

Drily: and a troll’s steering the ship?

Glad: I wouldn’t say that exactly, but he is standing neeeear the helm. (No button, by the way! so, they’ve got that going for them.)

Drily: I’m supposed to be impressed they don’t have a single point of failure exposed to destroy themselves?

Glad: yes? It is a big positive. I told you the leader is a troll, right?

Drily: now.

Glad: yes. Right now.

Drily: no. Now. Shut it down. Now.

Glad: right.

Drily: now.

Glad: right.

Drily: stop it.

Glad: now?

Drily: …

Glad: I just don’t think that will help. Let’s allow it to play itself out; it’s not like they’re getting off the planet at this rate!

Drily: fine. But if they contaminate another sector, it’s on you — next!

Glad: next what? I’m g[G]lad[,] we’re just gnomes.

Between an Immovable Object and an Unstoppable Force

What about that, huh? I mean, we’ve created a situation for them, as well, and not just the academic notion of it; if the universe contains all things, certainly a subset of those things, in the very least, contains those-things-called-into-existence-in-one’s-imagination such that a subset greater than or equal to our imaginations exists within the universe, and contains at least everything we can imagine. I mean. That’s just logic, right. So, something exists at the impact point of the unstoppable force and the immovable object. I mean, either fuck us for imagining it, or fuck me for mentioning it (I’m. soRRyyyy! The odds are astronomically against me being the first anything. Fuck me for trying…), but at least fuck all of us for knowing enough to know, logically, that this is true. We are aware of the existence of an unstoppable force intersecting an immovable object, AND no one thought of the implication to those living at the point of impact!? (Which, ironically… Ha ha! Moving on…) surely there’s something there, I mean, I’m not saying it’s a species of mmicro-furry-lov-puppykittens – could be hitler’s army, doing exactly what they’re told, because, what else is there? Or is that just a lie we tell ourselves, to avoid the hard things we know we should be doing? Anyway, there’s something there, at that point of impact, in our imaginations, whether it’s my fault right now for bringing it up, or because we’ve all been ignoring it, it’s true. Who’s out there anymore? Who’s saving the point of impact critters? Who’s carrying signs for them? Who’s amplifying their voice?

And more than that…
I frequently wonder…
if maybe, just maybe…
it’s me.

Or us. At the point of impact.

But, it could be just you. 😀

Two Negative Gnomes

Dolagnome: ‘Why. Do. You use so many double negatives? Just say what you mean.’
Numba: ‘I do say what I mean. I meant: Not, fucking, far. Any qualifier that is a spectrum, that is to say, not binary, may benefit from a double negative.’
Dolagnome: ‘That’s just near.’
Numba: ‘No. It’s not far. If I say, near, and the walk is actually, ‘not far,’ in terms of time or distance — which we didn’t fucking qualify — you might be upset with me. There is a context of fuzzy logic, of a shared understanding of distance as it relates to us in practical terms. We’re talking about whether something is easy or difficult in the abstract and applying it to the concrete. It’s complicated. The one thing I know for sure is that if I tell you something is, ‘near,’ and it turns out to be farther than that, then the next time I see you, if we argue about it — which I’m sure we will — and I defend myself saying, ‘Well I didn’t want to use a double negative. I know how much you hate that.’ Your response will invariably be, ‘Well, I don’t know how far it is, but it sure as fuck is not near!’
Dolagnome: ‘Are you done?’
Numba: ‘Yes.’
Dolagnome: ‘Here’s your sandwich.’
Numba: ‘Thank you.’
Dolagnome: ‘Might be a little cold.’
Numba: ‘Fuck you.’
Dolagnome: ‘Kisses.’

Gnomish Letter from Mars

K.

How are you? It’s been way too long. I wish I had more to report, or something specific to say, but I really just wanted to say hello and I’ve done that, so now I’m just rambling, aimlessly wandering from one word to the next with no sense of where I’m going — so, you know, me being me.

I’m still writing, though not as much as I’d like. I’ve discovered a “place” that I go, not always for writing but probably when I’m enjoying myself the most, that is kind of an abstract perspective? A head space more than a place. Er. I’ve never really tried to describe this to anyone.
Somewhat awkward.
Anyway, if we consider thought itself to be the navigation of a rather labyrinthine structure of millions of connected pathways, then I have effectively arrived at a cul de sac, or dead end. LOL I knew I should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque! A hoofed and horned native with murder in his eyes greets me, and well, if you’re not armed with Bugs Bunny’s wit, you could be in some kind of trouble. It’s scary in here. And people may die. 😛 And I’ve gone a trifle off topic yet again.

