This is still my stuff.

I encountered a feeling of hunger. This feeling caused bangers and mash to be shovelled (along with the obligatory thick onion gravy) into my cavernous gob, causing incidentally in my present being the rise of a desire to carry out an experiment, for which I would need a particular set of circumstances (a "situation") to obtain: one in which photographic evidence of this meal existed. So I caused such a situtation to come into play. When I'd employed my capacity to convert desire into reality, in this instance by pressing a button on a device that my thought-thumper supposes must have been designed by some "one" with the intention of assisting in such situations, I did the thing that I think of as "seeing" to the image of this glorious repast, and it caused one of those thought-things to commence existence. I don't know where it did this, but I know it must have done it somewhere, because it wasn't there before, and then it was. Anyway, the thing that the thought said it was about was the bangers and the mash, on the plate, speared by the cutlery, with the slight gelatinousness of the gravy caught in the glare of the flash serving merely in the context of my concept-globule-tank to indicate hot steaming yumminess. After this, I made it possible (see how I did that intention-situation-conversion thing again without bothering to concern myself with its mechanics? One might even say I did it nonchalantly) for other people's "them" to allow the image to slide across their synapses, straight into their understanding-holes, so that I might reflect on the outcome of this occasion. Now hear this: I assume that the image caused the yummy blob of mindstuff to happen (where, I know not) in my me, because as indicated, the blob only post-existed the image. Thus, in my constant struggle to understand the nature of this apparent causation, my experiment had been to see whether, on experience of the image, an Other might not also experience the unlocatable perception-flash. So to complete the experiment, I listened carefully to what noises the Other made in what I assumed was the Other's description of the image. The Other said - I assume that's what it did, because words happened - it 'looked' like "jobbies in a brain". I (my me, the thing that knew that somewhere was a wish to understand the causal or otherwise relationship) don't know what this means, experimentally.

Months passed and the focus of my locus remained static. Events occurred, consciousness streamed as it never seems to stop doing and my stasis converted itself, dynamically, into stagnation. So I engaged in the fourth form of movement: I got on a 'plane. The fulsome majesty of the sky was exposed to my concept-processor; the precariousness of the aeroplane's position imposed intimations of mortality in the constantly-evolving flow of notions constituting my "mind"; a sandwich in a plastic container was distributed physically to the embodiment of "me". I ate it with my mouth, that hole in my face, and with the teeth and tongue contained therein; with my œsophagus, my intestines, my alimentary canal. I turned it into energy. Then I got off the 'plane.

I've decided, as is presumably evidenced to some degree by my total failure to post anything here recently, that "blogging" really is a load of arrogant, conceited tosh if one doesn't have anything objectively interesting to write about. At a friend's exhortation, I took briefly to searching and browsing through technorati in order to find cutting-edge opinion and points of view on fascinating, topical issues and blow me, what I found was dreadful. Some of the people who write (for example) technical or travel journals are interesting - indeed, some of them appear able even to string together the occasional sentence whose construction doesn't quite make me shudder - but in general, it's eye-wateringly narcissistic drivel, written by people who feel empowered by the simple fact of the technology powering this "blogging" phenomenon to expose their inner lives to all and sundry. "So", the reader will presumably say, "don't read it". Well, I won't, and I won't add to it. Instead, I might just post deliberately trite, ludicrously detailed minutiae of my life in a no doubt vain effort to point towards the meaninglessness of even an honest attempt to impart any value in an all-encompassing sea of self-obsessed trivialisations. To that end, here's a photo of what I ate last night. Have at you, sir.