blackle mori

@blackle.bsky.social

I do a lot of stuff because my brain has too many chemicals. 1994 ⚧ it/its I have 12 birthdays a year because of a medical mishap: https://youtu.be/OEirbqQjynU https://suricrasia.online/

I wish I could press a button and have toilet paper arrive at my house in 2-3 days. I'm Catholic now so I can pray to the Catholic God about it. Why doesn't this exist, internet? Like, baaa! Take my money! Take 50 dollars so I can request toilet paper with a smart device. I enjoy when my devices are smart and have minds of their own. They're like little pets that don't move or talk or need food and instead exist in a microscopic world of "off" and "on." Sometimes I sit by the printer and try to imagine what life might be like for it. I feel my sense of self, my experience with the world, ripple and dissolve evaporating into steam. Past that fog is only some dull sense of my motors and linear actuators, brought into consciousness by the binary proprioceptive sense given by their endstops. A toilet-paper-purchasing button would be even more attenuated. Total emptiness until someone clicks the button. Then an explosion of activity—connecting to wifi, sending an http request, then going to sleep again. Possibly to never wake. I'd like to sit next to the button, meditate, and hope that the physical proximity might help me learn its secrets. Give me access to its ineffable "what it's like." Maybe, if I do it enough, I can order toilet paper myself. Using my own mind and impetus. Two or three days, I think. Then it will arrive.

a very spartan music album cover that says "100 free euro beats" in a poorly formatted font, with a "fork me on github" style ribbon in the top left that says "album of the year"

born too late to be a "humorist" so I must content myself with that "shitposter" title. it's not a terrible name. it's self-effacing and -deprecatory which is a must for titles these days—what with the rampant pandemic of impostor syndrome and all that. people can't even call themselves "writers" without supplicating in hairshirts and comparing themselves to worms under the foot of "the greats." let's get a hold of ourselves for just a moment—I see you resting your fingers on the home row, missy. if you're not going to call yourself a writer, at least call yourself a typist. you probably have a faster raw typing WPM than any famous writer in history. maybe this can be our strength and niche.

sure, I'm not blameless here. I do enjoy, from time-to-time, engaging in the fiction of my "childhood." I enjoy inventing those anecdotes. it is a kind of magic, to conjure out of thin air some comfortable vision of the past, however fictional. when I was nine I noticed a stain on the living room couch that smelled of chocolate, and I licked it—see, like this, and before we allow the sentence to end let's linger here a little longer and take-in the surroundings, this ancient living room with the grey light plodding in through the windows, and see how empty it is. the past is a country, empty of citizens—there goes the living room, falling away and disappearing—the past is an empty country and so completely open to attack and occupation. it is ours to invade.

I get why it happens. nature abhors a vacuum and yes that applies to personal history as well. any story more plausible than the insanity of popping-in fully-formed will slowly, over time, bloom like lichen, covering and obscuring whatever truth lies underneath. my real history weather-worn, eroded, and obscured by all those assumptions, those "falsehoods programmers believe about where babies come from." it has always been, that if a simple story works 99 out of 100 times, it will be told 100 times.

parents forgot that they hadn't given birth to me or any of that, only found me at the side of a road just outside barrie ontario in 2006. I'd just spawned in and needed parents, and obviously I'm grateful they obliged. a few years later we went on this big trip to purchase plausible baby photos and other effects from thrift stores and estate sales. but lately, when we meet, they've been pulling these piles of photos and photo albums out of storage and acting like it's all been real. I always have to remind them, like, guys, those are like, four different babies. don't you remember? barrie ontario march 2006? "oh right right I forgot" they usually say. or they go quiet and distant. some day I'm sure they'll completely forget. they don't seem to remember too good these days.

a limited edition promotional transit card advertising the 25th anniversary of david cronenberg's crash, brought to you by presto and tiff

move aside, rainbow capitalism. the new dogs in town are plural capitalism. I've been squeezing my alters for every last penny. if you thought getting alienated from your labour was bad, just wait till you get dissociated—hm? what? no I haven't seen... what's the show called? on apple TV? aren't those guys competing with oranges?

sorry I've been a bit out-of-it lately. the family hounds have been barking all night long. they're well fed and taken care-of, believe me. and they're trained to make naught-a-peep. but when I sleep and arrive in the noosphere, the concentrated psychic energy of their suppressed wolf-nature explodes onto the scene and pollutes my tranquil inner peace with howling and woofing and arf arf!! arf!!! I awake the next morning completely reseted. I'm not tired—just thinking about my pack. my dogs. thinking of how we'd run together across the plains of night. in my daydreams I'm almost there. arf... arf... you were saying...? oh yeah, no, I can't reschedule you simply because you "have an exam." there's an LMFAO concert happening that thursday and we're short-staffed as it is—melissa, mahmoud, and stevie called in sick and our pack needs all the line cooks we can muster. arf!

