Saturday, February 24, 2018

White Racial Inferiority

Over the past few thousand years on Terra, we've seemed to see evidence of Europeoid racial superiority. Throw a bunch of them together in a human habitat, and they do things like develop a particular architecture. As far as modern humans go, it tends to be pleasing in terms of shape and line, and more importantly, effective; it tends to be a thing that doesn't need to be moved seasonally, nor bi-annually, but is so efficient it can stay in the same place for years, still working, with minor repair. This architecture also tends to keep out the cold and be weather-resistant. Human groups seem to have an ability to build which corresponds to their racial possession of some quality of genes which seem to have been primarily or initially provided by some group of Europeoids or near-Europeoids. For example, an Egyptian empire of around 5,000 B.C. builds a certain quality and size-level of things, then doesn't once its racial composition changes; a Roman Empire does the same, and so on. We might call our group Europeoid because these abilities were honed by a need for architecture which could survive, in the long term, in the global north, or maybe it only appears that way because other groups could not create architecture that permitted them to survive stably in a limited space zone afflicted by northern temperatures. A few other groups could lead semi-nomadic lives in colder regions, or potentially eschew all technology but survival in order to persist, but Europeoids could build livable things, then still invent other things, within the snow.

Let's call our Europeoids (our hypothetical group of inventing but imperiled hominids) "Wytes" just for purposes of discussion. We don't know the original where or/if why Wytes distinguished themselves as a distinct group, so Wytes will serve as a term. Imagining it was European winters, or the shifting preference of an invisible sky Jew who really liked Wytes the best, or some genetic superiority that developed somewhere else and just seems to be, through coincidence, related to the part of the globe we now call Europe, is beyond the reach of our current knowledge. Use Wytes to refer to someone who has enough of whatever the crucial genetic and/or spiritual factors exist(ed).

The pattern has held, whether as an indirect result of Slav rape, or conquests that were gradually sort of absorbed, to the reaches of Aryan territory, including Indo-Arya/India, onto China, onto Japan, and associated environs. Not just in architectural stability, but in social stability; we can find dynasties in ancient India, and recent China/Japan, that we can't find in, say, Africa or Mesoamerica. Architecture rather telegraphed the abilities or intentions of a group, for it seemed that the ability to survive as non-nomads was inextricably linked to other aspects of material environment management, such that the ability of a people to plan for rulership transitions around the temporal vicinity of someone's death was connected to that same group's ability to plan for food availability during weather crises, seasonal temperature adjustments, nearby flooding or droughting, et cetera. And that ability seemed linked to all other technology, so Europe was better at that than China was better at that than Africa. The ability to build, say, better houses was linked to the ability to build, say, guns and jet planes.

Modern myth holds that everyone was equal and Wytes got superior either by chance or by stealing things, which potentially melds with recent self-destructive Pentateuchal Wyte colonialism, but not with five thousand years ago or any of the time before this period. Per the rules of modern science, Wytes have demonstrated and continue to demonstrate that they're better at building not only buildings and tangible technology, but rubrics of rules within which individuals prefer to live. And, say, five thousand years has shown that, in the sense of recent history being an endless succession of Wytes establishing some settlement big or small, said settlement being massively more attractive to nearby groups, and the latter then permeating and deconstructing said Wyte settlement, e.g. Egypt, Rome, Spain, the U.S. and Europe. And despite little pockets of occasional resistance, the Wyte societies keep dying. Relics are left behind which might, in a less-traveled world, foster rebuilding; e.g. technological knowledge which might assist a successor society to rebuild some "nation" after a past nation has died, but now that Terrans can travel so fast, and a new genetically exclusive nation hasn't been built on some extraterrestrial object, the end of Wytes seems near, as was repeatedly foreseen and explicitly predicted more than a century ago.

So if we like technology--pacemakers, or guns, or houses that don't let in so much snow the people inside them die too much each winter--we're sorta sad, because Wytes will be gone. At the very least, they have recessive traits, and will be bred out and absorbed into successor races, possibly increasing successor I.Q. a little bit from what it would've been, but toppling, perhaps for all time, the heights to which the Wyte experiment, as it were, had aspired. Maybe Chinese architecture or Japanese social traditions were better than that found in many other places, but they couldn't produce the mental dynamism that gave us, say, cars or computers; forever stillborn, the next few thousand years of humanity might be a failed experiment, maybe never to have a chance again as technology allows ability to be tracked and eliminated in the interests of fairness-piracy.

Not to stop this process, nor even to leave a little gem of wisdom for some regenerative future--besides it not surviving, and being functionally illegible, it'd spoil the whole thing to give answers ahead of time when they wouldn't otherwise be found out on their own--but for ourselves, here at this part of the end, we might consider Wyte racial failings.

This has been tried by the janitors, a.k.a. The Enemy, inasmuch as Wytes have been accused of forms of autopathological altruism, whereby one of their traits is that they please themselves by giving away their things, but this is an attempt to deflect blame; to turn the genuine, full-blooded masochist into a hapless amateur who went too far and didn't know what she was getting into. Namely, by chronicling the death of Wytes as a hapless misadventure of trying to excessively help others, we overlook the benefit of this racial failing, such that some type of autopathological disorder doesn't suffice as an explanation.

Make a mental list of the virtues possessed by the Wytes, which can be endlessly verified across all presently known history. Wytes build things better, invent many more and much better things in this environment, develop family and civilizational structures which are more reliable, and so forth. As aforementioned, call those "virtues." Then take a moment and feel a sense of foreboding or badness at the prospect of the Wytes being bred into less capable groups, with the mostly-recessive genes for aforementioned positive traits either diminishing or disappearing altogether.

Now look at that list of virtues again. It's quite incomplete. What has been confused as autopathological altruism is a virtue-demerit, or a bad character trait; a thoroughly vast eschewing of good behavior and responsibility, coupled with genes promising its frequent future repetition. Something has to get rid of those genes, and since we don't believe in educational conditioning but the traditional inheritance of ingrained behavior, the only thing that can remove it is a messy, lengthy process of eliminating the afflicted, inferior individuals, and their gradual replacement by better ones.

