9c554f52   
   From: fool@unroutable.com   
      
   Sourcerer  writes:   
   >   
   > Sourcerer collated their notes. The meta metaphor machine was not   
   > mechanical or electronic. It wasn't a biological organism, either, but   
   > it had some qualities that seemed biological more than anything else.   
   >   
   > "He used a dna slurry as a 'lubricant'? Lubricate what?  Where'd he   
   > get the dna?", mpa said.   
   >   
   > "It might be -- I can't think of anything else -- it might be a   
   > genetic machine," Sourcerer replied. "It makes sense in context.   
   > Discussing human/machine interface, and getting hung up over   
   > mechanical and electrical. Why not think outside that box and..."   
      
   A tumble of black feathers thumped against the window sill, then flopped   
   onto the floor with a pitiful, "caaawwwwww!"  A few moments later, the   
   feathers hopped back to the sill, shook a couple times, and composed   
   themselves into a large raven, just over two feet tall.  It tilted a jet   
   black eye at .mpa and Sourcerer while opening and closing its black beak   
   a few times, no sound came out.  Hopping up and down and flicking its   
   tail feathers, apparently flustered, it let out a random series of   
   kraaas and and clucks before a vaguely human sounding voice burst out:   
      
   "Holy fucking shit dudes!  I thought I'd never remember how to get back   
   here.  Too many years of being a legitimate operator.  The net shrinks   
   when all you can see are the cowpaths that have turned into hiways.   
   Words become mundane tools, coated with an oily mediocrity.  Daily   
   re-enforcement of identity piles up, until you find yourself stuck in a   
   body, tied to other bodies.  Along for the ride, believing your own   
   bullshit and completely hacked, and not deviating from the program   
   because doing so means pain, social stigmatization and/or death.  There   
   is no specific outward form to it, it's not Zorba's full catastrophe, or   
   'selling out', or 'lameness'.  The result is that I had no clue where my   
   will to speak, let alone my voice had gone.  Took me a couple weeks of   
   mindless contemplation, a comic book binge, alot of weed, and an entire   
   day of moody pacing, sighing, waiting, and grimacing like a constipated   
   goth.   
      
   Now that I am here of course, I find myself subjecting yall to an   
   expository dump.  Fucking sloppy, and a lingering expression of the very   
   problem, a crushing self-consciousness emerging from hundreds of   
   impressions you imagine you made on others.   
      
   Even then, the best I could do was this, some conglomerate of Huginn and   
   Muginn, the crows in Portland, and the ravens from Campsite #1.  Gimme a   
   sec."   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)