#but like it was such a stupid thing and sbe turned it into a thing

[chaelinsbitch]

My friends disregard for my work situations and then her complaining about her own when it's literally not even that serious for her is really starting to piss me off

[jonathankatwhatever]

It’s 4 Oct 2024. And today I learned the moving business is a scam in the sense they underbid and then hit you with an increase. I was sold a firm price but they contract out to a carrier and their contract says estimate. I have to read what they sent me but I remember checking it. Maybe I was forgetful and trusted people I don’t know. They’re doing good work. No complaints about that.

Another example is they were wrong about the time. Turns out these guys were sent to Martha’s Vineyard and had to wait until 3pm for the ferry. That may have been a mistake, however, because the Steamship Authority is down one ship. So lie or error? I’d bet the latter. Exploring the negative.

Work isn’t tiring. Worry is. Worry gets in the way of work through AT. How? Describe worry? There is a gap between what is or will be or was and you because you are to some extent discrete Things. Can sort of reverse that to say you are one Thing but that becomes true, as you know, in higher dimensions.

So worry consumes resources, which means processing fCM through SBE. Energy cost. In the intangible connecting to the tangible and back because that Thing identifies using fCM through SBE. Is that wording clear? It’s like you count SBE2 using fCM, so if you count 3 separate Things, then you can identify those Things through the pattern layers. Layers are the same way, meaning layers of SBE connecting over and through fCM.

That’s actually how choice works. It needs the 2 methods to be logically whole. And if wasn’t clear, the references to how much Thingyness is shared are to sets. I can see the explanatory utility of those ideas now. And topologies, since we can treat Things as connected or not spaces, etc. All kinds of spaces. Banach, Baire, Hausdorff, more.

I’m trying to connect complex numbers to that. From this side. They’re layers and they’re the close layer. What is added? Well I was just looking at complex color graphs and realized, after staring for a few minutes wondering what I was missing, when I realized I was looking at a map equivalent to a K’ing into SBE. That is 2^n. And it makes 3 distinct sections with discontinuity dividers. I feel both stupid and smart.

My move is costing over $4k more. And I have a 4 hour drive tonight. Get back around 2?

[murswrites]

Insane ⎯ John Shelby One-shot

Pairings: John Shelby x Solomons!FEM!Reader Fandom: Peaky Blinders MASTERLIST Word Count: 1.7k (ish) Warnings: Cursing, drinking, description of puking  SUMMARY: When you and your best friend go out for a drink at an unfamiliar pub, you run into John Shelby. A man who you just happen to “hate”.  Request from @encounterthepast​: If requests are still open could I go for John with "He’s driving me crazy” and “Have you totally lost your mind?” ... ? Thank you!! (Also I'm loving your social media AU)

A/N Hi! Thank you for requesting!!! It means a lot & I’m glad you’re enjoying SBE <33 I’m really proud of this? I actually thought about what I was going to do b e f o r e writing it... which is new to be quite frank. Y/F/N means “Your friend’s name” & Y/F/E/C means “your friend’s eye color.” I tried to keep them gender neutral since I made the reader female :D, enjoy!

Y/N Solomons was a name many knew. It was one many feared, except for John Shelby, of course. That sarcastic little fuck was always flirting and trying to hook up with Alfie Solomons’ sister. The fear that surrounded her, was due to her brash and no-nonsense attitude. Y/N, apparently wasn’t that way when she was young, she was sweet and wholesome. The war changed her, many say. But Alfie and John knew otherwise.

The fact that they were in the war beside (not literally) her, gave them a perspective many didn’t have. Alfie hadn’t wanted his little sister to be a war medic, but she was adamant about helping. The war didn’t change her, for say, it just caused her to grow up at an alarming rate. She went from the ripe age of twenty-four to practically forty in those long four years during the war. Being in your twenties usually meant partying and doing illegal things.

For Y/N, it was quite the opposite. She went through so much, trying to save so many lives, and losing so many due to the lack of supplies. It was hard, but she made it through by becoming numb to it all. And John Shelby seemed to be the only bloke able to get through her stoic surface. Managing to make her irritated with a smirk or snarky compliment. 

