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Title

Speak of the devil... [说曹操...] • You’re Really An Author? Can You Prove It?

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You're Really An Author? Can You Prove It? Yes. Dark Spaces When I was young, my grandfather would do puzzles with me. Or rather he would put the puzzles together while I watched and occasionally...

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Dark Spaces             When I was young, my grandfather would do puzzles with me.  Or rather he would put the puzzles together while I watched and occasionally tried to fit a piece somewhere that looked likely.  The puzzles were really his idea, and not mine.  My grandfather was a selfish man; if he was going to spend time with his grandchildren, it was going to be on his terms.  There was no going to arcades or the beach with him.  He liked puzzles, game shows, and – as we only discovered years later, while itemizing his possessions to be sold off – vintage pornography, mostly of boys exactly eighteen years old.             I never questioned his enjoyment of puzzles.  It seemed natural that an old man should like something boring.  As I grew older, I forgot about the afternoons I’d spent at his house except for vague details.  The smell of Macanudo cigars.  The off-white of the walls in the den.  A vague feeling of dread whenever I had to go to the bathroom – I was not quite tall enough to reach the sink, but my mother had explained in great detail how boys who did not wash their hands after using the toilet would get sick and throw up. *          *          *             As I sit at the controls of the Descartes, I think about the three interpretations of space common to media on Earth.  Space as terrible, space as wonderful, and space as vast.             Space as terrible is easy to understand.  Supermassive black holes slowly devouring everything, alien entities beyond human comprehension, the sheer maddening hostility of the environment – no gravity, no air, nothing familiar or comforting.  Space as wonderful is equally straightforward.  Stellar nurseries, colorful clouds of superheated gas millions of miles across; the cheerful light of far-off stars strung together like pearls on a necklace; the promise of untapped riches and opportunities.             Space as vast is almost trivial to understand.  There are a hundred thousand “shocking” examples of the sheer distances involved in any sort of space travel.             But as the Descartes rides a wave of distorted space toward the Canis Major Dwarf Galaxy – or at least where it will be in three and a half years, when I will arrive – I ponder a fourth interpretation.  One less acknowledged.             Space as dark. *          *          *             I met my husband when I was in school.  He was a writer, coasting through life on scant publications and inheritance money.  He’d decided a graduate degree was a grand idea because it would kill two years of his life and let him teach at the college level.             I read a story of his in a school publication and sent him an email telling him, albeit in a constructive way, how I hated it.  Nobody writes letters to the author any longer.  I was determined, in my stubborn way, to keep the tradition alive.  He responded, also in a constructive way, with a lengthy dissertation on how all my opinions were founded on foolish assertions and spoon-fed media tripe, but thank you for the input.             This happened again, several times, before I finally sent him an email proposing we have a drink together.             He told me a pet theory one night, when we were lying in bed, both of us still fuzzy with the afterglow.  He suggested that each one of us is a reflection of the universe, and our uniqueness causes the universe to be reflected in different ways.  This entire show – billions of reflections – is observed by the universe itself, trying to figure out what it’s about.  In essence, the universe is a soul, searching itself for meaning or purpose or simply something recognizable, and we are all facets of it.             I told him two things: first, that the idea was highly romantic, even saccharine, and I didn’t expect such crap from someone who actively scoffed at the idea of reincarnation.  And second, the writers of Babylon 5 had already beaten him to that idea.             He didn’t care.  He later wrote a story about it, and it was well-received.             When he died, it was hardly a surprise.  People die all the time, after all.  The fact that the person dying in this instance was the man I loved should have made no practical difference.             But even so, when he did die, barely conscious and unable to speak for the tube in his throat, I felt that the universe was diminished in an ineffable, immeasurable, but ultimately concrete sense.  That one of its reflections had been lost, forever.             I buried him with a letter I wrote him, telling him I hated the story he’d written about the universe’s reflections.  It was the only one I had never sent for him to see, because we had promised to always be honest with one another, and this letter was a lie.  But I had never written him a positive review, and it felt wrong to break the tradition now. *          *          *             Space is dark.             