Saturday, August 12, 2017

Image Ideation and the Self

In Truth and Loss, this one raised the issue of hypothetically selecting an ideal avatar for an immortal life:
Consider...a Terran female shopping for her ideal immortal body and persona at the ages of 5, 16, 38, 55, and 84. Which version would "she" "truly" enjoy more were she stuck with it forever?
Ideatic capability--the curse of the imagination--has long plagued human consciousness. As lightforms evolve, the increasing ability to host successively more active conduits proves something of a curse in disguise, resulting from the longstanding human conundrum involving desire and time. People at this stage of development are self-aware, and can recognize their desire to be and to not be certain things, to do and to not do certain actions, and so forth. This field of imagination waxes broadly enough, even now, to include the seemingly mandated and the seemingly impossible, as well as things in-between. The conundrum of existence at this point is whether or not existence is acceptable, given that one is trapped inside a frame that is demonstrably incapable of not suffering the divergence between perception of time and perception of possibility. Time comes into play in the sense that, while we can imagine ourselves eventually fulfilling any desire, our sense of time, as limited by our accurate conceptions of physical death, tends to make fulfillment appear impossible, rather than "merely" put off.

Filling the Existential Gap

Terrans have imagined and effected many methods to address this process. Although suicide in many forms makes a strong showing, the ongoing confrontation of this issue, whether honest or veiled, dominates, with philosophical or religious suicide but a subset of details pertaining to the ones' grapplings with these existential thoughts.

Consider religion, which almost invariably, if not merely invariably, promises some form of explanation to the prime existential conundrum at this level of lightform complexity ("conscious humans"). Often the product of suffering minds dealing with said conundrum, local religions attempt to solve the problem in the two most common ways: by postulating either an embrace of or a rejection of the process. Take first the intellectual Indo-Aryan religions of world-hatred and world-embracing. Use a relatively stoic reincarnation philosophy for the former, and a blut und boden style early paganism for the latter.

By treating the world as a crucible of pain which must be surpassed in order to get the things you want, world-rejection philosophies imply, or detail the rules of, a rubric reassuring not only to perpetual memory, but to the notion that you will either get the things you want eventually, or you will get relief from the suffering of wanting them, potentially alongside those desires being replaced with better desires. Consider the replacement of "the desire for love" with "the desire for the lack of desire for love," the latter of which is considered a higher desire, and, hypocritically, the lack of a desire. Indeed, to desire "the negation of all desires" is a more lustful desire than any desire being thus negated, but with appropriate ritual, can be made to seem otherwise. We find here the predecessors to the various reincarnation religions of southern and eastern Asia, and the stoic-derived monasticisms of Europe and western Asia, some of which remain extant in recognizable form.

World-embracing philosophies offer an acceptance of the brutal process, while promising that, by participating in it, one is involved in a long chain of battle which bonds one by suffering to the heroism of those who have endured the trial. Such religions, best associated with pre-Christian far Eastern and European paganisms, may or may not allude to or specifically promise a collective end to the collective struggle, but the net reassurance is the same regarding the sense of togetherness, the soothing of suffering by the thought that at least everyone else is doing it also, and the implied promise that you get to keep your memories and are systematically- or self-judged--and currently exist--as the you that you think you are.

The development of these philosophies has continued to 2017. In world-rejection, we see of course Islam and Christianity, in which stoicism is retold. In these variations, the world is indeed awful--a collective and/or individual punishment for sin, depending on school, denomination, and personal approach--but it is deservedly so, or testingly so, and the good desires will be rewarded. Islam is generally targeted at a slightly lower intelligence market, ergo the rewards are detailed with more garish specificity. Pleasures are promised right up front, like stacks of cash in a lottery ad. Christianity, by contrast, runs more subtly, promising pleasure in the indirect way that the local natural grocer uses lower lighting, quieter music, and wood paneling to convey superior health resulting from a product. (A more fitting counterpart example may be the top 40s bass-boost and cardboard models screaming at low-end banking consumers to take out an X.X% personal loan, versus the quiet Bach and realistic assessments offered by the higher-end team of wealth managers.)

Whether or not the rewards of Christian faith include all the material delights which Allah promises to his faithful is left to the celibate, monogamous, or end-stage leukemia practitioner's imagination; indeed, merely staring at the incomprehensibly beautiful form of Jesus/Yahweh, or doing so while singing alongside one's newly-and-forever-youthful great-grandmother, may fill the mind with such ecstasy as to make all the worldly suffering worth it.

There are of course variations on all of the above, whereby the stoic denies hunger, lust, or the feeling that a truck jumping the sidewalk and running over a two-year-old is bad. Whether by inconceivably just recompense or the masterfully explained wrongness of worldly desire, though, world-rejection philosophies continue strong.

Increasingly dominant in Terra, though, are world-embracing philosophies, best exemplified in both universalist and rational strains of Scientism. Strikingly similar to the paganisms from which they evolved, modern Scientisms ask us to accept the suffering of the world in kinship with others, by varying degrees of genetic kinship (or cultural, inasmuch as vertebrate- or human-supremacists are unwilling to concede genetics). The religious Scientist may disavow differences between species, families, or individuals, but in any of these cases, the philosophy provides a world-embracing-style explanation for the existential conundrum, found in the tautologically valuable meaning of the trial; of completion-by-participation. The Scientist allows that all will die, going to join their fathers ideological predecessors in the halls of Valhalla shared cultural myths a more accessible, user friendly historical wiki. Sometimes there are promises of immortality, or a battle of the gods, either perpetuating or concluding creation, but these details are not currently of popular concern.

(It is relatively common nowadays to accuse science and scientists of being, respectively, a religion and its priests. This incomplete critique, though often well delivered, is easily dismissed by those who admit that, yes, cultural and government influence, laboratory and academy politics, and the necessity of funding. The critique fails because, although indeed quite apt, the modern phenomenon of "science" does not, under even these criticisms, satisfy the comprehensive and accurate preconditions of a religion. Scientism is a religion, not because of its biases or stupidities--however blazingly obvious, haughtily overlooked, and humorously referential those so endlessly are--but because of the existential satisfaction Scientism provides its adherents. It is stupid, but not necessarily religious, to hereticize breeding forensics; it is religious as well as stupid to rationalize the imperceptible weight behind the existential pain.)

Scientism asks that we embrace the human condition: our desires are spiritually meaningless tools--objectively valuable means to an end, but themselves subjectively worthless--whereby the Science compels us to yearn for things in order to cause us to invent them. Our desire for endlessly youthful sex will encourage and allow us to store food, build buildings, and eventually, develop sexbots sophisticated enough to store our personalities onsite, thereby achieving painless, fulfillment-rich Heaven. Our desire to see new things will, by the grace of Science, compel us to build ships wherefrom we see the galaxy. Our desire to continue to exist will trick us into producing descendants who will vicariously survive for us by collecting the energies of the final seconds of the Big Crunch, escaping to Hyperspace, then returning to this world to build the faithful anew. On a shorter scale, the Rapture is imminent, we need more funding to study the Rapture, repent and flay thyself for what you have done, and the heretics who disbelieve in the Rapture will get theirs when vengeful gods climates return.

(Like Republicans and Democrats, it grows difficult for Christians to criticize Scientists too accurately, lest the arrows strike too close to home. The more Christians learn about how stupid, self-serving, willfully ignorant, globalist, et cetera, Science is, the more chillingly they may come to find that they are insulting aspects of their own faith, and vice versa.)

(On the subject of the Jenomic process, what makes Terra particularly interesting is that it was by terminal world-rejecting philosophies that Jenome was able to introduce increasingly factually-decorated terminal world-embracing ones. The decomposition process is nothing if not flexible, but such an obstinate inversion is a notable accomplishment. It's not that it never happens, but it's like that moment when you're not sure if someone will land, fall, or step out of their quad.)

Although Scientism, like Christianity, holds desire for worldly things to be inherently evil and/or worthless--deriving value from its use as an acid test for committing to Yahweh rather than the world, or as a tool for motivating acts of Science, respectively--Scientists possess the illusion of value in that, by sharing in the experience of enduring incompletely or utterly unfulfilled desires, those desires gain a transmittable meaning, and are therefore of utilitarian value, similar to notions that humankind may invent a supercomputer who unfolds dimensions, dictates the rules for lasting pleasure, and becomes a real deity. See Mass Market Evolution for related material on outsourcing individual existence.

Others may attempt to fill the ideological gap, as it were, through their non-suicidal rejection of other coping strategies. These can be more or less pitiful, and more or less horrible. The libertine and the nihilist may be, by turns, more or less hypocritical than the stoic, more or less terrible and/or damaging to others' bodies and minds than the collective of presumed pleasure, and more mildly, inoffensively honest with themselves than the man who actually follows the Matthew Gospel's command to pray quietly and out of the sight of others. From a more distant perspective, these coping strategies are attempts to solve the same intuited divergence problem as the others, specifically the ability of the developing mind to conceive of creating and/or sating more desires than the vessel is capable of doing. "More margaritas!" or "fuck it all," respectively, are scarcely more intellectually difficult to lampoon than any other current pop philosophy, though it remains more generally acceptable than it is to discuss the embarrassing curiosities of cosmological mandates designed before municipal sewage treatment or penicillin.

By Their Desires

Return now to the initial question of "material" desire, which can be an invaluable tool for analyzing selfness and memory. In short form, we address the issue of what one really is by evaluating the way one's purest desires change over time, which can perhaps be most garishly done here through the way we would prefer others to perceive us. Again, the question:
Consider...a Terran female shopping for her ideal immortal body and persona at the ages of 5, 16, 38, 55, and 84. Which version would "she" "truly" enjoy more were she stuck with it forever?
The essential answers are somewhat easily foreseen, but the scenario begs for detail. For simplicity's sake, assume our Terran female test unit is a Nu Euro and/or highly afflicted with Nu-Euro-hosted media culture.