These demerits, these flaws of character, are quite numerous and quite serious. Think back to your CCW classes: do you set your gun next to the place where the little black boys are playing war, then leave it alone and come back a few hours later? No! Fail! And genetically, civilizationally, this is what Wytes have done. Oh, was it because someone told you it would be fine? What kind of idiot are you, anyway? I don't care how many times he told you, it was still stupid. Did you let him have half your things, too, because he told you it was a good idea? Yeah, you're a fuckin' idiot; you're a hopeless case. Start over.

Consider the virtues the Wyte race is lacking:

Responsibility. Wytes are good at making things, but dangerously willing to give them away. And, perversely, to feel powerful by watching them be used by others. This is why what we're seeing is not any kind of pathological altruism, but a perfectly rational pleasure-seeking behavior by the Wytes: do something because it feels good. We still see this, say at the U.N., where Wytes get off on making other groups act "respectful toward women" or "respectful toward minorities," showing them exactly how to ape preferred behavior so that the pleasure of bribing someone else to imitate you can be gained. The above gun example is a literal one, in the sense of Wytes developing dangerous weapons, then sharing the manufacture of them, or the output of that manufacture, with people who did not, arguably could not have, developed them on their own. This is not a trivial thing; someone who developed a geological bomb and then loaned it to everyone and their cousin would be, in some way, responsible for the resulting earthquakes even if he did not press the button himself. Wytes were smart enough to invent guns, but not to guard the possession of their mental labor from those who should not have had it. When African dictators have "little wars" of ten thousand dudes versus ten thousand more, all armed with old stressed firearms, the results, perhaps even the happenings at all, of such revolutions, are partly, if not totally, due to the Wytes. There's a level of stupidity there, in the sense of the Africans spending their time that way--which they probably would've been doing anyway--but the mortality risk of a revolution with guns versus one with fists and spears is decidedly different. If wolves or chimpanzees could slay their enemies or demonstrate dominance with guns, they would, and their inability to fathom the mandatory eventual consequences of having their species flush with guns and gun-results is expected, and predictable, even to the point of hunting Wytes for the same reasons. Sure, it's funny to laugh at the idea of some chimpanzee destroying his enemy's family and in so doing having his spare shots kill potential future mates and food supplies, but then that part of the ecosystem becomes unavailable to not only the victorious chimp himself, but the inventor of the death machine.

The "me smarter, me make guns" thought has paralyzed Wytes. Celebration of various superiorities has utterly distracted Wytes from facing up to what they've done wrong, including both stupidities manipulated and inherent. The negative consequences of their actions have been turned into a debate over how we should get rid of chimps, and many other sub-species or species, rather than how incredibly stupid it was to have given them, say, guns, or attractive suggestions on how to remake their agriculture to Wyte standards, in the first place. The regeneration of continents and resources has been thoroughly changed, in the past couple thousand years, by this kind of insane meddling.

The same irresponsible use of technology extends far beyond guns and bombs. Africans couldn't develop sea-going vessels or motorcars, modernized voting systems, writing, or pseudo representative parliaments, but were gradually provided them by Wytes, resulting in vast social and economic changes which may have produced more net harm than the provisioning of weaponry. We enter very difficult territory here, because being able to conclude that the results of invention may be a responsibility of inventors is difficult not only for species-deniers, but for species-embracers. People who think everyone's the same don't want to contemplate the responsibility, because admitting Wytes mucked it up means admitting that they really were the ones who invented all the creature comforts they worship, and for the most part, people who think Wytes are super duper don't want to either; it "wasn't their fault" that things got away from them. Allowing this type of excuse is similar to allowing that a brilliant inventor is still brilliant if his lab explodes and all his work is ultimately ruined because he listened to his savvy assistant about how leaving his gas lines open was okay. Yes, maybe the savvy assistant was evil, and maybe the savvy assistant planned for things to end up this way, but it was still stupid for the inventor to house, retain, and take the advice of the savvy assistant. No matter how bad, how immoral, how selfish the savvy assistant was, the inventor's stupidity is still genuine. Amidst a thousand wrongs, another wrong is still a wrong.

And that is where autopathological altruism ultimately fails as an explanation. It presumes some variety of kindness, helpfulness, goodness, of the idiot who left the gun on a public park bench for anyone to find. Later on, when kids have shot kids, or chimps chimps, the inventor cries, "Ohh, I'm so sorry, someone said it would be fine!" or "We must eliminate peacocks from this world, they're simply too dangerous to be permitted!" We're seeing the results, here, not of charity--that is a cheap rationalization for the irresponsibility, the stupidity, of what has happened; of species or sub-species experimentally augmented in dangerous ways. Punishing the test subjects might feel cathartic, but it does nothing to redress the recurring wrongs of a people so stupid, so arrogant, they think they can remake the world in their image. "Everyone can be as responsible as me--just give them the guns and see!" Wrong on so many levels; not only can everyone not be as responsible as the giver, the giver is not actually responsible, as the giving demonstrates.

So we come to Wyte racial inferiority: the only ones dumb enough to give away the magic beans. Everyone else, despite their many shortcomings, knew to keep safe and secret, to the point of maximum violence, things which had been inherently generated. Land, women, stuff--all of that. Maybe they would've been equally vulnerable to the sustained attentions of one or more savvy assistants, but since only one person invented the gun, we don't know that anyone else would've been that foolish.

We spoke earlier about the "benefits" of this stupidity, and they are the benefits of all irresponsibility, in the sense of "not bearing the burdens of responsibility" being a short-term benefit. Now we can see how dangerous it has been to pass around so much technology, and it's easy to critique the practice, but at the time, people didn't want to even think about the responsibility; didn't want to imagine simple misuse. This hasn't been autopathological altruism, but simple sloth and laziness, wherein Wytes were so interested in making new things and having fun that they almost perpetually forgot to not leave yesterday's experiment sitting around. And now they want everything to be given back, but the resident soothsayers won't allow it, and all the sweet nothings are too sweet to give up.