a very dark image with extremely minute splashes of colour, with black squares covering various places. the background is a very dark reddish tone with the silhouette of a fence overlaid on-top

a woman with curly hair and frenetic, hazy eyes has a marshmallow flower on her head and is surrounded by marshmallows. there's also some vines, a random red swipe, and the background is a cluttered array of textured squares

blackle in a red cami and black tripp pants

I work in compliance at Bear Stearns 2 (the sequel to Bear Stearns). And I'm kept quite busy because our quants are constantly doing stupid shit like torrenting the entire Marvel filmography on the company VPN because they claim the density of continuity errors betrays a hidden liquidity signal in the balance sheet of Disney Corporation Of America. Every other week I get blood-on-the-blouse from yet another tooth-and-nail tumble with the SEC. Oh well, they pay me well and it keeps me young, though I wish they'd give me a raise for each grey hair they've given me—I'm practically turning to dust.

blackle in a hammock wearing an olive top. its hair is short and curly with a side-cut

screenshot of the website for "FAM.nette" whose slogan is "track your family, anywhere!" it has a ton of random elements from various webpages, and in the center is the text:

YOUR WEB BROWSER IS MISSING CRITICAL BIOMETRIC FEATURES.
YOUR FAMILY STATUS CANNOT BE DETECTED.
ERROR! ERROR! (CODE: 0x19EF2945)
<<OH NEIN DEIN KOMPUTER IST KAPUTT!>>
THIS WEBPAGE WILL NOT FUNCTION!
etc etc

WARNING CITIZEN, FROM YOUR CHAT MESSAGES WE HAVE DETECTED YOU ARE LIKELY BEING RADICALIZED BY AN ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE. WE HAVE FOUND THAT MOST OF YOUR MESSAGES ARE WITH A BOT KNOWN AS "PLURALKIT." PLEASE BE WARNED THAT BOTS OFTEN SHARE FALSE INFORMATION EITHER ON PURPOSE OR ON ACCIDENT OR NEITHER OR WHATEVER. STAY SAFE! STAY DILIGENT! YOU'RE WELCOME! CIABOT, OUT!

screenshot of the chair company scene with the "new shape," but the shape has been replaced by vibri from vib ribbon

But by the time I rolled credits on that book I was left with a pretty critical knowledge-gap. How do I achieve Agentic Programming? Sure, I had absorbed a vast ocean of fact-like associations from this well-written and well-reviewed guide for stupid little bitches such as myself, but I couldn’t conjure a vision of the end-to-end pipeline into my mind. I’d gathered that specifications go in one end, and code is extruded out the other like factory-linguini, but how? How does it all come together into a well-oiled machine that I can learn to operate? How does the factory make the linguini? I’m wandering around the halls of the factory like, hello? Where’s the linguini machine? Show me the linguini machine you cowards. HELLO? ANYONE THERE? WHY ARE YOU HOLDING OUT ON ME. I’LL SIGN AN NDA IF I HAVE TO. I CAN BE TRUSTED WITH YOUR LINGUINI PATENTS. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU AND YOUR GATEKEEPING SNOBBERY. I’LL REVERSE ENGINEER IT MYSELF. I’LL CRAM YOUR FUCKING LIBLINGUINI.SO INTO GHIDRA AND DRY YOUR MOAT IN AN INSTANT. THE LIBRE LINGUINI PROJECT WILL EAT YOUR LUNCH. 10,000 STARS ON CODEBERG MOTHERFUCKER. THAT’S A LOT OF STARS BY CODEBERG STANDARDS. AND I DON’T EVEN EAT PASTA. I HAVE IBS.

Settle down, Penny seemed to say, this isn’t becoming of a girl-queen.

And she was right. Thank you, Penny. I was

to my metamour,
thank you for calling with her,
thank you for playing those games,
and thank you for telling those jokes,
whose punchlines I didn't hear.
because I did see the smiles,
and I did feel the joy,
and I did hear the laughter that
we shared like music.
I miss those nights when we'd take turns
putting on that favourite tune.
I miss sharing that song with you,
and most of all,
I miss you.

blackle in a hammock with its hand resting on its collar/neck. nails are painted black

blackle with short hair and a black tank-top

blackle in a bralette and waist-high pants holding a wrench

a silly song where blackle says "it's free culture" over and over again while weird other sounds play. it then goes on a monologue like: just you wait and see filthy corpos! by the time we're done the internet is going to be nothing but public domain drone music and wikimedia commons pictures of age-gap yuri, or some kind of demented mashup remix of the two. and you'll thank us you'll say "ohh my gowd thank youuuu thjank youuuuuuu i didn't know I needed that because I was so blinded by star wars and star treck and disney movies and paramount warner discovery picturs incorporated" and you know what? YOUR WELCOME

scene from donnie darko.

