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mordicai caeli

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August 21st, 2004

(no subject) [Aug. 21st, 2004|10:45 am]
mordicai caeli
[Current Mood |phantom, dairy products.]
[Current Music |crown me king- queequeg (moby dick saga)]

so here is jenny's theory, near as i can undestand it. when i go crazy, or whenever i have a baseline emotional response, it is, in fact, a very simple physical stimulus. like, i'm so dissasociated that i can't parse "hunger" or "pain," & instead try to explain it in a kind of reverse psychosomatic fashion. there is evidence to support it; like i'll be "sad," & jenny will deduce that i just have a stomach ache, or i'll be "grumpy" & it will turn out that i'm hungry. i've tried to figure out what the diffrence between a stomach ache & sadness is? but i kind of don't get it. arn't they the same? i feel like they are. or else what is sadness like? i couldn't tell you. anyhow- jenny says that i was probably crazy the other night because i was coming down with a cold. which well, yeah. i did have a bit of the sniffles. but i still maintain that cruel angels sallied forth from the pearlescent gates of heaven to pass through my apartment. they perched outside on the fire escape taunting me with the dichotomy between who & what i am. or at least, if you strip the referential, self-mocking quasi-poetry away, thats what happened.
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(no subject) [Aug. 21st, 2004|11:27 pm]
mordicai caeli
[Current Mood |i guess hugo is lonely.]
[Current Music |crown me king- pequod (moby saga)]

so there is this guy, hugo, right? hugo is a homo s. in a post-human world. he lives in an asteroid, a chunk of rock that's been von neumanned so many times that there is hardly a scrap of worthwhile ore on it. hugo grew up on this bit of space dust, relying on the comet impact of several thousand years ago to provide water & oxygen. for food he mostly eats rats. even the transhumans have 'em, mostly. the rats eat who knows what, hugo eats the rats, & the rest of the biosystem is fed offa the big rad-collecters out sun-wards. solar panels & their ilk.

& all i can think about is hugo, shrugging on his ancient spacesuit. pieces of aluminumfoil-looking stuff, duct taped together & hooked to all kinds of hoses. hugo gets into this jury-rigged contraption every so often to fix problems with the power array. sometimes he busts apart scavanging machines that the nanite-relics of passing jupiter brains have knit together. so here is hugo, with the barest thread connecting him to life. maybe hugo has a radio- maybe there are other low-tech unmodifed people for him to talk to. maybe some passing machine-god plays the old oracle angle. maybe not. maybe hugo is alone, an animal with little use for sentience.
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