Testing at 5. The 5-year-old female, perhaps confused by the parameters of the power, selects something retro-typical; let's say a mermaid fairy princess who doesn't like boys, or more modern, a mermaid fairy princess of color who is in a platonically polygamous relationship with a clique of similar mermaid fairy princesses of color who all have different hair colors, or, slightly less modern, a mermaid fairy princess without color who likes, but can easily beat up, nerdy boys. Maybe a "true" retro version (post-Jesus) would select being "the prettiest girl in the locality," selected as wife by some high lord who isn't the ugly king himself but is still really hypothetically cool. Modifier to being some archangel's husband if reminded to contemplate aging-avoidance. A more pragmatic recent-retro pick would be a pretty girl with a good husband who still sees her mom even when she herself is grown up, but then when you remind her there's no death, just immortality, in this equation, the absence of babies and life cycle makes a healthy soul's body feel sick, so you have to come up with some horribly distracting "God" or "heaven" story to dazzle her away from thinking about actually being in such an awful state. (The next soul in the queue hides his yawn behind his fist, thinking, Pick one already, there's a #@&$% line.)

Any of these variations are expressions of the same thing, namely graphing an idealized self-image for one's physical frame onto socially-sanctioned modes of being, preferences included, as tempered by expectations of what you can and can't do and can and can't be. The circumstances added to the imagined backstory of the ideal-avatar might be colorful, but are irrelevant except inasmuch as they help inform Terran Female's choice by making any strictly material image seem more appealing. The princess isn't actually a "princess;" she's just an attractive female cartoon template. Ergo in approaching this choice, the chooser should be actually evaluating only her desired physical manifestation. Difficult for most Nu Euros, of any age, to get this. Even if they can raise their right hands and swear that they understand it is just a body that they will inhabit as they are now, most or all of their choices would be representative of something else. That's what gives the postulations such utility.

(The wise would catch themselves, too, picking images derived in some way from desired physical expressions of inner traits: goodness, respectability, strength, wisdom, social standing, sexual prowess, the unique endurance of ugliness, the mysterious wonders found behind the mundane, et cetera. Those qualities are adjudged at least in part based on the body and memory experience of the chooser. Positing the scenario, and others' or our own reactions to it, helps us discern the circular notion of the self, whereby genetic and ideatic possessions influence what we would like our genetic and ideatic possessions to be.)

We will see the "your ideal body is not your ideal personality or your ideal social role" distortion enter the choice at every stage; one can imagine Saint Peter, sitting in front of the transmogrification machine that models avatars and then produces final choices, throwing up his hands in despair when he has to explain to yet another five-year-old, "It's not really a king's daughter; this is just how you want to look." Being wise, though, Saint Peter would probably expect such status-negotiation to appear as part of the process for many selectors. This tells us something else, but we'll try not to touch on that subject overmuch, and stick with individual preference.

We're also putting aside butterflies, kittens, or other miscellany, and presuming a long and accurate selection process, as instantly scanned or foreseen by God/supercomputer, or as drawn out by St. Peter during weeks of intensive counseling, et cetera.

So, our Nu Euro Terran Female chooses, at 5, "Mermaid Fairy Princess of Color," a.k.a. "Merfpock." Not actually of color, but with some hint of presumedly dazzling genetic exotica that has shaped the choice. Even features, smooth skin, large eyes, eight cartoonishly large eyebrows per eye and no more. Probably created in imitation of age 13 or so.

Let's do a male, too, to flesh out the example. Male at 5 chooses between comparable socially presented models of masculinity, but upon hard counseling, eliminates cartoons and pastel-based ones. We go between transforming robot (with extra gear conforming to Terran Male's situational awareness, and the ability to transform pursuant to local/national vehicular passions), some kind of alien, some kind of action hero, and St. Peter mentions that transformers can't eat cake or ice cream or whatever the fuck, so the kid eventually settles on some standard hero, let's say Capeman.

Merfpock and Capeman enter immortal paradise, proud to see and be seen. They're the perfect image of what they wanted to be, even if they aren't actually a princess (not yet...but fat chance in Heaven, that would offend the glory of God and upset his hierarchy of angels...or would it? Is every girl, or every wishful person, in Heaven promoted to princess?) or a crimefighter (not yet...but fat chance in Heaven...or is it?).

Testing at 16. Past the younger choice, options seem to expand while actually condensing. Terran Male might've chosen dinosaur or alien robot, but because of food and genetic hints of self and coolness, went with Capeman; Terran Female chose an aqua-humanoid with eyeballs that would've been four inches in diameter. At 16, the same female selects, let's say, a pop star who is always on tour with glamorous friends who all have different hair colors. Eliminating the presumed musical talent, social status, and friends pursuant to St. Peter's stern reminders, though, the 16-year-old chooses similarly: pretty female humanoid, slender, standard hair color because she's able to contemplate meeting other immortal personally-expressive avatars and wishing she hadn't made sparkling neon green her permanent look. Her lower half can't be mermaid-derived anymore, since stage moves and being looked at and people wanting to have sex with you require possessing legs and vulvas et cetera, and fish-parts are for little kids. Popstar, in Terran Female's mind, can be socially conscious, environmentally active, hyper vegan, dating six black guys, a steadfast virgin holding out for chaste perfection, or whatever, but those details are irrelevant as to the imagined personal appearance of the desired model. You choose your form, you're still yourself, now get out and mingle. Forever.

Terran Male is still with Capeman, and he is so glad because Capeman, unlike alien robodinosaur, has junk, and look at all those randy Popgirls in heaven! Ooh, sparkly green hair? I'll never get bored of that! Let's, uhh, maybe lose the costume. But then, Capeman without his costume is really just like the strongest person at the local gym. Sure, he's not that weird looking, but without the costume, he's just...some dude. Without the associated persona and social role, it's difficult for Terran Male. It's difficult for him to admit that a male should be attractive-looking, even though he knows that "ugly" is bad...he can always get a costume later and wear it overtop his perfect ewwww gross I mean buff, body...oh God, how many Capemans are there gonna be? More Terran males at this point would begin to consider the pains of having a choice, namely, what if a bunch of people choose the same thing and I look like a loser? Can I get first choice? Can I see what everyone else did first? End results change based on what St. Peter allows, and that's its own separate conundrum. Pretend for purposes of this discussion that he doesn't let you pick based on other people.

Flip through templates, no, none with that, uhh, increase muscle mass...5% No, 6. How about 10%? Uhh, I guess, maybe 9? Tough choices. You can always decide later whether to grow in the facial hair or shave it all off. But is that really the right nose? Tough to narrow this one down. It's probably just going to be Capeman with no costume, a little more built, a little more extra built in the junk, lots of reassurances you can still change hairstyle and get whatever clothes you want, but a lot of sweating at the warnings that you only get one chance at the ideal form. No backsies.

Testing at 38 Die at 38, another choice. So many options, which one do I really want, oh god would I really have picked Popstar when I was 16? Many of us forcibly forget what choices we might have made earlier or later, embarrassed by what we were, are, or will be.

Ha, she thinks--look at how cute Merfpock is! Terran Female wants to be forever young, yes, but not childish. She browses history and picks...Marilyn Monroe. But let's shift this here and that there, maybe cut back a little on the weight...oh, take that back; I want to be classic...but still, enough is enough...but all those prehistoric fertility statues that they say form the basis for human desire...! Much gnashing of teeth. Let's say she goes with variations on Marilyn, blended with a few other "classic" (Nu Euro..."UK" or "American" cinema) famous features, and we've got ourselves yet another Mariations strolling the clouds of Heaven.

By this point, Terran Female probably gets the idea that choosing the body doesn't confer personality, vocals, et cetera, but she's still ultimately making the choice to physically convey social distinction. We skipped over, say, 25, where we might've seen her pick Popstar looks due to something other than imagined Popstar lifestyle, but the end result probably would've been similar, so 16 to 38 is a suitable gap to contemplate. She's still heavily affected by social pressure, but of a different kind. Unlike 5-year-old at all, and mostly unlike 16-year-old, she's feeling that her choice should "mean something" beyond her "personal desires." St. Peter says no, just pick for your own expression, this is forever, but she thinks she needs to make a choice that will always communicate something meaningful about her, so St Peter gives up arguing and lets hr pick Mariations. Tough year to die.

Terran Male at 38 is lots easier. Version of his twentysomething self, a little divine plastic surgery, some strength in the junk; other places add some bone, some muscle, can you clean up the face a little, hmm, maybe can you tweak that back a--yeah, yeah, hold it there. Himself walks out proud after a ten minute session and goes looking for some Mariations action. Little bit of regret here when he sees all the Capemans, but his social pressure, and his internal pressure, coerces him into choosing something him-like. Still, when Himself is hitting on Popstar and a 6'8" 350lbs. jacked Capeman walks up with a banal one-liner, Popstar giggles without faking it, is clearly interested, and Himself sorta gets the feeling that being true to yourself, having then-equivalent wisdom/experience, and actual personality, weren't actually the best things to pick. Sweat breaks out under his collar. He's still got it. Those idiot Capemans all look a little like the actor most recently hired to play Capeman, and that's going to hurt those people in a hundred years. Mariations is nice enough, but shizz, look at those Popstars...and maybe even Merfpocks, what they got under there?

