Wednesday, June 20, 2018

The Efficiency of Suicide

Imagine two large bushes growing side by side. They do all the normal "bush" things. One, though, is equipped with an auto gardener. The bush uses it to be healthier by, when it observes that it is growing a sickly shoot unlikely to become the support branch for a new system of growth, trimming it off. The same when it grows a stub that will never be more than a stub, a twig that picks up some disease or infestation et cetera: auto-gardener.

As a result of this work, the bush with the auto gardener uses 1000f (let f equal "food quantity" referring to the amount of water and sun and other nourishment it receives each year), because it's not pumping resources into dead-end stubs or sickly twigs and such. The bush next to it uses 1,300f/year, because it has to nourish its healthy, functioning parts, as well as all of its dead-ends.

Humanity is the same. If a society has to expend 1,300f, or whatever each year, to provide for its sickly offshoots, it will always be outperformed by the society with the auto-gardener which expends only 1000 (discounting the certainty of the 300f society that is sure to grow once the opportunity presents itself). The expenditure on the sickly failures is actually the starvation and smothering of future healthy offshoots, because that extra 300f going to the sick failures is a subtraction from the new growing projects that would've happened if the plant weren't spending 300f/year maintaining a network of failure.

Any gardener knows, of course, that pruning away the failed bits can be used for the beautification or health of the gardened plants, and we tend to assume gardeners are evil Nazis who do it only for beauty (and then that there's some kind of otherworldly beauty about sick growth that the plant itself wouldn't want unless it took a bunch of sociology classes first and came to believe that celebrating the sick was good), but the health component, and its relationship to beauty (perhaps mandatory?) tends to be overlooked now. And throughout human history, there is no way for us to tell whether someone made her tribe successful ninety thousand years ago by crawling to the river and tumbling into eternity rather than hanging around and using food to survive that would've been fed to three healthy newborns otherwise. The heroic sacrifices of the past are hidden from us, and the survival of, say, caveman family groups, based on the amount of resources that needed to be dedicated to selfish hangers-on each year, can't be quantified based upon the private nature of helpful suicide. Even under fool's evolution's wrongness and the random god, this equation works out; survival of the fittest not including those who kept sick elders in assisted living for 10 years versus having another child (even if it receives zero parental attention, just paid care) works out in favor of the reproducers rather than the stoic leeching survivalists.

Many components enter this possible debate, including conscious and unconscious individual human desires. For purpose of the bush example, the auto-gardener is free, since every person makes the decision for themselves. And as to the health of a society, we must consider that the prohibition against suicide was installed by the Christian murderers when they brought their rabbi to Europe. Beforehand, we know precious little about suicide and history, except perhaps the laments of those still here, "why'd he do it?" How sad--answers that the healthy might know by now if they paid enough attention to the realities of being here, including failing through no fault of your own. Ironic that the most selfless act for one's people--removing oneself as a resource-drain that prevents future children--could become evil. And it makes sense for the invaders, who wanted to introduce Jews and mass immigration and other resource-sinks to conquered Europe--would then say, "You're going to eternal hellfire if you healthen your people by removing yourself."

Trivial for gardened bushes. Maybe trivial if you're not intelligent enough to imagine the opportunity costs of the personalities of babies unborn, never knowing life, because the resources were given instead to some dying old miserable husk. Viewing societies, which sometimes fight over territory or resources, imagine that 1000f isn't a plant quantity but $500 billion of food and infrastructure, and spending it on 90 year olds with dementia or children with hopes is the very real choice being made in the deathly way in first world countries every day. The extinction of white people will certainly be linked to the efforts of invaders, but the groundwork was laid long before, as the sick old fools veritably played concertos on the sinking Titanic, endlessly congratulating themselves for feeding and making up the beds of those who were on the way out. The potential desire to be gone from the burdens is never allowed to enter the equation, since the strong have convinced themselves that displaying their prizes shows they're heroes.

The social stigma against suicide arose from these invaders, and a related source of stigma prevents us from knowing not only what it was like before, but what it is like now, each time some jobless skill-lacker or half-confused old person who's lived enough of life wishes to set his or her children's infants free from the burden.

Viewing the immigration attack as ethnic chess, it worked very well on the idiots willing to empty their reserves and bear those costs. A smaller, but still meaningful, component of this whole cruel earthly game is the social prohibition against helping in the only way you have left. If there were a network of social respect, historical respectability, and fast cheap clinics that did it painlessly with 100% effectiveness and partnered with the funeral home for instant remains disposal, we wouldn't only save legions of elders from the terrifying fugue between death and life, which is a really sick separate subject we do now, but also protect from that same fugue many others. The ability of free-thinking human beings to decide they want out deserves a heavier weighing on the elder scale, because some of those poor people have been stuck in that torture for decades, but the ability of everyone to participate in a project of human improvement has justification at every physical age.

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Toughest Ever

Logistical problems arise in Heaven. Maybe what you really, purely want is to be the toughest ever; when you're choosing your traits for your paradisical self, you prioritize strength or whatever else, and it doesn't work. Heaven has to be a lie, has to be false, because billions of people and counting have already made that wish and strength is relative. So if your fulfillment is to be the toughest, and everyone, or ten percent of people, wishes for that, there's a point when desires conflict and you have to be designed to lose fight after fight. Not even serious fights, like beating up intruding demons, but just demo fights for sporting, where you compete against a fellow denizen of Heaven. And lose. Awfully and undeniably. People who've been keeping track for 100 years share how your lack of technique is similar to John Smith in 40 A.D. And all you ever wanted was to be that ultimate rock that could definitely keep things safe and stand between good and evil and everything about you was pure but it was just impossible to make you better than an embarrasssing clunker.

Heaven can't pay off. The things we want are so relative that Heaven can't remake us as we'd desire. Whatever Heaven would be, it would have to set a new standard that would, of necessity, leave the majority of us at merely half the potential strength of the desired trait. There could only be one Batman, and Jesus already has all the points anyway, so Heaven would be much like Earth where whatever we judged each other on would be relative to time and place: strength, looks, influence, and so forth. It really would have to be all about God, praising the dude who wrote the code, since otherwise everyone (or too many people, or whatever number) would pick the best qualities of the same things and make it an utterly boring, depressing society where everyone was the toughest and coolest, and tough or cool et cetera would resultingly have no real meaning.

Things are more forgiving for the female choice, because there are perhaps infinite ways of being the hottest, but clever-requesters who wanted to be able to transmogrify themselves instantly to reflect the desired partner's peak desires at that instant would leave most women sex-wraiths who only adopted a firm form when meeting a new partner, so going to super-mass again would really be the only way to spend time there.

