We fall in love at weddings and auctions, over glasses
of wine in Italian restaurants where plastic grapes hang
on the lattice, our bodies throb
in the checkout line, the bus stop, at basketball games
and we can’t keep our hands off each other
until we can—
so we turn to rubber masks and handcuffs,
falling in love again.
We go to movies and sit in the air conditioned dark
with strangers who are in love
with heroes like Peter Parker
who loves a girl he can’t have
because he loves saving the world in red and blue tights
more than he would love to have her ankles wrapped around
his waist or his tongue between her legs.
While we watch films
in which famous people play famous people
who experience pain,
the boy who sold us popcorn loves the girl
who sold us our tickets
and stares at the runs in her stockings
every night,
even though she is in love
with the skinny kid who sold her cigarettes at the 7-11,
and if the world had any compassion
it would let the two of them pass
a Marlboro Light back and forth
until their fingers eventually touched, their mouths
sucking and blowing.
If the world knew how
the light bulb loved the socket
then we would all be better off.
We could all dive head first into the sticky parts.
We could make sweat a religion
and praise the holiness of smelliness.

I am going to stop here,
on this dark night,
on this country road,
where country songs
come from, and kiss her, this woman, below the trees
which are below the stars,
which are below desire.
There is a music to it, I hear it.
Johnny Rotten, Biggie Smalls, Johan Sebastian Bach, I don’t care
what they say—
I loved you the way my mouth loves teeth,
the way a boy I know would risk it all for a purple dinosaur,
who, truth be known, loved him.

In the Midwest, fields of corn are in love
with a scarecrow, his potato-sack head
and straw body, hanging out among the dog-eared stalks
like a farm-Christ full of love.

Turning on the radio I hear
how AM loves FM the way my mother loved Elvis
whose hips all young girls loved, sitting around the television
in a poodle skirt and bobby socks.
that I was born after a long night of Black-Russians
and Canasta while “Jailhouse Rock” rocked.

Stamps love envelopes, the licking proves it—
just look at my dog
who obviously loves himself with an intensity
no human being could sustain, though you can’t say
we don’t try.

In High school I once cruised
a McDonald’s drive-thru butt-naked
on a dare from a beautiful Sophomore,
only to be swallowed up by a grief
born from super-size or no super-size.

Years later I met a woman
named Heavy Metal Goddess
at a party where she brought her husband,
leading him through the dance floor by a leash,
while in Texas cockroaches love with such abandon
that they wear their skeletons on the outside.

Once a baby lizard loved me so completely,
he moved into my apartment and died of hunger.

No one loves war,
but I know a man
who loves tanks so much he wishes he had one
to pick up the groceries, drive his wife to work,
drop his daughter off at school with her Little Mermaid
lunch box, a note hidden inside
next to the apple, folded
with a love that can be translated into any language: I HOPE


Matthew Dickman, ”Love” (via grammatolatry)

A public execution of fear

My sole desire in this life has been and continues to be;

to imagine the unimaginable and then to share it with the world

I don’t want cranes and forklifts jackhammers and belt sanders and power saws

Nor do I want ordinary hammers and screw drivers and wrenches

Not even exacto knives and surgeons scalpels and tweezers

I want murmurs and exhales and thoughts

I want light and water and words

Zero is so beautiful
It’s such a beautiful idea
It’s hardly discussed
You learn zero is special
But you never learn why
Some are even raised to think zero is nothing
Is nobody
Is worthless
Oh how wrong you are my dear
Zero is nonexistence
Yet has existence
Zero is ambiguity
Zero is infinity’s brother
You must have heard the mantra “you mustn’t divide by zero”

"You can’t divide by zero"

It leads to infinity
Calculus is built on zeros and infinities
Rates of change
Areas of surfaces
Volumes and change

Zero is perfect
It’s not merely an integer
The integers may be nice
Real numbers may be nice

But zero is at once real and not
It’s paradoxical
It flirts

Without it the rest would collapse

Parasympathoidal schizomanic


Longer distance quantum teleportation achieved

Physicists at the University of Geneva have succeeded in teleporting the quantum state of a photon to a crystal over 25 kilometers of optical fiber.