Humorously, Terran Male 38, together with Terran Female 38, unintentionally discover that their idealized self-images place them roughly where they were already in terms of an image hierarchy. They're visually young, but being too wise/stupid to pick the stupid/best choices, they're just not as desirable as they would've liked to be. Mariation looks for something dazzling and exciting beyond the scope of Himself, not so disposably boring as the sorta decent Capemans, though that'll do in a pinch. Occasionally (once a night) she has an extra highball and is gently escorted away from the handsome robed angels guarding the gates, pleading with them that they could be sexual if they really wanted to be, and doesn't God believe in love??!

We're testing Nu Euros here, so, while a minority will not ever be bored by the purely physical--say, a rather drably souled Mariations swiving a 25-year-old-model Capeman whose avatar was randomly generated by God to host a male soul that died in infancy--most of them would, initially or eventually, find themselves uninterested in living sex-dolls alone, preferring some degree of personality-related attraction. If they're smart enough, the Mariations and Himselfs may begin to realize that what physically attracted them to other people was not primarily great looks, passable looks, or even youthful looks, but something in the essence of the developing spirit as physically manifested, with youth-in-the-flesh being more of a passenger variable. Even the 38s who choose Popstar- or Capeman-avatars, but who use their comparative maturity to be commensurately more deep or suave along with the looks, cannot fit in with the genuine 16-year-old choosers. On Terra now, particularly in the throes of pro-ugliness movements, this claim can sound ridiculous or naive. Indeed, some people would, as mentioned, be fine with endlessly screwing attractive templates, and biology in this scenario should not by any means be disregarded. Rather, in a world where everyone could pick at least a passably attractive avatar, the absence of as much distinguishing relativism would have sustained effects on the self and the self's desires--which tells us something more about the issue of those selves.

Testing at 55. Terran Female and Terran Male continue to think they're expanding their perspectives, and to feel correspondingly more justified in whatever conclusions they may draw. What they imagined their elders to be or not be when they were young, they now imagine they must embrace or reject; exemplify or counter. If religious in any particular way, they see themselves as an expression of some subset of a valuable perpetuating Thing; as an example of some set or other, whether the living undergoing trial; of humanity; of a people; of believers and correct- or correctly-trying-understanders. The trend to ideate self-image in a purportedly more giving, belonging way, continues the pattern established by choosing "Himself" or "Mariations." The 5-year-old subscribed to assumed ideals; the 16-year-old to pragmatically belonging ideals; the 38-year-old to assumed legacy. Now at 55, the Terran Subject has begun to feel the desire to not subscribe to some legacy, but to be that legacy.

Posit a favored relative for Terran Male, like a different version of himself, but exemplifying history (still, probably with preferred body tweaks). My grandpa was so much more of a man than I was. Or Richard the Lionheart was our savior. What fun; what conundrums: "But they didn't know how to take care of themselves then; yeah, around the biceps." Alternatively, he just goes back to Capeman, but without any tweaks. "What made Capeman special wasn't really on the outside, you know." By this time, maybe he's so mature, nostalgic, or realistic that he picks his twentysomething self without adjustments. His image represents his acceptance of the limitations of realized dreams, either the path by which he was saved from the world, or that by which he fulfilled it. (World-rejecting and world-embracing philosophies again reveal themselves to perhaps be evil twin sisters running a very long con on their respective faithful.)

Terran Female's insanity starts to look more sane by comparison. Forget Marilyn Monroe--a starlet of the 1800s... "Look at that gorgeous dress, they knew how to comport themselves, oh, with color like that, she's so beautiful! Oh, no one else would think to pick something like this! Could you, though, just make the mouth a bit more narrow? No, that's too far..."

Lots more thought in either case. More serious, less frenzied. Young Gramps and Victorian Starlet walk out to meet all the idealized living paintings of the ancient Romans, interrupted by the roar from the occasional alien roboraptor jet. They're drawn to each other in the same way that 5-year-old Capeman feels a little intimidated by Popstar and bored by Mariations; in the same way that Himself and Mariations end up a bit disappointed by the other, and find themselves drawn toward but rejected as weirdly boring by prime Popstar and 16-year-old Capeman.

Does the wise acceptance at 55 bring happiness at last? "She'd make a reliable companion. None of that flashy shit that's more trouble than it's worth." The same good things that drew arch Victorian Starlet toward her ultimate physical manifestation, she sees reflected (wrongly but compatibly; flatteringly) in Young Gramps' intelligence in being drawn to her.

Testing at 84. How much time do Subject Terrans get to choose? Does St. Peter want an answer within 15 minutes, please? 24 hours? "Try this sample out for up to one creation-period, then make your permanent choice and no redo." The impetuousness of youth, colored by the physical despair of recent death, could lead to equally "foolish" choices in those who knew extended unwanted disassembly, and saw any version of "healthy me" as the proverbial life preserver to the drowning. Let us, then, assume they have a week to really think it over. Lots of soul-searching, lots of flicking through templates (if you don't like Saint Peter's immersive CAD VR program, assume self-transmogrifying angel models will model for you), and a choice that could run the length of all of that subject's prior choices. Depending on the person, it is perhaps more difficult at this point to contemplate physical immortality than for more desire-focused Terrans fresh off the expectations of an earthly life, ergo "healthy me at 20" could easily return as a popular choice. Lack of embarrassment at picking ideals could lead to older versions of Popstar or Capeman: "Belle Heroine" or "Cowboy Hero." Encouraging their comfort with technology could influence willingness to add or subtract curves or BMI. How often the Terran Male Subject at 84 had been watching television, and what shows, would determine whether or not Cowboy Hero looks like a scrawny wimp with an outdated body, or a ripped stud with merely an outdated wardrobe. Who would hold fast to their lifetime impressions of strength, and who would change them to conform? Who would regret either choice a week, or ten years, after the avatar-selection had been made?

Belle Heroine or Cowboy Hero choices would reflect different body types, depending on the era in which Terran Test Subject lived. Not in the sense of "People liked fat chicks once," where women would choose obesity rather than pro-biological waist-hip ratios; but, there are drastic differences that would appear. Consider, e.g., how men used to think that the bench press, and associated big pectoral muscles, were stupid, queer, lumpy, feminine, and unattractive. Perhaps the reverse peak appeared in the 1980s-1990s, where media promotion of bodybuilding led to the bench press, and big pecs, being part of the complete male physique, expectations which still (2017) far exceed those placed on the black-and-white TV -era strongman. So neither Cowboy Hero nor Belle Heroine is as ample in the chest region as if those templates were picked by octogenarians at different intervals.

"Favorite cultural icon from when I was about 20." St. Peter's encouragement probably wouldn't produce many Capemans or Popstars as they'd simultaneously be chosen by people who'd started the heavenly avatar process after dying at age 16, but the accepted equivalence of Capeman or Popstar--possessing an image which would then be considered pitifully outdated and objectively stupid by the living on Terra--would certainly play a part. Ample time for good consideration might well lead to 55-ish choices in the style of Duchess Hostess and Rugged Explorer, as associated with strength and desirability to the age 84 subjects in the same way that Empowered Ditz and Street Criminal With A Code are to the 16-diers. "Seasoned" appreciation for notions of purity or essential desires might well put out a few Merflors and Merflets (give it a few years before Merfpocks appear among the died-at-physical-seniority set).

So where are we? Do the varied choices of the 84-year-old Terran Subjects mean they've finally blossomed to maturity, come into their true selves, and are picking based on representations of their actual understanding? Is the average subject's wistful choice any more representative of what they'd pick if they could redo that pick in fifty years, after wondering if "Duchess Hostess" were "really me"? What would be the respective change rate of people offered a single chance in forever to make a change after fifty years of work with their first-chosen model--enough to, in theory, stabilize the choice to depend wholly on personal essence, without any claimed interference by recent immaturity, recent worldly suffering, or the like? How many "chose at 5-years-old" subjects would stick with their first choices fifty years later; how many of other age groups? What new cultural tropes would have manifested among the immortal choosers; what would they say en masse about what certain choices indicated about personality, and how would that affect the re-choices of those who decided to? (And so on ad infinitum, were St. Peter so ridiculously conceding?)

Crux Self

Even the ultimately-informed personal choice could not allow self-expression in the way that the choosers wanted it to have done so. Whether you'd estimate the same choices or types of choices for an individual Terran Subject, or a representative spread of Terran Subjects, as this one presented above, is immaterial; what matters is the extent to which the same person's choices would differ, in any modest or significant way, by age. Any set of choices, however serious or silly, serves to address the question of desire, and thereby the conflict between desire and fulfillment. The local saying, "Be careful what you wish for," is a clumsy riddle meant to address, by blunt force, some part of this question, in the sense that our selves are not as coherent, or as prepared for desire, as we prefer to believe they are. Our existential dilemma is actually caused by our overestimation of our preparedness for developing, or becoming, that which "we" would "want" at any given time. The difference between who you'd want to be at 10, 30, and 70, is a difference in self--yet we avert our attention from that difference, which does not trouble us so much as the pain, at 10, of not having red hair, at 30 of not being just a bit more slender with a more flattering metabolism, or at 70 of having the sense of balance we're sure we deserve.

Silly "body choice" examples are an elementary, though not by any means unimportant, means of considering the deeper questions about our minds. Depending on capability, any physical or mental example can serve. Plug yourself into the body-choice scenario, postulating your choice at any two or fifty different years, and assume complete control over physical-appearance variables, guided by your desires and by St. Peter's rules that you can't assign yourself social status or skills unrelated to the body you pick (e.g., you can pick "Wilt Chamberlain," and duplicate his high jump and/or his reach, but not his basketball skills). Do they line up perfectly, from 1 to 88, with only hairstyle changes? Or are there bigger changes? Fashion; personality; philosophy; vehicular choice; anything can work.