Deception is an option. Use omnipotence to make every single combat-mastery-desiring male Batman in his own Gotham, unaware that he is but one node in a Heaven of trillions and believing that he can, mano v mano, beat up any individual combatant in all creation, ignorant of the fact that he is duplicated many times over in other Heavens. So Heaven is hey Bruce we thought we lost you there and then every other fight is a stunning victory, but it's all a lie and if he ever finds out it was all fake everything he thought he learned about his victorious self was untrue. Heaven is a letdown, has to be a letdown, because you either have to make it a lie or else you admit that everyone wants to be tough so you leave it at Earth-levels and after a thousand years in Heaven you realize that nothing has improved, that it can't improve, because our very mindsets, and our numbers, make it impossible for all or most desires to be realized. We are our own worst enemy.

Making this discussion touch on physical prowess seems to make it a joke, or an easily solvable riddle, like maybe Jesus only makes you tough if you don't ask for it, but take it as a metaphor instead for any other positive trait which might legitimately interest a person. You could just want to be smart or nice or whatever else, and find that relative gifts have made you a cocktail bore despite all your efforts.

Combat is just an easy example. The smartest, the coolest, the most muscular, the most quietly suave--all relative, on Earth as in Heaven. Wherever we go, there we are, programmed in the deepest aspects of our characters to view achievement relatively and trapped in the corner by our desires to live forever and keep growing.

Some incomplete, milkwater Heaven is usually the result: you spend your time not getting what you want, but appreciating how great God is, because He sets the standard, and it's at least plausible that "appreciating infinity" can be done by everyone forever even if society keeps pumping out souls for another googol years. And if no one suffers debilitating physical conditions in Heaven, then the standards for "worst ever" change, and suddenly basic walking and talking and thinking lose points, and what're you gonna do then? No, seriously, everyone can't be the toughest ever and everyone can't have a faith-healed working body, because without sores and scabs what worth is beautiful skin? In ten thousand years of everyone having beautiful hale skin, it starts to seem pretty standard and dull, and we start to figure out why Earth was really nice for our broken competitive minds, because even if you're baseline normal you're not one of those freaks and there's something to appreciate and know you're better than. Does everyone lose their weight problem or adopt a healthier and aesthetically pleasing form when they come to Heaven? Does faith mean nullifying all the comparative benefits of the other faithful? Frank worked for 70 years to make sure his body was the best it could be, even getting up in the morning during retirement to do hard aquarobics until that last day, and then he finds out that the muffin stuffers will look just as good as him during eternity? Hey, you're here, you should be happy with it. Does God tweak his mind to make this make sense, or is the power of prayer supposed to point the way to conceiving of and resolving all these non-problems? Conversely, do we just let Eugene the muffin-stuffer go to Heaven as a fatso perpetually short of breath, after 70 years of serious worship? Either option is being an unfair jerk to someone, and just leaving things as-is but with perpetual youth to worship God only perpetuates the same problems with the edges of our imaginations ("dreams").

It's easy to dismiss such desires as petty, but look beyond the perceived pettiness of toughest ever. Who's willing to ask for that if it means getting hurt all day and being forgotten and feared (genuinely fear, not in some cool movie way) while everyone else has fun, and you fight the good fight, Paladin of God, keeping the badness away and smashing yourself to pieces again and again so the dining hall can remain inviolable? Lots of people; it's in the male code and the military does well manipulating it. Picking broken glass out of your side all night while everyone else has priceless pleasures is a boon to the right character, and wishing to be the toughest ever, who can win those fights and make the goodness possible, isn't really a joke. And not being able to be that is really a letdown when you were built for it.

Humans have dealt with this in an interesting way in video games. MMOs, or massive multiplayer online games, face a similar conundrum to God, in the sense of having an audience initially accustomed to single player games, where your character can be the toughest and most important in the world, transitioned to a venue where everyone's playing and everyone can't be the toughest or even witness any of the plot. And we see the Heaven-like problems arise there, where people achieve max level and can easily beat tough NPCs ("non-player characters"), but are worthless or only marginal in a duel against another player. All their character's incredible abilities are duplicated a thousandfold by other characters, and therefore become irrelevant; companies attempt to resolve this problem in tiny increments, by granting sub-marginal improvements to a character who puts in an extra thousand hours of play-time, but that only guarantees illusory dominance among a sub-class of computer nerds who spend way too much time learning the nuances of five digit decimal point strategies and how by-the-second changes can affect gameplay. One would hope God had done better with Heaven, but the profit motive hasn't managed to do so yet in any specialization. The prime conundrum of eternity, in this case, becomes that requiring the effort to gain the penultimate nothingness of some higher status puts the bulk of the experience itself out of the reach of the everyman, such that he'll stop playing. Jesus is such a good deal that, unlike most deities, you can accept him after a lifetime of nun-strangling and still win, but relativity makes any other pursuit of greatness equally futile.

Something in these problems, these unfairnesses, mirrors our fundamental wrongs; our self-deceit and self-harm, and in another way, reveals something of how we might get past them. It's in our nature to want to be the smartest ever, the toughest ever, and so forth, and it's mathematically impossible for that to be true more than once; it's similarly impossible to design hopeful entities and not have them pursue the ultimate fates. To be sure, there are many humans, perhaps a majority, that are fine being untermensch as long as they're respected, and there's something to be said for being inferior except that you pledge your service to someone whom you know is the ultimate best, and carrying their banner in your heart to be vicariously part of whatever that greatness is. This is one of the little reasons why our deistic and paradisical fantasies thus far have been fundamentally crippled, although the harsh Christian reality of being perpetual dung which proudly clings forever to Yahweh's boot, part of ultimate goodness because He owns your proud self, is at least a step in the right direction. Yet that has its own failing, because your devotion is either the toughest ever or is perpetually accepting inferiority, and besides most people (thankfully?) not being designed that way, it makes them more truly Yahweh's servant than you or anyone else can ever be. And if Yahweh's smart, He knows that, and the shame, the worthlessness, of not secretly wanting better, can never be erased.

Our salvation, as it were, lies in the fact that a human-like entity didn't plan all of this, and so us going on to new challenges (and delights, and fears, et cetera) is a natural process that doesn't stop at the boundaries of our current imaginations. It stops at some boundaries, but you'll be smarter then and understand what those are. And in higher maths, it is possible for a lot of people to be the toughest ever, and for it to be true, and whatever else you may build.

