Author Topic: Fractal Cult  (Read 781 times)

Cramulus

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Fractal Cult
« on: May 09, 2013, 01:57:29 PM »
I've wanted to do a Fractal Cult Intermittens issue, but since this ball is already rolling, what I think I'll do is put together a Fractal Cult SECTION. I may have close to a magazine worth of material at this point.

For those of you that aren't familiar, Fractal Cult is my current internet cabal. I have a blog where my cabalmates post creative Discordian stuff they do. Everything submitted to Fractal Cult is creative commons, specifically so it can get picked up by projects like this with as little hassle as possible.

"fractal cult is the only group that joins you. and every member that joins is you already."


Cramulus

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Re: Fractal Cult
« Reply #1 on: May 09, 2013, 02:04:13 PM »
Quote from: enki





Quote from: oakcloud


life sure is simple - just don't mix that up with easy

-your friendly neighborhood freak

Cramulus

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Re: Fractal Cult
« Reply #2 on: May 09, 2013, 02:08:20 PM »
Quote from: Cramulus




Make your own fractals using a photocopier!

I started with a page that had a black square in the top left. I turned it 45 degrees and photocopied it at 70% size. Then, I took the new page and repeated the process

Cramulus

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Re: Fractal Cult
« Reply #3 on: May 09, 2013, 02:15:23 PM »
"If you jerk off the Buddha on the road, FINISH HIM"



Bwansen's Troll Box prank: http://fractalcult.tumblr.com/post/46341668566/bwansen-troll-box-i-this-is-an-aktion-23



Quote from: oakcloud

taken in my hometown
as it turns out, just to the right is a big opening so one can go sit underneath that magnificent chestnut tree and watch the sun set across the harbour.
or one simply adjusts the filters and stops focusing on the fence.
whatever.



Quote from: cramulus
Derive

I want to slap you, love you, electrify you and also be electrified. But the best I can give you is something you will appreciate for a few seconds, akin to a float in a very long parade, or a dish you will consume in an endless buffet of win and fail.

There are a million posts per day that could make you sit up, laugh, scream, cry, or burst into flame. That's what we are all here to find, I guess. But finding it will never be enough. We will consume images and ideas until our bellies are distended and then we will be even hungrier.

So here we are again, at the dashboard, searching, one finger on the mouse wheel, trembling.
« Last Edit: May 09, 2013, 03:57:32 PM by Cramulus »

Cramulus

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Re: Fractal Cult
« Reply #4 on: May 09, 2013, 02:16:33 PM »
"If you jerk off the Buddha on the road, FINISH HIM"



Bwansen's Troll Box prank: http://fractalcult.tumblr.com/post/46341668566/bwansen-troll-box-i-this-is-an-aktion-23





« Last Edit: May 09, 2013, 03:58:04 PM by Cramulus »

Cramulus

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Re: Fractal Cult
« Reply #5 on: May 09, 2013, 02:24:20 PM »
Quote
The Society of the Spectacle has its demands too
by Cramulus
It demands your attention.

It demands that you state your position in the form of a sound-byte which can be re-contextualized by another sound-byte.

It demands a remake of yesteryear's summer blockbuster, the one with the hairy hippies on drums and mud, but with this years celebrities.

It wants to roll up your energy and sell it to kids on the street corner in a dime bag they have to hide from their parents.

It demands that you smoke that energy in secret and get all excited, fuzzy headed, forgetful, then you want more, and it's got some, but the next hit's gonna cost you.

It demands a glass jar full of passion, on display, so we can see the passion through the glass without getting any on our hands.

It demands that by end of the episode, we return to the nuclear sitcom family you saw in the opening credits.

It demands that you stop bringing up its disease, because that is embarrassing to both parties.

It demands your attention to these issues right now, before it listens to you.

It demands that you stop talking over it.






