Musemathematics

Numbers it is. All music when you come to think. Two multiplied by two divided by half is twice one. Vibrations : chords those are. One plus two plus six is seven. Do anything you like with figures juggling. Always find out this equal to that, symmetry under a cemetery wall. He doesn't see any mourning. Callous : all for his own gut. Musemathematics. And you think you're listening to the etherial. But suppose you it like : Martha, seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall quite flat. It's on account of the sounds it is.

--James Joyce, Ulysses

Ah, Joycean mathematics

2 x 2 ÷ ½ = 2(1)

1 + 2 + 6 = 7

7 x 9 - x = 35 000

where, x ≠ -34 937
since symmetry lies under a cemetery wall

How to Tell Only Fifty Percent of Your Jokes

How to Tell Only 50% of Your Jokes?

You have a set-up line designed to elicit a response. Like a knock, knock. Only not so obvious. This way there's no certainty you'll ever get your desired response. I do this all time. And am mostly disappointed.

Example 1: If I say "I think I fell down a hill," I don't want you to respond with "You fell down a hill?" Your response should be "You think?"

This method is mired in disappointment, though, and is only for the brave at heart. There will be rejection. There will be discarded punchlines. Do not fret, you will have to let them go. They belong to the ether, and the ether will reward you some other way.

Besides, they might not have elicited the laughs you might have thought. Which is kind of the point. I would rather tell the joke that makes the a couple of people in the room laugh than the one that makes the whole room laugh. That way I know who are the good people.

Example 2: If I say something gay, the response I'm looking for is along the lines of "your gay." This way I can tell my gay joke. Don't be all awkward and not respond at all.

The only thing that really worried me was the ether.

Like a parasite, it latched onto my brain. And I just couldn't shake. My brain, goddammit. In particular my imagination. What does it mean? it asks. Why, why, why does it all depend. I speak of course of this post from Monday, August 25, 2008. While as the comments attest, the ether was working overtime that day. But there was something special about this one. Here is that of which I speak, the mysterious unsolicited text message, reprinted for your browsing convenience:

From:
281-[redacted]
Message:
I FORGOT TO
CHARGE THE
PHONE LASTNIGHT
WE WILL THINJ OF
SOMETHING ELSE
Received on:
Aug 23, 08 10:49am

There is something inspired about it.

The Text Message

so much depends
upon

a phone charged
last night

a day planned
ruined

something some-
thing else

...apologies to William Carlos Williams.

Privileged IV

Text Message

From:
281-[redacted]
Message:
I FORGOT TO
CHARGE THE
PHONE LASTNIGHT
WE WILL THINJ OF
SOMETHING ELSE
Received on:
Aug 23, 08 10:49am

Text messages are the new poetry. And sometimes they just appear out of the ether from about 1500 miles away and delight your day.

A Novel Idea I

Well, maybe not a novel but a short story. Here goes:

It's a detective murder mystery. Dead bodies start showing up around, I don't know... town, the country. Maybe it's something that has caused the FBI to be alerted. That sort of scale. Anyway, there seems to be no leads. Nothing connects the victims--except all victims have a patch of skin of missing from their corpses. Now these aren't the same patches on every victim. No, they come in different shapes and locations but they're generally of a rectangular nature.

So, eventually (I don't know, page 3) the killer gets interrupted and has to flee the scene of their crime post-haste. In the process, they leave behind the patch of skin and surprise, surprise it has a tattoo inked into it: a word (the word is not especially important in itself, just the idea of it being a word, but it could be made into a metaphor for the story-at-large, blah, blah, blah, meaning, meaning, blah).

Anyway, some quality sleuthing and quick googling later, and it turns out all the victims are participants in Shelley Jackson's short story Skin. The text itself is dying, disappearing. Oh my, now even our fictions are fleeting. Anyways, the detectives contact Jackson, but no more clues are forthcoming.

Take a break for more detective work, etc.

Since the nature of the project, the detectives don't have access to the short story or its list of participants or there's too many or something convenient like that. But one more google search later and there's someone tattooed close by. So the detectives just plan to keep an eye on this person: surveillance time! Witty stakeout dialogue!

The detectives are involved in a chase with the killer, possibly involving rooftops, and voilà, they pin the killer down. Anyway, one old man Wiggles unmasking later and the killer is revealed to be: shock of shocks, Shelley Jackson.

Ms. Jackson then delivers the story's parting words.

"I'm not the Shelley Jackson who wrote Patchwork Girl.

I'm not that Shelley Jackson."

So consider that released into the ether. Have with it, ether.