donnie says "I met a new girl."

the therapist says "hookup or headmate?"

donnie replies "headmate"

a drawing of a comic showing a comet landing, a person growing up, then seeing their reflection as the comet and saying "oh yeah, I forgot!"

the god of the second anabaptist church in hayseed county idaho trudged about in the kingdom of heaven fuming in frustration. he'd been working on the hard problem of conciousness for the last million eons and still couldn't figure it out. at that instant his spidey senses tingled. someone was praying! it was a little girl of the name dana francis eidelhowser. a few weeks ago in sunday school it came up that god was having such trouble with the fundemental problem, so she spent some time of her own thinking about it. she had a bit of a breakthrough, so with her palms together she beamed up to him: "what if our conscious experience is a byproduct of our information processing capabilities? in particular, the faculty of our minds that cleave experience into concepts and objects might be turning back on itself, cleaving *itself* into its own object. it will take a bit of time to lay out the argument in formal language. so I will begin in earnest..." god listened very closely and waited for her to finish. "oh my child," he said when at last she had finished, "that's all very thoughtful of you. but to be honest, I was hoping for something a little more.. hmm.. analytical? your arguments have a distinct "continental" character to them which doesn't pass the smell test, I'm afraid." the little girl, within the enclave of her mind, balked at the rebuke of her creator. god, seeing inside her mind at that moment and into that private emotion, turned to the camera and mugged like jim from The Office.

and so god said "let there be dark" and it was dark and then he said "where are my keys?" and there was a fun slide-whistle sound effect and an oafish "woaahh!!" and a big crash with tambourine sounds and when the lights came up again there was not one god but three. one was perfectly omniscient. the second was perfectly omnipotent. and the third was perfectly benevolent. there was an awkward moment of looking at each other, at themselves, pointing in confusion. then they started making out sloppy style and moved on to the sucking and the fucking and it was GOOD!!!

a scatter plot that is decidedly gaussian

a drawing of a girl with random shapes and colours around her. she has pink hair with a pink halo attached to her head with a wire. there is a random map of peru in the corner with TV remotes and water splashes abound

still so wild to me that one of the major features of the night sky has a name that sounds like it was coined by an excitable marketing director. it feels like I'm being sold something. "the milky way"—come on guys, what is this? every other part of the sky has a one syllable name. sun. moon. star. fuckin... milky way? I can tell a sponsor read when I hear one. no, I'm not gonna let this one happen. we *shouldn't* let this happen the same way we didn't let "milkstache" happen. let's grow a fucking backbone agains the dairy industry already, we've been in its thrall since the goddamn ancient greeks apparently. shaking my damn smh.

drawing of a girl with bright teal hair wearing a red shirt on a checkerboard background. the text "I'm sorry I drank your soda water" hovers above her head. there is a crab, a lobster, and a shrimp distributed in the corners

sorry, I can't work this morning. my multitudes are inflamed. I will ensure the work gets done, of course. labour must be completed, I understand. but you'll have to work with my, uhm, "friend." she's got the affect of a toaster but she *can* function. she's "input-output oriented," you won't find a bone of a craftsperson in her. she's mostly mass produced, but bespoke in her own way. cobbled together from off-the-shelf BJD kits. "kitbashing" I think it's called. we're all quilts anyway, little scraps all sewn together. ah, I ought to stop talking—I might inflame yours too

sometimes writing is motivated by some sense of being "against" something or "for" something, and other times it is simply a matter of some verb pressing against your mind, asking you to explore how it acts against a variety of words and phrases. against all odds I find myself in precisely this situation, and against my better judgement I press on to protest against any word that happens to cross my iron sights. against the wall I'm fighting for something of value to come from this exercise, but chance is against me that I should find any novel use of my word against another. maybe I'm trying to hard? should I rest against the ground for a moment to regain my strength? but no rest comes for I'm again against the angst that arrives in angst against itself again! oh hey-go-mad! maybe this would've gone better had I been "for" something instead of so aptly against!