The experiment, carried out in the laboratory of Professor Nicolas Gisin, constitutes a first, and simply pulverises the previous record of 6 kilometres achieved ten years ago by the same UNIGE team. Passing from light into matter, using teleportation of a photonto a crystal, shows that, in quantum physics, it is not the composition of a particle which is important, but rather its state, since this can exist and persist outside such extreme differences as those which distinguish light from matter. The results obtained by Félix Bussières and his colleagues are reported in the latest edition of Nature Photonics.
Quantum physics, and with it the UNIGE, is again being talked about around the world with the Marcel Benoist Prize for 2014 being awarded to Professor Nicolas Gisin, and the publication of experiments in Nature Photonics. The latest experiments have enabled verifying that the quantum state of a photon can be maintained whilst transporting it into a crystal without the two coming directly into contact. One needs to imagine the crystal as a memory bank for storing the photon’s information; the latter is transferred over these distances using the teleportation effect.
Teleporting Over 25 Kilometres
The experiment not only represents a significant technological achievement but also a spectacular advance in the continually surprising possibilities afforded by the quantum dimension. By taking the distance to 25 kilometres of optical fibre, the UNIGE physicists have significantly surpassed their own record of 6 kilometres, the distance achieved during the first long-distance teleportation achieved by Professor Gisin and his team in 2003.
Memory After Triangulation
So what exactly is this testing of quantum entaglement and its properties? One needs to imagine two entangled photons -in other words two photons inextricably linked at the most infinitesimal level by their joint states. One is propelled along an optical fibre (the 25 kilometres mentioned earlier), but not the other, which is sent to a crystal. It is a bit like a game of billiards, with a third photon hitting the first which obliterates both of them. Scientists measure this collision. But the information contained in the third photon is not destroyed -on the contrary it finds its way to the crystal which also contains the second entangled photon.
Thus, as Félix Bussières the lead author of this publication explains, one observes “that the quantum state of the two elements of light, these two entangled photons which are like two Siamese twins, is a channel that empowers the teleportation from light into matter”.
From there, it is a small step to conclude that, in quantum physics, the state takes precedence over the ‘vehicle’ - in other words an item’s quantum properties transcend classical physical properties. A step that maybe now one can take.
More information: Quantum teleportation from a telecom-wavelength photon to a solid-state quantum memory, Nature Photonics, DOI: 10.1038/nphoton.2014.215


—noun, plural fris·sons .

a sudden, passing sensation of excitement; a shudder of emotion; thrill: The movie offers the viewer the occasional frisson of seeing a character in mortal danger.

it was a single room. matte grey. no furniture except the tatami mat on the floor and a few books opened face down. food was cooked on a collapsible propane stove folded in the corner. it was hardly used, mainly raw vegetables were consumed. he managed the grocery shop on the bottom floor of the building, she worked at the public library on the other side of the city. everyday she’d bring home new books that they’d skim through, any worth reading would be saved until they needed returning, the others would be taken back the next day. there was a giant chalkboard painted on one of the walls. sometimes they didn’t feel like speaking so they’d doodle each other messages. they both erased the thought of anyone else ever existing from their mind. occasionally a long lost friend would send a letter; an invitation to a wedding, a death in the family, a plea for some advice. guests were always welcome - it’s only that most of them found the place deplorable. “where do you guys do dishes?” “where are your clothes?” “you don’t have a television?” “how do you cook food?”

"why don’t you just leave?"

on stormy nights they’d both perch up on the windowsill and count the rain drops or watch the droplets scurry across the glass. sometimes he’d come home with lots of cardboard boxes and they’d call out of work the next day and just build - cities, bridges, planes, houses, trees, domes, everything!

some days the only thing that’d be said was “I will certainly miss you when you’re gone.”

sisyphus’ stone was probably more like a grain of sand. it’s like a whole day passes and all that seems to have actually happened is a few words spoken, a few doors opened, and a couple objects moved from here to there then back again.

My black nighted empress
Dancing around undressed in the corner of my eye
Whispering lovely melodies and I’m not quite sure why
She’s shrouded in metaphor
She couldn’t really exist
For if she were real, my yearning would subsist

Context and interpretation and inter subjectivity and the role of imagination in constructing some semblance of a coherent world - these things need to be talked about more

I’m finally free. If i so desired I could pack my bag and just start walking, I could drop school, I could go do drugs, I could go visit friends.

What do I do though? Lay in bed by my open window and read. It’s so calm I don’t want to do anything else. I hardly want to read.