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Payola

The existence of the payola, and its derivations, speak to a lot, and as with the peaks of so many underwater glaciers, indicate the many more things which we do not "see" but which have to exist to make the payola work. In this case, for it to work, people have to actually buy whatever crud is being sold. Think of paying some purveyor of goods to promote sales of your product, such as paying a radio station to play your song irrespective of how much the local community and/or the disc jockey(s) likes the song, placing a book prominently near a high-traffic area in a bookstore irrespective of what customer interaction or staff preferences say, or doing any other thing in which a greedy capitalist business changes its sales model in order to profit not on selling what it thinks will sell best, but on earning money from the purveyor of goods just for popularizing something by making it appear popular, e.g. playing or displaying it more. Here's a link about an Apple E-book price fixing scheme designed to accomplish a similar goal by a different method than the mid-twentieth-century radio payola, where the most effective advertising of a product is the assumed choices of other buyers, as opposed to what consumers generally imagine--and are, per the government, entitled to imagine--are their real choices for buying something.

The payola was cheating, in a way; a violation of the sacred agreement between merchant and customer. Everyone knows all the customer wants is to buy an impression of popularity; to buy as others have bought. And in a way, the payola was good, for it made this true before and after, making a song falsely appear popular even as it made the song actually popular by everyone falling for it simultaneously. And customers were mad when they figured out the payola, because it was the merchant admitting the customer wasn't actually making up his mind based on some independent set of intelligent criteria of what he actually might like, but only by popularity, which everyone knew is all he really wanted, but which the merchant, through an open payola, insulted and proved openly. "See, you didn't really have a set of criteria for what you like. You are, in fact, so hungry for conformity that you're too dumb to have criteria." It's a similar unspoken agreement to the one that democratic governments have with their voting cattle, where they make a show of running candidates, including the one who's going to win anyway, and the show of a "competition" flatters people that they have criteria when they actually don't and just follow the payola trend. Anecdotally, people coast-to-coast tell me they can't vote as they'd really prefer because you have to choose from a limited set of options; Americans' silly belief that having "more" parties would change things is like a fantasy that more stations and more disc jockeys would substantively change the music business. But it's a sacred bond; you're not supposed to admit the people are idiots and just appoint a dictator who would do the same things anyway. Not because policy would be adversely effected--if you were going to do something repressive or evil, your "elected" groups could and would do it anyway--but because it's insulting to people to admit that you know they don't have any character or criteria. You know they don't, they know you don't, but it's just incredibly rude to admit that you know that they know. You can't go one step further on the line of reasoning, so it's okay if you know they know and it's okay if they know you know, but it's extremely taboo to have a situation portraying how they know that you know that they know or vice versa.

All products, not just politics. In mid-twentieth century radio, the payola told people what they were supposed to like, both individually and en masse, and without that, confused music fans would have "liked" all sorts of different things and it would've caused confusion in what music to play at gatherings, but the payola got them all on the same page. Or if we're all going to agree to feel magical, and we're each reading one of fifty books that year involving magical boarding school education, all the funny or heartwarming or thoughtful scenes can hardly be shared with anyone else, so all the literary agents and publishing companies have done their job, and people can be brought together by learning what it is they like today. Payola worked not only because of this type of aggregating effect, but because people's characters were really so empty that they needed this guidance to know what it was they actually liked. Which means that, in a sense, what humans like is not really their own decision, it's sort of a gradual mass vote, where smarter people decide for them and they're glad for it. Similar in politics, where "liberals" in Great Britain and the United States thought they were antiwar until the next generation of leaders decided that they wanted to be all about military occupations, and they agreed. So if you're a critic in a magazine, it's very important for your job that you claim some sort of independence or realism in regard to your choice what to review this week, and not just admit that you're reviewing what everyone is supposed to be reading, because that's as good as admitting that the morons don't really know what they like, and that even hyper-simplified tag lines on the backs of books aren't enough to clue them in--and of course they're not, because the taglines give no indication of how popular the book is or will be, whereas certain tones and locations for critical reviews can indicate that. Kind of a hilarious and good representation of this can be found in the pop history book reviews that often pop up in places like The Atlantic, where a bunch of people coincidentally, in say 2021, want to out of seeming nowhere read about the forgotten Taft's famous diplomatic river cruise to the Congo, where not only what you read but what you talk about at cocktail parties can be created from scratch. So our culture, whatever it is, is not so much "good" or "bad" as it is "choreographed," and our desire to have people independently make choices is childish and wrong and impossible and unrealistic, representing a fundamental misunderstanding of what it is that people need out of their lives; out of all forms of entertainment and pastime during their time here. No one talks about the growing security threat in Congo, let alone Taft's voyage, unless they've been choreographed to think or care about it; they don't comb the stacks of new releases and pick which historical event/unevent catches their honest interest, but rather, are guided to discover their honest interest by a payola review. It is not that we're in search of lost time, but lost selves, in how cravenly we beg professional knowers for keeping us aware of what should be up to date. Ergo Taft's heroic journey is not forgotten, and besides perfectly demonstrating a lot of things that are in vogue today, it guides us to timeless principles that can benefit us anytime, hey did you read the new one about Taft?

Wednesday, June 6, 2018

Cairns

A sadness, a hope, of the world around us is the presence of evidence of not being alone; of something else being out there. That moment of existential fear we may experience upon one of our births, a newness of any sort, is not fun, because realistically contemplating being the only thing that exists, has ever existed, is terrible, even if it only lasts for far less than a second. And we tend to forget that kind of thing, because even remembering what it was like can shatter anything we've built.

A great part of our flirtation with the Random god, specifically our inversely wishful feartasy of evolution by chance, is likely related to our respective experiences with this terrifying moment, when we explore the possibility of believing that we are alone forever. It can seem too good to be true that we are not, and on Terra, our fantasies of not being alone are themselves often as broken and error laced as our fears of actually being alone (e.g. All Powerful Sky Man created me because he thinks I'm great versus the world is Void).

If we're out hiking, all the original dilemmas are still there, in the sense that we can't conclusively prove that we existed before beginning the hike or before the most recent step, nor that anyone else has ever walked here before and that this is actually a hiking trail. Perhaps roadside restaurants or marker signs or trail names can assuage us, though they might well be furnished by the overactive imaginations of the one terrified to further insanity. Barring that, though, or perhaps considering and rejecting it, the old wildman's cairn is our truer marker, where if one finds a pile of stones, one can speculate that although they may have piled themselves there geologically or via the wind, it is far more likely that someone else placed them there, that someone has come this way before, and that the chance of the stones having randomly arranged themselves that way is, like human-market-based theories of random evolution, too ridiculously impossible to seriously contemplate, ergo there are other hikers out there, or were within the past 100 years, because even a violent windstorm's chance of upsetting the heavy cairn in the past 100 years is of infinitesimal merit next to the monumentally (sic) greater chance that they were placed by a human at some point, probably somewhat recently.