In the entire known universe, there are perhaps eighty billion galaxies in various clusters and superclusters.  Between them, they have at least ten sextillion stars, at a conservative estimate, most of them larger and more brilliant than the lonely star orbited by our planet.             But I have a recurring dream.             In this dream, I am back in my grandfather’s house.  We are sitting at the old kitchen table in the dining room, doing a puzzle of the universe.  Or rather he is doing a puzzle of the universe, and I am watching.  The puzzle has all eighty billion galaxies and ten sextillion stars clearly represented on its pieces.              The puzzle is solid black.             My grandfather will sit there, staring at the half-assembled universe, and he will occasionally pick up a piece and fit it neatly into its place.  I never understood the fetishistic appeal of the pieces clicking in, their hard lines and soft curves meshing.  I only remembered the frustration of the pieces not fitting.             But here, as my grandfather fits in piece after piece, I feel some connection with him.  Black melds with black.  Each piece brings us a little closer to completion. *          *          *             It seemed natural that we would dispatch a manned mission to the Canis Major Dwarf Galaxy before we had finished exploring our own.  We dispatched a manned mission to the moon before we had finished exploring the ocean.  We dispatched a manned mission to the galactic core before we had finished exploring the local supracluster.             The Descartes is a smooth silver cylinder, pinched at one end like a fountain pen, pulled apart at the other like a blossoming flower.   It has the latest fold drive, food for five years, entertainments, amenities, everything for a multi-year flight.  In the core of the ship is a single-use module, quantum-tuned to an identical device on Earth, for the creation of a wormhole.  The ship is a needle, guiding a thread across cosmic distances before pulling it neatly through the fabric of space-time and bringing two areas of space parallel to one another.             I sit at the controls, as I often do, and I reflect on the manned mission.  It would be vastly more efficient to send a robotic vessel.  Less space devoted to comfort and human necessities, more to drive systems and redundancies.             But my grandfather would never have let a machine put together his puzzles for him. *          *          *             In my husband’s story about the universe’s reflections, the protagonist is a pragmatist who has lost his wife.  Being a pragmatist, he sets out to find another woman like her in precisely every way, because if she acts, thinks, feels, and wants just as his wife did, she will be his wife.  Pragmatism is the sword of Alexander the Great to solipsism’s Gordian Knot.  We can step through the transporter to the alien planet secure in the knowledge that even if we actually die, another person exactly like us in every way will come out the other end, the universe will continue to turn, and we – being dead – will not care.             Like all great stories, there is a twist.  My husband’s twist is that the protagonist’s wife, being a reflection of the universe, is all around him.  He is searching for something he already has.  She is a Platonic ideal, not a person.  What he thought was his wife was just the light of the reflection, streaming across the dark spaces.             After all, pragmatism dictates that our interpretation of the world must be based upon the observations we can make with our senses and the deductions we can make with the scientific method.  But lacking an absolute reference point outside the universe itself, the protagonist cannot see that he has already found his wife.             I had roundly mocked my husband for similarly contrived, overly-complex philosophical ramblings like this before, but something about this particular story gave me pause.  I sensed that out of everything he had ever produced, this story was the truest reflection of my husband’s self.  A man, groping through the darkness for something familiar, the only thing he can rely upon his own senses, which he academically knows are limited and crude, even deceptive.             I look at my reflection in the viewport of the Descartes’s cockpit.  There is nothing here in the intergalactic black to be seen but my own image.  What version of the universe did my husband see when he looked across the space between us? *          *          *             Of course, time is relative.  In some places, under certain conditions, it is not even linear.             My grandfather places another piece into the puzzle.             My husband tells me his idea about the universe reflected in each of us.             The Descartes reaches the halfway point on its journey.             I toss the letter into his open grave.             The seams between the black pieces of the universe disappear as they fit together.             My mother tells me in detail why I must always wash my hands after I use the bathroom.             I stare at my reflection in the viewport, wondering if I will eventually see my husband in it instead.             My grandfather starts with the borders of the puzzle.  It is easier to fill in the rest once you have the borders.