Light raises troubling questions, including that to dwell in the creation of a petulant god who gets in bad moods and hurts you for your own good is sick and wrong, and cannot be transcendentally rationaled away. The existence of ultimate justifications and planes of higher understanding does not negate the value of the primary; unmaking the components of a wandering piece of lonely hydrogen is an evil irrespective of size.

We can imagine an enlightened monk choosing to be a lotus flower, then forever growing on a hillside for a quadrillion years of eternity, pretending not to regret or want any part of the rest of paradise. "Being a lotus is enough for me." Somehow, we can feel the wrongness in that; not in the "not for me" sense, but in the "you're fooling yourself" sense. At some point, being a lotus was enough, and that was good, and is good now for lotuses. Just as at some point, cultivating deference to a tantrum-god was and is. The aspiration of everdeath attempts to foregonize all beginnings as well as all conclusions, but fractals have shown and will show us that this is a futile, vitally important struggle, serving an overarching theme.

When we look from afar at the perceived freedoms of other ourselves, we may learn something of what those entities were. More difficult, we may come to develop perceptions of what we are: of how not only our relatively simple choices (body function and body style), but our more challenging ones (mental function and mental style; how we really see ourselves, if we really see ourselves, why we really see ourselves, and whether or not we're ever accurate in any of those perceptions), evolve in a way that negates our current sense of identity and existence.

You know that you "exist," in some fashion, and you have accepted the truth of your ever-changing life inside the rotting meat, where the time-scales of even stellar fusion make our longest lives less than a blink. Yet our minds, and our selves, are subject to the same processes of the frames which we occupy; to the whole of the place where we are. The next challenge available here is to accept your life inside the rotting soul.

Thursday, August 10, 2017

Be soothed. Be very soothed.

I just want to take a moment to address some unsettling rumors that have not, so far as I know it, developed. No one should be afraid of Wikileaks or anything like it. These organizations are not making anyone "disappear"; Wikileaks is not a "lightning rod" for collecting loose information; Wikileaks is not in any way cooperating with governments, law enforcement agencies, or media corporations so as to publicize relatively harmless leaks and encourage potential leakers to develop a false sense of security about being open with the world. Wikileaks is, and any other similar or related agencies of the past and future were respectively, a genuine rebellion in service of the open society, committed to holding the world's elite to the same standard as the rest of us. If we know things are going on and they are not leaked, it is because of evil corporations and ignorant or selfish people deciding to keep them private through their own privilege and cowardice. It is not, despite what some autistic navel-gazing anodynizing terminology-embracers claim, the necessary veneer that needs to be applied to society until document review positions have hardwired neuroboundaries installed and one will contractually bind one's abilities, not mere choices, to the service of the system at issue. Come forth with your information to Anonymous, Al Qaeda, Wikileaks, and any other much-publicized rebel organization, and even if you won't necessarily become a media sensation, you will be safe, anonymous, and protected, and your information might do some good. Al Qaeda was not a media sensation meant to sign gullible and expendable Muslims up for future refugee movement or ISIS activity guided by non-Muslims for fanciful and complicated and unrealistic reasons that a Game of Thrones soccer dad could analyze the cui bono of, but was actually so culturally complicated that there is no one so intelligent and discerning who could possibly fathom it as a workable conspiracy; no, that was a genuine resistance movement in service of Islam, like Anonymous brings freedom to the computing world and your local Pierce book club or BLM meetup helps people organize for collective interest, neither being a way of quietly culling nor redirecting the people taking potentially anti-real-establishment actions. It's not like influential nations and firms are buying access to self-declared lists of their own freethinkers and potential freethinkers; not like there is some kind of wicked credit-reporting agency for thoughtcrime out there, where it would even be market-feasible for modern organizations to monitor activity within the preliminary stages of resistance and eliminate dangers or adjust asset access and responsibility accordingly. You will learn about anything meaningful that you bring to your partners in crime, all bandits follow the code of banditry, and the vigorous efforts of governments and media outlets worldwide to restrict and discredit leaks and leakers are your proof of how much they don't want you to admit that you're the kind of person whom, when given such access or discretion, would act in accordance with inefficient and outdated notions of honor or morality. Critics claim that leaking organizations wouldn't have been necessary, because American oil industry executives have records of their planning meetings where they divided up Iraq's oil fields prior to the 2001 World Trade Center random and unforeseen attacks, and did not a one of them get hanged, but this is not the case, that was simply due to incomplete information and thanks to the rebellion clearinghouses we now have, anyone with such information can ascend to the status of hero along with their stack of documents and get the results that, in the 1990s, were through computers and the internet showing promise of potentially changing society. Basically what I need you to do is to see how much the television hates and discredits these rebel heroes and how they are definitely whom you should go to eventually with any sensitive information that needs to be understood and acted upon, because you are not going to quietly vanish from history, you are not going to be harmed, you are not going to have your revelations destroyed, and you can tell how capable these people are at effecting change by the fact that despite all this very noisy adversity they have faced at the hands of the evil corporations and governments they resist, they have not been wiped out. They are and will continue to be the resistance, and even if someone later does subvert them and it becomes common knowledge that it is dangerous to go to them, whatever new adversarial thing you've heard about will be trustworthy, because the media and its consumers are not so manipulable as to lead you in certain directions because it is efficient.

Saturday, August 5, 2017

Truth and Loss

We may come to see that it is not death itself which we fear. Rather, it is the loss of memory with which we associate death.

Motivations for a Deeper Fear

The illusions of Terran religion are designed not to dispel our fear of death, but instead our fear of memory loss, or of an organizational loss of memory incidence- or structure-comprehension capability which would produce an equivalent result to actual memory deletion.

The Terran religions we know now have developed from models which ironically combine excessive self-debasing and excessive intellectual arrogance, whereby the living individual is presumed too stupid to intuit anything, yet so brilliant that external guidance may be understood in contravention of either observational material data or experienced intuited data. E.g., we're too dumb to understand anything we feel without having it properly explained to us, yet so intelligent that, armed with proper explanation, we can understand when our feelings are fake. Christianity and Scientism, for example, teach us that desire is either an evil illusion or a genetic illusion, respectively, but that, armed with proper knowledge, we're able to understand that stars are lights stuck rather nearby in the corkboard sky, and that existence is an egg which laid itself, respectively.

Memory is a subject of such keen importance because it is the means by which we value life, for the minute responsive experience of a fruit fly is more valuable than the far lesser experience of the inert rock, yet both are thoroughly eclipsed by the instinctive habits and relationship understanding of the feline, the understood kinship of the delphine, or the complex ideatic mimicry or potential ideatic formulation of the hominid. When cyclical, random, or repetitive behavior is observed which seems to indicate life, and then to indicate consciousness as we understand it, we deem things successively worthy of existence as we had observed them. We may draw lines at different points to determine value, sparing the life of the gnat or the ant, the cow or the man, but cannot even lay still and cease breathing without starving the life which depends on us to exist. Our decisions must necessarily execute some and spare others, and these always correlate in some way to the perceived value of experience and memory, and that system's likeness to what we think of as our own, as found or imagined in the others subject to our review. However we may rationalize it, our judgments are based on intuiting the perceived value of consciousness, prioritized by the capacity to collect and organize memory.

Our local religions are designed expressly to reaffirm the accumulation and possession of intact memories. Sometimes subtly, as when the promise of making further positive memories is so dazzling that the underlying reassurance of retaining older memories is implied, and sometimes overtly, as when the decision to acknowledge the source of one's memories grants the ability to thereby stay in possession of them. The development of the later possessive religions of Terra, here considered "primitive" or "formative" belief systems, is built upon avoidance of the explicit discussion of what, exactly, is being preserved; of what fear, exactly, the religion is designed to assuage. Promises of ongoing senses of experience of an afterlife, or of The Afterlife, are predicated upon the condition that memories are retained between cycles.

One First Consciously Approaching Memory Valuation

To initially approach these subjects, posit one's image of a Hindu or a Buddhist. The primary stated goal of this type of reincarnative religion is not to take a vicarious joy that others are reaching Nirvana or Buddahood, but to sculpt the self toward the attainment of those ideals. The beatings will continue until morale improves, in the sense that life must be again suffered until the lesser and/or improper worldly thoughts have been dispelled, allowing the one to ascend, transmute, or otherwise attain a paradise tantamount to some form of relief from worldly suffering. The emphasis is on refining the self. One does not properly participate in the religion by forever erring, even though one's errancy does not control the behavior of others. There is no reassurance that mortal death will not happen, no promise from these or other earthly religions of local immortality, for mortal death can be constantly witnessed, and, more importantly, inherently and axiomatically understood. The seeming focus on death as transition is designed to provide a far greater reassurance than that death is not the end: it is, instead, to reassure the master, practitioner, or bystander, against something much more frightening, namely that after death, the memories and sense of self enjoyed by the living entity are lost rather than in some form retained. The one who reaches Nirvana or Buddhahood is still that one.

If one attains Nirvana only to be reborn as a dung beetle and have one's experience points gifted to another who could not have otherwise attained Nirvana, the system of reincarnation has failed, despite the total numbers of bliss-achievers being equal. (Actually, if talented world-rejecters were selected for the process of refining other selves, more souls would attain Buddhahood faster.) If adding to paradise were the goal, a more efficient religion would offer such a division of labor. In truth, what matters is not the divine process, the maximization of the saved, nor the fullness of paradise, but instead, the transmaterial retention of singularly-designated memory securities. The primacy of the self, and the non-transferability policy regarding memories and their effect on the soul, stand preeminent.