“Look, it’s that angry woman.” John would sometimes say, or he’d say something that held a double meaning. “I bet you like being in control everywhere, love.” The pet names were annoying enough as it was. Y/N hated and loved the attention in a strange way. She never got the attention of men anymore, it surprised the younger Shelby boy. Y/N’s beautiful, everyone knew that.

Everyone also knew that she was Alfie’s sister and that often scared men away. But not John, John’s adamant. He’s insistent that Y/N has feelings for him too. So he tries, for months he tries to woo her in any way possible. Little does he know that it is in fact working. Y/N took a long time to master appearing unamused and uninterested. It was hard work, but holding her angry resting face became a habit, a mask… hell, even protection.

Showing no emotions gave her an advantage. When all others showed everything with their faces and body language, she was left to read them like books. John Shelby was one of those people, he was young and she knew that. Along with reading him like a story, she could tell that he wasn’t pulling her leg. That he actually found her to be interesting and he wasn’t interested in forming a contract between them too. One to mutually benefit the Solomons’ and the Shelbys. 

Y/N wouldn’t lie, he intrigued her. How he blatantly flirts with her even with Alfie present. It entertained her, watching Alfie lose his shit over harmless flirting. “I don’t like that boy one bit.” Alfie often spat out while stroking his beard thoughtfully. 

—

 “He’s driving me crazy,” You mumbled while holding your head in your hands. Y/F/N and you were out drinking, it had been a long day with Alfie moaning and complaining about everything under the sun so Y/F/N thought it’d be nice to forget it all for one night.

Y/F/N turned to you, a drink in hand, and raised an eyebrow, “Alfie?” You chuckled, that was a reasonable question. All damn day, your brother had been cursing up a storm and complaining about everything in sight. 

“No, John fucking Shelby,” The annoyance in your voice was clear as their eyes widened. You haven’t ever openly complained about John’s pestering, perhaps it was the alcohol pushing your thoughts out. You picked up the full glass– it was whiskey, Irish, your favorite –and downed it in one go. “Always askin’ me out and fucking flirting with me… it’s annoying as fuck.”

“Maybe if you sleep with him, he’ll stop?” The slap you sent to Y/F/N’s arm startled them, your eyes were cold and hard.

"Y/N Solomons doesn’t lie with any man, especially not a fucking Shelby.” You spat your words out bitterly, tapping your glass on the counter to let the barman know you’re empty. The bar that the two of you sat in, wasn’t the usual place you chose to forget in. It was dark and kind of gross. But that didn’t matter, the alcohol was making your brain fuzzy, that was what mattered. All that mattered was that John’s taunting was forgotten.

But it seemed like the original plan was stunted, the many memories of John giving you a cheeky grin or saying something obscene surfacing in the presence of the shitty alcohol. “Now that’s not a very nice way to talk about me.” Immediately, at the sound of hearing the bastard’s voice, you groaned loudly. 

“Just my fuckin’ luck. Where are we Y/F/N?” Their Y/F/E/C eyes looked toward the floor sheepishly, they planned this. “Of course.” The sound of your voice made your best friend flinch, expecting an outburst. John Shelby stood behind your chair, you could feel his presence easily. Since he often made an appearance during the meetings between Alfie and Tom, you saw John frequently. It was annoying, not enjoyable. 

You turned in your chair at the feeling of John’s hand on the back of it, raising an eyebrow in question. “Why, you’re at The Garrison, love. Best dam pub in Small Heath.”

“That’s debatable.” Y/F/N muttered under their breath. John calling you love was a normal occurrence, something he often did. You never paid any mind to the flirtatious comments that often left his lips. For some reason, tonight, the name caused heat to spread throughout your body. Your nose, ears, and cheeks felt warm. The thought of John seeing the blush oddly worried you. As if seeing you react would only entice more flirting. 

The pub was growing hot and you suddenly felt the urge to vomit. You quickly grabbed your purse and practically ran from John and Y/F/N, clutching a hand over your mouth on your way out. Thankfully the night air of Small Heath was cold and bitter. It helped you as you nursed the vomit from your bowels violently. It felt like you puked for hours before you walked away from the bush and leaned on the brick wall in an alleyway. 

