When all that is profound has become pedestrian.

When only the sublime peaks of perfection exist in the minds of the passives.

When the path itself, the sublime uncertainty and adolescence of thought is forgotten.

When the vision of a figure breaking through glass, shards glittering like a cutting rain cloud.  Time frozen in that perfect moment, is there beauty only then?

The Boring Writer Returns.

List every category, collate them all and they share one thing.

There is a peak for every experience, every emotion and motion.  Art seeks to describe this mathematical perfection.  Yet what of the inflection points, where only the corpses of those who failed lay in undescribed gulleys.  Those little blips and fragile lightning bolts of peaks that only exist when you have looked closely enough, a small jagged point that charts the upward path of the line, to carve viciously downward, then continue. In that pseudo-valley of ideas, and the rise before it, what of those?  When you take the whole picture in, when you look from far enough away, those true, real but miniscule, imperfections are smoothed out, zoomed out and irrelevant.

Not even a footnote.

In this age of want, what forgetfulness must there be.  Want not for money (although there is that, but only for those who do not matter to the callous gaze of history), or entertainment, but a massive dearth of spirit.  When the age of apathy is upon us, then we truly are the living dead.  The passives must consume, and it must be perfect.

Truth is abhorrent, couch yourself in lies upon lies upon lies.  Become meta, as you wish, but it doesn't change what is.  Change yourself from the skin in.  Then change the world from without.  Ideas cannot be delivered, they must be hidden, a noble idea is just more advertising to a mind full of everything else.  So couch it, couch it, couch it, until it is unrecognisable, it becomes a soundbite, a meme, a catchphrase, and it loses all fucking meaning and you become a worthless parrot.  Chuckle at your inside jokes which feebly attempt to disguise how hollow they are.

The age of self and apathy, when everything is known but nothing is done.  We know of corruption, we know of injustice, and we keep playing we play we play we play the game.  As long as we get ours.  Who cares how it all really works?

The best and brightest among us are now the most ignorant, they're the only ones who believe in anything.  They're the ones who act on their beliefs.

Many Minds like damp piles of leaves, earthy and still.  No flame can be set, barely a feeble smoulder.

Baffled?

Easily ignored.

Post Script:

When someone like myself exists, sometimes we are best to immerse ourselves in the lives of others quietly and thoughtfully, slipping in and causing only the smallest ripple.    A challenge when our nature is to cannonball in and thrash for the joy of chaos.

What if it is the jazz of writing, looking for the words that aren't written? Hearing the cries left unsaid. Perhaps it is as subtle as being devoured by a bear.

Trying my hand at something new

It had to be perfect. Lycus knew this, at a level that penetrated beyond perfunctory knowledge. It was something that resonated within the core of his being, a need for perfection so deeply ingrained that every movement and thought was without error or hesitation. He became a focal point through which perfection could shine out into the material universe. The wards had been placed around the chamber, mathematically aligned and every edge, line and colour drawn with great care. He had specifically chosen this place, out of all the others on the ship. Closest to the engine core of the ship, bathed in the radiant heat and psychic machinations required to punch holes in reality itself, suffused by the ethereal glow of a power source strong enough to allow the ship to slip between dimensions and sail the endless sea of the warp. The chamber was lit entirely by the reddish glow of past and present energy. This was the perfect place for a summoning. It had taken him a day to journey through the cramped tunnels, even without the added bulk of his battle plate it had been difficult to move his genetically altered physique through service tunnels designed for much smaller beings. Fortunately, the chamber was tall enough for him to stand to his full height, but he did not relish the thought of the return journey, even if he did not return empty-handed. He sighed and brushed perspiration off his temples, then briefly glanced at his wards before bending over to pick up the adamantine and wraithbone chain he had brought with him. It was time.