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Dark Spaces             When I was young, my grandfather would do puzzles with me.  Or rather he would put the puzzles together while I watched and occasionally tried to fit a piece somewhere that looked likely.  The puzzles were really his idea, and not mine.  My grandfather was a selfish man; if he was going to spend time with his grandchildren, it was going to be on his terms.  There was no going to arcades or the beach with him.  He liked puzzles, game shows, and – as we only discovered years later, while itemizing his possessions to be sold off – vintage pornography, mostly of boys exactly eighteen years old.             I never questioned his enjoyment of puzzles.  It seemed natural that an old man should like something boring.  As I grew older, I forgot about the afternoons I’d spent at his house except for vague details.  The smell of Macanudo cigars.  The off-white of the walls in the den.  A vague feeling of dread whenever I had to go to the bathroom – I was not quite tall 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sheer distances involved in any sort of space travel.             But as the Descartes rides a wave of distorted space toward the Canis Major Dwarf Galaxy – or at least where it will be in three and a half years, when I will arrive – I ponder a fourth interpretation.  One less acknowledged.             Space as dark. *          *          *             I met my husband when I was in school.  He was a writer, coasting through life on scant publications and inheritance money.  He’d decided a graduate degree was a grand idea because it would kill two years of his life and let him teach at the college level.             I read a story of his in a school publication and sent him an email telling him, albeit in a constructive way, how I hated it.  Nobody writes letters to the author any longer.  I was determined, in my stubborn way, to keep the tradition alive.  He responded, also in a constructive way, with a lengthy dissertation on how all my opinions were founded on foolish assertions and spoon-fed media tripe, but thank you for the input.             This happened again, several times, before I finally sent him an email proposing we have a drink together.             He told me a pet theory one night, when we were lying in bed, both of us still fuzzy with the afterglow.  He suggested that each one of us is a reflection of the universe, and our uniqueness causes the universe to be reflected in different ways.  This entire show – billions of reflections – is observed by the universe itself, trying to figure out what it’s about.  In essence, the universe is a soul, searching itself for meaning or purpose or simply something recognizable, and we are all facets of it.             I told him two things: first, that the idea was highly romantic, even saccharine, and I didn’t expect such crap from someone who actively scoffed at the idea of reincarnation.  And second, the writers of Babylon 5 had already beaten him to that idea.             He didn’t care.  He later wrote a story about it, and it was well-received.             When he died, it was hardly a surprise.  People die all the time, after all.  The fact that the person dying in this instance was the man I loved should have made no practical difference.             But even so, when he did die, barely conscious and unable to speak for the tube in his throat, I felt that the universe was diminished in an ineffable, immeasurable, but ultimately concrete sense.  That one of its reflections had been lost, forever.             I buried him with a letter I wrote him, telling him I hated the story he’d written about the universe’s reflections.  It was the only one I had never sent for him to see, because we had promised to always be honest with one another, and this letter was a lie.  But I had never written him a positive review, and it felt wrong to break the tradition now. *          *          *             Space is dark.             In the entire known universe, there are perhaps eighty billion galaxies in various clusters and superclusters.  Between them, they have at least ten sextillion stars, at a conservative estimate, most of them larger and more brilliant than the lonely star orbited by our planet.             But I have a recurring dream.             In this dream, I am back in my grandfather’s house.  We are sitting at the old kitchen table in the dining room, doing a puzzle of the universe.  Or rather he is doing a puzzle of the universe, and I am watching.  The puzzle has all eighty billion galaxies and ten sextillion stars clearly represented on its pieces.              