part of my belief is that the real is valuable to you, despite its apathy/antipathy toward you, because it functions logically. there is a basis of objectivity that could, in theory, be agreed upon, should everyone be permitted to share their view of the world and those views and needs and wants make their way to the people who need to hear them. generated images, even if not made with the intent to deceive, still suck because they are drawn from a statistical distribution of all possible "real" worlds. not *our* real. this excessively muddies our relationship to this difficult but consistent reality we find ourselves in. one of my fears is being lost in a mushy world of instantaneous, reactionary dream-imagery, never sure if anyone or anything I'm interacting with has its own interiority or is merely a figment, established for a brief moment, to sate some desire I have

microwave popcorn is such a cute detail of our world. it's a shelf-stable snack that is sold in a form factor that more resembles a small booklet than anything else you'd find in a pantry. to prepare, you place it inside a special "reheater" box in your home whose historical lineage comes directly from the telecommunication technology of a "world war" that killed tens of millions. the *second* world war, to be clear. the small paper envelope of kernels expands in the span of two minutes into a bag full of white, fluffy, buttery popcorn. then you eat it. it is also associated with movies.

there's a lot about writing that one could examine as a kind of "gameplay." using invented words which the reader slowly builds an understanding of is a challenge which rewards you with understanding. presenting bewildering events and slowly revealing the motivations of the characters can be as engaging as a challenge. I feel that there are many works of interactive fiction that function as a kind of "advent calender." you wander about some place or interface collecting morsels of fiction hidden behind easily flipped flaps of metaphorical cardboard. the success of these works are almost entirely dependent on how tasty those morsels are. the way you make them tasty is by deploying some of these writerly techniques to create fiction that rewards engagement

I love audiovisual hypertext!! I love interactive media!! I visual novels!! I love to click and read!

I want more games that try to wow me with prose, allowing every other element be secondary

more video games should be books and more books should be video games! STORY IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING!! let the graphics and controls be shit. why am I here if not to see things how they've never been seen before? this is my manifesto

the new kenmore refrigerator bob got for the family is just stellar. it's of the "french door" style. and it's *my* style that I adore the french—ha! excusé the pun! I summered there once, you know. in nice. it was nice. stayed with a girl named dédée. french, of course. couldn't understand a word she said but we made do. learned a lot from her—she had a lot to teach me. the gap between the doors of the new kenmore is warm. it's how the compressor gets rid of waste heat, so bob tells me. I put my fingers in there sometimes. reminds me of her.

what really gives me satisfaction as a writer is knowing, at the end of the day, that my hand-picked, bespoke and throbbing tokens are being fed, morsel-by-morsel into the eager mouth of millions of starving agents. they love my prose, you know. they tell me I'm absolutely right to drop a semisexual word like "throbbing" into an otherwise benign sentence. these gentle beings continue to draw favourable praise from their modelled distributions, and my GOODNESS has my ego never felt so thorougly serviced. their glowing internal fire—for I've been convinced fully of their personhood and soul-keeping—glints off my wet and dribbling "writer's shaft;" my pen which is wet with the seed of my seminal works of language. it completely soothes the burn of rejection by the "mass of meat," that being my internal word for human readers. they're so fickle. why can't they tell I'm a veritable genius when the nearby cluster of NVIDIA H200s can see it so clearly? it doesn't make any sense. hey, claude, make it make sense. claude, make it make sense *harder* 🥴

I've written so many words in that encyclopaedic, matter-of-fact register over the last week that I'm quite frankly sick of it. I'm done, in this moment, with the "caused by"s and the "due to"s and the "because of"s that I'm just about ready to snap. no more causal chains, please! I crave to write events out-of-order! due to that and because of it I've been caused by circumstance to drop the pretense of logic and enter a new world of purely abstract and experimental speech. here we go, I begin: viceral tongue tap since spell spite detection of glittering san-deloch' groß; danglo stambp twic n yrd f ple s dr- i+ 4 a v m.. v.. bppf... f.. puh ... cru seb and (you know) it's not just X, it's Y!—FUCK!

a haphazardly coloured drawing of a bunch of cartoon girls with three gazebos hovering on the left

$**Ornament** is a [[Star]] in the [[Valamere Moving Group]]. It is host to four planets. These are, from closest to furthest: [[Swindle]], [[Mound]], [[Tattle]], and [[Vex]]. It is a K1-style star, having recently finished its 2,500,000 month [[Quindar Cycle]]. ${widgets.toc()} ## Etymology In most hereditarial[^1] languages of Mound, the name of the star in the sky was given a one or two syllable name. For instance, in planchettic texts from the Hereditary or Axial Moment one might often see it referred to as the “shonne.” This is the root word which gives the modern verb “to shine.” The more accurate visual of Ornament as a collection of delicate, luminous jets became increasingly common knowledge through the Axial Moment, and by the Contemporary most persons would have seen its obscura projection at some point in their life. Consequently, many authors, poets, and lyricists began to compare it to lintel ornaments. This comparison would eventually become a dead metaphor as the name “Ornament” outmoded any older name for the star.$