Monday, February 19, 2018

Finding Nothingness

Any act of goodness, of kindness, is void without eternity. Promised deletion, the act never happened. Ergo inside an imagined finity, there was never, and could never have been, any morality associated with any act. If you love some one or some thing, not only the object of that love, but the subject of it, and the feeling itself, cannot and never did exist without a forever; without an eternity. Through emotional compulsion alone, you should feel moved to investigate, perhaps even to hope for, genuinely, a forever, in which a moment of grace can exist.

As before, we consider these issues via, and perhaps as a result of, the most pressing of modern philosophical concerns, namely what we might call death, or the notion that, upon the cessation of localized physical function, all of our memories and associated aspects of experience and character, et cetera, are deleted, vanish, and so forth, being wholly bound to the material which served as their conduit during one's most recent lifetime. If we manifest, feigned or otherwise, lack of any particular concern for our selves, concern for any aspect of, or comprehensively, totality, reaches the same end point, wherein preservation of the self is inextricably linked to preservation of everything.

From the contemplation of delete-death or vanish-death have sprung most if not all local religions, beginning perhaps most notably in current recollection with ancient Egyptian funerary practices, whereby the body was hoped to possess continued utility after death. Ergo the rich man was buried with his riches, his slain servants, various gifts, et cetera, which he might use in an "afterlife." Such a philosophy, even if believed, is rather easy to disprove, for when the mightiest pharaoh's tomb falls victim to bulldozers ten millennia later, or its contents to bacteria less than one century later, any pretense of materially conduited survival beyond the instant perception of life is disproved. An immortified body and its treasures, subsequent to all available dutiful consecration, reduced to scraps of strip-mall landing space do little for hopes that the afterlife respects material shape or possession. Even if the story might seem believable for a century, it can be discovered not to be eternal, and so is merely a promise of an extended life, but not of salvation from death.

Postulate an Egypt continued well into the future. An Egyptian in a hypothetical still-surviving-as-it-was 3,000 A.D. Egypt may, for example, believe that sacrificed peons are serving their pharaoh by having been properly mummified. Once pharaohs' tombs have covered all of Egypt and several neighboring regions, such that there is no space left to build tombs or maintain farmland to sustain appreciative observers of said tombs, the afterlife narrative, if it still survives, falls apart. Any number of other scenarios can create more plausible doubt in the recipient or participant: a kingdom or kingdoms of tomb robbers; the museumification of all relics with associated constant monitoring disproving bodily enjoyment; the progress of building machinery through a tomb. Masks or stone doors can conceal the decay of the remains for a time, but the religion may die when future technology supplants that of the past.

So too, though in a slightly more compelling way, do other funerary and post-funerary cults see their rituals perish. Consider the obvious Judaism/Christianity again, whereby the word of god as to the creation and construction of the universe has to become metaphorized in order to make a show of surviving the acquisition of even the most elementary astronomical knowledge. A space shuttle flies through where the firmament is supposed to be, leading many to conclude that there is no firmament, that the "word of god" was a fabrication created by humans lacking even basic astronomical knowledge, leading to many related thoughts about resurrections and similar stories.

(The popular belief that the Pentateuch was written thousands of years ago, rather than as part of a much more proximate process of plagiarism meant to cobble together a religion useful for subjugating foreign peoples, may be of utility here. Textual comparisons with the written work and myths of the cultures of the time, such as that of Egypt which survived the immivasion, as well as simple archaeology, show the Jewish holy books to have been assembled around 300 B.C., with various contemporary historical events found to have likely inspired the plagiarism. A few larger monuments and smaller stelae yet remain to explain the origin of the Moses and Exodus plagiarisms, among less-currently-popular others. Local evidence suggests that the Pentateuch was assembled around 300 B.C., failed to inspire much awe on its own, produced Christianity, failed again, then used Byzantium to assemble what is now considered an orthodox Christianity in roughly 300 A.D. Viewed more accurately, the "Testaments'" proximity to one another, and Christianity's profound effect on Europe, are far more explicable. And far more effective--600 years seems like a long time, but considering very small groups of cosplaying bedouins becoming masters of the planet without physically winning a single battle, the process was quite swift.)

Drawing similar conclusions about evolving metaphorical narratives is more difficult, emotionally as well as technically. It is easier to conceal errors with metaphors now, when abound so many tales about doors to nowhere and alternate dimensions, such that it is rather easy to infer that ancient biblical prophets meant something like that when they wrote of a heaven above; the builders and appreciators of the first Egyptian tombs did not have such memetic aids when it came time to defend their beliefs, but perhaps only because they were long dead. It is interesting to speculate upon the means whereby the preservation of the dead body could be likened (perhaps by modern priests on retainer, still keeping an embarrassingly outdated set of traditions viable for donations via metaphor) to a metaphorical act where the faithful produced an extra-dimensional eternity of pharaohing and/or service to the pharaoh, where the mummification of the body was not literally important, but of symbolic significance toward an extra-dimensional existence that did, in fact, exist. The culture did not survive long enough to make such attempts necessary, but one wonders if, had "ancient Egypt" survived longer, such attempts would've been made, in a pitiful attempt to explain away centuries of wasted wealth and preservation education.

Imagine the troubles of future religions, and the metaphors that may later justify them. Consider, e.g., when some variant of "dimension science" is not an exotic and nigh-impossible futurology, like the handling and preserving of remains and rituals in ancient Egypt, but a basic, boring thing you learn about in the equivalent of junior school. Claiming, then, that paradise may be found in "some other dimension" would become as difficult to such advocates as priests today trying to claim that heaven lies "really far away on an island to which no one has ever sailed." Plausible to boobs of one time period, but not of another, where maps on computers with internet access spoil the imagined possibility. Similar to the Pentateuchal Gehenna, an interdimensional heaven then would be as plausible, even to very low-functioning commoners, as a "far off, landlocked heaven" today. Advocates for modern explanations in such times would face great difficulty; they might have to follow their predecessors' paths and choose from more compelling narratives. Not that there are likely to be such advocates, but one may contemplate. Perhaps the last material-preservationist was dragged screaming from the canopic jars by the faithful of Yahweh--though of course that didn't happen, for as aforementioned the first preservationists were long dead, and there were no such Yahweh-faithful, but it's merely a metaphor.