—

“Jesus.” John’s voice brought you from your thoughts, why was he here? “Are you alright, love?” That stupid nickname… you cursed under your breath as John took a swig from a flask. He held the silver flask out to you and you gladly took it. The taste of vomit making your stomach churn even though puking now would only cause pain.

The alcohol burned your throat, but you welcomed the pain since it tasted better than the puke. “I’m fine.” You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, itching to get away from the young man. It wasn’t that he disgusted you or made you want to punch him (although he often did). It was the feeling that your lack of sobriety made you feel with him standing there, with that shit-eating grin like he knew what you were thinking without even knowing.

John wasn’t ugly, you knew that, he even knew it. He annoyed you to no end, constantly flirting and trying to gain a reaction from you. The pet names, the jokes, the sinful glances… it wasn’t like you didn’t secretly crave the attention. You were beyond touch starved and you knew it was your fault. From being a blatant bitch to downright turning men down, soon they stopped trying. Add being Alfie Solomons’ sister to the mix and you’ve got the potential for a natural disaster.

Shelby’s and Solomons’ don’t mix. Everyone (not everyone. Those in the Peaky Blinders and Alfie’s boys knew)  in both Camden Town and Small Heath were aware of the icy slopes that the businesses were on. That any rock in the boat could shoot everyone off-board and into the murky water of the cut. These thoughts are the reason why you hesitated when John fucking Shelby kissed you with enough force that you had to grab the lapel of his suit coat. 

It was why your eyebrows screwed in confusion before you realized what was happening, right before you melted into his touch, you pushed him back harshly. John’s breath was ragged and fast, like he’d just been underwater. “Have you totally lost your mind?” You spoke over one another, “That was amazing.” 

John caught onto your words, his pale blond eyebrows also furrowing. “What–” 

“This would never work.” Your voice was stoic, John sighed as he realized that you retreated back into yourself. He saw the real you for only a moment it felt like, but it was a wonderful moment. When your hands held onto his suit and pulled him in. How heavenly your lips felt against his own. 

He nodded, jaw twitching, “We could make it work, Y/N. You and I– we’d be the most powerful couple in all of England.” You scoffed dryly, of course, he was thinking of business.

“And here I thought you actually liked me–”

“What? I do! No– that’s not what I meant, I meant that nothing could stand in our way, we’d be dynamite.” A laugh forced its way through your rouge lips, how hilarious… you thought to yourself. He was worried about his image and not how he truly felt. John’s cheeks were surprisingly red as he rubbed the back of his neck, this was an odd sight to see. The flirtatious Shelby boy… all meek and shy.

It made you feel powerful, like you held the strings that controlled him. You knew it wasn’t true but it was quite the sight to see, him blushing before you. All because you tripped him up with your confidence, so you did the one thing you’ve been forcing yourself to not imagine for the past few months. You grabbed the lapel once more, only this time, you were initiating the contact. 

John replied immediately by holding your cheek and neck lovingly as you two kissed passionately in the dark alleyway. The feeling was strangely euphoric, the adrenaline rush high, and your hands moving across one another’s bodies. Trying to feel every part of them. Soon though, you had to break apart for precious air. Your hair felt a mess and John’s cheeks were even redder than before, if possible. He had a smile on his face and you had half the mind to smack it off.

“You’re insane, John Shelby.” You whispered into the night, enjoying the feeling of his embrace.

“Says the Solomons girl.” John quipped back.

“Ouch.”

[tb5-heavenward]

flight hours

continuing from here, wherein we come to the conclusion of our story, and there's a lil bit of a twist at the end. also expect an epilogue. later.

7

In the suddenness of the relative silence and stillness the exertion catches up to him. Scott gets caught for a few precious seconds, on his knees and breathing hard, his limbs tremoring slightly with unspent adrenaline. The inside of his helmet grows abruptly claustrophobic and he pulls it off, feels the impact in his kneecaps as bounces off the floor in front of him. Without it, the next breath he takes fills his lungs with the choking scent of electrical smoke, burnt metal, spent fuel. The things Brains designs are less likely than most to burst into flame, even when badly damaged, but it's still better safe than sorry. Scott stumbles a little getting to his feet, scrambling for a can of fire retardant, nearly tripping over John as he goes for it.