--------------------------as a little bit of context, this piece was written during the phase of Occupy Wallstreet when everybody was asking "Please enumerate your demands" and Occupy's reply was a raised fist.
« Last Edit: May 09, 2013, 04:03:57 PM by Cramulus »

Cramulus

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Re: Fractal Cult
« Reply #6 on: May 09, 2013, 02:26:15 PM »
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The Age of Cancer - The Far Shore of Madness - by smalltowngeek

A missive from Saint Amir Zetathustra, Heretic

Amir strode through the Theater in his holy garb (which he could no longer put through a washing machine after finally attaching the studs like he

ekskÿ

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Re: Fractal Cult
« Reply #7 on: May 10, 2013, 03:16:54 PM »
Quote from: oakcloud


life sure is simple - just don't mix that up with easy

-your friendly neighborhood freak
[/quote]

i found that picture sometime during winter; did some digging just now - it's by Henck van Bilsen and from a book called Sock of Doom. thought that info might be useful.


happy to see a new intermittens in the making. i'll post some of my stuff in the next days.


Cramulus

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Re: Fractal Cult
« Reply #8 on: May 16, 2013, 03:18:36 PM »
ack! Fractal Cult blog is supposed to be for original content, it kills me when people re-post stuff to there and don't source it.

Cramulus

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Fractal Cult Written Submissions
« Reply #9 on: May 16, 2013, 03:29:57 PM »
Quote
An infinite number of fractal cultists walk into a bar. The first says “I’ll have a beer.” The second says, “I’ll have half a beer.” The third says, “I’ll have a quarter of a beer.” The fourth says “I’ll have an eighth of a beer.” The bartender says “sTOP”, pours two beers, drinks them both, and takes a screenshot.

Quote
Reality   
by Bwansen

    We humans always had to live with the fact that reality reaches beyond what our senses are able to percieve directly, that there are things determining our lives, even though we can not see, hear or feel them. Previously these things were angels, spirits and divine powers, magic spells, goblins, aether and hell. Today, we have X-rays and bacteria, we have magnetic fields, dioxin and quarks, files, the 4th Dimension, book money and brain waves.



    Thoth, the Egyptian god of writing and knowledge, records the blueprint of future humanity.
    All these things we can not perceive directly, and yet we believe they exist and are even dependent on them.

    In the past, alchemists searched for a way to turn base metal into gold. Today, we could do it, but we know that it is not worth it and already have found other ways to refine things.

    Today we know that every part of the universe may contain information about every other part, the part affecting the whole and vice versa. So why shouldn’t magic work then?

    We have rediscovered ancient, alchemical principles in a new form; for example the the old magical principle “As above, so below” still lives on today in the principle of fractal self-similarity.

    The transitions between past and present, between magic and science, between faith and knowledge are fluid. The scanning electron microscope revealed to me the landscapes of Paradise, and if I put my bank card in the machine, the number of archangels currently looking down on me is revealed.

    My microwave is a holy, even magical cult object.



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Apples
by SmallTownGeek

If you know your bible stories - and who doesn’t know this one - you know that in the garden of Eden, a serpent coaxed Eve and Adam into taking a bite from an apple from the tree of knowledge, for which they were banished from the garden and thus society happened.

I discovered a cute coincidence with the Latin language today. The word for apple is malum. From this we get malic acid, which flavors green apples and white wines, and malus, the apple tree.

Malum and malus are also words for evil, misfortune, and bad things of all sorts. Talk all you want about anti-intellectualism in the Abrahamic faiths, that’s old hat.

Malus is also a root for the name Malaclypse.

Malaclypse the Younger wrote a little tome of faith and philosophy (of dubious quality and appeal) called the Principia Discordia which I’m sure we’re all familiar with. He reminded us of Eris and chaos and discord - all of that fun stuff. He gave many great knowledge (and many more very suspect knowledge, but let’s not hold that against him). Whether we like it or not, he established the language of Discordianism - eristic, aneristic, hodge/podge, and the symbolism of the golden apple.

Again, we see the apple as a thing of knowledge. In the Greek and Discordian myth, Eris’s golden apple brought knowledge of chaos and what happens when you ignore it.

The truth is thus laid clear before us.

Malaclypse the Younger was not a man. Malaclypse the Younger was an apple tree.

I hope he dropped some tasty apples.


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One of the things I love best about Discordja, is that it’s like a mirror you can hold up to reflect how stupid things are.

When somebody says “We tolerate all religions”, it makes me wonder if they have an immune system to protect against cults, hate groups, and people that are straight up WRONG. Do you tolerate evil ideas too? If so, your tolerance might be kind of shitty.