What struggles of belief may have been faced by people who believed different things? How much more ridiculous would those beliefs have appeared when contradicted by observations that, to us, are pieces of knowledge understood from infancy or shortly thereafter? People do not try to develop religions, now, based upon "Dead people, properly preserved, can still use their bodies and slaves to enjoy food." Now such things have become mere tradition--rituals of respect--disconnected, to most of us, to the nothingness that they were created to frighten away. Now that we learn about other planets, other stars, we cling to traditions, but as time goes by, and we're accustomed younger and younger to things that have been found, we do not really claim to believe them. What was once a faith based on the writers' perceptions of reality has become a faith based on metaphorical reinterpretation of those beliefs--and so, it isn't that much of a stretch when true love can now be through corruption of the original divinely-created strains by miscegenation, or simply non-reproductive buttsecks, are found within the expanding metaphor. Either is, of course, ridiculous as to the people who created the now-inapplicable beliefs at a certain time, and it is right to be upset at the employment of such flagrant mistruths, but satellites traversing the firmament produce more erroneous metaphors yet.

People hold extravagantly to beliefs that have gone out of fashion, mocking the decay of old stories' usefulness, but believing that they are on either a time-tested or a cutting-edge path to true understanding. Christians are proud of their intellectual heritage, downplaying references to things in which they no longer believe, while Bangists are proud of their new discoveries, downplaying the budding metaphor that holds it all together. Neither sees the eventual unsatisfying nature of their claims.

Metaphor has been durable, but observation has been a slayer of many religions. The diffusion of the Pentateuch and its successors has been widespread, and a strike against technology and civilization may be in order for the maintenance of any religions derived therefrom. The few new, semi-popular "space god" religions are interesting, but cannot compete with the utter faith in Bangism which has taken all advanced countries by storm. Bang offers a traditionally successful blend of reality, firm reality, as interpreted by educated priests who are allowed to speculate unproven dogma into existence. Reactions to non-degreed investigation into "global warming," including its many failed raptures thus far, are often made much of by people who are shocked, shocked, that the Bangist community could demand conformity of belief. Like newfound Protestants shocked at discovering the abuses of the Catholic Church, they believe that a reinterpretation of the texts is in order. Like Christianity, though, Bangism is not, and will not be, betraying itself when its dogma changes to ridiculous heights as time alters what is popular. It was not shocking when the Catholic Church began forgiving, rather than physically eliminating or spiritually excommunicating, abortion-facilitators and -havers, because inverted dogmas and absurd contradictions had created the belief system that washes rapefugees' feet. Similarly, though it may take another thousand years, future peoples may once be able to look back on speculated explosions, fanciful dogma about background radiation, and other such unobserved, mystical wise men's speculation, and conclude that it is no particular surprise that so-called science had a dangerous, albeit laughable, period there for a few centuries or so.

Rearranging

Any perception of anything disproves nothingness, i.e. ineternity, ergo reality/eternity exists. It is appropriate to continue rationalizing from that very point, but perception can separately inform us that rearrangement, not deletion, happens within reality; pieces of reality, whether components of atoms inside what are currently cardiovascular cells or components of energy inside what are currently memories, may be wholly rearranged but not vanish. Reality grows, but does not shrink nor wholly enter states of versal stasis--both of the latter would be, if possible, forms of non-growth or of deletion.

While we can observe and understand the decay of one, we hesitate to do the other. We can place a hundred cameras on a dying man, watch his final cardiac episode, then film the cremation and dispersal of his remains, then film the consumption and use of the cremains in a nearby field, along with their incorporation into some variety of successor cell(s)--say, as part of the stalks of some weeds. Our inability to demonstrate any further relationship between the said cardiovascular system and its subsidiary life are irrelevant to our nagging memories that the atoms, or atomic components, were once differently arranged, namely in a viable human.

We are easily able, also, to contemplate the process with regard molecules then extantly participating in neurology, whereby the exact tiny piece of matter which contained the memory of some day the future cardiac episode victim had a good experience--verifiable as that exact molecular situs by its consumption during aging and subsequent directly related forgetting during a brush with some form of dementia--becomes, itself, a cremained resource consumed by bacteria which, in ages long or short, becomes a living component of a plant. We do not attribute memories or identity to the plant coincident with the aforementioned dead human patient, but it is a great step in observational imagining, which we now often take for granted, to have a more specific understanding of how the dead human, literally and materially, "became" a live plant.

What has as yet stymied us in the more intelligent imagination is the transmission of components of memory. Specifically, when thinking as Bangists, we presume that the removal of the physical brain removes the memories also. And here the fantasies of dimensionality come in: we may hold that death did, indeed, revoke forever the fine molecular arrangement providing for the memories being then deleted. E.g., Roland the Patient may remember wanting, then obtaining from his mother, a gumball from a machine, in a way that no one else ever could. For no one was Roland Smith in that same year in that same place with that same set of expectations and predictions. Destroy the relevant matter, and the memory is irrevocably lost. Not so for the modern religious believer, who presumes an incomprehensibly placeless, timeless, archiving-error-free Mind of God, potentially capable of unlimited storage before any act itself happens. Such ideas found situation, as aforementioned, only when the advance of science permitted destruction of older notions and their replacement by newer; we've seen, therefore, religious rites evolve from a belief in bodily use to a trans-dimensional server which hosts an error-free cloud which can provide access to memory upon death's instant transportation to an eternal place.

Finding Forever

As before, technology promises a trivialization of the resultant fancies, such that what is speculated now will become not only laughable, but so mundane it is beyond critique, for tomorrow's believers. The simple, observable properties of matter and energy shall remain, though, in transferable but not destructible forms, even to the smallest avenues of inquiry.

