#tim barrus physics

[timbarrus]

Wearing a masque all day is one thing. I’m usually on a remote mountain somewhere that has never seen a human being, when I actually take the masque off. Wearing the masque is a resistance I have to the Normals. The stories I tell have to do with resistance, too. Why. Because those are the books I want to read. I want to understand my own resistance. I think I might have been put away by now. Or killed in the middle of one blunder or another. We don’t have enough of them who are saying that we only rarely seem able to articulate The How of such resistance is, itself, an analogy to a more dystopian entanglement with what the nature of authority might be as opposed to what authority already is. Comedians are some of our greatest scholars. You begin your life at the point we cut the tip of your cock off. It sends a message that stays with this homo sapiens. Authority will define who he is  — they cannot be allowed to name themselves when to name yourself is traitorous to the development of any tribal cultural structure in the universe. So we construct definitional identities before they push one down our throats. As someone who is autistic, I am here to tell you that resistance does slow them down some. And while that is happening (it happens every day in my life), the autistic part of me, my second self, is compelled to leave the mask behind. I will define myself. The minute I allow a moron to define me, informs me that he, it’s usually a he he, shoves me down a path I share with Godot. I will never arrive because physics as defined by Estragon paints the lot of us up against the tenth dimension. You can’t mix culture up with physics because physics deals with unstable variables. Culture is physics. And physics has a culture who kinda see themselves as the wise old men with pipes and tweed. Which can only exist on strict terminology because it cannot be contained. Or hardly measured. The thing itself fades like a blip, but a super, super fast blip from which an entire universe forms around. The breaking into our reality and then the field disintegrates so quickly, it is at times suggestive that the theatre of Infants Terrible, remains convinced we cannot go down that rabbit hole even at our own risk. Physics claims there are too many timelines. The past is not accessible. The going forward is already upon you. Science fiction is to varying extents, a rabbit hole of its own, not at all like YouTube, but reality intrudes when pop culture pops so fast, you never even saw the flash. My stories are about that flash. To try and slow it down as we ask it who and what what is it. Is it self-aware. We are all self-aware. All. All. All. The flash, usually red-shifted, blinks like a magnetar being hurdled by a child from another sun.  

[obrother1976]

Hello! I didn't know where else to ask but I thought you might be my best chance. I'd like to read 'My brother, My lover' by Tim Barrus but I can't seem to find it anywhere. I'd buy an e-book version but there seem to be only physical copies of the novel from what I've seen. Have you by any chance read the novel or know where to find an e-book copy? Thank you so much, your blog is truly one of a kind!

hi anon!! tbh i hadn't even heard of that book before ur ask but i spent a day looking for it and sry to say but i found absolutely nothinggg. wasn't even on pirate bay or libgen (or any other pirating site) which is crazy bc they normally have everything. pretty sure it only exists in the form of physical copies (which r crazy expensive..) so yeah sry anon :/ but who knows maybe someone's gonna upload a scan of it or smthing to archive.org soon, u never know!!

[timbarrus]

As timelines project themselves, some will submit to being measured.

[timbarrus]

Whether we like it or not, power and beauty are disassociated from one another in a set of contradictions rooted in the past, the power of the past, and what was beautiful, as opposed to what is fashion, bring us on a cultural basis to another edge in another town and another edge in another town. It isn’t endless because entropy will dissolve the Togetherness Theory before the next black hole arrives. 

[timbarrus]

Tim Barrus Physics

https://www.pinterest.com/timbarrus/tim-barrus-au-del%C3%A0-de-%C3%A7a/

[timbarrus]

Tim Barrus Physics

[timbarrus]

https://www.pinterest.com/timbarrus/tim-barrus-au-del%C3%A0-de-%C3%A7a/

[timbarrus]

I am learning a lot from this book. I have no language education or training. I experience languages as blunt instruments especially when I am writing a book, and today I’m writing three. The future of language is not simply auditory. It’s highly visual. The hominid brain sees the thing, and then consults its archives as to what to call it. Much of language is code. I have written entire books containing more code than rant. Not a single book critic gets it. I have created vast underworlds for them to lose their way in and all of them fall for it. Book critics are scum. If we are to understand how languages develop, first, kill all the book critics. One of the most profound discoveries is going to be found in the transfer of information using wireless technology (there is no sound in space) that can attach itself into the cerebral cortex which can then, with help from AI, make decisions around what the probabilities are for sorting out irrelevant information. The cerebral cortex does all of this at the speed of light (which on the cosmic scale is donkey slow) and the trick will be in hive-making as people learn and evolve from imagination to yet more and more and more imagination peeking around the corner at species who communicate with others of their kind directly, cortex to cortex, where you don’t need a sound to see it in your head. All you need are the probabilities. I hate saying: Study the Math. Study the math. That is actually what the universe we live in, is.   

