Cheese gun fail

Dear Father,

You may or may not be interested to know that I have almost created a tool. Last time I saw my acquaintances from the European government, I mentioned not being armed, and they assured me that things like cheese guns are more pragmatic. Apparently the dangers of the Steamlands are not as bad as I had assumed, nor do they take precedence over more social endeavors. So, in the time before the next Poetry Slam, I scavenged all the projectile devices I could get my hands on and attempted to put together my own cheese gun. This involved twenty-six explosions, three ruined dresses, and only one burn wound (which I expect is not very serious). Before the actual event, I was almost certain the silly thing worked, but this conclusion was premature. (I had already given up on the cheese being of any quality.)
At the actual Poetry Slam, my attempts to use my creation were problematic. Knowing me, I'm sure that does not surprise you in the teeniest, tiniest bit. It got itself most horrifically jammed at the worst times, and my attempts to fish the trusty throwing-books out of my pocket were at first mistaken as an offer to share some poetry. (I am most dreadfully sorry for disappointing such a lofty crowd. I promise I will make it up to them later on, somehow or other.)
Most fortunately for all present, someone else had proper cheese source with them.
There are other things you may want to know, most of which are far less self-indicting. A lady happened to show up with her shirt missing, though everyone was too polite to comment. Later on, a worse manifestation of the same phenomenon occurred when Miss Dreamscape arrived. She was completely mutated from head to toe, to the point where my first instinct was to question my grip on reality until everyone else pointed it out to her. Oddly enough, she behaved as though it were a cause of shame, even though everyone was aware that it was the impersonal forces of the aether that were to blame; she rushed back out for a moment until her physical form was back to the usual. The others discussed a widespread rash of aetheric disturbances in the recent past, although I had just assumed it was my imagination. It will be valuable to keep in mind whatever this tells me about the aether. What does it tell me about the aether? Oh, I wish I were near enough to ask you, although you would probably be swamped with experiments to run and have little time to attend to the silly little black hole that is my mind. In any case, the knowledge would obviously be of much more use to a learned man such as yourself than than to the likes of me. How I wish I could share this strange world with you!
In other technology news, there was a discussion about mechanical dogs, which are apparently very dangerous and live in a castle. I'm told that the best way to get one of one's own is to build it, thus ensuring its loyalty. I don't think that solution would work very well for me, but maybe you would want to try. But Mr. Captain Veles (whom I mentioned in my last letter to Mother) said that "maybe" I could someday get one. That's a wonderful start! Also, the madgirl Miss Weatherwax brought a clank gun with her that shot watermelons. I don't even know how that's physically possible: cheese can be synthesized from organic compounds in natural chemical reactions mimicking what happens in the human body and what happens afterward due to bacterial fermentation; but how do you build a gun that produces whole fresh watermelons? I guess that is what separates a Sparkperson like Miss Weatherwax from an emptyheaded waste of tissue like myself. She was working on calibrating it for use by people as opposed to clanks, but it was big and impressive and most importantly worked, unlike my cheese gun. (Anyhow, the Jaegerpeople--that is, Miss Dreamscape and Mr. Captain--enthusiastically volunteered to help the madgirl with any further testing, so I'm sure her work will function exactly as she likes within no time at all. I don't know whether I have reason to be envious of her success, though of course the daughter of Mr. Ashbourne is above such pettiness.)
These people set a very high standard as far as scientific knowledge goes, but I am sure it's for the best. It is bound to rub off on me, isn't it? Father, I will continue to work on my cheese gun and to write to you whenever I learn anything new about the Steamlands or the Sparks.

Love always,
Shaqad