2 Days Fish and Chairs

One day, I sit alone in a chair. It is an uncomfortable chair. It is most certainly though, a chair. Perhaps it is the way I sit in this chair that distills the experience into discomfort. Simple plain discomfort, the initiate of all that is uncomfortable. Electrically, it's felt in the ocean of thought and sense by the fish in the skull.

Fish in the skull? Fish in the skull. I theorise I personally have a trout within this skull. Other people? Perhaps they have goldfish in them, or seahorses, or crabs, or sea snails, or sharks, or-Yes. Fish in the skull. Perhaps it's why a bullet to the brain is such a simple execution. It injures the fish. It asphyxiates the fish. The blood comes leaking out through the fleshy pipe carved by trajectory.

So where does our inner monologue come from? Perhaps a shoal. A shoal shoveling the coal in our fats, into the furnaces of thinking. My trout must be one brilliant worker to operate such a mechanism. Intelligence controlling this large lumbering mechanism of muscle. Capable of rebuilding itself, and constructing more of itselves. The smaller variants systematically kill off itself and replace itself with the taller variants. A 2.0 variant of mechanical control, more capable, more effective.

So why is it my trout frequently writes a letter, in red ink with a perfect typography beyond the capability of these exhausted bony hands. A letter of suicide, sent across the street and handled by the royal brainery mail service. A service provided by the ancestors, passed down through blood to allow the servicing of mail between the inner components. The spirit, biological, broken and perfected. All sending mail to the electric van on the inelectric highway pumping well along.

A letter of suicide containing within the deep recitations of many methodologies and schools of thought. The ritualisation of Nieztschian Nihilisms- Meaninglessness personified in the delicate mails. The rationalisation of death; many methods available to this end: A belt in a noose, tied to a door handle to let the invisible impercievable force of gravity do the work. Modelled in 3 elegant rules for this small scale. On a single trout, travelling a single stream of life to its conclusionary pond. On a single planet, travelling a single stream of trajectory of life to its conclusionary destruction. On a single galazy, travelling a single stream of interstellar golf to its conclusionary astronomical birdie.

A book burns at 451 degrees Fahrenheit- as per the fire triangle it demands oxygen, fuel and heat. A body burns at 99 degrees Fahrenheit as per its demand of oxygen, fuel and heat. A typical thought of a fish indeed. To think of the temperature that paper curls, chars, and leaves only the presence of ash, the smell of ash, the taste of it on the burning tongue of the burning man. A walking fish tank collecting ideas, thoughts and memories, all collected under the uniform banner of existentialist meaningless.

I step out of the chair, and look out at the window at a rising sun. Not a Japanese sun, or an American sun, but simple a stellar sun- how can something so impossible in acquisition be claimed in ownership? A simple trivial question that answers itself. I cook myself a nice spot of trout to go with my toast and sauce. A nice spot of trout to satisfy the trout, after all it likes the taste of it wholly justifying the cannibalism... Perhaps this is how cannibals wholly justify killing their victim. Is it? Perhaps it is? Is it? Perhaps. This thought ultimately meaningless, and discarded.

After the weekly session of cannibalism, I return. Return to the uncomfortable chair of discomfort. It's perfectly acceptable this discomfort, and the discomfort, I power on the black cube. It whirrs its whirly whirrs- the sounds that all good black cubes make, and plaster my hands upon the cuboid with 101 minor cuboids plastered on its one face- each labelled with the symbology for the symbol-minded. I too, belong to this symbol-minded, and simple-minded. I know this fact of 101 minor cuboids as it is a standard keyboard and all standard keyboard have exactly 101 minor cuboids, though the race of keyboards are incredibly diverse. Much like its own animal species, luring its prey into its tantalising keys to ensnare them in the ritual of communication.

I spend the day communicating with a computer. I ask it to open my browser, and simply turn to the simple-minded task of browsing memes. Memes made for the symbol-minded, much like the trout contained within the calcium walls of the skull. It is a simple communication, with little ambiguity- much unlike the complex communications with my friends at University, or the deep communications of the friends inhabiting other coordinates of this satellite.

In talking to the browser, I talk to the chat application. An application for communication with other symbol-minded people. Intended for simple-minded people. I engage in the ecstasy of semantics. Space exploration and space mining, exploration and mining- an exploration of investment principle once the frontier opens up. Will it open up? Perhaps, but that is a challenge of the fish controlling the body to control the body of a rocket. It's delivers sweet relief from harsh comforting half-truths of internet comedy.