This one can tell you that planets with thinking things on them develop clouds of energy patterns illegible to us, which are like those in and about material brains in that they gradually dissipate, and are then fully loosened, discharged, upon host death, and return to greater loci. However, being indeterminable by available technology, such inquiries should at this stage be disregarded or treated as mere speculation. Just another man in the clouds.

More important, more distinguishing, is what can be observed from here, using available local technology, to tell now-us about the irrevocability of existence. Not components of visible matter, nor the same components of memory, can be destroyed. Rearranged, always, disappeared to the eyes of some level of observer, but not vanished. The ways in which "we" might later be extant via reassembling memories, we can only guess; we haven't the capability of accurately imagining what it would be like, anymore than a rock can imagine being a human. The experience of being, say, simultaneously a human and a rock, or a civilization of trillions plus the octillions of blades of grass on their planet, is so incomprehensible to material brains of this capacity that it is rather facetious to attempt to experience it here.

It is, nonetheless, tantamount to believing that a large but invisible omnipotent human with a passion for this particular planet and round numbers and human sexual positions surely does exist and exists with such preferences, to believe that occurrences beyond our current capacity do not or cannot exist. We acknowledge the mandate of growth not in any way to help or hinder it, nor to flatter these selves by believing we can do such things, but to relax before being shoved through any given passage, merely as a brief convenience in the history of being.

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

Night of the Meteor Shower

A young woman sat in the high grass, working daisies between her toes. A broad woman sat in the upper balcony, shredding her paper program into purple pieces of prose. A narrow old man sat in his garden, studying the weeds.

A young woman sat in the high grass, working daisies between her toes. Holding up her phone, she checked the time. It was less than a minute until the big meteor shower. Why weren’t more people outside? She checked her phone again. Twenty seconds to go. Ten. This was going to be great. One of her neighbors, several houses down, had guests over. Out in his backyard, they waited to see the show. So few. Why didn’t more people care about stuff like this?

Flush with anticipation, she stared up at the nightly curtains drawn across heaven’s stage. Her breaths came tightly. She checked her phone. It was now fifteen seconds past the time. Still no meteor shower. Why did they always over-anticipate things like this?

At last, something happened: a small spray of sizzling trails erupted across the blue-black reaches. In the distance, her neighbor’s guests began to clap politely. One of them gave a token cheer. Why did non-religious people clap for natural phenomena?

Down came more weak celestial tracers. Cheering for meteors when you didn’t believe in any gods was like cheering a sporting event from your couch, or cheering for a movie when you weren’t sitting next to the director. Besides, these shows were never that interesting, anyway. You got yourself all worked up, and then nature let you down, again. True to form, the meteor shower continued to depress everyone, its effects cheaper than the cheapest firework show. Why were these things always so boring?

All of a sudden, a boom came from the sky. A jumbo jet spun wildly, its wing pierced by a shard of falling star. Caught in the meteoric downpour, the passenger plane turned dramatic circles through the upper atmosphere. Flame spewed from the winding wings. Figures jumped from the sides. Starfall shrapnel tore through the plane’s wings again; then, its torso, tail, and cockpit. The meteor shower had been all over the news! Why hadn’t anyone told the pilots not to fly through it?

Fire lit up the night. The guests of the young woman’s neighbor gasped and screamed. One of them gave an enthusiastic cheer. Why would anyone be so horribly macabre?

The plane, miles away, burned out of sight. A small fireball crested the horizon, followed by the rippling boom that must’ve been the crash. By now, the young woman could go inside to watch footage on television. They’d have interviews with the families of passengers. Men in suits would question other men in suits about the flight paths for this evening. News crews would show the smoking rubble. Music would be played over pictures of the victims. A hundred times a day, they would play close-up footage of the meteors punching holes in the plane, and sending it spinning to its doom. Wasn’t it strange, that if she went to turn on the TV a year from now, she’d get a better view of the tragedy than she’d had seeing it firsthand from her own backyard?

A young woman sat in the high grass, working daisies between her toes. Pulling the daisies out of her toes, she left her iced tea in the grass. She went to the patio, flicked a bug off the screen, and slipped inside. What was wrong with this world, anyway?

A broad woman sat in the upper balcony, shredding her paper program into purple pieces of prose. All at once the stage lights brightened. The curtains rose.

Out onto the stage came a boy, carrying a sign that read Act 1. As he disappeared backstage, the lights dimmed to violet. Unfinished wood panels covered the scenery. A large steel tub sat at center stage, filled to the brim with purple paint. Lavender mist spread like a moving carpet, concealing the floor, then cloaking the tub’s legs. The mist began to crawl higher, toward the lip of the tub. Down in the orchestra, the triangle sounded but once. Three heads, sopping with purple paint, raised from the tub. Three sets of shoulders followed these, then three masculine torsos. They were so covered in paint, and so synchronized in their movements, that they might have been mannequins, not actors.

Up they came, rising higher on unseen stageworks, until they stood upon the surface of the paint from which they had emerged. Clothed only in purple moisture, positioned dominatingly above the fog, they struck a series of rapid poses. Paint flung from their thrusting arms and writhing hips, but always there was more paint beneath, so that they never crossed the line from artistic indecency to abject vulgarity. Eyes clothed, they had no features other than their shifting purple limbs. The lavender mist rose above the lip of the tub, curling about the feet, then the moist legs, of the three men. Caught in a cycle of reflection between mist and paint, the men shone like faceless, eternal gods; like potent purple statues given life, who could have conquered the world instantly, had they ever wished to cease their dancing and descend from their podiums.

Abruptly, they froze. Arms and legs curled into macabre poses, they held themselves fast, dripping paint into the tub below.

The stage lights suddenly brightened. Fans whisked the smoke instantly from the stage. The paint now revealed itself to be white: a white pure and total, without a single hint of the lavendral shades that had embued the men, the tub, and the mist.