Various other religions, from the later Barian paganisms to their adopted Jenomic salvation religions, offer the same secret reassurance, even when included alongside a poison pill of detachment from the living process ("life cycle"). You may go to paradise, or you may be damned, but in either case, it will be you, the one whom you know you are, being judged and going. When we believe these things, we validate our sense of continuity; though we may fear pain, or being left out, we tell ourselves we will eventually be reunited with our full senses of self, and therefore, that it wasn't all a waste, and that we do truly exist.

That is the modern Christian's true relief, like the Hindu's: an encouragement of jealousy regarding memories as pseudo-material possessions. While Terran religions often teach the profanity of jealousy and envy when applied toward worldly goods, those religions that remain tend to be wholly profane with regards spiritual currency, insisting upon the ownership of the perpetual and most important of worldly possessions: memories. They offer an honestly selfish reassurance that memory, experience, and self-awareness--as these are known by and recognizable by the one lamenting their loss--are retained between transfers. Otherwise, Nirvana, Heaven, and Hell would have no meaning. It is the learned skills, intuitions, understood conclusions, and other "experience points" of life of which the Terran living are so possessive.

These religions do not teach people to avoid jealousy. They are, more accurately, better teachers of jealousy and envy, in the same way that a good financial counselor is. Initially, the priest tells you to pay down your debts and invest for the future--not because he wants you to have less money, but because he wants you to have more. Avoid pleasure now so that you get better later--that is the message of Jenomic salvation as well as Indo-Aryan reincarnation. The priest doesn't really want to spoil your fun, but to increase it. He advises you so that, in the future, you have a retirement that does not include being a door greeter at Walmart, but instead, being someone who sleeps in seven days a week. He says, "Don't listen to those fools telling you to go party hard in Vegas now. Sure, they'll have more fun this weekend, but during their next five years of barebones bankruptcy, you'll still be going out to dinner and upgrading your condo." The good credit counselor of faith encourages you to avoid screwing the interns because an eternity of superior pleasure beats a few half hours of lesser pleasure.

(Morally apex Christians--again to indirectly reference Dostoevsky--permute the boundaries of the Torah's add-ons far beyond what they were intended to be, intermixing older Europeoid conventions wishfully in, to make possible anti-Christian, but far more morally heroic, notions of sacrificing the self to save the totally unrepentant sinner. Though materially lamentable, this type of spirituality is about the challenge of pursuing goodness for its own sake, or for the sake of others and only others, rather than for any quantity of Saul's personal salvation. It is closer to the belief systems that expired along with the forgotten peoples of Terra.)

Memory as Data

Computer metaphors help. Most every one here now loves computers, right? Let us imagine that you've been busy, you've not gotten much spare time lately, you've been storing the vacation photos here and the work documents and some other photos in some computer cloud service and the financials on the other laptop and the music on the player and the movies on the handheld and a portable drive, and there are backups in the safe and extras with a trusted friend and some of it at work, and when your friend's place gets robbed this one day and you're getting your things together to go over and help him out, you're updating your portable player for the trip and the thing crashes and the laptop it's attached to is wiped and when you sort of panic and plug it into the extra one to fix it, it repeats the same function and wipes that one too and does something on the home WiFi that corrupts the one in the safe and what the fuck who designed this thing and your friend calls and you're wondering if the last eight years of albums you bought are all completely lost now and all your tags and playlists and ratings...and maybe your old phone still has some records of your own utterly irreplaceable recordings from before the band broke up...sure, with thousands of dollars and months of effort you might track down and replace the bought stuff, but did you trade that old phone in when you got the new one or did you not and where the fuck is it and oh my God I just realized all the travel reports for work for the past month and a half hadn't been submitted and did they really take Dicky's safe of course they took his safe that's like several years of my life just deleted...! And maybe the corporate cloud has pieces of some of it still available from last month or maybe not, did you buy the platinum perfection plan, ahh, ma'am? ma'am? anything you see there is what you did yourself when logged into your customer account, our associates don't adjust any of the files we can promise you that.

That sick feeling; that feeling that something has been lost or deleted. Maybe just a webform entry lost in a closed tab; maybe a sketchbook swept into the fire or rain; a journal slipped out of a pocket on the subway; maybe an unfortunate phrase slipping the lips and costing you someone else's positive perception, maybe when it involves sex. That data loss, and our real or imagined reactions to it, are a microscopic portion of the relationship to fear which we have when we contemplate memory loss as a result of death. We can build buildings, write memoirs, have our performance recorded to international acclaim; this can soothe us a little, the thought that at least if we're gone-gone, someone else might remember us, and even when they're all dead, someone might find an old recording two hundred years later, experience it, and guess that "this one was there."

If it weren't you being evaluated, there's nothing to be scared of or hopeful for. "Live a good life or else this other person you never met and don't even understand might go to Hell." We don't hear that; we're not motivated by it. When you are being judged for Heaven, it is you being judged. That is so fucking reassuring. Even if you're going to Hell, there is still a you. Which lends support to the idea that there is, now, a you.

There is, of course, a "you" now; don't see this as an invitation to believe otherwise. Contemplate that moment when Steve Jobs' ghost lazily wipes the past year's changes to your iTunes library, a dog eats your best illustration, or some more personally appropriate metaphor, and compare it with your own thoughts of the significance of your death.

You as Your Possession

The idealized Christian does not fear death because she feels she has eternal life. Based on her soul, as guided and developed (by Overgod and/or Christian Herself) over the years of her life, she believes she will enter into Heaven. She accepts that her body and all the data it stores will be materially deleted; she does not deny bodily death, nor potential physical discomfort associated with the process, but she denies that the memories which she accumulates will cease to be her possessions (and/or the possessions of God which she eternally holds in trust for her own use). So too the reincarnationist, who may put aside memories between lifetimes, but whose development--whose capitalism-style "property of self improvement"--is inviolable, remaining attached to and/or associated with the true self of the one who ascends, or descends, the spiritual hierarchy.

Local uncertainty about death stems from the sense that the data so vital to our self-valuation will be lost; that you as you conceive of yourself would, if that "you" somehow survived, necessarily cease to be you. Even the eternal soul interfaces with gray matter; dementia has shown us that the loss of gray matter takes away memories and relationships, and the character dependent thereupon. Christians can assume that God keeps perfect invulnerable backups, so that the Alzheimer's zombies are reunited with their loves ones, including their own selves, when they die. Other religions can in relief assume the same, whether via personified actualized metaphors, or blunt "and then he remembered" decrees.

Think about it in a touch more detail. If you accept that you're going to die, and disappear forever, but that an exact or close-enough duplicate of you, indistinguishable to all others, and possessing all your memories, will instantly then appear in paradise and receive all the rewards earned by your choices/suffering in free will, while you utterly vanish and the duplicate occupying paradise believes forever that it always was and continues to be you, are you okay with that? Probably not. What if God uses your instant-before-death self as a template, creates the duplicate exactly as He deletes the original you, then decrees, "This is you." Comfortable?

The wishful technicalities of the means whereby Christian dross would be accomplished are perhaps amusing, but without heavy doses of fear, not mentally palatable. Search beyond the superficial conception of what actually troubles you about ceasing to exist (a legitimate trouble), and find there the truth of fearing memory-loss and self-loss. If you did not exist, who would understand a favored memory, sensation, relationship, or concept so well? No one could do it exactly like you. We'd rather die than become self-shitting, relative-assaulting Alzheimer's deadweights; rather have the plug pulled than be intubated "vegetables" (a compliment if ever humans have thought of one) profaning our conception of our minds' relationship(s) to our bodies; rather be remembered "as we were" than as confused husks who, by existing, reminded others that our mind and memories may have been temporary, unduplicable concurrences.

(Fear of being remembered "wrongly" is one of the great fears, generally unacknowledged by self or others. Ergo being nonexistent can be contemplated as acceptable or preferable so long as the world can be thought to retain a memory of the correct you as you would define it. We see people writing their side of the story in suicide notes or autobiographies for this reason: because memory is more important than being alive. "Selfish genes" can be stretched to explain the purchase of term life insurance, but not the suicide note.)

Initially this one reminded you of Terran religions arising from a combination of self-debasing and arrogance. More than a sudden heart attack while unconscious and asleep after an attractive threesome and a great meal, we fear twenty years of creative torture followed by rescue and six years of quiet life drooling through nightmares in a peaceful asylum with plenty of canned applesauce and games of solitaire. Although the latter hypothetical results in a longer lifespan, we prefer, contra capitalistic evolution, the shorter lifespan with the less unpleasant death. The more positive accumulation of perceived memories outweighs the potential chance---0.00001% instead of 0.0%--that the genes might be more perpetuated than otherwise. Any enacted desire for "quality of life" disproves our assertions to the contrary that it is death itself we fear; that, for all of us, the gene is in command.

Intentionality and Existence

This one has previously discussed the more "material," which is to say the slower, physical aspects of our time here. In The Basics of Hope, we lightly evaluated the banal and arrogant ragnarist delusions of resource competition. The subject led this one to begin to discuss some of the simpler, more easily observable problems with the Jenomic-preferred "randomized pit-fight" perspective on the development of matter and life, in Lightform Evolution, and to address some issue-specific dissonance in Abscesses of Note. We expanded the scope slightly further in Cyclic Lightform Development. Later in the former series, in You Are Alone, we discussed revisions of the aspiritual, antilife, Jenomic creation tales, and how they are equally cosmically in error akin to pitfight evolution.

