ho una forchetta!
I thought I was done with Olber's Paradox but it apparently wasn't done with me. The following nonsense came to me more or less wholesale in a dream, and I literally sat upright in bed and scribbled it down before passing out again. Unedited, unexpurgated, and merely transcribed for you here:
Let L equal the intrinsic luminosity of the star. Let X = X. Let me stand for you and vice versa, that will save time. Let the thing equal itself: no more hedging, no more variables. In drink there is strength, truth, and abstraction. When I turn to you, suddenly, in the gloom of the bar and say night sky, is the equation solved? Has anything been settled? Do you accept my premise or just pick at the beer's label with your logarithmic fingers? We want to divide by zero. We want what we can't have. Suppose that the universe is static, infinite, eternal, and suppose wrong.
Here's some poetry about Fermat's Last Theorem.
Although I have always been fairly shitty at math, I love reading about math and physics and theories of numbers. Is there such a thing as a mathematician who doesn't have to work out the complicated math bits of the theories, and can just think and write somewhat half-assedly about numbers? Probably not.
Some good signs along Devon:
Delicious Hot Dogs With Soup Inside (What?)
Free Gallon of Milk W/Purchase of Whole Goat (But if you just skipped the killing part, and instead bought a live goat, you could have many gallons of milk! Goat milk!)
Besides that Olberian weirdness up there at the top, I had other sleep-hygiene issues last night. I think I may have had a touch of the Capgras syndrome (is there such a thing as a mild case?), because after yet another nocturnal awakening I had to check and make sure that LT was in the bed, which he was, so I lay back down, but in my sleepy delusional state that suddenly became not good enough and I had to peer over his sleeping form to make sure that the guy in bed with me was actually LT and not an imposter.
Bonus toiletry review: Rembrandt Plus With Peroxide Super Whitening Toothpaste tastes like ass. Stay away. Just brush with normal toothpaste and decide not to care if you are slightly tea-stained. I don't know what I was thinking, anyway, as really I am perfectly happy with my mouth being somewhere in between “movie-star dazzle” and “British.”
EXCUSE ME FOR A MOMENT WHILE I HAVE A POORLY FORMULATED THOUGHT: I finished Blue Diary today (it, uh, doesn't take long). I'm going to get all kinds of hate mail for this, but I have a bone to pick with Alice Hoffman and other writers like her (and there are EVER SO MANY). I have no problems with the prose. I think she and her ilk are capable, competent, moving writers who come up with at least one good image or arresting turn of phrase every few pages or so. I do, however, have a problem with these sorts of books that are all about pain and heartache and longing and loss and Great Love Conquering All. No matter how well done, it just seems mannered and genteel and screams “writers' workshop” to me. Yes, Alice Hoffman, I give you an A++ on your very nice story.
I like pain and heartache and longing and loss. I don't even mind Great Love that much, as long as it doesn't consistently Conquer All. I just want these themes to be explored in a more messy fashion. I want sprawl. I want bleeding on the margin. I want subjective, even biased, points of view. I want settings that are not so oppressively full of flowering plants. It's a matter of taste, I know.
Thank you for sitting through my poorly formulated thought.
—let x equal mimi smartypants