The puzzle is solid black.             My grandfather will sit there, staring at the half-assembled universe, and he will occasionally pick up a piece and fit it neatly into its place.  I never understood the fetishistic appeal of the pieces clicking in, their hard lines and soft curves meshing.  I only remembered the frustration of the pieces not fitting.             But here, as my grandfather fits in piece after piece, I feel some connection with him.  Black melds with black.  Each piece brings us a little closer to completion. *          *          *             It seemed natural that we would dispatch a manned mission to the Canis Major Dwarf Galaxy before we had finished exploring our own.  We dispatched a manned mission to the moon before we had finished exploring the ocean.  We dispatched a manned mission to the galactic core before we had finished exploring the local supracluster.             The Descartes is a smooth silver cylinder, pinched at one end like a fountain pen, pulled apart at the other like a blossoming flower.   It has the latest fold drive, food for five years, entertainments, amenities, everything for a multi-year flight.  In the core of the ship is a single-use module, quantum-tuned to an identical device on Earth, for the creation of a wormhole.  The ship is a needle, guiding a thread across cosmic distances before pulling it neatly through the fabric of space-time and bringing two areas of space parallel to one another.             I sit at the controls, as I often do, and I reflect on the manned mission.  It would be vastly more efficient to send a robotic vessel.  Less space devoted to comfort and human necessities, more to drive systems and redundancies.             But my grandfather would never have let a machine put together his puzzles for him. *          *          *             In my husband’s story about the universe’s reflections, the protagonist is a pragmatist who has lost his wife.  Being a pragmatist, he sets out to find another woman like her in precisely every way, because if she acts, thinks, feels, and wants just as his wife did, she will be his wife.  Pragmatism is the sword of Alexander the Great to solipsism’s Gordian Knot.  We can step through the transporter to the alien planet secure in the knowledge that even if we actually die, another person exactly like us in every way will come out the other end, the universe will continue to turn, and we – being dead – will not care.             Like all great stories, there is a twist.  My husband’s twist is that the protagonist’s wife, being a reflection of the universe, is all around him.  He is searching for something he already has.  She is a Platonic ideal, not a person.  What he thought was his wife was just the light of the reflection, streaming across the dark spaces.             After all, pragmatism dictates that our interpretation of the world must be based upon the observations we can make with our senses and the deductions we can make with the scientific method.  But lacking an absolute reference point outside the universe itself, the protagonist cannot see that he has already found his wife.             I had roundly mocked my husband for similarly contrived, overly-complex philosophical ramblings like this before, but something about this particular story gave me pause.  I sensed that out of everything he had ever produced, this story was the truest reflection of my husband’s self.  A man, groping through the darkness for something familiar, the only thing he can rely upon his own senses, which he academically knows are limited and crude, even deceptive.             I look at my reflection in the viewport of the Descartes’s cockpit.  There is nothing here in the intergalactic black to be seen but my own image.  What version of the universe did my husband see when he looked across the space between us? *          *          *             Of course, time is relative.  In some places, under certain conditions, it is not even linear.             My grandfather places another piece into the puzzle.             My husband tells me his idea about the universe reflected in each of us.             The Descartes reaches the halfway point on its journey.             I toss the letter into his open grave.             The seams between the black pieces of the universe disappear as they fit together.             My mother tells me in detail why I must always wash my hands after I use the bathroom.             I stare at my reflection in the viewport, wondering if I will eventually see my husband in it instead.             My grandfather starts with the borders of the puzzle.  It is easier to fill in the rest once you have the borders.