Real evolution is like a cairn, where we can find ourselves on a planet with an atmosphere of a certain mix of chemicals and creatures perfectly suited to breathing those chemicals and conclude that there is no way this relationship occurred randomly, but, like the cairn, was most likely set up to look like that. There are 3, and also 500, and also thirty million more likely explanations than that a dude like us came up with it all 5K or 80 billion years ago, though that's a more mathematically sound conclusion than that it just happened, though quite vulnerable to accusations of wishfulness and more specific analysis of local antiquities. What seems to miss us on this planet is the possibility of accusations not of wishfulness, but of inverse wishfulness, where our own potency is validated not by believing in a sky-man, but by believing that we are so incredible that we could not possibly have been planned. The reaction is similar to the ultimate racism of our (over-) expressly non-racist universalism, where truest understanding means understanding that everyone is equally capable as we define capable pursuant to an extremely limited set of outcomes. E.g., African non-patriarchy and the use of physical violence instead of the development of nuclear bombs can't be due to the expression of philosophies deeper than abstract thought, but must merely be a repression of the African's natural abilities and desires to develop nuclear bombs. It is a horrible indictment of Nu Euros, their cherished belief that everyone is and must be and has always been just like them: and in its own way, our insistence upon the random appearance of these planetary cairns is similarly arrogant and stupid. "We're so incredible no one could have ever thought us up!" In local parlance, we might say such an attitude is equally childish to deciding that a sky man who looks like us made this all to see how cool we were or weren't. I'm taking my toys and going home.

And of course, the Nu Euro insistence that Africans were nuclear bombers in their heart of hearts reveals not only how great we think we are for developing what passes for our technology, but how worthless we think of what the African has developed on his own. We're so interested in racism now, in haughty defiance of the truth that being "liberal" is significantly more racist than being "conservative"--but not in the way that conservatives use when they try to argue that Congoid businesses don't need extra tax credits. Rather, truly recognizing the racism inherent in today's liberalism is less flattering to Europeoids than it is to other peoples, because yes white people were smarter than other races and thus formed the modern world and all its goodies, but it scares us a lot to contemplate those goodies not being the best possible. So we offend not only the milkwater anti-racist liberal, but the pro-science white race realist, when we question whether or not the past few thousand years of Europeoid tech was really the best possible way. The "liberal" can't admit that the African really couldn't have accomplished this, while the "race realist" can't admit that maybe what was accomplished actually wasn't that good, and that maybe the Congoid's deferment of abstract thought for twenty thousand extra years will turn out to be a superior survival strategy in the long run than the Europeoid's horrid abuse thereof. How many millions of successful African farms would you trade for four new Dresdens? Tough question either way.

The paling consequences of our "tech," and the occasional imaginations of what we might perceive as its "mis" use, reveal a great deal about us, very little of it good. Stuck in a hell of undeclared urban warfare, with Africans killing off Europeoids as fast as they can without rousing the beast, this sort of concern seems silly and badly timed, but imagine the opposite, living in the nuclear apocalypse, and you can see how the Nu Euro's "He may guide us to use it" wargasms might've led you to view one hell as worse than another. If the Jews had wanted the last white people to annihilate themselves in the 1960s, make no mistake, the proud little Nu Euros would've done it, and some dumb Congoid survivor's oral history that "Yeah, dey was sum bad shit up dere" would've been a more thorough and intellectual history of the Europeoid race than anything that's been composed in this reality about the Cuban missile crisis.

Details aside, remember the cairns. Someone has gone this way before and the way is passable.

Wednesday, May 30, 2018

The Evolutionary Process

In Lightform Evolution, this one discussed the mathematical improbabilities of what people here call "evolution," saying:
Anyway. 98!, being as mentioned before 9.426890448883242e+153, is what some people might call one effing big number. How many trillion trillion trillion years should it have taken Alexandra's cells--even if one million cells mutated all together in each case, in an extremely, god-forsakenly unlikely coincidence--to produce not only proto-lung cells in a non-mortal part of each new organism or set of organisms, but to produce proto-lung-Earth-air-breathing cells? Remember that 98! combinations of elements is a 9 with over one hundred and fifty-four digits after it.

Even if a hundred billion Alexandras are reproducing successfully a hundred billion times every day for a hundred billion years, they are coming nowhere near anything approaching a halfway reasonable chance at a slight probability of winning a lottery to be eligible for a one in a trillion chance that they will evolve Earth-air-breathing lungs.
The reason oceanic, solely-water breathing organisms here evolved to breathe Earth air within a few billion years was because Earth air, like water before it, was available. Air was there. And in a reasonable, non-religious world, Terran scientists do not begin praying to some random god of fiscal markets or molecules of so many types that they like but can't understand. Earthly organisms did not spend trillions upon trillions of years evolving gradually more complete lungs suited for breathing something other than Earth-air because their bodies, part of the integrated system that includes Earth air, could tell Earth air was out there, and were designing organs for breathing it and climbing onto land and living wholly on land, et cetera. If this were actually random, and a planet had not somehow died off through the oodles of other mixups that would have happened, there would be, at the very least, many, many fossilized autogenocides of organisms that had randomly evolved huge numbers of completely wrong things, like arms from heads and ammonia lungs and heavy things with feet from feet from feet and other nonsense that just doesn't happen on a planet with this kind of stable air and this strength of gravitation and so forth. So many of this one's earlier series of embarrassing Terran "scientific" conclusions about random "creation" and "evolution" religion were covering the impossibilities of planetary systems not being able to communicate.

And within that insanity, we hope to move without that insanity, and recognize the integrated environments that are producing changes in these Terran things of all types. Regarding Alexandra specifically, this one has said, Earth-air-lungs formed because Earth air was available. And so evolution works: not in some rugged frontiersman way, where he just happens to find a rifle on the front porch the day before the bears move in, but because the bears move in and he smells them and hears them and sees them and stays inside while he builds some weapon. And it worked the same way when a bunch of cells thought about extracting materials, say oxygen, from Earth-ocean-water, and then from the slightly more challenging Earth-air.

