31 May 2008

A Moving Picture Show

While shaving under the influence of coffee and humming a song concerning rhombuses at precisely 6 AM, I received a revelation about God concerning calculus, the 4th dimension, and boluses (circles.)

No, I wasn't smoking anything.

It's amazing what the mind thinks of on precious little sleep.

The reason you ask?

I'm moving again. Tomorrow really. At least I hope so. It's not actually official yet, but I've a verbal commitment. Which is good. . .considering the lease is up in 3 and 1/2 hours. . .officially.

Did I mention how incredibly tired I am right now? Not even sure why or what exactly I'm typing here. Someday I'll read what I wrote and wonder why. Anyways, boluses.

Or circles. A circle rotating around it's axis as observed 4-dimensionally is really a globe. If it's rotating fast enough, it is for all practical purposes, a globe in 3-dimensions. But when you look at it, it still looks like a circle. . .and this is because the human eye can only see one plane of an object at one instant of time. The universe is a very much more interesting place when observed from, say, a 10-dimensional viewpoint. Something that just popped into my mind. . .humans are ephemeral creatures that literally are just blurbs on the screen of ultimate reality. Does Jason really think this? Yes and no. The part of humans that is composed of matter says yes, but the part of Jason that is composed of non-material matter says no. A materialists should be concerned, however. For a materialist, if they actually do believe in materialism, and I really don't think that's possible-for there are some things a person simply cannot not know-their existence must constantly be in a state of flux. If their hand gets chopped off, are they the same person? A materialist, if one carries their argument to it's logical conclusion, must say no. In fact, a materialist must always be a different person from the one they were a second ago, since atoms are constantly coming and going to their body. But the thing is-they will tell you you are confused if you tell them this-or accuse you of playing on words.

Let's see here. Click on 'publish post' Jason while you're still awake.

23 May 2008


Some geese decided to visit our workplace today. At one point, there must have been 50
of these little guys pecking through our front yard. It didn't hurt that some of the guys were luring them closer with cereal. And if that wasn't enough, two cardinals stopped by later, hopped their way inside, and watched us work for a few minutes.

16 May 2008


Attila the Nun, was a swell l'il hon'
Of whom, I asked out on a date.

With her hair in a bun, and a dress of homespun,
we left at a quarter of eight.

I ordered a pasta, made with ricotta,
to go with the steak well-done.

She said, "I'm glad to meet ya,
but, you see, I work for PETA,
and sirloin isn't my idea of fun."

It went downhill from there,
let the reader be aware,
as I became her persona non grata.

Which is why you should never ever,
even if she's clever,
go out with Attila the Nun.

14 May 2008


My favorite number and, no, I'm not being irrational.

Billy was a chemist,
now he is no more.

Cause when he drank some H20
was really H2SO4.


The soul is an amazing part of man. It never forgets. Never. It's intrinsically impossible.

It's been said when a person dies, all their memories come flooding forth.

So, what really happens?

I think all these stored memories are being faxed to another, more concrete, existence. Into a higher dimensional world. I don't know how everything is stored. Perhaps the brain stockpiles this informatin in the form of matter and as it exits the body at death, this flooding forth of memories is the observance of mass changing into energy.


Or rather,

(Kinetic Energy-Potential Energy) is interconvertible with matter (multiplied by the square of the speed of light.)

Since at subluminal velocities, light speed is negligible, all we observe is matter. . .the touchable stuff.

The memories are stored by a certain arrangement of atoms-you're stockpiling potential (non-moving) energy and at death it is released as kinetic (moving) energy into another, more real, world and reassembling it into a more real person.

Sort of like DNA works.

After all, don't all natural laws foreshadow all spritual laws?

12 May 2008

New Book Alert

A blog
By Jason Michael Par...

If one looks to the right, a green square should be readily visible. It's from a cool web site that enables one to convert a blog into a book.

I encourage everybody to buy a copy. . .or copies. . .in bulk, so that I can afford my new castle in Morocco overlooking the Gibralter.

05 May 2008

short novel excerpt

This is an excerpt I sent to helium writer's

I should note I'm not going to use the word 'humanzee' in the final draft. It's one of those 'filler' words one uses until something better turns up.

Suggestions appreciated.

At 4 AM, Michael swallowed his second caffeine tablet, a yellow one, timed for release in three hours. Then, he settled down for a nap. The caffeine, he knew, would wake him up at precisely 7 AM-when the humanzees left the pit. Outside, the snufflings and scratching sounds continued. The humanzees kept busy at their digging. Digging for what, he did not know. He felt assured the creatures could not penetrate his concrete bunker with their primitive tools.

There was no moon. The humanzees grunted as they dug. After a time, a pattern to their digging and earth removal became apparent. Though without speech, the humanzees had an order. Like a hive of ants, they moved and worked as one organism. What would they do if they struck concrete?

The creatures left during the heat of day and returned to their caves overlooking the opposite side of the road. Silence. A fair-sized wind blew sand over their tracks concealing most of their tracks. Michael felt certain the humanzees slept during the day, but didn't know if they kept a watch from their caves. He descended the spiral staircase and crawled through the nearest escape hatch. He emerged a hundred yards from the edge of the clearing, hesitated, then walked to their pit.