Considering the concerns he has about the current status of his brother's spine subsequent to being tackled in midair by a hostile drone nearly twice his size---tripping over him would probably sbe bad and unhelpful. John hasn't so much as twitched since they got back aboard, crumpled on his side where Scott let him drop.

The reasons he's got to be concerned about his brother's spine are starting to catch up with him, a brewing storm of fear and anger and anxiety, with the faintest silver lining of relief that it hadn't been worse, like lightning at the edges of thunder clouds. He still doesn't know that John isn't just dead. He hasn't checked. Scott's just been acting like he isn't, like that's impossible; something that just couldn't have happened on what was supposed to be a simple, straightforward run, a basic rescue, practically a stone's throw from the island. It's not optimism as much as it is the simple, staunch refusal to believe the worst, that today could've gone so wrong, so suddenly.

The first thing he does is douse the smoking, sparking place at the back of the exosuit, stifling it with fire retardant foam that hisses out of the can he'd grabbed. This immediately snuffs out the smoke, neutralizes any leaking fuel. He sets the cannister aside and kneels down, leans over to get a proper look at his brother, carefully shifting the bulk of the exosuit so that John's no longer lying twisted on his side.

And he's rewarded with a (blank, slightly unfocused) stare from a pair of bright green eyes, even as he reaches for John's wrist in search of a pulse. He ends up grabbing his brother's hand and squeezing instead, gets a feeble twitch of his fingers in response.

Scott hadn't quite realized how potent the relief would be, but it floods into him like oxygen. Real relief is like a proper strike of lightning, instead of just the faint silver edges of hope. He feels the tension in his jaw finally relax as he breaks into a grin, smiling down at his brother, though the first thing he can think to say is, "You absolute fucking moron."

John can't hear him, with his radio off and his helmet still on, but he seems to recognize that Scott's said something and he blinks, confused. Scott just sighs and shakes his head, starts to move through basic triage. The exosuit is bulky and ungainly and awkward and very much in Scott's way, but it does prevent John from moving too much, as Scott continues a quick assessment. He puts a hand on his brother's shoulder and squeezes gently, hoping John takes this as an indication to hold still, but his eyes have fallen closed again, and there's no response. Scott doesn't like that, and he frowns to himself as he toggles his HUD for a basic medical overview.

A preliminary scan reveals no broken bones, no evidence of severe internal trauma, beyond some minor bruising. Scott chalks up the exosuit as another miracle of Brains' engineering, because after the impact his brother had suffered, Scott had expected to see all manner of damage; broken bones and bruised organs. But the suit had clearly taken the bulk of the force from the impact, absorbed and distributed, just the same way as John's blues have absorbed and diffused the drone's final electric discharge. Scott sighs again and raps his knuckles lightly on the clear perspex face of John's helmet. "C'mon," he mutters, and there's another little burst of relief as John blinks up at him again. Scott raps a little harder, this time on the exosuit. "Hold still," he says, loud and clear so his brother gets the message. "Gonna get you outta this thing."

John just closes his eyes again, but he also lifts a hand, flashes a quick thumbs-up. Scott takes this to mean About damn time, and obligingly gets to work.

The exosuit weighs about a hundred pounds and while this is impressively light considering its capabilities, it's still about a hundred pounds of dead weight. Scott slots open a panel on the chest piece and hunts down a bright red lever. He twists it to unlock the mechanism, then pulls it sharply, and the suit disengages at four major points of articulation, popping open at the shoulders and hips, the chest piece coming loose so that Scott can pull it off and put it aside. It's a little bit like shucking an oyster. Not for the first time, he's grateful for the fact that Brains thinks of everything.

He catches John's shoulder as his brother shifts, and then he's careful, patient, as he helps him ease up into a sitting position, and then lever himself off the shell of his exosuit to sit flat on the floor of TB1's cargo bay, ducking his head to pull off his helmet. This thuds hollowly on the floor as John drops it, but his shoulders stay bowed and he doesn't look up, one hand pressed against his forehead and the other leaning his weight against his knee. This all seems to bode well for the state of his neck and spine, though Scott's a little unsettled by the speed and the shallowness of his breathing. "John?" he prompts. "You with me?"

