This

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i have some rather odd problems. last month was batshit crazy. lots going on. i did it all pretty well, actually... but, by the end of the month, i was practically incoherent. unable to shut up. a thousand things rattling around in my mind.

i've been here many times before. i am just loaded up with information and things and stuff and wat and it's spinning around until my brain chews through it all. until then, i am unable to shut up. mostly to myself, but if i have to talk to someone else, i go on tangents wait shit tangents wait shit topic change tangent sorry, what were you saying?

internally, i am functioning, more or less. not my full percentage, but well enough. i just need a few days of puttering around the house, think everything through, driving around, thinking everything through, posting without thinking anything through, peter molyneux, u noe? peter molyneux grew and grue and made another peter molyneux grew and grue and made another peter molyneux grew and grue and made another peter molyneux grew and grue and made another fine cheddar.

it's not a bad state of mind at all. not unpleasant, just weird -- like me, you know? i always write premium yugo , too. the only problem is interacting with reality.

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monday: i sound like a drunk linus torvalds crossbred with spam emails through a pimped-out kyma. not bad. in public, i stick to the minimal script and avoid smalltalk. this is for the protection of the rest of society. it's pretty simple: i can chatter along in my head and keep the mouth closed, and i can follow the script without being odd in any discernible way... but as soon as i get into a real discussion, i tend to confuse the fuck out of people.

like, today: there's a squeaky thing in the floor, and as a man of many noises, i took the issue to the homeowner. it's these metal things against these wood things, ok. i suggest: wd-40? his answer is that it'd work for a bit, but then start again, and there are better solutions. fair enough.

then i get to wondering: is wd-40 bad for wood? is there another type of lubricant that would serve better there? so i ask him: "is wd-40 the best thing for that type of situation, or is there another sort of..." and he cuts me off: "no, i told you, it'd work for a bit, but then start again..." i am not talking about the floor things anymore. i am asking a question about materials. wood, metal, what sort of goop to make it not frictionary?

three or four minutes later, i am going mad. he still doesn't get it. finally i spin a yarn: some scientists in a lab are putting together wood and metal and it has nothing to do with that other problem and what lubricant?

he says: oh! wd-40 is bad for wood. you'd want silicon lubricant.

thank god.

it's maddening, really. i'll make a leap. you can see how i got from A to B well enough, but it's not a leap that most people would make. too lateral bananas. then i have to either abandon the issue or catch them up.

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that was today. i am mostly recovered. massive amounts of time driving around and working out. i was almost in tears because i couldn't get. him. to. understand. but otherwise it's been cool.

but, back to monday: i sound like a drunk spambot through some inscrutable convolution transform. tight. in public, i stick to the minimal script and avoid smalltalk. this is for the protection of the rest of society. it's pretty simple: i can chatter along in my head and keep the mouth closed, and i can follow the script without being odd in any discernible way... but as soon as i get into a real discussion, i tend to confuse the fuck out of people.

like, the old dude who works the gas station at some times but not other times is a nice man. he has the tempo of a deflated waltz, but he's very nice. i have to always be on myself to not talk too quickly and such. i usually manage.

last sunday, i am unmanagable. untractable. there had been some huge wad of people in the square doing things, and nutty everywhere... and i was curious what the occasion was. i tried to ask molasses gasman. he wasn't working then, oh. he doesn't know. so far so good.

he's curious now too, he says. and i'm off: it was synthesis of multiple factors. it's sunday, the election is soon, halloween is tomorrow, it's nice out and it was raining yesterday... yes, this event was clearly emergent complexity.... i cut myself off before even getting to the part about emergent complexity, because i tuned back in for a moment to see the smouldering remains of his brain. "oh, well, i guess it's just a mystery!" i say. "oh, yep..." i exit the store and resist the urge to slap myself. so, yes, on monday, in public, i avoid any topic of conversation that will get me thinking. hi, how you u doin. good, thanks. no, not today. thank you very much! you're welcome, cashier lady. thank you for not attempting to make contact with the layer of my brain beneath robotic social word waltzes.