The sand was deep, but compact enough to walk with little effort. He removed his sand goggles and saw their picks and shovels lying about. Apparently, they weren't too concerned about thieves. The diggings appeared to be done half-hazardly. Piles of rock surrounded holes in the ground, but the holes, some as large as a car, formed no discernible pattern. In what was more or less the center of the area, a large wooden crate rested with two poles on either side. He peered inside. Bits and pieces of an old farmhouse filled the bottom half of the bin. He recognized broken cups, bits of old newsprint-one of the dates read 7 July 1987-a part-eroded picture of an old man and woman standing by a tractor, a Mason jar full of seeds, and a some tin cans.

The desert had once been a prairie dotted here and there with farms, but that did not explain why they were obsessed with unearthing and collecting these trinkets. He trekked back to the escape hatch an hour later, giving ample time for the wind to cover his tracks.

At dusk, they returned. Michael kept his vigil from the aperture. Slowly, methodically, like mice creeping from their holes they resumed their drudgery. Most were employed digging. Some carted of the soil to mounds, and some spent the entire time on hands and knees brushing dirt from some farm artifact. When something was partly unearthed, the brusher tugged until it pried loose-then off to the bin it went. The creatures spent little time looking at what they retrieved.

For seven days, Michael watched and for seven afternoons he peered into their cart hoping to discover anything of interest. He was disappointed at seeing much of the same implements day after wearying day.

On day eight, as he was about to leave, he saw a line of dust on the horizon in the direction of Macrobia. As the dust swirl neared, he saw two heavily-plated motorcycles. Half a mile away, they slowed considerably, and when they came to the point where the humanzee's path crossed the road leading to their caves, they stopped their engines and walked the bikes to the cart. The riders wore no insignia, nor could Michael see if they did as they were coated with a thin film of sand and grit. The bikes were white, most likely, and then he saw an insignia-the official emblem of Macrobia on its side. They were Sweep Patrollers.

One rider reached into the bin, pulled out one of the tins and something else, and returned quickly to the bikes. They left. They were hardly out of site when Michael ran to the bin and peered in. Strangely enough, the only thing missing was the jar of seeds.

"Why does the Prime Minister want seeds?" he thought. Macrobia has all the food it needs for a self-sustaining city-state. He knew from his days in Z-Tec Genomics, Macrobia kept a seed bank in case of another nuclear catastrophe. So, why the interest in 150-year-old seeds? He felt he knew the answer-that it should be obvious, but nothing came to mind.

The answer came in a dream. The Hives were inoculation centers to prevent the spread of the newest wave of virus. The Prime Minister wanted the seeds, not because of the lack of seeds, but because the seeds for the Macrobian food supply were so genetically-altered for maximum growth, they were susceptible to many diseases. He made an intuitive leap and knew a deadly new virus was apparently spreading in the city. Like the Bubonic Plague of ancient history, this new virus had no known cure. The buried seeds would not be genetically-altered, what biologists called the wild-type, and hence were more viable. Michael turned toward the underground bunker. He had never been here this late in the afternoon and felt certain the humanzees were still asleep.

He was wrong.

At the edge of the clearing stood a five-foot-tall young male humanzee. The two eyed one another for perhaps ten seconds. The humanzee cocked his head sideways and approached. Michael sidled his way from the center bin towards the bunker. The creature followed him. No other creatures were in sight and this one seemed unarmed-but was it friendly?

His mind told him no. Although no logical reason suggested otherwise, he thought any creature that ugly must be evil. The Sweep Patrollers seemed apprehensive too. He didn't wait to find out.

Keeping one eye on the humanzee, he carefully made his way back to the hatch. The creature followed, but kept the same distance. Halfway there, it dawned on him he couldn't outrun a humanzee and for certain could not overpower one in a fight. Closer and closer-the door seemed an eternity away. Sweat soaked his brow as he fought the urge to bolt and run. "Just pull the lever hidden in the wall and close the door-so simple, he thought." Moments later, he pulled the lever, the door opened, and he sat inside panting. Half a minute later the rapping began.

Tap. . .tap. . .tap. . .tap.'

The humanzees understood doors.

Moanbak S’mores

A visitor to West Virginia will be surprised to learn that moanbak s’mores are not edible, unlike, say squirrels.

Moanbak s’mores are what we say when giving directions to Bob the beer truck driver.

It’s like a chant.

Moanbak. . .moanbak. . .moanbak. . .s’more
Moanbak. . .moanbak. . .moanbak. . .s’more
Moanbak. . .moanbak. . .moanbak. . .s’more

Then, we spit.


Don’t be.

Squirrels, btw, do not taste like chicken. Opossums on the other hand. . .

And now. . .some wisdom:

When working in a chemistry lab, if one has two machines that measure the same parameter, one would expect them to yield similar results on the same sample. Right? Nope, doesn’t happen. Entropy, the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics, and gremlins will see this does not occur. However, (and this is where the wisdom comes in,) if one’s results are wrong, but consistent, one can insert a correction factor to account for the not-working-like-it-should-machine.