Two of the men stepped down from their tub-borne podiums, one kneeling, the other crouching, to provide a living staircase by which the third might descend. He did so, oozing fresh white paint from every spot of his concealed flesh. When he reached the floor, he raised his palms. There he stood, voiceless. Behind him, the other two raised a sign. In stark black capitals on a shade of white that matched its bearers’ painted hands, the sign read, COLOR IS ILLUSION.

The curtain descended. Vigorous applause, then cheers of joy, came from the theater seats, the lower balcony, and the upper balcony. The broad woman stood, wiping a tear from her eye, to applaud. Baskets opened above the curtain, shedding dried amaranth on the best seats.

Silence took hold, and everyone sat back down, when the curtain shot upward for a second time. A boy ran across the stage from left to right, carrying a sign that read Act 2.

Behind the course taken by the sign-bearer, a gray tank had replaced the tub. Three women in gray uniforms stood before the tank in triangular formation, staring outward at the audience. Their faces were harsh; their hair pulled into severe buns tucked behind their gray and black military caps. A few speckles of white paint still glimmered on the floor near stage-front.

Blue light flashed. The woman on the left drew her gun, pointed it at the audience, and gave a silent shout of command.

Green light flashed. The woman on the right drew her gun, pointed it at the audience, and gave a silent shout of command.

White light flashed, so powerfully that everyone in the theater blinked. When they looked again, only one of the soldiers remained. Hand to her hip, she faced them with proud defiance. The light flashed again. Everyone blinked. When they looked a second time, the sole remaining soldier had mounted the tank. She adjusted her boots, patted something on top of the tank, then turned to face the audience.

Violet light flashed. The remaining woman drew her gun, pointed it at the audience, and gave a silent shout of command.

Everything went dark. Everything lit up. The other two women reappeared. Moving outward from stage right, they carried an unfolding sign. In stark black capitals on bright white, the sign read, TOMORROW IS PROMISE.

The curtain descended. Vigorous applause, and a single man’s hoot, came from the theater seats, the lower balcony, and the upper balcony. The broad woman stood, wiping a tear from her eye, to put her hands together.

From behind the curtain emerged a man in a shirt and tie. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “We can’t finish tonight. There’s been an accident, a terrible accident, from the meteor shower that was scheduled for tonight.” He adjusted his headset. “I’m so sorry, but it wouldn’t be appropriate. If you’d all please leave, go home to your loved ones, watch the news…I’m sorry.”

Confused questions came from the first several rows. Everyone reached for their phones. The people nearest the exit doors began to move out. An old woman in a blue dress complained loudly.

“I’m so sorry,” continued the man with the tie and headset. “Everyone here tonight will receive free admission to a showing at a later date.”

A broad woman sat in the upper balcony, shredding her paper program into purple pieces of prose. Why bother going out, anyway, if this was how it was going to turn out?

A narrow old man sat in his garden, studying the weeds. The garden was a dying city that had seen better times. The weeds were the thugs and the lowlifes, and the flowers were the last few decent people trying to make their way in this crazy world.

A grizzled old tulip was a private detective, and a sweet little daisy had been strangled out back of a nightclub near Oak Street. It was a damn shame and a sickening sight and proof that the city had gone to pot. The police weren’t doing anything, so the daisy’s mother came to the tulip in search of help. Caught in the breeze, they embraced unexpectedly.

The tulip had a glass of scotch and left. It had been a mistake. Don’t get too involved in a client’s life. He went to talk to an old friend, a weed with a good streak, and found out that the word on the street was there was a new cat in town. A tough cat, cat who took no prisoners, cat who wouldn’t blink at the chance to strangle some sweet young thing. The tulip asked around some more, and everything he heard made him sick. This new cat was real tough. Had connections. Paws in every corner of the garden.

Questions came with a price. The tulip found himself alone in a back alley and got roughed up. Barely made it away with his life. The message was clear: don’t mess with the new cat.

He went back to the office to get his weed killer. It was industrial strength—the kind they’d used back in his father’s day. If his father hadn’t been killed by that corrupt senator twenty years ago, this town might be different, now. The grizzled tulip had another glass of scotch. He pulled on his old brown coat and the battered fedora that went with it. Before he could leave, the daisy’s mother came by again. She was crying. Men had broken into her apartment; put the fear of cat into her. She was scared, shaking, needy. He took her on the couch in the reception area, then left her asleep alone with an empty bottle of scotch and a worn carton of cigarettes. She was a good broad, really. A little stupid, a lot of trouble, but what broad wasn’t? Now this case was personal.

Around back of the oak, the tulip, battered and beaten, tracked down the big cat who’d started the whole thing. His ambush went wrong—the cat’s weeds got him in a headlock. They beat him up, gagged him, dragged him to the rusty lawnmower inside an abandoned factory in the old industrial neighborhood. While they got ready to throw him into the blades, the big cat started talking. He laughed. He told the tulip that cats like me are realists, while tulips like you are idealists. You don’t know the way the world really works. You should’ve just taken your money, dumped the broad in the compost, and got on with your life. You don’t know when to learn a lesson. You’re just like your father. He never learned, neither, so that’s why I killed him for Senator Rose. Men like you can't handle this garden. It chews you up and spits you out.

The big cat’s men finally get the lawnmower started. A surge of anger, seasoned with filial obligation, hits the tulip. He breaks free of the weeds, gets hold of a gun, and plugs everybody in the room.

Out into the darkness of night limps the big cat, leaning on the arms of one of his bodyguards. Tires peel on the pavement. The private eye punches out one weed who just won’t go down, and throws him into the lawnmower blades. Windows burst. Girders snap. The factory explodes. At the last second, the grizzled old tulip staggers clear of the wreckage, his empty revolver clicking futilely at the back of the big cat’s black limo. No. It’s not fair. He can’t get away. You killed my father, you bastard. This ain’t over.

The meteor shower threw burning light across the tops of the shadowed weeds, like a factory fire sporadically revealing the faces of the furtive onlookers there to watch an old factory burn down. A dead tulip caught the breeze, flying over the fence into the next yard.

A narrow old man sat in his garden, studying the weeds. They were getting nasty this time of year. Had to work hard to keep things in order. Thoughtfully tired, he drained his scotch, leaned back in his hammock, and drifted off to sleep.