Truly as comical as Sans- that such a fish brings to light these thoughts.

The investment principles aren't sound. Or perhaps they are? I do not know. Perhaps, the investment of time in people should be delivered adequately. Perhaps I ought to talk about myself. I am a symbol-minded, simple-minded man sitting in an uncomfortable chair in incomplete discomfort of the lack of support this furniture delivers. A person with wild thoughts of himself and of mankind, of the fishbowls of the skulls, of the shattering of these containers in the psychotic mind of this trout. From a single thread, it wishes the existence of many threads wound together into such a depressing hoop of defeatism. Natural human tendency, they pull and pull the thread. They pull and pull it on the shirt, on the sheets, on the trousers, on the socks. The result is 1 thread more naked man- a thread, one less in fiber.

Perhaps it is I who is psychotic, it's perfectly reasonable, as imperfectly unreasonable people would suggest such rational thoughts of the equivalence of fishbowls and skulls to be irrational and psychotic. Perhaps it is, it's case irrelevant, because we bury this case. It's undue for now. Better to be buried under the clicks and clacks of the minor cuboids.

So time passes out of my head and the clock strikes 10.00AM. What does 10 AM mean to you? It means university to me- A university student I am, ambling though the streets uphill to the bus stop. I get there, I wait, it arrives; Naturally I ascend the steps within the bus, and walk to either an available seat, or the preferable seat position. This seat position is the row in front of the back row, left side, all the way to the left with such a view out the dusty and unclean windows. A frame of the world zooming by to be ignored senses, senselessly by the inner trout. Grown-ups certainly are strange in their preferences aren't they.

On the way in, I picked up a free newspaper. The usual- Headlines, followed by political unrest, followed by weather, foreign occurrences, economic situation. Never anything good. Grown-ups certainly are strange in their attraction to the bad, the terrible and the ugly. 5 minutes pass- finished the paper rendering it an oldpaper. It only has the olds, not the news. Only historians concern themselves with the olds- and usually through a microscope at specific cells of olds.

Rest of the way I travel through the roads on the bus, staring numbly out the window. Observing only what I haven't seen before, and letting what is seen before be ignored. Most of what I see, I've seen- so a lot of it is boring. This particular time though, I observe the several stone-sculpted seahorses decorating the domed roof of a rather unimpressive building, and appreciate it. One man certainly took the time to design all nine of these static c eatures. His will impressed upon me unknowing of who's will, or why his will does, or what his will is. Grown-ups certainly are very strange in their designs.

Klakon informs me of arrival on the next stop, and I walk down, observing only my steps in the forceful pulls and pushes of steering jostling my body from side to side. Exiting, I am greeted by the large ceiling clock, analogue of course pointing doubly the time of an early 11.10. Swiftly pointing to 11.20 by the time I arrive at the university, and preparationally, 11.30 by the time the lecture begins. A lecture begins and it is on the computations. We study very particular algorithms. The algorithms which shape and sculpt our lives. The algorithms which organise the data points of our lives. The algorithms themselves are unimportant, application is. Almost all are simply novel ways of utilising data structures. A way of organising data- much like how we organise our own data within the particular prisons of bubbles dissolved into the ocean our fish reside.

Data Structures. How Kafkaesque that so much can be represented for the symbol-minded simply through description in data. Of course, these algorithms can be computed through, but at such a marvellous scale, it decays to incomprehensibility in the beautiful black box of algorithms. Even when it appears white, it is very much a black box as there is only the rationalisation that the programmer programs programmatically into this program. Programming through cold pragmatism. How wonderfully pragmatic to generalise all these beliefs and principles and wonders into the dullness of a monotone lecturer.

Please continue sir lecturer. Do tell me why this drawing of a boa constrictor is most certainly not a piece of stylistic patterned roping of cloth. Do tell me why a white box is almost certainly at scale a black box. Do tell me the rationalisations of the algorithm's thought process. Do tell me the rationalisations of your own thought proc- 12.30. Lecture's end. Time to move on, no point dwelling on old thoughts. Grown-ups are certainly very fierce in their monotone love of instruction.

Shall I have a pepper steak for dinner, or salted pork. Two sides of the same delicious coin. My friend the goldfish has a preference of salted pork. Who's mechanical body does this goldfish control? Alan of course, that's his parent-designated ID classification. That's his reference symbol in the paperwork, the speechwork, and lets not forget the thoughtwork.

Author's note

I have no idea where this was supposed to go. I've uploaded this as the aimlessness of it, makes for a pretty comedic piece.