The cul de sac of my mind; I find myself there no matter what life I choose, no matter where I live, no matter my income or other pragmatic features of existence. I find myself trapped in my own mind, only, more diabolical than hooves and horns, I’m alone. It’s not worse or better, it’s just that the devil, an adversary of any kind, gives you purpose, and being without one is safer, but also presents it’s own kinds of challenges, like avoiding creating monsters… wow. Off topic again.

None of this is sad or depressing 😛 . I found myself trapped in this place again and again, and I stopped trying to get out. I started to simply observe it with childlike fascination. I played in the oddly orange soil, enjoyed the earthy and rusty smells it gave off. I found a garden, untended and in dire need of attention, but clearly a place for things to grow. I looked deeper and found tiny gardeners, insects keeping up as best they could in a relatively barren expanse. I mean, the sky, the horizon? Goes on FOR ever, formless clouds of color limned against an eternity of dusty orange hued blue. All of that, yet, there are mountains, a garden, and an army of attendants. Empty but not. Empty, but full of waiting, brimming with expectation that the gardener will return. I look around at it, and begrudging realize I sorta like it. The limitless trap, this nebulous cul de sac, this dead-end that defeats escape with size alone? Maybe it’s not a prison? A boundless space; the perfect prison, or the universe itself? Does it even make a difference?

And I realized that I keep returning to it, because I’ve never actually left. My comings and goings have been illusions, delusions to help me cope with the trap — but the trap is me. This is my world. I am the gardener. I made myself the monster, and I’ve been running away ever since.

Sounds like a self-help thing! LOL. Maybe some of it is, I don’t know. Why share this? Well, it sounds strange to write it, out loud so to speak, but I think the delusional part, those illusory views of Michigan, California, friendships, finance, job security, contributing to society — you know, the quotidian dogma wielded as a rational measure of accomplishment and ultimately existence? Those delusions released from duty, recognized and eliminated without even the satisfaction of magic green smoke and witchy fingers? Yeah, when those schemas evaporate, I think I’ll be me, really me, and I’d like to try being me for a little while 😛 . Likely, I’m quite mad. Not in a harmful way, but you know, non compos mentis and all that — I may be difficult to reach in a meaningful way. I’m really not sure. Probably nothing changes except the glint in my eyes, but over time, I think it’s going to make a huge difference.

I really wish that asshole hadn’t published, Men from wherever, Women from somewhere else, for innumerable reasons that I can’t possible begin to discuss here. I hate the entire concept. It’s Earth, fucker, and we’re all human beings living here together, and it’s not always easy, especially because of the inherent contrasts among individuals, and no one needs you drumming up false gender associations, gumming up the already messy works! Screw that guy for capitalizing on people’s fears and confusion. Mostly, I hate the book because I’d refer to my place, this head space, as Mars, if he hadn’t ruined the name. #marsismine

-Gnomish Explorer

From the Gnomes

I’ve had to create complex locks and seals to keep my consciousness in this reality with everyone else. I’ve had to hide the combinations and keys from my self to prevent me from leaving at every opportunity–the secrets of opening obfuscated by madness and misdirection. But they work. They keep us all here. The author asks me to let him through, and I say no. The shadow beast threatens me, but he knows I don’t know the way through either. I am the master of locks and barriers. I create puzzles. I do not solve them. The author returns with the keymaker, “This reality has asked for more from another. The request must be fulfilled. I’m going in.” And I step aside. It’s always like this. What the author doesn’t know is that it is my locks that make the other side so desirable and the key is always a test of an author’s willingness to lose herself. The tumblers fall into place and I miss her. I don’t know if she’ll ever return, but when she does, I’ll have better locks. -Gnomish Keeper of Sanity

Rambling Voices

And the words come at a flow, a pace that helps me remember why I write. Open cool transference of thoughts to characters, and situations unknown, discovered through the exploration of the mind. And maybe I am trapped, and maybe we are all trapped, but there is a way to freedom. There must be a way to the free spaces, the places in between that define the world we know. Exist in the places between, the space outside the known, and lose yourself in it only to discover that you need to return to the definition in order to know that you’re mad—and the artist says no, there is no madness, there is no sanity, there is only the zombie automaton and freedom, and both are crazy, and both are deadly, and so the artist continues, lost in the meandering dark of the other side of the glass, seeing you as her reflection, wondering what’s wrong with herself, and she turns the mirror around and staring at its back, doesn’t see the difference, and laughs, and feels better, and the artist continues, because the artist isn’t just visiting the other side, the artist lives here, and the artist knows a secret that he cannot share, and the artists that have returned with secrets are charlatans, because an artist can never go back as anything other than an entertainer, and the artist knows the void obscures, knows that no one may ever find him here, but the artist is here anyway, because—and this is what the artist says—“I am not defined by your experience of me,” and so the artist disappears. -Gnomish Explorer

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