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monday: i sound like a drunk goat. on lsd. with a cybernetic interface to a planet made entirely of raisins. time for a work call!

i know the guy very well, so it's not like he's completely unprepared. he's quick, like me. follows my leaps. if not for this, i would have just cancelled. i probably should have, really, but it generated fantastic data.

i am able to write a bullet-point list of what i want to talk about and work down through it from memory... remember which we've covered... run over them all in my head and realize we missed one right as we're goodbye'n; blurt it out. save!

i go on a million tangents and cut myself off and apologize. it is a thousand times worse than the silicon lubricant leap of context. i am shooting down stupid tangent after stupid tangent to the point where i'm having trouble speaking properly. plenty escape my mouth, anyways.

i almost explained myself upfront, but decided against, because the explanation would have been a trainwreck. like the gas station, i am doing my best to stick to my script. and failing. he's wondering what's up, i half figure. in retrospect, i can sum it up well enough: i have a very exotic strain of nerd flu and my voice is funny, but no reason to stop the meeting, you know? i came up with this analogy afterwards, so i can play it back at someone as if i am a sampler next time in am in this sort of spot.

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he's being polite. we're getting through the agenda, but it's messy. i am shooting down tangent after tangent. many escape my mouth. i start talking about driving for a while. a few times. usually cut myself off. pretty much, any of this stuff would be fine, if it weren't so much, so fast, on a work call. he decides to ask what's up in a unique way: he describes how, on long car drives, he stops being able to keep his internal monologue internal. anything he thinks, he says. do i know that sort of thing?

a capacitor explodes in the back of my brain somewhere. whoa, rad. what was that? never mind. oh, yes: i'm battling a tangent hellstorm, trying to filter out all the wild tangents my mind is throwing at me, and i've just been asked if i have no mental filter. a capacitor explodes in the back of my brain somewhere

inside my mind, i had to essentially say: yes, hello, mental filter? is it a good idea to talk about mental filters? and my brain said, "..." and then, "uhh, i'll get back to you."

i have so much to say about voices, internal monologue, and i am wicked curious about what he's just described. tangents are shot down. then i have to think about how to explain that he is wrong but in neighborhood... a capacitor explodes in the back of my brain somewhere

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monday: i'm so busy shutting down irrelevant things to say that i have trouble answering my collegue's questions. instead, i start blathering -- a stupid tangent slips past!-- and cut myself off repeatedly. sensing something is off, my collegue says: yes, i had this moment when i had no mental filter once, is that it? do you have no mental filter right now?

the strangest thing happened then. it took me a solid two days to figure out what had happened.

as i thought about how to answer, a sentence came out of my mouth: "oh, i know that one, too, but this is something else."

the sentence and my inner monologue were one and the same. it's like fractal compression -- a whole paragraph of my inner monologue shrunken down into a sentence that came out of my mouth as my inner monologue chewed on how to answer.

it was intensely disorienting because a hell of a lot of things happened at once. i had the sensation of the sentence coming first... trying to figure out drove me mad. circular references. baron von munchausen. eventually it dawned on me that neither came first: the sentence was "grown" simultaneously with the inner monologue paragraph as part of the same process. to me at the time, though, i had the sentence first, and then it unpacked itself into my internal monologue... as i was saying it... the unpacking was also all at once. a sense of two or three cores blowing up different parts of the sentence...

you know how beavis/butthead will witness, say, firecrackers, and say: ... huh-uh. cool

that was essentially my reaction: something has just exploded in my mind, and that was really neato! then, i told myself it was a tangent, and resumed making an ass of myself.

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i have been doing all these weird experiments with automatic habits, metaphor programming, and multi-tasking. that last part is fantastic -- it's actually made it easier for me to interact with people. i can listen to what people are saying and reply appropriately while my inner monologue is chewing on the angles. if i get too tangled up, it'll just be dead air. me staring blankly as a person waits for a reply. this still happens, but far less often.

this is now another mechanism that can backfire when i am tired and frazzled, yet still required to function. more or less, when he asked me if i had no mental filter, my mental filter began to evaluate itself. the process got stuck and never returned; infinite recursive loop. this jammed up the works. like a computer lagging when it's really busy... except, no, this is the brain, where everything is parallel. my mental filter going infinite loop landed me in a zone where i was directly perceiving a lot of subconscious machinery i've never been allowed anywhere near before.

compression is one metaphor. calculus is another: the integral of the sentence is my internal monologue, and the derivative of my internal monologue is the sentence. the words in the sentence are effectively pointers to segments of my internal monologue. essentially, it was a little index of working data as i thought things through. the sentence was what my brain was using to keep its point in the internal monologue...

i did a bit of damage with that rambly phone meeting, but now i know how a mental filter works in a neurological/technical sense. there are deeper implications regarding language itself, but that's a bit of a tangent and i'll leave it for later.