These lectures have briefly discussed or averred to the nature of our perceived material and mental reality as a by-product of light-producing reactions, called in sum for purposes of simplicity "lightspring." We see how the increasing complexity of observable material forms in our comparatively immediate vicinity ("10 million years," "our solar system"), and our conjectured local vicinity ("30 billion years," "universe") are the result of not either a discrete or omnipresent fiat creationism, nor of an "impartially random self-ordering" necrotic clockmaker's accident, but rather, the side effect of reality adapting to the pressure of light, as a riverbank adapts to mountain runoff. In popular parlance, light is a "physical property," and thinking of it as such can remove some of the local aversion associated with contemplating its existence.

Should a child feel bad about not being "intended" if its parents didn't mean to have it, yet or at all? The condom broke, the pills were placebos, I thought you wore a condom, I thought you were on the pill...or perhaps two orphaned infants, survivors of a plane crash or of the last civilization, attain puberty, experiment with each other, an offspring is later produced, and in any of the latter cases, the produced human has an existential crisis later in life about it not having been "intended." Was the child intended? Yes, even if the two grown-up crash-survivors didn't realize what would happen if they put that there and touched this that way, e.g. mated. Our ownership over the "intention," and of our understanding that, in some capacity, acting out certain potential functions may lead to more of us, is the selfish definition of "meaning," but not the sole or the primary one. A conception, like a murder, can be committed without the actor being able to write an essay which weds an understanding of the desire, the process, and the outcome.

This issue parallels our aversion to conceiving of life as something that could have meaning, given that we are not intelligent enough to understand the desires--"our" desires--in that regard. Maybe we live, we think, because our genome, or the god who created that genome, urges us to. These are petty, selfish, personified, perspective-limited viewpoints, wisely discarded by those with the strength to grow a bit more. Life is, in truth, a procedure for the production and harvesting of memory. This complex of machines is put into place because memory is a more refined form of light, and like an eternal flood rising above the waters of any dam, successively more powerful reactors will be produced. The consciousness of an amoeba is highly sophisticated and refined compared to the existence of an iron molecule, which is similarly more sophisticated than a comparable quantity of vacuum. Simple complex (sic) arrangements of the sort must be developed in response to the pressure of increasingly manifesting light; neither randomly, nor through pre-understood desires, do these arrangements occur. An amoeba-strength consciousness, and a human-strength one, are as inevitable as a dropped 50 kilogram mass descending from 100 meters to 0 meters in a low-variable physics problem (the kind where you calculate the speed of descent using 1G without accounting for wind, humidity, solar flares, birds or bugs encountered en route, people potentially opening windows on that side of the building, et cetera). Light "pushing into" reality, and producing material conduits as it does so, is that simple, and so comparatively powerful that any given hundred dead interstellar civilizations do not affect the margin of error for the overall process enough for us to notice.

(It is, similarly, a human indulgence to assume that the problem ends with mankind at ground level, or that there is a ground level. A more easily grasped, though still excessively flattering, metaphor from this perspective might place "distance to amoeba" at 25 meters of descent, and "distance to human" at 50.)

The strength of the human relative to less complex arrangements is exponentially greater than lesser life, for not only can human-type lifeforms take deliberate actions to further light reaction, they can store and process memories of the same. These relatively quite condensed tributaries are often enjoyable to work with, but like all lightform reactions, they are property only inasmuch as a mortal body owns anything (this one shouldn't need to disparage the notion of property by saying "only," but when speaking in Rome, assume the Romans will hear you). Part of our function as memory-generating machines is the cyclical wringing out and transfer of memories, effecting their dispersal into nearby electroconscious streams.

Memories are generated to feed local accretions of light by concentrating light in frozen energy densities stable enough to produce electromagnetic reactors sufficiently complex to, first, have experiences, then to instinctively recall those experiences, then to actively and consciously remember those experiences. An example of such progression is from pre-conscious superficially isolated physical routines (automatic functions in which Terrans tend to have randomized or personified faith; "cellular metabolism"), to pre-conscious integrated physical routines (still automatic functions, also faith-based; "heartbeat"), to protoconscious physical routines (instincts; "flinching when something comes near the eye"), to semiconscious routines (character traits; "laughing to be polite in certain situations") which may or may not be recognized or understood by the one. More complex still we may observe "talents," such as the rapid or effective storing and browsing of onsite memory, or limited access to offsite memory (strong aversive element; best not to think about it). Eventually, of course, we have "doing things for the first time," including something never before tried by or imagined by the one doing it.

This progressive complexity of lightforms occurs in accordance with the incessant pressure of light to be manifested here, with consciousness and memory as by-products of the process. Whether those by-products that we love or hate so much are "intentional" or "unintentional," an integral part of or reason for the process ("beautifully spiritual" or "drably material" from our current perspective), is largely irrelevant as to our considering the process from the perspective of entities both arrogant and self-demeaning.

The Burden of Hope

Memories, in this sense, are not one's perennial property, in much the same way that a molecule making up the body is one's perennial or inviolable property. Cells die off and are reconstituted, but so long as they maintain a viable material structure sufficient to continue the operations of an onsite EM reactor, the EC conduit which that reactor supports also remains functional. We feel pained and wronged when someones strikes us in response to an argument three years ago. However, if during that three years we shed skin tissue on the sidewalk and defecate out the remains of dead deep flesh tissues, and someone then gathers those cells in exact commensurate quantity and strikes them with quadruple the force, we are neither pained nor wronged. So too memory, whereby unwanted perspectives, revised opinions, misplaced pains, dispersed senses of place and direction, and a colossal mass of forgotten moments and epics and anecdotes deemed trifling by the current "me," neither help nor offend by their absence. They have shaped reactor and conduit by their comings and goings, but they are not otherwise part of, or missing from, the current entity, anymore than is a loose hair.

(Coping with the absence of shed components--whether said absence is contemplated, accepted, understood, or not--is part of what it is to be able to think "I feel that..." et cetera, but to wish to be destroyed and replaced by your then-idealized memory of what a true-you would be, would, if effected, eliminate the that-you that made the decision, and replace it with the that-you's imperfect memory of what the ideal-you was. Invariably this would be an incorrect creation, in the sense of it being unable to duplicate what really was special or defining about the older memory snapshot; hypothetically it could be worse or better. Consider, e.g., a Terran female shopping for her ideal immortal body and persona at the ages of 5, 16, 38, 55, and 84. Which version would "she" "truly" enjoy more were she stuck with it forever?)

If we see someone collecting our dead cellular components and reconstructing them into a lifelike model of us, then striking it, or if we suddenly can't remember something we thought was important to us, we may be upset or offended that someone bears us enmity or potential danger, or, respectively, aghast at the realization that our inconstancy is beyond our control. Nonetheless, I remain I, we remain us, and empathy and sympathy (as well as other more complex sensations) come not from a cannily arranged accumulation of memories, but from something else.

Memories are more complex, unstable lightforms than are cells. They are less subject to the illusive permanence to which we tend to subject them. The decay of memory components begins rapidly, compared to that of bodily components, for memories, being more refined, are used as fuel for more sophisticated reactions. As discussed previously to some extent, light's properties as energy are best likened to what we would call expansion, condensation, or movement, concurrent with the property of increasing material conduit capacity in what we call reality. All frozen material conduits for light eventually free themselves ("decay") on a long enough time scale in order to repeat the process as a safeguard against process termination. The mandatory impermanence of matter and energy, which we fear as an aspect of cold death or heat death, prevents us, no matter how stupid and intra-process powerful, from destroying the process.

Memory works similarly, its relative complexity as to what we call "matter" providing it a much more human-observable scale of cyclical behavior. Like matter, it is seemingly constantly created once the relevant components are in place, and like matter, it constantly decays, though at an incredibly dynamic rate observable by humans via "intuition" alone. Natural decay, akin to evaporation, returns the fringes, and the neglected clumps, of matter to any given locale's EC spring or well. Quasi-planned "upload" via dream processes garners a smaller, but more refined amount, and the transfer process by an individual's conduit may result in leakage, crossover, duplication, or the formation itself of new memories, technically memories-of-memories. Death provides a form of mandatory residual transfer, and, like proton decay and other lengthier and more nuanced attributes of this system, is meant as a safeguard against any given one or ones, no matter how stupid and/or intra-life powerful, from destroying the surrounding process of productive reaction.

All of this material deals with a versal property which can be viewed from human perspectives as either grim or hopeful. As modern Terrans are more inclined to find plausibility in grimness, consider the grim perspective on reality: we're trapped inside slowed, condensed lightforms, accessible only through a narrow electroconscious conduit, enslaved as memory-miners as part of a greater process than we can understand. We don't know what light is or where it comes from, but from the best available evidence, we can tell that this perpetual energy source produces increasingly complex material by-products in a constantly increasing area of space and time, the understanding of any portion of which will be made later irrelevant. Our self-awareness, and our perception of existence, are mere side effects of the passing, permeating lightspring, and any memories we gather will regularly decay into the Terran EC, or be cyclically withdrawn there. To prevent any one or all of us from entering a stasis of self-image, each one will be at some point dispelled, everything forcibly added to the collective, which will later likely serve as a conduit of its own to other springs or eddies.