"Mm. Mmhm." Scott had been hoping for words, and after a few more deep breaths, John manages to pull himself together. The first thing he says is still dazed and disconnected, and an entirely stupid question besides, "...did...did I fall?"

"Yeah, Johnny."

"Oh." He falls silent for a few moments, and then sounds much younger than usual as he asks, "...did you catch me?"

Scott can't help a bit of a chuckle at that, and the hand he's rested on his brother's back reflexively offers a few comforting pats. "All part of the service," he jokes, though it very nearly wasn't funny, and the degree to which John's still disoriented with respect to what's happened is concerning.

"I fell, though?"

"A little."

"...a little?"

"Well. Freefall for maybe twenty seconds. About half a mile, by my reckoning. I can probably get the telemetry to tell you exactly---" John shudders bodily at the mere mention, so Scott quickly appends, "---but I think you probably don't need to know that."

John shakes his head. "Nn. No, I th-think---"

Scott doesn't get to find out whatever his brother thinks, as his back spasms beneath Scott's hand, and he gasps shakily, then throws up on the floor.

"...Okay." Scott's caught him reflexively as he pitched forward, braced an arm across his collarbone. His other hand rubs down the ridge of John's spine as he coughs a few times, retches once, and then shudders again. He doesn't try to sit back up, just hunches forward with his head bowed towards his knees, and his breathing grows shallow again. At least now Scott's got a better idea about why. "All right. Right. So. Is that just late onset motion sickness, or did you hit your head?"

John groans and doesn't catch the sarcasm. Scott catches the way his voice has gotten a little slurred, as he answers, "Depends. 's'Thunderbird One spinning clockwise or counter-clockwise right now?"

"Thunderbird One is cruising on autopilot, flying perfectly straight and level."

"...then I think probably I hit my head."

"Yeah, no shit."

Before he can upbraid his brother for his recklessness, to say nothing of the quality of his flying, there's a chime from the comm in his sash, and Kayo speaks up, "I'm here, just got a visual on Thunderbird One, and...and everything else. What the hell happened? You two made a mess."

Scott grimaces. "We had help."

"I'm tracking debris from multiple collisions, at least a dozen drones still in free fall, the cargo plane you were meant to be evaccing is in the ocean---and is that---did John lose a wing?"

"John also lost consciousness for a solid minute and a half."

"...Is he okay?"

John lifts his head slightly at this, blinks his eyes back open, turns his face towards Scott's open comm. "M'fine," he offers. "Hi. Kayo. Glad you made it. Let's go home."

This last sentence blurs into essentially one word, and Scott rolls his eyes, exasperated for some reason he can't quite put his finger on. "Disregard, Shadow. He is not fine and we're gonna head for the hospital and get him looked at. At least they're already expecting us."

"FAB." There's a note of guilt in Kayo's tone, palpable remorse. "I'm sorry I didn't get here faster. This was...god, Scott. I'm gonna need a full debrief once we've landed. This could've been bad."

Scott's aware. "We're both still in one piece," he assures her instead, deliberately refusing to think about just how bad things could've been. "John'll be okay once we get him checked out."

"Do you want an escort?"

Scott's still sitting beside his brother with an arm around his chest, halfway into the closest thing to a hug that John's tolerated in ages, at least where Scott's considered. This is probably less of a hug and more just the desire not to fall over. Scott's pretty sure the last confirmed instance of anyone getting a hug from John was Alan, on Alan's sixteenth birthday. There's photographic evidence, even. But between the nausea and the dizziness resulting from what's likely a mild concussion, John doesn't seem in a hurry to move, and Scott's not in a hurry to move him. He can fly from here, but there are easier options, and Kayo's presented one of the easiest.

"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be good, thanks. I'm gonna stay put and make sure John's okay. I'll set the autopilot to tail you. Just keep an eye on the skies, I think we'd both feel better if we were ready for any more surprises."

"You got it, Scott. I'll let you know when we're on approach."