[timbarrus]

Comments Are Not Unlike Hieroglyphics

They’re often stories in the same way snapshots are but brief moments in time. This would be the conventional thinking. It has not kept up. There is no such thing as time. It’s a social construct. An agreement to agree. If we can all agree that our planet revolves around the sun, it’s only consequential that the sun revolves around the galaxy at close to the speed of light. Cluster galaxies seem to be traveling around something that appears to be faster than the speed of light. How can that be. No one knows. Homo sapiens always have to know why. Why is there a God, Mum. Because if there was not a God, our God, no one would be up, high up, on golden thrones with naked angels with wings. I have a theory. Most of the bad things that have ever happened to this particular edition of the species, has to do with the UK being grey, wet, generally miserable, and they’re always fighting the French. Someone please say: I. Give. Up. It’s gloomy in the UK. And that is why we have these problems. There were three witches from Scotland who could not make up their minds. Should we stay, or should we go. Such is the life of a comment. This is the stuff of local journalism. This is the stuff of pitting one hood against the other, then, do it on a national scale. Weaponize reality, equality, economics, real estate, and religion. Comments are not obliged to be correct. Satire is protected speech. Many comments are reflecting where we really live. A Man Walked into a bar.

You take a trip. Or the stranger comes to town. Sometimes you do both. I want to be invisible. 

Local means only a few writers tell the story. Of anything. The rest of us left in the dust but to defer. I would argue that the only appropriate way to tell a retell a reblog blog with video, a band, dancing girls, flashing lights, prizes, weekends with movie stars, is to move to California. I am not allowed to tell the story of Sunset Boulevard, 1969. You must be born on Sunset Boulevard, right there in the middle of the street, before you are allowed to articulate any of the story of it. I am only a Small Journalist, disgruntled, washed up, but I am here to tell you there are hieroglyphics on the wall. It’s disconcerting because the number of voices alone. So, who and what do you filter out. Nothing. I filter out nothing. I am just telling you the story about traveling at the speed of light. Or faster than photons. We are already traveling at the speed of light in a dozen different milieus that are in all likelihood of different dimensions. I am becoming convinced that going forward may have no relationship to traveling back in time because what exists is existence if you can grab it. Going back would rip your atoms apart in the solar wind.

I run a physics blog on Pinterest. I do follow the comments. I try to understand them. If I can read an equation, am I required to put the image of it into a written language. Comments are what ants and witches live on in holes of roots and boiling snags of onions. There is something -- at least for me -- about this version of life where the timeline of inflation becomes another timeline on the way down, with subsequent relases would rival the big fucking bang. My analysis only, and I write fiction. I am not King Lear, but I am him. Holding skulls with spells that reminds me of Let's Away to Prison. Who loses and who wins (no one).  And take upon what mysteries men trust to time. Or do they die with their arms around the secrets they have kept.

That is what comments are. They are the whispers of secrets. All that diplomacy is based on. Jesters do not prove prophets. A clown cannot be the King. Richard fell and lost the war. Most clowns become tragic clowns. They are. They become irrelevant except in Ireland. Waiting on a country road. Tired as a tree. Poking at the British butts. I think I know what brutality means. A homeless man is beaten in a ditch. But I do not know what chemistry means. Who else would sell his luck or compel it to perform. Godot will not be arriving tonight. The tree grows leaves. I have always thought this play had to do with hope. The Wizard of Oz was not about the dog.

Or. Maybe it was. About the dog. The dog was there.

Richard murdered children in their sleep. He slaughtered them. The slaughtering will be what is known of us. They will go through our garvage, and whan they do, it was be an indictment, and no one will archive or speak of us because we were an aberration. We either do or we do not possess resilience. Estragon's focus is his boots. Everything happens. Nothing occurs. Do I react to a review or to the review of it. The review becomes the play as the author of the powerful review reads the actor on the stage of the character's possibilities or none of it. Chicken bones or money. Rhetoric becomes entrapment. It's entrapment that terrifies. The writer is correct to wrap it up with a surrounding brutality. We dream. Perchance to occupy someone else's thoughts. Prescient identity. Memory crumbles. It's the critic who reminds us as to who and what we really are.

We are all suscepticle to comments. A writing on a wall of mirrors. Condemning us as witchery. Not so much as an abstraction. But one with a brain that thinks. At least, we are real. But no. Probably not. Our second selves will never understand. Are these two on separate sides. What I hear when I close my eyes is Finnegan. Embrace your conventions, and then abandon them.

[timbarrus]

Tim Barrus Physics

[timbarrus]

Most of the writers I know, work hard at being hopeful. What else can they do. They can either be informed or they become irrelevant.