Many of us, here and elsewhere, do try to prevent this process. As so often with putrefying agents, we see attempts at severing consciousness from itself, by overcoming the faux tyranny of loss. This can be the vocation of the adviser (perhaps "warmonger"), who counsels the ending of lives in hopes of someday ending them all; or, of the necromancer (perhaps "pharmacist" or "gerontologist"), who raises the dead in hopes of preventing new children from being born and having the experience of life. More powerfully, as civilizations develop, it is the sterile angel, who uses the fear, then the presumed indignity, then the pragmatic inefficiency of death, as a bugbear to encourage imprisoning minds in perpetuity, preventing any memory transfer. On Terra, we've seen warlords who have attempted, and still attempt to, have everyone kill or poison themselves, in seeming defiance of genetic practicality. "What will they do when all the farmers are dead?" we ask. Their goal--their own deaths--will then be in sight. More dangerous now on Terra is the automated nursery prison, where computer storage can house us all in Premium Fantasy Units by the trillions, a testament to Chosen Humankind's "first-ever" victory over the suffering of the material. Once inside, the heroes of the immortal future will realize that ideas have stopped coming, forget what ideas were, and all they'll have left is analyzing the stored sequels and template outputs, which they'll grow increasingly less able to distinguish from one another. Quiet xirdroids glide between the aisles of the massive server-stadiums, watching for dust. Sol the red giant would be most welcome, were anyone there who could comprehend why.

(Seriously, you think it's bad here now? Wait until you're immortal. Best comparison this one can make is like living inside an indoor megamall where it's perpetually a week before Christmas, the music is always cheerful and too familiar, you spend half your time stocking shelves and half your time shopping for great stuff and eating as much as you like in the food court, and social status is demonstrated by spending time feeling superior in quiet skyboxes watching other people shop and stock. If you're here when they start celebrating how great it is that they've not only eliminated material decay and aging, but eliminated the need for dangerous and inefficient bodies and look how even the richest and most secure of us can succumb to a common household accident if the alert system has a malfunction at the wrong time, I think the relevant verbiage is get the fuck out before it's too late.)

Our sense of self is extant, correct, genuine, and differentiated in order to ensure maximum and expanding range of fuel production and processing. Our mixed relationships with our bodies and our memories result from these conditions. From these relationships arise the quixotica of un-impressions and pro-impressions which we claim or rationalize regarding our feelings about how things, including our selves, were not or were, operated or did not operate. It is a burden to hope that a rational, non-personified, increasingly materially provable, explanation of existence, life, and self exists, because such an explanation will, as fractally true as it will then be mundanely true, relegate life's vast importance and power to a "mere" resource. Fantasizing that we are the passing underdog in a cosmos incapable of caring, or the primary moral mudwork of a perversely overcaring creation, will regularly be disproved in detail, while in either case both hyper overvaluing and undervaluing the central role we play in our own coveted existences.

The movement of memory to the EC is not lamentable. The one that is itself regathered to a related nearby network at any point is the more useful for its further development, and the petty positive developmental aspects of material pairing--perhaps not so petty in many ones' opinions; you be the judge--and the memories associated with them, are, in retrospect, neither so worthless nor so worthy as one might at first believe (until/unless you are once again there, in a similar situation). I can tell you all sorts of things about this EC, or others, and speak of the impossibly vast timescales on which light expands; the incredible levels of complexity that are, even now, revealing themselves bugs below the dust below the earliest foundations of a future that has only suggested that it will metamorphose beyond even the expectations known there. I can tell you that all the saccharine crap, in even the worst and most dishonest attempts at local sentimentality, lightsprings eternal, and that our interest in any concept we would characterize, even here, as positive, finds its expression. I can tell you more specifically that you can, that you already have, tagged all your memories and contacts indelibly, the physically real and those echoed from imagination, and that in between any transfer, some pithy hundred thousand years' paradise of interplaying lightforms and intuitively suggestible conduits may be quickly put aside by you in service of aspirations to something then perceived as exponentially newer and more challenging.

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

New Clear Daze

The spirit of "Turning Japanese" has had particular meaning for western culture ever since the 1940s Allied invasion. The other dreck pumped loose by The Vapors was similarly boppy, arrogant, and simplistic in its composition, revealing an expressive, creative dearth which often lengthily extends, or better yet concludes, the careers of English musical sensations. Bright circular noises were often popular variations of the time on the theme of not noticing, but without the cultural context that made "Turning Japanese" sadly ironic enough to be significant, The Vapors never really managed anything else. Even so, their one mélange of rejected brainwashing loops made its own significant mark on history. What, after all, could better express the Great War than "Turning Japanese"? The commodification of nightmare dreamslivers of expensive, mutually destructive bank colonialism; the particularly snotty, queer, and larpish way in which the proudly subservient rape-islanders pretended their masters' triumphs were their own; the noxious essence of actual pejorative racism, wherein the prickishly-othering, self-abnegating overlording for salacious purposes destroys the superior along with the inferior.

Obviously Dresden, or Merkel, represent vital aspects of "World War" "II," but from the perspective of the would-be conquerors, watching a bunch of incompletely homosexual clowns ape their hyperidealized version of the bodies in their fathers' basements reveals much more about the madness which lay behind the methodology. This is an enthusiasm that goes beyond being tricked by dumb stories about being threatened. The sickness lying there could be manipulated, but not created from scratch.

Consider the Nu Euro ("British") work alongside an African ("American") one as to their comparative levels of intrinsic consistency, honesty with self and others, and honesty as to morality. Here's a representative African sample:
I got a white bitch, I got a white bitch
I got a white bitch, I got a white (I got a white)
I got a white bitch, I got a white bitch
I got a white bitch, I got a white (I got a white)
I got a white bitch, I got a white bitch
I got a white bitch, I got a white (I got a white)
I got a white bitch, I got a white bitch
I got a white bitch, I got a white (I got a white)

White bitch, white brick
White wrist, black Benz
Black friends, but a nigga white rich
Every bill that my thumb peel got a white face
White Wraith, tip tag, yup white plates
Saw that straight white
The look on me was stage fright (Oh God!)
But the crook in me just took it, straight swipe
Just a dirty dog, forty in my dirty drawers
Beat the state of Florida
Gave 'em back my dirty charge
You got it right, padded white
White bitch come with that
All she say is: "Daddy chill like this and sit back"
Like I should, like a big dog poster
She get the picture like a jigsaw puzzle
Hey, bitch, wassup?!
-"White Bitch" from Gunplay's Living Legend.

At first blush, Gunplay's work seems uncivilized, as indeed it is when we view "civilization" as best accomplished through a fearful pretense selectively acted upon to deny one's "animal roots" while denying engaging in decidedly more harmful behavior. It is, though, honest, not sickeningly passive-aggressive, or in the case of the upcoming Nu Euro comparison from decades earlier, evocative of a horrible lack of mental coherency disguised by a veneer of randomly dispellable madness.
I've got your picture of me and you
You wrote "I love you" I love you too
I sit there staring and there's nothing else to do
Oh it's in color Your hair is brown
Your eyes are hazel And soft as clouds
I often kiss you when there's no one else around
I've got your picture, I've got your picture
I'd like a million of them all round my cell
I asked the doctor to take your picture
So I can look at you from inside as well
You've got me turning up and turning down
And turning in and turning 'round
I'm turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
I'm turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
I've got your picture, I've got your picture
I'd like a million of them all round my cell
I want the doctor to take your picture
So I can look at you from inside as well
You've got me turning up and turning down and turning in and turning 'round
I'm turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
I'm turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
No sex, no drugs, no wine, no women
No fun, no sin, no you, no wonder it's dark
Everyone around me is a total stranger
Everyone avoids me like a psyched lone-ranger Everyone
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
(think so think so think so)
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so

Neither diarrheic screed is particularly developed nor pleasant, but the former is, at least, honest. Gunplay graces us with a fair and forthright self-assessment of his worldview, while The Vapors display a sniveling parody of romanticism that is chillingly dishonest and, on the surface, highly incomplete in the most critical of areas. One of them is more likely to lure you into having dinner in his cabin by the shadowed moors, while the other makes obvious displays that require much less intelligence to recognize their potential danger. More frightening about the lyrics of "Turning Japanese" is that perennially Nu Euro notion that The Vapors aren't aware of the effects of their behavior on their victims. On can imagine Gunplay raising his chin and blurting, "Yeah, she prolly did'n really like it dat much," but even after the queen's finest psychiatrists have completed several sessions with The Vapors, the band members still believe that the stuffed and stitched women's remains, removed from the house at the end of the lane by a team of morticians, loved the sewing-up process and loved them.

Please sink my container ships. Please save my daughters from the blindness of paganism; from the ignorance of Negro enlisted wearing your colors. In this mindset, the song could be a love letter from the Irish, Japanese, or many dozens of other phantomized, pantomimized peoples. Fenton (the credited lyricist behind "Turning Japanese") reportedly enjoyed but denied the rumor that the song was a reference to masturbation ("I've got your picture, I've got your picture"), but it's doubtful that he, or any other happy participant in these extended affairs with illusory piñata memories, really understood what they had written or danced to, or why its jabbery blur resonated so deeply.
I'd like a million of you all round my cell
I want a wise man to copy your essence
So I can look at your insides
You've got me turning up and turning down and turning in and turning 'round
The verbal smear of the words was rarely noticed in acknowledged specificity; most people, even when they knew it, remembered it as "the one where the dude repeats 'I'm turning Japanese' a lot." Which indeed it was, and in truth, that line in historical context is all that is really needed to illuminate the rest of the song. The autoerotic viscera- and doll-references, and the confessions of unstable personal identity and spiraling insanity, only make it more explicit. Something of the associated colonial arrogance, dehumanizing objectification, and embarrassingy needful imperialism, today's westerners should be already conditioned to understand and accept; the deracinating shamefulness and suicidal cuckoldry of the same lines, though, should now be similarly easy for the modern "nationalist" to contemplate. We shall find a more just, comprehensive understanding of the phenomenon if we can understand both truths. In particular, the insane taxidermy of preserving necrotic biodiversity and cultural diversity via nature preserves and masochistic immigration, and its effects on the presumed victors, can be seen here, with both victim and aggressor entombed.

