So I was chattering away and suffering a post-nap grogginess and I mentioned to Finn, "I am slow thinky. I don't have good thinks. I usually don't—well—sometimes do. I have good thinks. I have Story Thinks. Best kind... If you're going to have good thinks, they should be Story Thinks or Science Thinks. Ooh! And at this point I decided I had created A Great Philosophy of the Two Kinds of Thinks: There are only two sorts of Thinks: Story Thinks and Science Thinks. Everything fits into one category.
I laughed at myself, and observed, this time without verbalizing it—and, yeah, I should be lying about that to preserve my narrative flow (such as it is what with the insane jumps my spastic stream-of-consciousness makes) but I'm not—that this is an amusing oversimplification. Then the epiphane (Gods damn you, spell check, let a girl spell it the Greek way if she prefers) dawned that this is why philosophy doesn't appeal to me as much as it seems like it should. It's oversimplifying pretty ideas and making extrapolations and applications when actual reality is infinitely complex and ultimately, according to my world view as realized only just then, resists quantification.
So yeah, I was yammering to my puppy in a sleepy haze and cemented my personal ideology. It's vaguely Chaos Theory.
(Pausing for you to roll your eyes at the obviousness.)
But It's not so surprising I woke with abstraction in my brain. Whilst napping I dreamt that some dude—name on tip of my tongue but gone—had written a book containing an equation that predicted Everything. It was practically mystical in its universality. Specifically I remember it could be used to predict stock market trends and something about lumber that could save the ecology of the entire planet. The equation was accurate exactly 87% of the time. It basically ensured a Utopia. So of course, it was incredibly obscure and had a tiny cult following. I want to say the guy was called Neal Stephenson. I know that's not it but let's just go with that anyway because I'm fairly sure Neal Stephenson the fiction writer actually does know the source code of reality. Neal Stephenson is a source-erer.
I win at language. TheEnd.
No, wait—A Post-Script:
Regarding authors named /niːl/, Bird and I were holding our thrice-weekly discussion, Concerning Neil Gaiman Who Is the Great Literary Genius of Our Time and zOMG How Amazeballz is Coraline, Jointly Our Most Favorite of Books that Are Not Harry Potter. She suddenly sparked with inspiration: "MOM," she announced, "I know why you love him so much!" Here, she assumes the posture of a power-mad Asgardian supervillain, holding aloft Loki's scepter, and yells,
"KNEEEEEEEEEL!!!!!!! gaiman," then falls apart in hysterics at her own horrific, adorable pun. I bowed (knelt) to her and dubbed her Tiny Queen of Word Play.
And now that is all. I'm off to try to drug & ice my right sciatic nerve into submission and begin this free online writing course. Join me if you will.
Hail Eris. All Hail Discordia.