This happens because things generated to be within a planet can communicate with each other. No, we haven't figured out how yet, but they can, rather like cells in a body can communicate with each other through larger systems of which they're a part, and although we haven't exactly figured out how yet, our neurology is rather sophisticated in that sense, and if someone suddenly turns left really fast toward us while we're entering an intersection, we stop thinking so intently about the coffee we were really dying for a split second ago, because the shock and need of some driving maneuver, or crash-prep, suddenly becomes more important. And it didn't happen randomly, or because we suddenly realized we didn't want coffee, or weren't thirsty, or so forth, but because the shock overruled other things and sort of drowned them out. And the way evolution actually works is similar. Alexandra wants new territory, an easy way to get it is to try out the air-territory, the air territory can only provide that oxygen you need if your lungs can break it down instead of just water, and so that "knowledge"--Terra's knowledge of what it had to use, the organism's knowledge of what it needs--combines, and evolution occurs, and a bunch of that type of organism begin developing an appropriate lung, which is rather promptly done, and onto land they go. It would be cool if humans developed some way of turning that language into something that could be translated into language onto computer screens, but in a way it would be sad because the message would probably be right now, "These fucking hominids are a real problem they need to die," and figuring that out, let alone connecting it to whatever our problems are, would be a real problem for all the prestigious governments we have now, and the TV version of Kim Jong iL might suddenly become an environmental crusader trying to carry out the planet's will, or at least that's what they'd tell us before they started some other war.

A little secret, the discovery of which often doesn't occur until evolution is understood, is that people can sort of hear that message in a way they'd consider "subconsciously," ergo they often have seemingly inexplicable thoughts or desires which concur with their planet, affecting things like financial investments or suicide rates or entertainment creation or sexuality et cetera. The past hundred years of myths and legends, for example, contra the previous ten thousand, represent a subconscious realization of the system's plans for the future, which can interface interestingly with conscious life. But that's not the point here; the point is evolution.

So when the planet was covered with lava and boiling pools of water and stuff like that, unicellular organisms had the desire to stay in cooler pools. This was not "random," because if their temperature preferences had been random, they'd've mostly if not all died, but it was a coordination between the organisms' sense of self-integrity and Terra's sense of what it contained. This sounds like a schoolboy's fantasy of different things talking to each other if we only look at it that way, but if not, and we see the planet more like us, as an organism filled with all kinds of completely different parts, actual evolution suddenly appears as believable as you knowing your foot is hurting because your brain got the message. And this worked all the way up to a point where Zeke was going to forestry school because of a combination of stuff he'd heard about likely future jobs in the area that he maybe can't enunciate in full detail despite his desire to not sound stupid in front of Grandpa. I really like bees and flowers, because it's so obvious; that was a system of evolution that we could be cute and call "co-evolution" even though everything is "co" if you'd phrase it that way for that reason. In that case, it was two or more organisms evolving in unison to accomplish a purpose, that of shared feeding and fertilization, which would've been all but impossible to accomplish randomly on each one's part but worked so perfectly for a long time when they could do it with constant reliance on the timely evolution of a partner organism.

That's how evolution seems to happen so "efficiently" and "correctly" inside the same type of organism, too; it's why the fossil record isn't littered with organisms that randomly evolved two sets of lungs or one lung in the feet or five kidneys or anything like that. If people were suddenly ordered to build a building now now now and never told where things should be, you'd get toilets in the wrong place and offices in the wrong place and what do you mean there's no front door? Oh I thought Larry's group was already doing that. And you don't see that in the fossil record, you see people working on plans that were designed, not by the occasionally hated Yahweh but by the Terran system for all of us Terrans. We fantasize, now, about evolution having been random, and in traditional Europeoid way, it now being "our turn" to develop a "new, directed evolution," like that's a privilege we have randomly earned therefore it can't be taken from us, but no, if some prestigious and connected institution in one of our more powerful permitted communities tried to come up with a plan for a new human, it'd have a lot of cool features but soon destroy itself in some amazing way we couldn't have predicted because we were just one part of a sub-committee on how things were supposed to go around here.

One of, maybe the only, problem is our reverence for the Random Bang Orgasm God, and the deep-seated fear of so many conscious entities now that that is some kind of un-enunciated communication and relationship between things here which is not written down and which they feel they might be missing out on and how come our finest organizations don't have veto power over this thing, as part of their transition to a more complex consciousness which can think and speak. Part of that process is losing the ability to more explicitly understand the communication of evolution, and of being afraid at not possessing the insanely total autonomy that is often mistakenly assumed with a more complex consciousness. Fear is strong enough to make people assume that it is possible at all, or in a few billion years, for things to develop lungs suited to their planet's air through sheer autonomous willpower, with no help whatsoever from the planet, like a rugged hero organism who develops Earth-air-lungs in one unbroken chain of fossils without anyone's help whatsoever. We now know that our immune systems, for example, don't (usually) attack our own organs upon birth, not because we're so cool and planned it that way but because we were built by, and as part of, a system of an integrated body which recognizes itself pursuant to some sub microscopic agenda that it took us many centuries to postulate and then many microscopes to prove to our satisfaction; it is actually unsurprising, though, of continual aggravation to today's pop-biologists, that our fossil record includes only proof of one sinuous line of evolution, rather than an endless series of stops and starts in the wrong direction that it would have included if it represented a random attempt. A less frightened, less arrogant people would have used this accumulation as a jumping-off point to study planetary- and life-communication methods, but we were too damaged, and so we derived some new variations on our religion instead, coming up with the self-flattering notion of random creation of so many things designed by chance specifically to be here, and reworking the orgasmic creation fantasy from a single blast of interstellar semen into our comprehensive guide to the universe.

Some type of Science 101 in a good place somewhere would consider it mundane, and would not insult Terra's inhabitants so much, to cover this material; indeed, a basic understanding of planetary communication methods would open many new paths to understanding, such as if time could be accelerated in a model environment and a system of silicon terrain could be shown to generate, in a billion years, some type of fungus or plant which dwelt successfully therein. So pretend you're in that classroom and you've seen that demonstration, or just Earth is the classroom and you watch from far away as a lot of sophisticated stuff evolves to use its soil and water and air without trying out its luck with a bunch of different configurations meant for non-present soil and water and air, and so you have proof that a human mind of this level of complexity can understand. The good part about that experiment is that it can be done here, in this place without boxes that can alter time over a limited space, just by looking at your very own fossil record. And moving beyond that point, we can see how planets communicate, and then move on to understanding stars and their detritus, and how they communicate, and the verse itself, and how come so many weird things around here seem to coordinate, and then what might be the purpose of this coordination existing or being used, and what it might drive toward, and so on. It can be a real help toward your life, not just in forestry and the way trees or parasitical bugs miles away from an ongoing fire seem to know things about what is happening on the other side of the forest but that doesn't mean they can spontaneously stop being made of wood or other burnable stuff, but because not being willing to privately believe in the random god can do a lot for your mental capacity as time goes on.

Saturday, May 26, 2018

Verse 6

"6" is a guess because who knows how much we've referred to this in ways that could be considered part of a series.