A young woman sat in the high grass, working daisies between her toes. A broad woman sat in the upper balcony, shredding her paper program into purple pieces of prose. A narrow old man sat in his garden, studying the weeds.

Friday, February 9, 2018

On the Worthlessness of an Ineternal Existence

An existence is "ineternal" if it is not eternal; if it has an end or a beginning. Part of the understanding of eternity, which we might call alternatively "of reality," is the recognition of the lack of worth possessed by--hypothetically, for an ineternal state can "possess" nothing--an ineternal state. It is this contradiction which Judaism resolved when it grew, through imitation, several arms of Europeoid-style philosophy and transformed itself into the many heresied and orthodox forms of Christianity, whereby the inherent wrongness of any kind of temporally finite existence made more advanced minds continue to reject associated philosophies, no matter how forcefully imposed.

An ineternal state should be easily recognizable to the modern (c. 2018) as a philosophical concept in the ways in which Bang religions privately instill the ineternal while publicly claiming believers shall have a part of a vicarious eternity. This private installation is easily likened to Bang religions of death, wherein components of memory are mandatorily deleted, if not by life, then by death. More simply put, consider the Bang notion of death, whereby memories vanish through forgetfulness during life, and are then cleaned up in totality by host death, where they are proven ineternal, wholly lost except inasmuch as they form a necessary component of another surviving entity's memory, much like a hot potato that is constantly being carried and causes a loss once its all is noticed. The hot potato must be dropped, of course; even the wisest scholars cannot help but eventually forget the one who was known by the one who was known by the one who was known, and the temporal context of meaning inherent in experiencing material records ensures that, over a very short period of time (say, fifty thousand years, which can seem very long to us until we use, say, a common star as a timekeeper), what was really meant was forgotten. Eventually, even the fact that someone once tried to mean something is also placed into the realm of the unprovably speculative.

The vicarious survivability offered by Bang is expressed as realistic in that it solidifies the notion that memories are unreliable, not only during the instant comprehension of life, but more so after the passage of time, rather totally immediately after death, and utterly once all those who knew the memory-gathering entity are also not present to recall their own memories of "what he knew." What this means is that, when you think you have experienced something, you have some part of it--tiny or massive, depending on the case--wrong, and however right you were, details begin to fade over the years, after which they may be lost forever due to the material degradation of long term storage facilities or, eventually, death. This returns to the original conflict between material existence as conduit, versus material existence as a series of definitive illusions. We may recognize the incompleteness, Terra-specific, or inherent stupidity of earlier versions of resolving this problem, whereby a giant invisible sky-server compiles, then returns, memories to their original spawners, as when our ideally-aged bodies are returned to Valhalla, or some version of a Christian Heaven, thereby providing a form of immortality, i.e., eternity. The specific details of why those fables give away their wishful nature, or why they are stupid, are an interesting subject, but not here the focus; whatever their failings, they are, nonetheless, wonderful, in the sense that they represent a reaching for eternity in the face of accusations of material-only illusionist philosophies, wherein existence is a passing lie that no one will remember.

We turn, here, to the reasons why an ineternal existence would be "unsatisfying," or more importantly, worthless, or still more importantly, impossible. If you are reading this, existence is not ineternal--but that is a more technical claim, much as the unsatisfying nature of ineternity would be more emotional. The focus here is on the worthlessness of any hypothetical ineternal existence, the recognition of which can do things to the mind that others cannot.

Firstly, though, what is the vicarious eternity which the Bang religion promises? Well, unlike Christianity, Bang does not save memories. Memories are suggested as a fatuous reinterpretation played at by later angels/super-scientists, where what they always were or have become is attributed to their forebears, which is supposed to make us happy. Posit that, after X thousand years of suffering mortality, we develop a technological immortality, and spread it across the stars, and after another X thousand years, immortal human-like creatures have so many backups that they are never defeated. People live pleasurable lives forever.

Now, this is not for us. Or if it is for some elderly member of us who is suddenly saved by an unexpectedly swift march of technology, it is not for a really nice person who died yesterday, or a hundred or a thousand years ago. In any case, our part in the "progress" toward the promised future is supposed to assuage us, despite the deletion of our and others' memories. This is what is meant by vicarious participation--we are part of forever not as what we see as our selves, but due to our material participation in a long-forgotten project of achieving, through material, the presumed desires of those who are yet to exist. The Bang religions are constantly trying to dial back notions of interaction with, or participation in, reality, a.k.a. eternity, and as many creative Christians over the years have attempted to massage notions of hell, paradise, and afterlife into more plausible stories, we have in some places seen any form of memory- or individuality-retention eliminated in favor of mass subsumption by an immortal, simultaneously unitary and multiplex god-paradise, wherein we are forever happy but not really ourselves anymore. Consider, e.g., the multifaceted, developing--and occasionally quite popular--notions that Hell isn't about endless drowning in lakes of lava, nor Heaven about endless perfect meals and sex, but that Hell is a less tangible, or intangible, "separation from God," and Heaven a "unification with Him." Quite related to developing Bang, these modern-artish, obfuscative, vaguely-defensible perspectives. The flat in the clouds, regular masses, and laureled feasts are replaced by "modern" indecipherable fantasies that can't plausibly contain the outdated specifics they once did.

The Worthlessness of Ineternity

In an important way, the proponents of cloudy penthouse condos where you meet Grandma again, even if they don't believe it in their private, scared moments, are often more intellectually advanced than those who recognize the flaws in such material shows. Grasping for eternity, even dishonestly, holds a superior truth in that regard, to its near sibling, namely the recognition that the great holy man is just making money. A finite existence is "so worthless" that it might as well not be had at all. Even as chattel for a future race of dimension-jumping pleasure-angels, it is not only unjust, but truly worthless.

We'll necessarily refer often to large time scales in such a discussion. For any quantity of finite time, we may just use "googol," even if the real number would turn out to be "ten million years" or "three hundred billion years" or "a googol googol googol years."