Lord Omar used to hang out at spiritual gatherings in the 60s and try to out-do the level of crazy he was seeing. People were claiming they were the reincarnation of Cleopatra, claiming they were channeling Isis (and in turn demanding to be treated like Isis), and the community didn’t have any immune system to filter out those egomaniacs and nutjobs. Discordia was a mirror he held up: “Don’t you think some of this shit might be … you know, bullshit?”

Like, if you can explain to me why the Turkey Curse isn’t real magic, I can probably apply that explanation to most of what you call magic.

All those people with robes and candles and athames that think they’re accomplishing something by speaking in rhyme to their imaginary friends are on EXACTLY the same footing as some spag going “GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE” while pretending to feel up an imaginary woman.

Aleister Crowley once said that the point of his whole life was to spit in the grimy face of society in hopes that it would have to wash all the filth off.

Quote
Here’s the second part of the Law of 5s: {spoiler alert}

If you look for 5s, you find 5s. But let’s be clear, there is *nothing* mystical about the numbers 5 or 23. If we had six fingers, it would be called the law of sixes. Those numbers are just a way of teaching you about “confirmation bias”. When you go hunting through the Chaos for a signal, you will find that signal.

If you look for evidence that people are shitheads, you will find it. If you look for evidence that people are awesome, you will find it.

A lot of people are miserable because they hunt for reasons to be miserable. They keep finding confirmation for their belief that people are worthless and the world sucks. But a lot of people are having great adventures every day because they have learned to see them everywhere.

A friend of mine saw a pack of pingpong balls and a sharpie and he saw something we didn’t. He sliced the pingpong balls in half and drew eyes on them, poked out a hole in the pupil to see through, then jammed them onto his face. Fucking hysterical, we were giggling for hours drawing different eyes and making faces at each other. We could take a lesson from him, that’s some high level monk shit.

two very useful links on this topic:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Confirmation_bias

Quote
The Age of Cancer - The Far Shore of Madness

A missive from Saint Amir Zetathustra, Heretic

Amir strode through the Theater in his holy garb (which he could no longer put through a washing machine after finally attaching the studs like he’d meant to, though there was still an ugly blood stain on the sleeve from where he’d wiped a nosebleed last June). He saw the Mosh, and saw that it was Pretty Crappy, As Usual, so he abstained and went to the bar for overpriced bourbon shots and the wisdom of wine. There, he met a sage who could not stay on his stool, instead preferring to clutch tightly to the bar. Amir listened while the sage spoke to a few wary followers.

“The age of Aquarius is not coming; we’re coming up on the age of Cancer.

I mean, look at it - cancer everywhere! Your bed might give you cancer. The things used to make your phone will give you cancer. City’s tearing down an old building near your house? Good luck not getting cancer!

There’s cancer in your food, cancer in your genes, cancer in everything, everywhere.

Big Money is, as we all know, tied to the Illuminati, or if I am to reveal their True Name, the OBSCURA!!!, the Slavers and Obscurers of Old Atlantis. They’ve been running guns to keep our claws sharp, keep us hiding in our armored shells instead of coming out and connecting and loving and feeling the Sun - the truth and the light and the bringer of life itself - on our skin. Now they seek to wither us in our shells with their cancers, boil us up, and eat us for dinner! And without even the courtesy of garlic butter and white wine!

A few Bringers of Light and Truth in Europe figured out what was going on, and they’re banning the Industrial Cancers, but at a cost. Their fears and efforts drive them further into their shells - a long life, never seeing the sun.

In America, the state of California is doing its part to warn us all. “THIS PRODUCT IS KNOWN BY THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA TO CAUSE CANCER.” We owe them our lives - we’d all be Sickly Slaves to the Obscura Illuminati by now.

But still, cancer is spreading, and Cancer is coming. The Great Crab grows power as Its followers worship. We can only delay, as things are, not change our fate or prevent the Crab’s Reckoning.

The solution?

Get paranoid.

Get really paranoid.

Grow and foster and feed your paranoia and fear and let it blossom into madness. Cross the line into madness, and forge on.

When you come to the Far Shore of Madness, you will see the Great Crab, and you will know what you must do.

What must you do? Fucked if I know, man, I’m just the janitor.”