"Thanks, Kayo. Thunderbird One, engage Protocol Shadow."

Scott's right arm is still pinned where John's leaned his weight against it, still slumped forward where he sits. Scott absently pats his back again, and then flicks his wrist just-so, just to double check his flight control. He watches as the control matrix switches over to tracking their sister's flight path, and feels the ship dip slightly beneath them, as TB1 adjusts to follow Shadow's flight pattern and then levels off again. John groans about this, too, protesting the sudden movement.

"Oh, you're okay, you big damn baby," Scott chides gently, but he rubs the heel of his hand up and down John's spine, then feels guilty when his brother shudders again, and hesitantly asks, "...You are okay, right?"

There's no immediate answer, and probably it's asking a little much to expect one, but eventually John gives him another thumbs up, and then continues not to say anything.

That's probably fair. Scott checks their ETA again---about another fifteen minutes out, travelling at near top speed, for the hospital in Brisbane where they'd planned to take their phantom pilot. They've already got flight clearance, it's just a shame they're going to have to use it. Scott sighs to himself, starts to mentally rearrange the rest of the month around the fact that John's going to need at least two weeks of downtime, someone to sub in for him up on TB5, a new exosuit. And this is to say nothing of the sobering reality that the Mechanic had laid a trap within spitting distance of Tracy Island, sudden and vicious, and with an apparently deadly intent.

He should probably say something about that, but one minute of silence becomes two, and two turn into three, and it's actually not so bad just to sit next to his brother, in the cargo bay of his Thunderbird, letting the adrenaline bleed off. It's a reminder of how rare John's presence actually is, and how lucky he'd been to have him today. There hadn't been time for hindsight during the course of the action, but the more Scott thinks about it, the more he comes to the same conclusion John had drawn, easily and immediately. He's been worrying about his brother ever since the situation first started going sideways, but it's pure luck that he wasn't killed himself. Solo, it's almost certain he would've been.

He should definitely say something about that.

It takes him another solid minute, but he finally clears his throat, and offers, "---You know, you're not a shitty pilot."

He probably could've come up with something better than that, but it still gets John to lift his head. He shifts slightly where he's sitting, so that Scott removes the arm he'd had around his shoulder, and then shakes his head. "No, I'm not," he agrees.

He sounds tired, rightfully so, and Scott winces, tries again, "I shouldn't have said that. Sorry."

John shrugs. "As a general rule, I disregard about ninety percent of the shit you feel the need to say."

Scott scoffs, and knows it isn't true. He knocks an elbow lightly into his brother's ribs. "Took that one pretty personally, though."

"Well, then there's that one time in ten."

"I'll take those odds."

"Yeah, well, you would."

That's more like it. Scott grins, and in deference to his brother's concussion, refrains from ruffling his hair. He punches John lightly in the shoulder instead, and then says the thing he should've said in the first place, "Thanks, John. Really."

"Oh, you're welcome." There's a pause, slightly self-conscious. And then it's with a credible absence of guile and a probable absence of memory that John cautiously inquires, "...uh, for what, though?"

end

(epilogue forthcoming)

[indische-party]

Mes van allen overreacted and was about to burn dita. Mr van allen came down to stop the commotion. He wa sbeing level headed like “what’s wrong what are you doing? Stop this!”And mrs van allen was just like throwing a fit “nooo you cheated on me!” He was like gaslighting her like no baby it’s just your imagination.

There she tried to test his faith—whether he’s chose her or that lowly inlander. “Then you burn her” she handed the hot brand.

She was giving him a dicothomy—slrt of like how mom does that all the time eg im cleaning toilet and she’s like micromanaging an dinsulting how stupid i am—i could have said you know what i dont have the expertise to do this i will relingquish my responsibility and shed say no you must learn—i didnt know i could say no i dont want to learn good day.

Same for mrs van allen she tried to do that too but mr van allen was like naioise. There was a moment where they all stood in silence—dita thinking he would brand her and she was scared and betrayed. And for a moment mr van allen considered doing that but he was liek wait what? He flipped the dichotomy over and said no im not doing this.