It has long been tradition in Japan for underage prostitutes ("maiko") to have their faces whitened in imitation of the fetching predecessor peoples made to quit the islands, and then, to a lesser degree, of the Indo-Aryans who spread into eastern Asia before gradually perishing in the process of producing what are now the Japanese. How sad, yet how deservedly so, that The Vapors could not ever turn into the imitations of the imitations.

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Whining about Dunkirk

The loyal Hollywood-supporter Peter Brimelow is quite proud of his father's role in helping invade France and Germany, install Macron and Merkel, and otherwise destroy Europe. In People Should Be Hung From Lampposts, he squeals like a homosexual pride rioter that it is completely, totally unfair how the bankers' foot-soldier scum, who invaded and broke up Austro-Hungary, then everywhere else white people lived, and brought in black African rapefugees to mass-rape French and German women ("Algerian mercenaries assisting the Allied occupying forces in their peacekeeping efforts"), should see the same treatment extended to their own descendants decades later. And by the descendants of the very bankers who engineered Britain's heroic, faggy, America-saved role in the Great War, too. The piece of shit actually expresses surprise over it. (He's likely faking on behalf of You-Know-Who, but in the event he believes his own propaganda, it's all the more pitiful.)

It is quite embarrassing for "the British" (the English with the big mouths) to approach history. Endless defeats at the hands of the rest of Europe, peckermarked with the occasional "victory" over some gunpowder-less horde of desert- or jungle-peoples, which victory was paid for by Ashkenazi Dutch and Sephardic/Moorish investors in colonialism, and accomplished firsthand via armies staffed primarily by conscripted Scots-Irish, mercenaries, or Indian proxies...or later, the privilege of a few pasty-faced elite-boarding-school-buggers to serve in tiny support roles while the American mixed whites or Afro-Hispanics do the actual fighting. Prince Harry's fake little "service" in Iraq, guarded by Royal Marines inside a cordon of Mexican-Americans dying to protect him from Arabs so he could play soldier, is a perfect exemplification of British military history since the rape of Ireland.

How unfair and unjust it is that the Greatest Generation cuckolds who traded their souls for Schiff dollars and imposed NATO and the U.N. on central Europe should have those very same organizations turn on them and start bringing rapey Africans into London. Completely, completely unfair! It's not like the gullible cowards in Britain meant for anything like that to happen.

VDare published Brimelow's article, joining many others which popularize the "patriotism" of the twentieth century's largest globalist project. That banker-supported cuck website is a "Dixie"-marketed version of American Renaissance, devoted to the notion "the Confederacy was good because it imported blacks to the New World and believed in rabbi-worship and saw no problem whatsoever with Judah P. Benjamin's friends funding it." Which isn't to say that Lincoln was any better, but by permitting the slavers to start filling the biggest European escape pod in the Americas with Africans, the fools in Dixie bear a heavy responsibility for today.

Go out and rescue more of those refugee boats, you plantation dipshits. What an honorable and venerated culture you had! If only that mean Lincoln hadn't stopped you before you could add even more Africans to a rich culture of manual labor across all of the United States of Somalica.

Brimelow writes:
Although aimed at a mass audience, Dunkirk is a very sophisticated movie and a remarkable technical achievement by writer-producer director Christopher Nolan. It’s also a political achievement. Nolan’s subject is one of the Anglosphere’s great patriotic epics and thus ripe for anti-West snark, but it has actually been well received by the Leftist cultural Establishment...
No--you don't say! A movie about the heroic Allied heroes who participated in acts of heroism during the essentially just and heroic World War II was well received by the Leftist cultural establishment? That's a shocker. Almost as shocking as the fact that a faux-traditionalist like Brimelow views the outcome of the genocide in Europe as a "great patriotic epic." In eighty years, men like Brimelow will be crying passionately about how heroic were the antifa brigades who protected Shari'a from unfair discrimination. (In a patriotic way, though, God bless them.)

Far be the hope that anyone on "the right" should recognize this drivel for what it is. In the media tumult of this giant fixed fight over rapefugees and immigration, it would be so, so poignant and meaningful if "the left," the Africans and Hispanics, or even the god-cursed SWPLs, could realize that all of this new acceptable racism and faux white pride that they hate is originating from the same people who wanted the Great War to happen.

On that note, Black Agenda Report remains consistently more anti-war than the shills on the right. If only they could aim their demands for reparations in the proper direction...

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Coaxing to Dunkirk

As a non-Hollywood-patronizer, who has nonetheless been forced by fellow test subjects to join in the yearly fare, I write that if I were going to prompt some gullible fools into believing that races needed to be again taken into account, but only certain of those races, I would produce, in close proximity to each other, Django Unchained and Hacksaw Ridge and Dunkirk. Not so long before Django Unchained, we had Shaft, where Nu Euro and African relations were lampooned with traces more authenticity. Django Unchained went farther in the ridiculous demonizing of the idiot Christians who bought and bred and attempted to forcibly acculturize Africans, producing increasing levels of counter-reaction from the people being so degraded. Not so long before Hacksaw Ridge, we had Pearl Harbor. Like Hacksaw Ridge, it was an awfully fabricated Norman Rockwell-ish backstory justifying coming together to invaded Asia and murder the Japanese who had refused to bind their currencies to the central banks, though Hacksaw Ridge presented an almost wholly-white image of the positivity of Japanese mass murder, whereas Pearl Harbor used a token black to make the "interracial buddies murdering non-bankers" more appealing to earlier Nu Euro audiences.

Dunkirk adopts the model of employing defensive reactions to further a political agenda, which we have often discussed in relation to the 2016 presidential show being an evolution of tobacco campaigns (see A Short Chronology of Reverse Psychology in Recent Advertising). In real "Dunkirk battle as we know it in the 21st century," a bunch of traitorous cuckolds from Britain had set out to invade France and Germany for daring to establish anti-bank governments. Hoping to use Germany's retaking of the Gaza Strip occupied territories in parts of the Sudetenland and Poland to bring it in compliance with bank policy, and begin importing Soviets and rapefugees, Britain crossed the channel and invaded, got its ass handed to it, refused peace offers, bombed civilians, continued to refuse peace offers, then called itself heroic for boating its invaders out of France after the mixed French and German armies had successfully defended the continent from attack. As we all know, Germany should have approached the situation realistically, exterminated the invading army, and countered civilian bombing with civilian bombing in 1939, rather than years later. Instead, Germany and, later, France, followed the course of asking for cessation of attacks and the fixing of old boundaries and the like, and most importantly for the Dunkirk discussion, permitting the British scum to take a long time running home to hide in their cupboards under the stairs. Through banking connections in the U.S., Britain was able to re-launch the invasion, divide up Germany between NATO and the Soviets, ship in Algerians to rape their way across central Europe, and eventually to begin openly importing refugees without uniforms. The little prince harrys couldn't get their hands on German women until their court financiers had asked Roosevelt's court financiers to blockade Japan enough to justify American men suddenly invading Europe.

All this, today's "race realists" and "nationalists" are supposed to understand, with the exception of most Nu Euro nationalists having a secret affection for inbred British royalty, tea ceremonies, bank-noble celebritization, and hunting parties where the queers with the brown suits and the rifles can't hike or carry their gear on their own so they hire 4 young Irish servants to do it, then ride a coach back home afterward while the Irish clean and repair their guns, then clean and dress and cook and serve them "their" foxes and ducks. Still, Nu Euros sort of think that importing Africans to mass-rape European women is wrong. So how to get them to suddenly view the utterly indecent British invasion, and the establishment of the multikult, in a positive light? Easy. Put out a movie glorifying the British queers/traitors who invaded France and Germany to install Merkel and Macron, and then make a bunch of idiotic Nu Euro nationalists support and defend the movie by creating a media stir about how the bastards at Dunkirk weren't "diverse" enough.

Bam! That fast, Hollywood is suddenly the nationalist's friend again. The curs have neither honor nor dignity nor the cranial complexity to comprehend that lack. It's like watching them rebel against Obama by voting for an Ashkenazi TV- and finance-billionaire. They're tweeting, they're buying tickets, they're defending casting choices and set design, and they're gobbling up the chance to defend the entire "world war" globalist banking victory narrative of the twentieth century as a good thing. Dozens of millions dead in Europe during the war, in what, only months ago, they were calling an unfortunate "brothers war" in response to the suggestion that we fight Putin's oligarchs on behalf of Hillary. That's how stupid, how manipulable Nu Euros are. Got a jar of rotten cookies that no one else will eat? Bar the pantry door, tell them, "It's too good, I'm saving it for later for my special treat," then pretend to look the other way and they will gobble it down in five seconds flat--while believing that they did it on their own, that they are free and rebellious, and that it really did taste good. Eating shit is something we all have to do in this world, but no other group does it with such pride; such enthusiasm.

How many Chinese did Mao exterminate after the bankers used the idiots in Europe and America to bomb Asia into submission? How many died in Russia, in Africa, in France, in Spain, America, all across the world, as part of the hideously mutated banking pile-on engineered to mandate the Balfour Declaration, make the U.S. currency the world standard, and setup the NATO v. USSR twentieth century?

If you believe in the banking version of history, those deaths are unavoidable celebrations in service of ultimate financial justice, and you might as well demand a more diverse story. If you pretend to understand that the politicians and their teevees are sort of lying, though, it's dreadfully shameful that such a simple ruse would get you.