Happy new year, ya'll.

[fflo]

Sore. Muscles tight; alcohol in the bloodstream. Rich food in belly. Place a mess, but still better than it was yesterday.

Oh for a lover, just about now, who gives a good massage. Or, hell, a mere acquaintance who gives a good massage, and wants to give me one. I would so return the favor.


So here's a milestone, this new year.


I exist in parallel universes.

It's a sliding-doors-y schism man-that-really-messed-with-my-head thing. There's this other Starship Lisa-prise, see, and everybody's pretty much the same, except in this one some people have a moustache who don't in the other, the one we started out on. We all seem to've ended up on this one, unlike in the TV show, and in some ways it's actually better, even though you wouldn't think it with the moustaches. And it was always here anyway, even when I was ignorant of it, back in the before world. And a thought once thought cannot be unthought. So you have to end up in the moustached Songs of Experience reality, right?

You know. W^m Blake. No, not that actor who was a Li'l Rascal then Baretta then watered-down O.J.

I'm not drunk, btw. Tired and sore. Did I mention sore? Neck, feet. Back.

Remind me to write about my evolving relationship with my muscles. My musculature.


So wasn't there something in that episode of Star Trek, or another, in which somebody explains how the two things from the parallel realities can't meet in the same time and place or the fabric of spacetime will rip or explode and everything will cease to exist entirely? 'Cept that can't be right, cuz Regular Capt. Kirk actually physically wrestles with moustached Capt Kirk, doesn't he. Oh, but of course one of them's a stand-in for Shatner, so that's maybe why the universe doesn't implode upon itself.

Comments

[queerbychoice.livejournal.com]

This is the kind of LiveJournal entry that I think LiveJournal needs more of. Ruminations about parallel universes, punctuated by Star Trek references that start out almost serious-sounding and then take a twist into the more surreal. In appreciation of this excellent LiveJournal entry, I would happily email you a massage, if only I could figure out how to email that sort of thing.

[fflo.livejournal.com]

ty, qbc

fwiw, you could emmfagcttrs

(that last one stands for "e-mail me money for a gift certificate to the relax station" --- but i am very much only kidding)

[queerbychoice.livejournal.com]

I can't believe you bothered spelling out the entire word "you"!

[fflo.livejournal.com]

D'oh!

just like that

[shmizla.livejournal.com]

as far as i know, that's exactly what wm blake the printer had in mind -- in the best way. the descent is inevitable, but only so you could get ahead on your way to a higher union (perfect bliss, godliness). this is just the price of being able to see better what the stuff is really about (as opposed to what it's called, i.e. what difference the mustache makes, if any).

Re: just like that

[fflo.livejournal.com]

shmizla = the bee's knees

(re)connecting with shmizla = just about the best thing about 2005


But I do get sentimental when somebody's just left the continent. :]

[rekraft.livejournal.com]

ah, i could do with a good massage.

[fflo.livejournal.com]

What about that invisible pair of hands? Put 'em to work?

[madush69.livejournal.com]

Happy New Year!! I think the Space-Time ripping apart was a speculation by Doc Brown, but it was disproven when the two Jennifers just faint in BTTF Part II.

[fflo.livejournal.com]

"Battle To The Finish"?

"Bulgarians To The Finnish"?

"Baseballer Ty Thought Frumpy"?

(hny to you too!)

[madush69.livejournal.com]

Back To The Future.

[fflo.livejournal.com]

yes, yes. sorry 'bout that! i saw the icon as i was posting my speculations. shame on me!

[fflo.livejournal.com]

I don't recall these illustrations of which you speak. Perhaps I'll google around in a bit.

I actually have a secret fondness for Paradise Lost. It's not the plot, so to speak. Started with a woman called Ellen I knew mainly from the laundry room. She was nuts for the work, and had memorized the first Milton-knows-how-many lines, which she would recite rapt in a way that was unabashedly goofy. That enthusiasm is a big part of what spurred me to read it, when it came time, with a heart open to the possibility of enjoyment.

What a freaky poetics it seems, to me, thinking of it now. The meticulously measured, rhymeless blank verse, in syntactic pretzels to squiggle yer gray matter. That's one way to skin a fish, I reckon.

Anyway, I'm a sucker for the invoking of a Muse. And they don't get much more pompously & self-importantly grand than that one.

[peteralway.livejournal.com]

You wouldn't want to see me clean shaven. Sadly, I don't know how to give a good massage. They never teach you that in physics courses. But they teach you Newton's Third Law, which says your back massages the hands exactly as as the hands massage your back.

I'm thinking it was the white on the left, black on the right vs. black on the left, white on the right thing that had the universe ending if theopposite touched, so they duked it out in some wacky hyperspacey kind of place.

Or I could be wrong. I do know that one one of the fusion processes deep in the sun creates antimatter (positrons) which quickly annihilates nearby matter (electrons), to create a being of pure energy gamma rays that spend centuries bouncing around until they reach the convective layer of the sun, only to cool to happy friendly sunlight which radiates from the photosphere at 10,000 degrees, and makes the crops grow into the food on your table.

You are, in part, fueled by antimatter. It's not a parallel universe, but it's the best my literal little mind can do for you.

Happy Opposites Day!

[fflo.livejournal.com]

You are, in part, fueled by antimatter.

I can dig it!