And mrs van allen was just like see?! You cheated on me you have feelings for her!! *rage want to tackle dita* mr van allen caught her and hugged her and be like shh shh no. You dont prove anything you’re commiting crime that’s why i dont agree. If the chruch found out balabalabla. Saying all the things the chruch could do but he do it on daily basis eg torturing bc apparently these rules are formalities only.

Use plot to interact with character: dita overhearing how what they’re doing is actually illegal and can be reported etc—she had an idea bulb. She can fight for freedom! She knows what to do she could write an anonymous letter with evidence to the chruch and this will free her and everyone.

So she went on a secret quest to collect info, evidence, and find someone trustworthy to write for her and to deliver the message. It osunds like a perfect plan!

She qould inquire mr van allen a bit about the government and he would be like huh! You’re quite inquisitive aren’t you.

She decided to abandon her original plan to run away with that dude she met on the forest bc now she could free everyone and perhaps inherit something to start her life. Do all that under the law because even when you do good things the law isnt on your side, let alone steal mrs van allen’s jewelry.

Then she observed people searching the estate and everything, eavesdropping and realizing her plan went awry and when one of the gov people said we will find out who this writer is and put jailtime for them—she knew she screwed up. She was scared. She had to leave. Sooner or later they will find out—so she delivered a message to the dude through someone else that she agrees to leave but it must be asap. When the day came she packed up, ready to tip toe to the designated rendezvous point, she tip toed, and she just have to walk through the door, and lo and behold mr van allen was there. He was holding a lighter with a piper in his mouth. Oh wow. Out of all the day he decided to smoke tonight.

“Hello dita...” he casually greeted. Then his eye went toward apack of something covered in a cloth that she’s carrying. So neat. His brow furrowed in confusion

“What’s that?” He pointed at it with the pipe in his hand.

She was sweating. “Nothing sir. Just taking out the garbage.”

He stopped leaning to the doorway and stood straight assuming serious position. Fuck. Bad answer.

“Looks like it’s still in a great condition...” he realized what he said and his suspicion grew larger. But he doesnt need to confirm it. Thats his power—he doesnt let people know what he knows and they remain unassuming until it’s the right time and he really destroy them.

“Put it back. I’m sure we still can use it.”

Dita nodded. She was relieved. Little did she know he kinda knew.

She went back to the servants quarters and rethink of possible way to creep out. Dammit he’s be waiting there and she told him that if it past midnight he should return because that means she is caught and he might be in danger. Then she decided she doesn’t need as much things. She left her clothes, and took only a knife and money. Then she head for the other door. Made a walk around the house to get to the gates. She was walking fast but quiet not to draw attention.

Little did she knew van allen was watching from 2nd floor smoking. When he notice her walking head on to the gates his eyes widened, and he lauched his plan. Someone was already standby the bell and he notified them to secure the perimeter if it rang. He rushed downstairs and ran after her. When she heard the bell she realized and she ran as fast as she could. She looked back and saw mr van allen at max speed toward her, and she was hyperventilating in fear bc she knew he wouldn’t be kimd with the punishment. She made it past the gates and ran straight into the woods to hopefully hide.

Mr van allen stopped in fornt of the gate, and he yeled at his men to prep the horses. He jumped on and dita continued to run. Amidst panic she realized she didn;t follow the guide the man gave her. She stopped to look around and noticed she was lost. This is bad. And then she heard horses. This is worse.

She ran and ran but there were people on her right, and she turned left and there were people in her left. Mr van allen was one of them. He jerked the rein pwerfully so the horse would crahs on dita , and she fell down but scampered up and ran away. Van allen successfully managed to buy time by making her fall down and he jumped off his horse and ran after her for a few meters before he caught her.

She was crying. Begging her master to forgive her—but he doesnt care. He was not even listening. He grabbed her upper arm and handed her to one of the guards. “Put her in the room.”