Reality is infinite and eternal, and perhaps it is best approached from a local perspective in the manner of dispelling a notion of beginnings and endings. The verse is omnipresent in the sense that it was and will always be here, and dismissing incorrect local versions of starts and finishes, and not dismissing cause and effect as notions entirely but understanding that by their nature of happening within eternity they are themselves eternal, for each effect can be explained only through a large number of causes, like unto infinity from our perspective, which themselves stretch backward often through infinite time and defy our notion of neatly packaged definitions of cause and effect, ergo it's more a matter to us of feeling cause and effect than identifying it or knowing it like some equation we really intelligently finished on, say, a sheet of paper. Because an infinite set of causes, in some philosophical ways, is like the butterfly effect times infinity, and there's no way to reasonably argue that any of them was more influential than any other, ergo the "cause" as to the "effect," so you see how it gets rather impossible to use those words with a straight face in infinite time; there has to be an agreed upon set of artificial rules and parameters in shared employ for those words to mean anything. Not because this is necessarily the best verbiage, but the most effective for those of us with a Terran background right now.

(Re cause and effect, imagine someone punches you in the nose [cause] so your nose hurts [effect]. But he did it because he was feeling extra irritated that day because he got fired. And the boss made the decision then because he was stressed about money because his girlfriend reminded him about the required diamond because she saw a special on gems that she only saw because her girlfriend casually mentioned it during a conversation at the mall because light glinted off the jewelry counter as they walked by because Jake diligently fixed the lights before opening changing the angle slightly and he felt limber since he finally used that totally gay coupon for a massage place where only the dudes work and he only gave in because last night there was some TV program about brotherhood of men and it was bullshit because I guess it got to Jake and the scheduler only used it because that rich dude backed out of funding the thing on local fire department management scandals which he only did because...cause, cause, cause. It goes back a long way and it's all a cause and to figure out why your nose hurts takes a lot more than the understanding of just the "most proximate cause" and gets philosophical when you consider that people are filled with all sorts of potential and maybe the cause of a cause is actually more important to possibility than the most proximate cause, because of course if someone says something sarcastic to Jerry about making rent there will be an episode of yelling or violence that day, and of course if Wanda has a bad time at work due to Francis' elbow acting up again and making her snippy then she's going to make a cutting remark about Jerry's fiscal prowess.)

(Which ties in to conversation and connection. Like, if I say, "Where you from?" you might reply "Sigma 6K" and it might be technically true, but it's more meaningful to our conversation if you just say "Albuquerque," because my question there was "where were you born most recently as a human?" rather than "where did your molecules first take existential shape in the form in which I see them now?" Any number of other assholes could provide any number of other confusing but technically true answers, but it's the same way as a lot of common kinds of interactions, including conversation, where an unspoken, nebulous trust is required for the binding to work, as easy to spoil as it is to create. And logically, you can prove neither that the question was asked nor answered, because existence could itself be an illusion or they could be spontaneously channeling different languages which meant different things, et cetera times infinity, and it takes a level of trust and intuition to understand what is probably happening and react accordingly. The "kill him" line, "You know what has to be done," is indecipherable to those who don't really know what's being discussed, even with an advanced English textbook at hand.)

In that context, selfishly as to our right now, we can conceive of an uncertainty of and over an unknowable creator who in many ways doesn't matter. Reality may be, in this way, likened to the leftover scraps from the divine clockmaker's workshop, in the sense of anthropomorphized takes or appeals to any such clockmaker being wholly irrelevant to material organization in our vicinity for a time span of, say, a thousand years, therefore being to a spurty little human "totally irrelevant." Ergo existential qualms about "who created us" are not merely untimely but irrelevant. (Not to be facetious or to cleverly hint at some super entity I'm not going to talk about, but really, to say it's not relevant, it's not only so temporally distant a question but so irrelevant in other ways that it's just stupid to ponder in the sense of answers not mattering even if they are reached and the search being way less fruitful than other things..)

One of the properties of this reality is complexification, or the tendency of growing more complicated material structures, easily fractalized through a life, not only due to the increasing ability of the human to understand what it might call complexity, but to its increasing ability to expose itself to such complexity. We are, in short, dwelling inside a clockwork that is not very responsive to our desires, does not have nor show a human face to our concerns whatever they may be, and which is even now making our forms and concerns irrelevant as time continues as it always has, using us for the only objectively useful thing we can accomplish, namely creating and accumulating memories. It is a separate matter of debate of whether or not this process of cycling through more and more lives for any given memory condenser is itself part of a larger cycle, although fractally it probably is, although great arguments could be made that it is not and this is not really the place to understand them but it doesn't really change the mundane physics nor even some of the metaphysics of each time. So as to being worried about the meaning of life, we're concerned neither with a creator nor the implications of being part of a cyclically greater creation.

So, stuff bumps around the verse, and there might be a "uni" verse, and within that stuff, the things that are as complicated as us perform the function of having experiences that can and will be somewhat remembered. Those memories are, usually within a century, sucked up into that planet's stores and eventually, when that planet is destroyed, sucked up to some bigger storehouse, I'll just say "Axom" because of force of habit from where I was not many trips ago, but for God's sake the name isn't important here so much as it's sentimental to me, oh good grief I'm afraid to google it because in the way I anglicized it it might be some superconductor firm in Tennessee. The point is, there are other places to store more memories than the inhabitants of a single planet can accumulate or the planet itself can hold. Anyway, the great metaphysical quandary of our lives isn't so much a quandary as a rather rote natural function which is gathering memories, and this human part of it is more complex than ones before ergo can seem an apex to the novice, which of course is everyone because we're still here aren't we?

What metaphysical quandaries can we expose with this information? More important, especially on Terra, is whether it is accurate or not, and for the evidence of that we should not care about the ravings of some nut on the internet who claims to remember something from before, since there are people on the internet and in meatspace who say that about having met Gabriel or received a new message from God or some other like revelation, and it's cool that they're willing to act whatever to lend a spice of "maybe..." to whatever they say which may or may not be interesting. More important, more relevant to these suspicious minds (and they should be suspicious, given our current surroundings) are the things we can do independently, not concerned with any particular prophet nor groups of prophets, because self-evident things don't need that kind of crap, and it's sort of offensive to imagine any divine force choosing to channel such an important message through such a limited vessel and leaving everyone else out of the game unless they buy something. And there are no divine forces, except there are, beyond all conception, only they're outclassed by other things in the cycle and they have far more important things to do than affect here with some kind of foreshadowing of something that will happen anyway and will be mundane and predictable when it does. And this doesn't mean they're really cool or divine or worthy of some unique variety of respect, because you'll do it too; it's more of an explanation of why nobody shows up to hold your hand through any of this; not because no one likes you, but because it's inevitable anyway. And because there are other time-consuming, really enjoyable, really important things to do later, ergo we do not tend to see (as this one metaphorized before) many adults wanting to go to preschools to grab them all by the shoulders and scream "It's gonna get better!" about some or other complaint of limitation on the preschool life as it appears from adulthood.