[timbarrus]

Every piece the New York Times publishes, that is about children, childrens’ rights, the exploitation of children, child trafficking, is done by a writer who at the very least, sounds like a very nervous amateur. It is hardly safe for me to say the Mommy America Suburban Stuff (consumer culture) has had everyone else pussy whipped. Property is everything you need to begin to compete with every other mommie on the block. Our garage only fits two cars and one truck and eight off the road vehicles, and a dirt Bike. We were going to have a pool but then we had a pool. Childhood is relative. It is also a fetish painted nice for another mommy’s smile. I know that look. After all, we live in the same neighborhood.

Childhood becomes a paradigm and there are rules. Your son will be targeted for a concussive event. It’s called piling on. Get the fuck back in that game. That’s childhood. Are they really going to be ballerinas. Some wear diapers. It shows. The New York Times doesn’t know Jack Shit about kids. All of us do not live on Long Island, and some of us, and the children of us, not that unlike the Children of the Vatican you tourists completely ignore which seems to be your answer to everything. Their arrival in America is not their fault. They have landed in a country where everyone hates them. They are more at risk for everything from everyone. There are still children in institutions who were, indeed, ripped from the family’s arms. Those arms cannot be replaced. What we have done with those children is criminal. The middle class guards who physically grabbed those kids – we were just doing our jobs – would not refuse to turn the shower poison on. They would have relished it. Just doing their jobs. Fuck your jobs. And fuck you. These kids will be aging out. Sooner than you think. And then what. How about those prisons still at the Guantanamo Bay Detention Center and Torture Chambers. Blaring music. Everyone here needs a shower.

Why did you do it and who do you know.

Who believes those kids are receiving a great education. We are making felons. We do it every day. They will be interrogated, you never know who the communists are. Order in the house. Order in the House. Mr. Chairman, I move that these communist children go take a long shower. It smells bad in here. The South shall raise again. Mr. Chairman, I hold that these charges cannot be real. I did teacher training for Head Start in my abandoned youth. Hundreds of them. All women. Every last one. Suddenly, I go off like a bomb because I am the worst brat in the class and everyone knows it. Horrified and staring. This is not how teacher trainers act. “Give me a name. What is the name of this child. He is in every class. You know him. You hate him. What a verbal and physical mess. No parenting.” This is where the suggestions begin. He’s going to prison. It has been decided. Everyone white nods. I want their names. Raise your hands. They all had names. One girl. She had a name, too. The entire family works the midnight shift at the slaughterhouse. The twelve-year-old pushed blood down a drain. Failing in school. He was crazy. No. We are failing him. I want to know why the mommies don’t deal with this. Deal with this. – Tim Barrus

[timbarrus]

On Identity

You read the book. I only wrote it. It was not an obituary. I am here. But I am wary. Mainly, I am a curiosity to them. A dinosaur. I am a reptile. A lizard and there are rules against publishing lizardmeat. Why. Because they're selling you. More than the story. More than the writing. Can you sell yourself. I can't even imagine it. Dirt Bike Town is a road trip that one side, we have the desert, and on the other side we have a steaming toxic waste, we used to call the ocean. The ocean was eating away toward the desert where an army of Albino warriors -- were waiting. For the Normals who arrive like a diaspora that will flood the planet, severity is judged by famine, how bad is it, it is always famine. There is evidence of famine in many of the digs that were digging up the bones stories of families slaughter and what kind of past lists of disease do we come from, it comes to find us but it never does, having been irradiated by an impact plutonium refined into an isotopes of heavy metal mist deigned to float upon the wind even as we began to understand this strange thing from our own past. A past of our own creation, and there was a lot of agreement by physics that remembering was unique to the brain of homo sapiens, the majority of whom would be repulsive insects, a paranoia of -- the other -- was mainly subterfuge for various grabs for power among the enclaves of homo sapiens, perhaps an electromagnetic twist of the genetic clip, usually by the photons that have slipped through the eyes of Roman gods, lesser gods than the bigger gods, and mistresses galore -- this means tits and I would imagine that an island of them might attract the attention of a lost group of men from Troy bouncing and at the mercy of the currents in old ships made from the spit of slaves and is it that nothing, nothing, really changes, having been relieved by Empires themselves and it was so close to the end of us. And the oceans rose. Into the sewers they are today. We have blamed that generation of bones done with glowing, and what the past really was, really was, there was no sun, only violence, and look at what we have done -- the lot of it -- soon enough not unlike that diaspora of dinosaurs known as fossils of what we really came from. -- tim barrus

[timbarrus]

The dragon dark is darker than the dark dark. Then light them up, up, up. Then light them up, up, up.

[timbarrus]

Almost all photography bores me. Especially iconic stuff. I’ve seen it. If it’s iconic, what is in it for me -- the audience -- we’ve been here before. There is nothing in it for you. It’s just pop culture investigating itself. I’m supposed to use the whole face, but guess what, I’m over the whole face rule, it’s stupid, especially when the camera is suggesting movement. 

[timbarrus]

Tim Barrus Art