Invalid Word Salad

Physician Notes from Prescribing Unit B @ Barstow, CA - Item 15B Page 1 -

xi. ~author's suggested dust jacket profile~ Barstow, CA June 2047

Ronald J. Barler, PhD. is a quiet man. If one were to seek him out, they would most likely find him sequestered in his office, poring over some research papers regarding the nuance of false-consensus bias or the latest developments in clinical decision support systems. He has authored over 125 distinct dossiers during his 15 years of practice & has been attributed as a "leading generational talent," "refining thought-leader," & "absolute genius" in the field of computational psychiatry. He has worked with CONCI Systems since its inception, & has been crucial to it's evolution of "client-focused technological inquiry." This is his first book which gives an inside look into the confounding case of patient CA6811, and details the psychological strain placed on both client and clinician after three years of uninterrupted treatment. It is an account of harrowing acuity & subtlety that brings into question the efficacy of medicative machine classification. Barler acknowledges the polarity of his decision to breach the fiduciary obligation of confidentiality, which he by no means relishes, but asks his readers to consider the possibility that his silence may have been a far worse fate. He currently resides in Borrego Springs, CA with his wife and their three children.

I. Preliminary Observations of CA6811

psychoanalytic investigation into the afflicted's "neuro-misfirings"
has yielded dubious reconnaissance outputs by the machine learning diagnostics and has left the patient, as they report in their subjectivity log: "sutured to a hospital bed sheet with an overwhelming feeling of drowning in an increasingly viscous mixture of cement paste." patient's log also makes use of other atypical phrasing to describe symptomatology, at times in manic attempts to analogize the "manifestation". This includes:

1. a frantically scrawled poem that was flagged when it exceeded the keystroke quality control threshold:

helpful analogies for the disorder*


I turn trapezius muscle fibers into elastic tight strung guitar strings of all shape and variety: bent, plucked, squeezed, wrung in all different directions, depending upon your mood and day's general trajectory
I summon socket wrenches into your back that yank your atoms together until they burst like popcorn kernels in the microwave
In the morning I'll put your your stomach on stilted tilt ladders and soak your taste buds in chlorine

Etc. Etc..

*patient entry #08

2. a reported essay of CA6811 that was retrieved out of public waste receptacle #3 near their television. It resembles a transcription of a news broadcast but thus far we have been unable to identify the program:

Ode to Sokal*

--------INCOMING MESSAGE--------
the lion-share of supplier wealthcare referendums began today in response to the recent influx of androgenetic pharmaceuticals that bolstered the economic modalities of aggressing neighbor states in the remote parts of Arabia.
the subtle and contemptuous casuistry woven throughout the well orchestrated pseudo-narratives in underage knowledge production were one of many charges outlined in the newly released magnum opus for radical political dissidents: Manifesto of the Partitioning.
by noon, a full blown pro-liquidation filibuster seized control of major mass media highways and began broadcasting live interrogations of officials of the magistrate, in which armed mercenaries questioned our leaders about the feeble contextual clues upon which their justifications lay.
cortisol spikes amongst global legislatures lead to public and widespread condemnation of the invalid word salad techniques being used to undermine the vitriolic equilibrium between tribal interests
and archaic corporate data mining practices.
a shaky ceasefire has now been negotiated to appropriate time for diplomatic proceedings,
essentially to broker plea bargains with every affected conciliatory and gauge R.O.I. perspectives
in light of the injustice.
the newfound effort amongst the Revisionists to stamp out any remaining vestiges of feudal philosophy comes as no surprise given their coevolution with post neocolonialism and maximalist semantics theory.
Other developments, such as recent statements released from sea-faring bastions in the East were less expected given the code of ethics that govern their diplomacy. One statement transcribed by a military informant
reads as follows:
"The gusts of wind that sweep through those ancient sands are reminiscent of an older age. An age in which the reprehensibly untamed elements of savagery tainted the nostrils of our progressive ancestral power claimants with grime, grit, and grain. The gilded sophistication we have so tirelessly cultivated has been totally misrepresented and bastardized by propagandizing neologisms that stem from our brethren's nihilistic devotion to Mother Nature's tutelage. We stand with all the great people of expansive empires in that our resolve is to the subjugation of the natural world in Man's triumphant image. In due time, the enemies to humanity's progress will surely crumble and disintegrate in the same fashion as those violent blood fortresses with unsettled flesh debts that lay beneath their feet."