Let's try to be more illustrative. What is life? Easy; simply; a process whereby light, developed to a certain level of complexity and having gained the ability to remember some of what has happened to it, forms and stores memories as what may be likened to an "energy source" for activities which we don't here understand. And what is death? A probably mandatory dump of the said energy source, designed to happen so that entities afflicted with life at this level of development can't, through the best of intentions, lock up the said memories forever, rendering them unusable for a long enough period of time. (Think the time you made the winning touchdown. Endlessly referenced in other memories, but the full intensity of living it is probably locked up in your head in full detail until that self is no more. ergo the cyclical "memory dump," or mandatory transfer protocol if you prefer more technical sounding language. If you stayed in our current mortal form forever, or for a thousand years, or whatever, that full memory would be locked up in your goop-brain, not in easily accessible storage). And what happens to us after death is the same as what happens to energy or material when it is rearranged; we pool wherever we're pulled, break apart again, reform again, and our matter goes somewhere, our energy somewhere, and our mind, or "soul," somewhere else, usually to be more involved with the memories as sort of a curator to our emotional selves here but actually more like something pulled by gravity into contacting something else. And maybe that's being a k'arash janitor and plopped into some new planet with the desire to destroy everything there, and maybe it's a new chance to generate new memories while not being interfered with by the old ones, so that all the stereotypical fears and assumptions and wonderings can be done all over again, but differently, increasing the quality, the complexity, of the final product. And that, despite the many pleasures incumbent upon the way, is why this isn't a paradise fantasy; it promises scary and sad things in proportion with the good ones, which may sound unimportant now but does not feel unimportant later. Ergo combining memory of the hottest person ever with desire for greatest sex or closest and truest connection ever, etc., produces results that feel good, but this is a chemistry that can and does mix the bad things, too, which sounds funny until you're actually facing, say, greatest childhood fear mixed with adult sensation of losing something really important and dealing with the consequences for a thousand years, and all the end result is cool but the process is not always enjoyable.

And we can tell this in part by the way material has evolved here, to the best of our ability, starting with, shall we say, "rocks," and ending (how temporally arrogant, but this one's just using local terms) with "humans" who are much more dynamic and efficient and energy-conduiting than, say, the cores of stars. Think beyond our extremely limited temporal perception of life, here; it is, in the short term more productive of light and energy, to create two stars (dammit, kind of an in joke it's so frustrating but seriously in a good-natured way still there are SO MANY of those idiots who make two stars and for a bunch of millennia they're parading around with the superior results and then a while later they're nowhere to be seen omigod it's so annoying how they do that) instead of one star surrounded by a bunch of smaller crap, but in a long enough time period the surrounding of smaller crap ends up producing a vast net gain in total energy output using the same starter materials (personal annoyance or minor strife with some idiot whose done humanity and yet does two stars like a complete moron I mean I like stars but come ON people). Because, for example, some of the smaller crap often becomes planets which might become habitats for some kind of life which might produce some kind of memories, or even conventionally, which might develop machines that mine other local planets, or that reproduces exponentially, or whatever, and in the long run, more energy is produced than just yet another star. The inexorable, complementary way that we can see how this process happened, independently among separated organisms whose genes weren't in cell phone contact yet working together in the tiniest and most intimate of ways (mentioning bees and flowers again), even just with Terran tech, and how it doesn't reverse itself (except for really stupid people being born, haha, seriously it's never reversed), can help us understand some of this picture on our own, without believing any yahoo we happen to find on this planet, including on the internet. And understanding the way evolution has worked, for so long, can help us understand how we came to be, and why we came to be, as though improved memory-generating and -storing entities were the goal of this place--and the coordination with which it happens, through seemingly independent organisms, helps us understand that there is some greater program which all those things are following, not a Random god nor a Firmament god, but something else that tries to generate this powerful and sophisticated and relatively rare energy source which we call memory. And that can make us feel good, the idea that after these bodies die, we can revisit those memories and develop new forms and make what we might call "better" memories and fulfill a function that we might call "higher," and our ability to subscribe to part of this "generate memory energy" feed can help us feel existentially fulfilled in many states, including having some weird kind of incredibly fulfilling nebulaic sex with one or sixteen partners who can also feel that feed and whom we feel closer to than as humans we can imagine, partly but not all as a result of the relatedness caused by our shared subscription to the corporate imperative of "dear staff, accumulate memories." And in a way, this can be likened to some cheap metaphysical contention of heaven, since experience after being a human can be so much, perhaps exponentially, better, and capacity to create and store memories much more so, so that promising reunions with loved ones or the creation/discovery of new loved ones or the attainment of more "enjoyable" experiences is a paradisical promise that, from here, seems rather substantially similar in structure to all other paradisical promises.

Part of this process of learning about reality involves dropping our versions of fear here, given that fear is primally and primarily caused by notions of being cut off the feed of "grow more complex and make memories," which corresponds perfectly with the desire to not die which we usually feel here. A seeming irony in the Terran sense might be that it's not "all about you" nor even all about some kind of arch nobility, but that encouraging you to complexify and go build better memories is sort of like encouraging a factory worker to do better on line 4 today, so really, promising someone great love in paradise is kind of like slapping them on the back and encouraging them to get those boxes loaded and shipped, which may or may not taint the experience of developing those top notch memories of having sex on the beach if you think about it too much. And the human experience is really good at making that not matter, even if you suspect; this one, for example, really doesn't want to die despite being delusionally aware of the process, so you still eat and sleep and seek other pleasurable memories. In the sense of the shipping-company worker, our desire to build those memories is strong and true and individually-focused enough that, although we're generating and delivering for others, we really don't mind working all day and shipping all that stuff; it's not, in some ways, a hard labor or an unfair one, particularly in the case of "would you like to move on (die), or gather some more memories?" Ergo even if it's been really terrible here, once the big dude is choking the hell out of us, we're awfully vindicated and pleased when we find the gun and unexpectedly finish him off and can breathe again (and yes dammit I know how dumb and easy to escape the murder choke is it's just an example for some threatening situation that people can identify with). The escape from any other near-death experience you'd prefer to think of, and a glimpse of the fear inside you whatever you philosophically believe about death, serves as a suitable example.