Oh no. The room. Where he torture rogue servants

[jonathankatwhatever]

Pardon my American, but this is how stupid I can be: I was looking at material about homeomorphisms and diffeomorphisms and, even after realizing they were talking about dimensional shapes constructed within higher dimensional shapes, I could not accept that there is a known solution which works in D7, and only in D7 except perhaps in D4 as well, and that there are 28 of these in D7. Or rather, in D7, there are at least 7 structures which are smooth, which don’t have cusps, which can be fully differentiated, and these make a group which cycles, a cycling group, of the order or count of 28. To say it the latter way says that smooth is treating this as an I//I creation or generation versus a shape which has a cusp or which is otherwise not smooth, because that non-smoothness is visible I//I. It’s visible because you can see the cut and paste where the images fit together, where there must be a fold or some other change of direction. It’s like you’re being pushed by the wind toward a lee while the tide is running out, so you can feel the directions pushing at each other, but at the level where the wind suddenly picks up, where you turn a headland and the tide or perhaps some other rapid outflow, like a river discharging, grabs. That exposes, again, why this it is so difficult to see this: I//I can hide in plain sight.

We just explained cusps? I guess so. It has been implicit for some time now.

So, would this be Triangular of grid squares? Yes. So we’re saying that Triangular of gs appears in ‘real life’ through John Milnor’s work on exotic spheres and that this bridges to CM28. That it’s 7 and that 4 is an open question are crucial.

I just saw a bridge of 3*28, so SBE of this, which is a cube of this in gs, which is CM84, which leaves CM16, which invokes multiple fCM associations, like 2T at LC. Another is that CM84 also counts as CM64 plus CM20, and CM20 is directional CM10, which can be treated as area and thus as CM100, so that cube then makes sense as the CM64 Thing plus a CM100 that is part of a larger CM100. This stuff drives me nuts. It’s a CM100 which needs to be manipulated twice, taking the root, then counting the root twice (because it has to add up to 20), and this occurs within a larger CM100 because CM84 is CM16 away, which means the additional gs space is defined by a 2T object.

Is there a better way of approaching this? I’m not sure.

It’s like connected sum is a way to get into Attachment Theory. The why of connection being D-structure. That’s why D7 and CM28, and why I refer to D-structure in gs.

I need to tighten or even express in generalities the reason why D7 here represents D3 and D4. It’s the conception of a Registry for grid squares. That’s what writes out the counts. That’s inherent in f1-3//3-1, which is now clearly the base conception of a functional equation in which the fundamental of 3fD to a bT becomes 3gs related to a gs or 4gs which can be pictured on a sheet of grid squares. So the count of a D3 Object in D4 is D7 by what mechanics? Like above, there has to be a path, and it is obviously addition, so what you’re saying is D7 is the natural extension of f1-3 in which the 1 is D4, making this work through the entire context structure. I suddenly see the context structure appearing: the D4 attaches in pairs exactly as we had it years ago.

It’s freaky how I’m now seeing material that’s 10 years old or more come back as completely correct. I should be used to it, but this stuff was set aside. I remember the work and how much effort it took, but I needed to put it aside for a long time. We’re actually connecting fCM to math that didn’t exist until like 1956. There is no way I could have made it this far if I went down that path. I’d have been absorbed into trying to solve problems with a structure I needed to see from the outside so I could connect the understanding within me, which is keyed to the understanding within you, thus making the Triangular in gs which is what I’m now busily describing.

I got up to let the cat out. It’s now 7:11AM on 29 Apr 2023, and the cat already went back to bed. He killed another baby rabbit. Found him eating it. Not sure how I feel about that: we’re going to be overrun by rabbits if there are no predators for them and the coyotes and weasels have killed the feral cats but there aren’t enough them to manage the prey population so they don’t overexpand. The presence of humans keeps the natural predator population low. And we poison so many, too, because we think we have a right to do whatever we want to get rid of rats and other animals we either fear as unclean or which make our yards less attractive.

In terms of smoothness, there needs to be a D7 example (homeo and diffeomorphism) because we need a count of 28 to be smooth because that means I//I is contained or constrained to - and here I run out of notation because we have each Irreducible being cumulative but what we really need is a way of describing that reality can compare within itself, meaning it constructs gs, or to what isn’t, which means it constructs Triangular with grid squares, which means fCM because fCM expresses Triangular. Wow, that just popped out of my fingers. I can do better than that, but not right this moment. I need to go back to sleep because I’m starting to fight to stay awake.