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Контент

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Слова из title 12 встречаются в тексте достаточно.

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Среднее число слов в абзаце 35 достаточно.

Кол-во знаков контента 10114 на странице оптимально.

Кол-во слов 1792 на странице оптимально.

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3,87

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21,43%

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20

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Слово	Кол-во	Частота
universe	15	0,84%
grandfather	7	0,39%
puzzles	6	0,33%
before	6	0,33%
reflection	6	0,33%
puzzle	6	0,33%
together	5	0,28%
something	5	0,28%
descartes	5	0,28%
husband	5	0,28%
another	5	0,28%
across	4	0,22%
through	4	0,22%
reflections	4	0,22%
pieces	4	0,22%
manned	4	0,22%
mission	4	0,22%
really	3	0,17%
everything	3	0,17%
because	3	0,17%

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Robots.txt

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Sitemap: https://tsaomengde.tumblr.com/sitemap.xml

User-agent: *
Disallow: /random
Disallow: /day
Disallow: /sticky-ad-iframe.html
Disallow: /privacy/consent
Disallow: /assets/scripts/tumblr/dashboard/showads.js
Crawl-delay: 1

# Common Crawl's crawler
User-agent: CCBot
Disallow: /

# SentiBot's crawler
User-agent: sentibot
Disallow: /

# Google Bard's crawler
User-agent: Google-Extended
Disallow: /

# Facebook's crawler
User-agent: FacebookBot
Disallow: /

# webz.io's crawler
User-agent: omgili
Disallow: /

# webz.io's crawler
User-agent: omgilibot
Disallow: /

# Amazon's crawler
User-agent: Amazonbot
Disallow: /

# ClaudeBot's crawler
User-agent: ClaudeBot
Disallow: /

# anthropic-ai's crawler
User-agent: anthropic-ai
Disallow: /

# ImageSift's AI crawler
User-agent: ImagesiftBot
Disallow: /

# Apple's AI crawler
User-agent: Applebot-Extended
Disallow: /

# TurnitinBot crawler
User-agent: TurnitinBot
Disallow: /

# Meta AI crawler
User-agent: meta-externalagent
Disallow: /

# Block YouBot from entire site
User-agent: YouBot
Disallow: /

Sitemap

Кол-во: 1

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Url	Статус
https://tsaomengde.tumblr.com/sitemap.xml

Внутренние ссылки

Кол-во: 15

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Некоторые внутренние ссылки сайта 1шт запрещены к индексации поисковыми системами в robots.txt. Пройдитесь по списку внутренних ссылок: удалите ошибочные или исправьте файл robots.txt!

Внутренних ссылок на странице 15 оптимально.

На странице присутствуют изображения 1.

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Url	Анкор	Состояние
/	Speak of the devil... [说曹操...]
/archive	<span class="icon"></span><span class="label">Archive</span>
/rss	<span class="icon"></span><span class="label">RSS</span>
/ask	<span class="icon"></span><span class="label">Ask and ye shall receive</span>
/quiest	Who Are You?
/whymengde	Why 'Mengde?'
/author	You're Really An Author? Can You Prove It?
/failsafe	What Is Your Avatar?
/shuocaocao	What is the Chinese in your page title?
/hurenoart	Hureno's Awesome Art for "Bonds"
/rss	RSS
/random	Random	Запрет в robots.txt
/archive	Archive
/ask	Ask and ye shall receive
/mobile	Mobile

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Url	Анкор
tumblr.com	<strong>Effector Theme</strong>
pixelunion.net	Tumblr themes

Конкуренты в Яндексе

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Нарушения

Не выявлены

Признаков дистанционной продажи товаров (интернет-магазина) не обнаружено — требования ЗоЗПП о раскрытии информации продавца к сайту не применяются. Нарушений нет.

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Рекомендательные блоки («с этим покупают», «похожие товары» и т.п.) на сайте не обнаружены — требования ст. 10.7 ФЗ-149 к сайту не применяются. Нарушений нет.

Нарушения

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Рекламных тематик с обязательными оговорками (медицина, БАД, кредиты и займы, новостройки) на сайте не обнаружено. Нарушений нет.

Нарушения

Не выявлены

Признаков информационной продукции (новости, видео, книги, игры, курсы) не обнаружено — обязательная возрастная маркировка по ФЗ-436 сайту не требуется. Нарушений нет.

Анализ страницы https://tsaomengde.tumblr.com/author

Основное Готовность: 65%

Домен

Ответ сервера

Безопасность

Кодировка

Язык

Скорость загрузки

Объем документа

Ресурсы

Серверные заголовки

CMS

Веб-сервер

Мета-теги Готовность: 48%

Title

Description

Keywords

Канонический Url

Robots

Адаптивность

Разметка OpenGraph

Все мета-теги

Оптимизация Готовность: 80%

Структура

Контент

Заголовки

Тошнота

Академич. тошнота

Семантическое ядро

Индексация Готовность: 100%

Индексирование

Robots.txt

Sitemap

Внутренние ссылки

Внешние ссылки

Конкуренты Готовность: 0%

Конкуренты в Яндексе

Конкуренты в Google

ЗоЗПП: права потребителей Готовность: 100%

Нарушения

ФЗ-149: рекомендательные технологии Готовность: 100%

Нарушения

ФЗ-38: реклама Готовность: 100%

Нарушения

ФЗ-436: защита детей Готовность: 100%

Нарушения

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