Surface water.

By now I'm sure you've all heard about what may be surface water in the Endurance Crater. Don't go too nuts, just yet, people. We still need to terraform the shit out of that plaent, before its liveable. And let us never forget the fact that, should we encounter life, it may well fucking kill us.

Tori Amos - [Mother Revolution]--- No one ever thinks about the fact that their fucking germs may fucking well kill Us. Especially if "they" Are germs. Bacterial life is the most likely thing.

And another thing, while I've got my Irish up, on the subject of aliens: The X-Files would have ended a Lot better if the aliens had been performing experiments, through history, to attune people to occult phenomena, in an effort to increase human evolution to the point where it could successfully defend itself against those kinds of attacks. The greatest living fulfillment of their experiement: Fox Mulder. Signs and portents to follow, bringing in Scully's child.

That is all.

I say it again... More Borges

I know i'm boring you, with this, but it's cracking my head open in the most wonderful ways:

'Every writer creates his own precursors. His work modifies our conception of the past, as it will modify the future.'

No author who writes seeks to create, in me, anything more than a stirring, an approximate understanding of the thing that they sought to put to words. For the most part, none of them seeks to make, in me, a new writer. They don't set out with the intent of their threads converging, in my mind, with those of another, and having a certain product come out. Some may, but most don't. Imagine various diffuse thrheads fo ideas, sent out into the world, sometimes converging, often over-lapping, struggling for dominance, and many times simply parallel or not at all concerned with the content of each other. These are written things, created things, drawn, painted, sung, played, spoken things.

All of the aforementioned threads are sent out innto the world, and are taken in by everyone with whom they come in contgact. Every time we view, read, interact with, whatever, the creation of another, we internalise it, if only briefly. This is not to say that our internalisation is what "gives" it meaning, more to say that the only meaning that it can have to us will arise from our internalisation and interpretation. Even if we hate something, we have given it a value, in our minds. However, there are certain things that will strike us in a certain way, things that will resonate with us, such that we internalise them more thoroughly than others. We will seek to integrate these things within ourselves, because they are so close to us. Something sparked, a new way of hearing an old song or melody, a separate view from a familiar window, or any number of other things; they merge within us, and that, of necessity, creates something new, again.

Our interpretation of the intent inherent in the material product of someone's conscious and unconscious psyche is the process that begins our production of new works. Input-Process-Throughput-Output. Thesis-Anithesis-Synthesis. Subject-Object-Presence. Howver you term it, it is a process of taking inthe new, the old, the world, around you, and moulding it in your mind, and flipping it around, and finding the pieces that no one saw, before.

'"A labyrinth of symbols," he corrected. "An invisible labyrinth of time. . .Ts'ui Pên must have said once: I am withdrawing to write a book. And another time I am withdrawing to construct a labyrinth. Everyone imagined two works; to no one did it occur that the book an the maze were one and the same thing.'

It certainly should have.