Memory deletion makes memories worthless. Take ten thousand years of human memory. Start with the major life experiences of, oh, one percent of the people who lived during that ten thousand years. Being vaguely content and happy that Mommy is there; being excited that now you can walk and decide what places you can get to; seeing something you want, and getting it; seeing yourself more grown, and imagining a fully-capable you; seeing someone of the opposite sex that you want, and getting it; having offspring; seeing offspring succeed at something; seeing offspring teach its offspring how to succeed at something; realizing it's going to end; that last moment. Throw into active memory the corresponding one percent of events "of historical significance" based on any selection bias you want. Spear developed; missile successfully launched; enemies successfully defeated. Throw in, too, one percent of significant individual achievements with same self-selected or random choice of bias: richest, lordliest, most powerful, truly good, truly pure, developed immortal technology--all of it.

Pass that ten thousand years. Then another. Then technological immortality is developed. At some point after that, universal data backups, instantly and constantly scanning, are developed. Everything prior to that is gone, except for the tracest pieces of scarce, incomplete, then-biased historical significance. People who spend their time learning about the past can only speculate about what untold quantities of information they've lost forever--if they even care. The greatest love, the finest melody, the most poignant sacrifice--gone.

Being here, now, on Terra 2018, comes with a similar, but amazingly smaller, set of metaphysical quandaries. The peoples who are, from our current perspective, gone and forgotten will be duplicated by whoever comes after, if a red giant Sol or a folding dimensional verse or just some damn local war wipe out everyone before they can escape. Survive all that, and a hypothetical finity still wins.

Worthless memories make everything worthless. Now bring that googol years into play. Then end the hypothetical finite existence. The entire time, wiped out. Everything, everywhere, every time, that was good, bad, boring, currently- or retroactively-significant or not, is equalized in nonexistence. (If you're interested, you might find your own parallel between that and the inborn passion some have for advocating for material equality.) The greatest betrayal by the most treacherous entity in a googol years has utterly vanished, as has the greatest achievement by the most heroic entity in a googol years. No one is left to contemplate it. No one ever can or ever will. A googol years later, all the pleasure and satisfaction that it was amazing, is gone. It's not a question of no one caring or being able to care any longer so much as it isn't a question. It never was and never will be.

Everything in a hypothetical ineternal existence suffers this fate. The best art, the worst art, the best love, the coolest right hook to the jaw ever--not even gone, but never was, since the strictures of time, the guideposts of how matter behaves, don't exist. In actuality--sic--such a scenario is impossible.

We can thus conclude that, even if here we can't understand how, the absence of eternity is, for lack of a better word, "fatal" to anything. That time your pants fell down when you were accepting the award; that time you machine-gunned those forty nuns: irrelevant. When all balance sheets are going to be cleared--when all balance sheets can be cleared, at any time, for any non-reason, for all or one potential "reason"--that existence is so broken, so impossible, that anything that would happen inside it would be worthless. Honor, treachery, et cetera.

Believing in things or not believing in things. Another irrelevancy if it doesn't matter anyway. This one has long sought salvation in the materially appropriate mantra that if it doesn't matter then it doesn't matter anyway. Balm for the times.

The fundamental way that what we recognize here as Jewish monotheism "won over" Europe, and then Terra, was in taking a murder-god who wins and promises temporal material pleasure and adapting it to promises that, whatever the innumerable and differing details, there was an eternity. And selling you back something you already owned before you got here was a great way to amass material. And it--the inherent indignity, the "inhumanity" of that act--is important, is meaningful, only because there is always more.

The specifics about ineternal worthlessness are many and varied. It is Bang-popular, now, for the seemingly rich to adopt a carefree attitude toward finity, wherein things find a value because they're going away. That's quite literally insane as far as perspectives go; it is similar in form to the inversion-reverential belief that finite resources produce the only true, reliable, or sizable resources. Think of the argument that "making love on the beach after we had those margaritas only matters since it isn't an everyday thing."

A passing, then deleted (to the point of not having happened, due to the aforementioned destruction of time), un-contemplation of such finite resources is held to be the only experience one had, has, or shall ever have with any resource. The consideration of this problem, like the consideration of any zero, can lead to a systemic sort of understanding, whereby one so beguiled can recognize that the deal is bad; that one is promised nothing in exchange for (mentally) sacrificing something, even be that something a 0.00000~1% likelihood of a quantity of something. Versal laws of reality/eternity of course make the relevant quality "1" and not subject to permanent trade, but the deal is ridiculous if not bad. Ergo the 0.00~1% chance that an invisible omnipotent man with a passionate and extended interest in local sexual activities exists, who will provide eternal existence in exchange for blind belief, is a better deal than the nothingness offered as an alternative. Bang's need to dogmatize "potentially cycling universes," wherein folding dimensions recreate reality after each purge, is necessary even in the face of the identification of earlier myths, because the new deal (sic) is so bad that lies are necessary to force something down.

For those unfamiliar with Bangism, in the sense of "theoretical physics," we're discussing here the ways in which dark matter was hypothesized to balance spooky conclusions, replacing a cold nothing-unforever with an overhot crunching forever, physical laws made incomprehensibly malleable by forces unknown to mankind which will, at least, regenerate material existence after its cataclysmic failure. Differently put, this means that the math of initial Bang sects provided for a cold everdeath, in which the energy stored in stars by Bang's initial explosion would eventually fade out, making any level of existence impossible. The philosophical implications of this conclusion of nothingness were too staggering for Bang to maintain its popularity, ergo "Cold Death" was replaced by "Big Crunch," whereby matter not perceivable by man was conjectured, which would pull everything together again and recreate Bang-like conditions, permitting Lord Bang to perpetually regenerate the universe. The swallowing of the doomed cold of initial Bangism by "regenerating, perpetual universe" mirrors the way in which grim early Judaism adapted to persistent eternal desires to become forms of perpetual Christianity.

From a different perspective, the transitions are cyclical.

Monday, February 5, 2018

It’s the Little Things that Make the Difference

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