*patient entry #79

 ~ALANA~                                                            

Alana Metcalf returned the large, misshapen manilla folder with crimped ends to its respective place between the dull blue dividers of the rusted filing cabinet and redirected her eyes to the search bar of the digital codex. In the past few weeks, the Archival Depot of the Honeydew Hibiscus region in New Faulkland had received an inordinate amount of requests for the final 46 pages of the original Barler manuscript, and judging by the sheer number of flashing red exclamation points that straddled uncompleted processing requests, most were neglected or just flat out ignored. Alana had become accustomed to this circumstance, and she usually checked the search history before she visited a new Archival Depot, with today being a rare exception, just to see if there was an uncustomary amount of requests. This was rarely the case. Alana adjusted her rhinestone encrusted reading glasses and let out a sigh in the stale-aired second story of the dimly lit archival building. As she well knew, the first 1200 pages of the Barler Manuscript were widely circulated and available in many territories. However, the last 46 redacted pages are still manically sought after as they are purported to reveal some pretty nasty corporate high treason, the last known location of CA6811, and the reason for Ronald Barler's untimely death/suicide. All of this is just speculation, of course, and none of the wild conspiracies have ever been confirmed. However, the recent demonstrations in Underland Square have brought a revival to the hunt for the manuscript and legitimized the deep undercurrents of insurrection that run amongst the middle-class everyman. Alana's assignment, which was nearly at the end of its three month tenure, was to upturn every stone and poke her nose in every crevice to find any whiffs of a possible leak. She was fairly confident she wouldn't find any obscure Dr. Barler material in some remote and forgotten Archival Depot on the edges of Honeydew, but her boss, Mr. Tiberius, as his name suggested, was tough and hard nosed and relentlessly thorough. He wouldn't dare risk a blemish to his well-scrubbed reputation, and was leading the entire investigation like a raving bloodhound. She rubbed her left temple where a small but writhing headache was forming under the hardwearing light of the terminal, scraped some lint off her lapel with her free hand, and then made her way to the exit. Out and under the sunlight, anyone could see that Alana was a beautiful girl with fierce, piercing green eyes and long cascades of black curls. She was tall, sharp and well-spoken, and moved with a perfunctory ease through social situations and academia. By all accounts, she was a well-liked government liaison which was a small miracle given the ineffectiveness of traditional political vehicles for the rural populace in the last few decades. While her stature and decorum could at times be intimidating or uncouth, in truth, Alana was a soft and gentle heart that was acutely sensitive to the criticism that sounded from the world. It was for this reason that she always treated everyone she met, regardless of economic or political status, with a healthy dose of empathy and tenderness. Alana, like many other highly sensitives, had a nervous system that gave her a heightened awareness to the stinging end of discourtesy; additionally she had an uncanny ability to avoid any manner of offensiveness even in small conversations. The sort of tragic thing about Alana, and most people like this in general, is that they are very often vulnerable to the passing comments of those who lack their same sort of awareness. They usually spend many hours a day turning over unsolicited personal remarks in their mind, speculating on the covert nature of the percieved verbal abuse.

Alana was in the middle of one of these private gyrations when her transit shuttle remotely maneuvered itself to an open slice of sidewalk parking. It announced its arrival by flashing a small, well-dressed dancing robot chauffeur on the left side of her OLED screen lenses with the BufferZone corporate jingle. She clicked one of the rhinestones on the bridge of her readers and then slunk over to the midnight blue sedan. Alana removed the black straps of her heels and stretched out stockinged legs on the warm and stylish black leather upholstery in the back seat of the shuttle. The car rasped off and dredged the nearby rain gutters with a thick layer of slag as it made its way towards the city. Alana was scheduled to meet with a colleague for hair stylings and succotash at Mazzy's Emporium, but the unrelenting midday traffic suggested she wouldn't arrive in time. Not that she much cared. Jolie always talked her ear off about the minutely duplicitous behaviors of her co-workers for about an hour before Alana could get in a word, and didn't seem to care much about the captivity of her audience. But she liked her. Jolie maneuvered well through the office politics and without fail was always willing to lend Alana a word of advice when navigating through public decorums or any other sticky ministerial minutia for that matter.