Lycus concentrated on the spell as the chain clinked in his palms. “Vaarnu ora slaa'neth uster,” he pursed his lips as an impossible wind began to whip through his robe. Lycus took a vial of iridescent purple liquid and poured it into his outstretched palm. He pictured his target, imagining every curve of the body, the lethal spikes, the knowing sneer, even the thoughts that may be running through her mind. The liquid burst into flame and he hurled it into the centre of the summoning circle as he spat the final words into the railing wind. “Na calth ora Syphion lartrea!” The flames climbed to the ceiling and the wisps of ash burst out as a figure stepped onto the warded floor. Smooth skin, beautifully supple yet muscular, the form of an amazoness, tipped with spikes and horns. The daemonette's features barely had time to register her astonishment before Lycus' fist landed directly in her midsection. The blow appeared to smoke as the remaining fluid sublimed off his hand in an instant. Even with complete surprise, the daemonette recovered quickly. A razor sharp talon, the size and shape of a scythe, flew towards Lycus' throat, only for the daemonette to find the killing edge caught in a loop of chain. Mocking laughter quietly escaped Lycus' lips, the difficult work was now complete and he could fully enjoy what came next without care. It was only a moment before both of her arms were completely entangled. Hissing daemonic curses became wails of dismay as Lycus carefully disarmed her, pulling the razor sharp talons free from each arm, the sockets oozing ichor as he revealed the clawed hands underneath. Disarmed but still dangerous, she lashed out with a kick that would have hamstrung him, but he swiftly changed his stance at the last moment and pinned her leg to the floor with his foot. One of the spines on her armour pierced his bare heel and he grunted in pain as they fell together. Lycus' breath hissed through gritted teeth as they landed heavily, noses touching, fangs and teeth practically entwined, he looked into her eyes: “You are mine.” They rose together some time later, Lycus' cuts and scratches mostly healed, the daemonette seemingly no worse for wear and no less defiant. Her weapons and armour lay in a pile some distance away. Lycus had tied the chain well, wrapping her from head to claw, restrained but still permitting limited movement and, most importantly, the ability to stand and walk. The chain looped around her limbs and torso, then continued along her back to tie off her hands, then climbed to her neck and shoulders where it looped to form a collar, terminating in the lead that Lycus was now holding. He piled the weapons and armour in a cloth sack, and hoisted it over his shoulder. The weapons master would be pleased to have such fine specimens for study. With a snap of the chain, Lycus beckoned towards the passage from which he had came, permitting himself a small smile as the daemonette led the way.

They had only been travelling for an hour or so when Lycus noticed the subtle pressure change in the corridor. The daemonette's sudden snarl and darting eyes confirming what he had already suspected. His psychic senses dulled as the creature neared, and he closed his eyes. Stopping short, the daemonette whined as he closed his eyes in concentration. Counting out the moments, feeling the air on his skin, the increasing ache behind his eyes, and listening ever so carefully to the suddenly obvious ticking sound. Then it was time. The daemonette shrieked as Lycus yanked her towards him, and a barely visible chitinous claw blurred the air where she had been standing. Lycus squatted down then sprang directly at the seemingly empty corridor, the remaining length of chain outstretched between his hands. The mewling daemonette was dragged forward as he leapt over her to confront the new foe. The chain found purchase on thin air, and a a dismayed hissing erupted. Lycus spat directly into the noise, and was rewarded with a change in pitch as the acid of his spit etched the chitinous faceplate of the lictor. The cramped hallway was not large enough for the lictor to effectively use its killing spikes, but it still managed to open up a gash in his thigh with a clawed hand. Retreating, Lycus used his good leg to power backwards, while throwing the daemonette directly into the lictor's embrace. A psychic touch down the length of the chain released the daemonette's hands just as she landed. A cacaphony of shrieks complemented each new puncture wound on the combatants while Lycus reached into the bag of weapons. Grabbing one of the daemonette's talons, he raised it over the daemonette's head and plunged it directly into the lictor's seething face. It collapsed in a heap, releasing the daemonette as ichor suddenly poured freely and the limbs curled in on itself. The daemonette merely sat while Lycus tended her wounds, each passing minute cementing her further in this reality weakened her warp powers, chief among them that of regeneration. Her fate was now sealed until her mortal form was destroyed or Lycus released her. “You will pay for this, Astartes.” Her first words whispered through dry lips and throat, unused to speaking instead of shrieking or cackling. Lycus merely passed her a bottle of water and she drank it greedily, fangs glistening as moisture returned. “Perhaps,” he replied, “but not now.” He glanced at the lictor as he retied her bonds, the telltale radio collar and antenna coming from a poorly patched portion of the skull letting him know exactly who was behind this attempted sabotage. The capture of a daemonette was a valuable addition to his collection, and would increase his stature among his battle brothers. Some among them were less than enthusiastic about his rise, notably Krogar, whose unhealthy fascination with all things Tyranid made him the most likely candidate for sending a slave Lictor to undo Lycus' hard work and perhaps undo Lycus himself.

