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May. 12th, 2005 11:46 amExtrapolate. Analyze. Instinct and reason.
It's amazing how the little things fall into place when you program your mind to work that way. How you can watch the probabilities spin out like spider-webs and solidify and clench into lines and then things take a sudden left turn and you have no idea what's going on anymore.
I'm probably posting this to the wrong journal.
The littlest things. Everything matters, everything. Nothing is trivial. A word here or there can change the meaning of the sentence, the paragraph, the invitation or refusal. Everything means something and you remember it in horrific, stunning detail and when it's text you can go back and look you can turn back and watch the patterns forming behind you and be terrified at how little time it took. Everything solidifies. Coalesces into the whole that's still changing.
Extrapolate from the patterns. Treat it as a scientific exercise, if then. Because there are predictable patterns. Give a little to get a little. An admission of guilt is a step, as in fencing, where you get under the guard and score the touch. But it's not fencing on the track, this is no-holds barred rapier and main gauche. This is up and down the palace steps and one misstep will tumble you down onto the rocks. You can only go so far, gaining and losing ground, before you've gotten in so deep that you can't lose significant ground without deliberately fucking up. And you can only lose ground so many times before the walls are too high to scale.
Analyze. Extrapolate. Forensic sociology? It's profiling. I'd've made a hell of a profiler. Speech patterns. The way you use words, linguistics and semantics and every other fucking thing. The things you say. An admission here can lead to patterns forming elsewhere. Names have meaning. Words have meaning.
And instinct, instinct above all. Because instincts rarely fail somehow, because it's all the subroutines your brain has programmed into you so you don't have to do the little two plus two calculations at the forefront. So you can crunch amazing numbers and not even be aware that you're doing it. Instincts rule. But instincts can also get you into patterns of thinking, into paradigms, love lock everyone into a box and then you're stuck because you can't think away from it. Not everything is the Zodiac.
Moments when you look at all the data spread out on the desk in front of you and go "Well, fuck. Now what do I do?" It's amazing. Profiles on everyone. Bloody FBI basement from Raiders of the Lost Ark with all those boxes. Lots of files. Lots and lots of files. But none of it means anything, really. Now what do I do?
Hi! I didn't get much sleep last night. Did you?
It's amazing how the little things fall into place when you program your mind to work that way. How you can watch the probabilities spin out like spider-webs and solidify and clench into lines and then things take a sudden left turn and you have no idea what's going on anymore.
I'm probably posting this to the wrong journal.
The littlest things. Everything matters, everything. Nothing is trivial. A word here or there can change the meaning of the sentence, the paragraph, the invitation or refusal. Everything means something and you remember it in horrific, stunning detail and when it's text you can go back and look you can turn back and watch the patterns forming behind you and be terrified at how little time it took. Everything solidifies. Coalesces into the whole that's still changing.
Extrapolate from the patterns. Treat it as a scientific exercise, if then. Because there are predictable patterns. Give a little to get a little. An admission of guilt is a step, as in fencing, where you get under the guard and score the touch. But it's not fencing on the track, this is no-holds barred rapier and main gauche. This is up and down the palace steps and one misstep will tumble you down onto the rocks. You can only go so far, gaining and losing ground, before you've gotten in so deep that you can't lose significant ground without deliberately fucking up. And you can only lose ground so many times before the walls are too high to scale.
Analyze. Extrapolate. Forensic sociology? It's profiling. I'd've made a hell of a profiler. Speech patterns. The way you use words, linguistics and semantics and every other fucking thing. The things you say. An admission here can lead to patterns forming elsewhere. Names have meaning. Words have meaning.
And instinct, instinct above all. Because instincts rarely fail somehow, because it's all the subroutines your brain has programmed into you so you don't have to do the little two plus two calculations at the forefront. So you can crunch amazing numbers and not even be aware that you're doing it. Instincts rule. But instincts can also get you into patterns of thinking, into paradigms, love lock everyone into a box and then you're stuck because you can't think away from it. Not everything is the Zodiac.
Moments when you look at all the data spread out on the desk in front of you and go "Well, fuck. Now what do I do?" It's amazing. Profiles on everyone. Bloody FBI basement from Raiders of the Lost Ark with all those boxes. Lots of files. Lots and lots of files. But none of it means anything, really. Now what do I do?
Hi! I didn't get much sleep last night. Did you?