The reduction of paradise to purpose need not be its destruction, neither the paradise nor the purpose, and the sense of being an existential laborer about whom all is not, needn't crush the intensity of the experience itself, in part because it can't--experience remains experience, and how intense or truthful it feels is a necessary component of building the memory in the first place--and in more thoughtful part, because the memory of contemplating events as they happen is so, shall we say, hardwired into anything conscious (designed as a memory generator), impossible to destroy even if you wanted to. E.g., it's possible to destroy someone's neurological function to remember while still having it be conscious, but even if the memories aren't stored onsite, the experience can still drift up to large local storage in the form of Terra. So it's no particular nuisance or great trouble if someone doesn't believe all its experiences are just memory condensation; it's like someone who works on an oil rig disagreeng with corporate policies while still doing his job perfectly well, or rather, like an oil well disbelieving in its own spew.

On a separate subject, maybe, props to Buddhism and Hindusim, the fable- and founder- and deity-free parts, as having a pretty accurate existential portrayal, in the sense of positing reincarnation and then a "salvation" from it, which--again, without accounting for any human-interest deity- or founder-stories--can be likened to simple and accurate, in the sense that they discuss, in so many words, the importance of refining the memory-storage process with a foreshortened sense of its completion. Buddhism's recognition that desire for different memories causes suffering is, in a way, true, and some versions of it, and Hinduism, recognize the ability of former memory accumulations to influence later accumulation processes, and compared to much more crude religions, like, "This is Thugmo. He kicks ass and likes pretty flowers. Therefore, do what he says and he will not kick your ass and will let you hang out by his flowers next Tuesday," these are much more accurate, or if you prefer, "character motivating," systems of belief. It perhaps assists some conscious entities to, Buddhistly, not desire more desirable things, because they still develop their memories, and remembering the satisfaction of not worrying about stuff is just as much a useful memory as remembering picking up your new Ferrari. Various "end states" of memory-gathering, present as paradises in both religions, serve as a reflection of becoming a better memory-gatherer, and perhaps being someone who gets off more on building stars out of memories rather than being less capable and on remembering doing some hottie. Which is still a fine memory; not to demean any part of the process. Because that, ultimately is what cause and effect are all about; you're "from" some place much different than you're from now, and it probably isn't a Bang joke yet, but it would be essentially accurate for an astrophysics professor now to claim he was from "the Big Bang," or an anthropomorphic deist to claim he was "from god," rather than from Albuquerque, even if considering the question's shared context the person should have just answered "Albuquerque," but wasn't answering incorrectly if either religion were true--yet wasn't addressing the question that was really asked by the Terran trying to talk to him.

Gosh, it feels so wrong writing like this without throwing in some Schopenhauer quotes, some lesser-known or otherwise-forgotten but still meaningful passages, either for appearing intelligent, as though that matters here, or appearing part of some tradition regarding "investigations into the nature of reality." And people's desire to do that, or perhaps only the Nu Euro's desire to do that, speaks to a desire to belong in a transcendent fashion, because we know that no one here is listening, so we cite people from last year or last century or longer, to imply a relationship, not only to reassure our audience that we've done good, but to reassure ourselves that we, too, have a role to fill, but one in a hall of honored statues. Merely statues, yes, but still at least in the hall.

Friday, May 25, 2018

Trans Potter

In I Wish I Could Use Magic, title in reference to the Rowling persona's now dated twitter quote about Brexit, this one noted:
[Rowling's] craftwork is distinguished from other human works in that it was created as a malleable expression of extemporaneous desire, rather than an artistic statement, and her ongoing involvement with it is meant to make "it"--not only it itself, but the phenomenon caused for and caused by and generated by and generated for it--something that not only can, but must, mean anything it is meant to mean at the time it is cited. Ironically, Potter itself is rather a Mirror of Erised--a creation that, like Rowling's amazingly WASPy, male-dominated original cast of professors and, more importantly, chauvi-WASPy fictionally-historic figures--reveals the endless flexibility and, ultimately, falsity and meaninglessness of her work. Because it was created without the ability to stand alone, and constantly reconfigured whenever social convenience deemed it necessary, Potter has become a wreck in the style of a post-Talmudic Judea or post-Nicean Christianity, where so many ultimately authoritative sources have internally conflicted with the muddled and re-presented source materials that it takes a constant exercise in faith (and attention-paying) to know what is right to believe at what time. Since Rowling is God of Potter, her continued presence in recasting the kraftwerk to satisfy ego and handlers makes, for believers, the original text impossible to translate without the benefit of her input, like when Muhammad issued new revelations about his share of booty from any given battle.
Continuing on with the aging and political preferences of her targets, Rowling turned an invasion of Dementors into an excuse to celebrate rather than despair, because a few years had gone by, becoming pro-rapist and denigrating the Anglo cast of her own country after writing (in the spirit of the original post, continuing the trend of not using air quotes) a wholly-Anglo story designed with the purloined tropes and borrowed situations from that history. In a way, we must thank God that she was too lazy to be utilized for ongoing novels, or the revelations that this or that faculty member or student was mixed race or trans would now overwhelm us, yet the original text, being sacred to the stupid, is oblivious to anything not straight and Anglo. It would prove quite interesting for readers now to celebrate Snape's coming out party or Dumbledore's tearful confession to the cafeteria that "he" was always a woman but age was making it impossible to keep up the deception would they please to forgive him--and then that jerk Malfoy would lead the petition for a new headmaster with the support of some obvious asshole from the school board while Harry would heroically lead the faction of students who supported Dumbledore and gave him a French kiss in front of everyone to indicate acceptance. And the discovery of Voldemort's secret Nazi lair decorated with posters of Hitler giving speeches would be a shock to everyone, and people would celebrate it as a great historical commentary and learning opportunity for young readers.

This mandate which would have been imposed on Rowling if she were duplicating her work now will become more pressing as the speed at which issues must be forced into childrens' brains has to increase in order to keep pace with reality. Since she's finished her series, she's no doubt provided by insinuation a lot of people who were attracted by the elite Anglo environment she provided but wanted to prove they could embrace rapists too, and she's certainly been effective, but the work she would've had to do if writing nowadays would be much more intense. Writing before the mass immigration to Britain even began, she showed her complete ignorance and lack of concern about the rest of the world, but has since proven that she would've, if she'd written now, been completely okay with an African Hermione and replacing her student body with a more colorful blend. How, then, will this kind of propaganda evolve? It must be so fast that, like Potter, it can suggest the issues of self-hatred and suicide, but must be flexible enough to introduce newer issues as it goes along, such as Dumbledore's sex-change and revelations that Cedric Diggory (character) was half-black.