Lycus was furious. He had only won through luck. An unaltered lictor would have killed them both, even altered, it would have killed them both if it had caught them in the chamber where it could have used its full strength. He had not planned for this, and such carelessness had almost been the end of him and his endeavour. As it was, both he and the daemonette were injured and in bad need of rest, something which would have to wait until they arrived safely to his sanctum. Krogar's attempts may not have succeeded in their aims, but they were enough to affect Lycus, and this was only the first attempt, there likely would be many more. It had not gone perfectly after all. Lycus grimaced in disgust. He helped the daemonette to her feet as they resumed their journey towards the rest of the ship and his quarters. There was still much to do.

To-Do

Things that need doing.

A website of HOPE.  How to really live in this world, a list of solutions without cost. Health (the real diets that work, the exercises that work, listed and for free), Objectivity (looking at you fallacious arguments), People?, Economics (how to spend your time and money in a bigger, better way.  Put the fakes and charlatans out of business.

A website of transparency, show the money, all of it.  Government, from your school board to the treasury.  Show every dollar and show where it goes.  Expose corruption and every process to sunlight. Give names, ranks, affiliations, make the mob boss org chart of government and corruption, companies and scandal, public and easily accessible.  Share/scare the shit out of those in power.

The many other projects...

Chat Log Part 3: Why I Can See

This was sitting in drafts. Now it's not.  I haven't read what follows.


As far as issues regarding some kind of ephemeral argument of "equality" among races, there will always be old blackey and old whitey not getting along as long as people like you continue to argue the same tired rhetoric.

People of different social classes and different ethnic backgrounds will always look down upon eachother, regardless of skin colour.

If you knew the slightest bit of history, the sordid treatment of the Irish by the English is only one example, something which at its very base was the suppression of the lower class. If you want to argue about how it's just white people fighting amongst themselves, then you need look no further than the middle east, or parts of africa.

Iraq, Sudan, Congo, Somalia.

Call it race, call it religion, call it politics, but whatever you fucking want to name it doesn't change the reality that these issues are all based in class. Trying to suggest otherwise is disingenuous.

I'm a realist.

Without a living wage you will see excessive drug use, crime, deteriorating families and various other social ills which have a far larger monetary cost than simply paying people decently in the first place.

Humans need a goal to strive for, so a competitive or semi-competitive economy is necessary in order to stave off complacency, but without a minimum living wage, health care, and quality education, then it all deteriorates to the same level of a shitty society.

It's not a separate issue at all. Having differences in race, ethnicity or culture is an easy way for a group of people to "other" another group of people, which is the root issue of racism. however, the real issue at stake isn't the fact that they're black or white or hispanic or martian. The real issue with any racism is "DEY TOOK ER JERBS!"

Look at the founding of the KKK, neo nazism, any hatred based crimes, and you will see an economic undercurrent, usually the result of ethnic groups clashing over dwindling economic resources.

If you want a close to home example, in Boston and New York there were the traditional ethnic clashes between the Irish and the Italians. Both were considered ethnically inferior to the initial British colonists (because they were new immigrants and not landowners) and were relegated to lower wage, lower class jobs. However, during tense economic times, those ethnic groups would have violent confrontations as they both attempted to scrounge the crumbs at the bottom.

All of these things happened to white people, by white people. Racial prejudice is only an excuse for economic prejudice, which is a class issue. If you truly think that racism has any real basis then you need to seriously get out of the trailer park and educate yourself on the foundations of any real bigotry.

Duality

Nothing.


disturbing distasteful
disgusting disgraceful
everything about you
makes me sick

you're an ill bitch
you make me sick
into your slit
you make me trip
stay there till my mind rots
throw down roots while my body rocks


Something.

May the dance floor rise to meet you:
May the bass be always at your back,
The strobes shine warm upon your face,
The mists fall soft upon your fields,
And until we meet again
May the Rave hold you in the hollow of its hand.