The sage’s companions left for the Mosh, scoffing at their friend’s words.  But Amir saw the strange wisdom in what had been slurred, so he bought the sage another beer.

The sage threw up on Amir’s shoes and was promptly removed from the building.

Amir felt enlightened.

PER METUM AD INSANIA. PER INSANIA AD VERITAS.

Through Fear into Madness. Through Madness into Truth.

Note: The sage’s missive was approximately reconstructed from notes taken by Amir on the back of a receipt using a pen he nicked from the bartender. The receipt was later used to start a bonfire. The fate of the pen is unknown.


Quote
The Parable of the Quiet Sunday
by Cramulus


It was a quiet Sunday morning. Peaceful, even. The monk Nopants sat down in front of a perfectly golden brown waffle, fork and knife in hand, a serene smile on his face.

 

Suddenly, there was a loud obnoxious yodeling noise from the other room. Nopants gritted his teeth. The yodeling got louder. Nopants tried to ignore it as his grip tightened on his fork and knife. Apparently Golden Rod was walking around the monastery, practicing his thunder-yodels.

 

Bung Fu The Fool sensed that Nopants was about to flip his shit and said, “Let me handle this.”

 

Bung Fu jumped out from behind a bush and surprised Golden Rod. “Hey you fuckstick! Master Nopants is trying to eat his fucking waffle in peace and you keep bunging it up with your asshole yodeling.”

 

Golden Rod was full of it this morning. He hissed back: “Listen you sycophantic douche canoe, I am an enlightened master so I can do whatever I fucking want. I’m sick of your fascist tyrant authoritarian facist whining like ehh ehh none of us would know what to do if you didn’t crack the ass whip up all of our asses all the time, so listen up: If I want to yodel, I can do it. If I want to keep my fucking PISS IN A JAR, I can do that too. And if I want to bust my throat by yodeling so hard MY EYEBALLS BULGE OUT MY SKULL, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY BECAUSE THESE EYES ARE MADE FOR BULGING AND THAT’S JUST WHAT THEY’LL DO—-“

 

Bung Fu said, “I’m just saying—”, but Golden Rod cut him off “—AND ONE OF THESE DAYS I’M GONNA BULGE ALL OVER YOU.”

 

That was it for Bung Fu, he hated being yelled at and even more, he hated Nancy Sinatra. He sneered and made a stupid face and shouted back in a sarcastic tone, “OHH I DIDN’T REALIZE THAT BEING AN ENLIGHTENED MASTER MEANS HAVING NO FUCKING REGARD FOR ANYBODY ELSE AND SPAGGING AROUND THE MONASTERY GOING EHH EHH LOOK AT HOW GREAT MY YODELING IS, GIVE ME A YODELING AWARD MADE OF PISS SO I CAN KEEP IT IN A JAR AND WALK AROUND LIKE I’M BETTER THAN EVERYBODY EXCEPT I ACTUALLY HAVE A PISS JAR ON MY PERSON AND I WANT TO SHOW IT TO EVERYBODY LIKE THEY’RE PICTURES OF MY UGLY BABY AND NOBODY GIVES A FUCK BUT I KEEP SHOWING THEM OFF GOING OOOH LOOK AT HOW CUTE MY BABY IS ISN’T HE PRECIOUS HE’S THE CUTEST BABY IN THE WORLD — EXCEPT PEOPLE REALLY THINK YOUR GODDAMN BABY LOOKS LIKE AN OLD MONSTER TRUCK TIRE THAT JUST ROLLED THROUGH A SHITSTACK OF ROADKILL WITH SHIT COMING OUT OF IT AND THEN STOPPED IN A PUDDLE OF COLD DOG JIZZ. WHEN PEOPLE SAY THAT AWFUL BABY HAS HIS FATHER’S EYES, THEY’RE REALLY SAYING HE LOOKS LIKE A SMEGGY PSYCHOPATH WITH BUTTHOLES WHERE HIS EYES SHOULD BE AND THEY’RE SHITTING, CONSTANTLY SHITTING.”

 

“I don’t understand,” said Golden Rod.

 

“I’M SAYING PUT A DIAPER ON THAT BABY’S FACE, ASS TURBAN.”

 

Golden Rod punched out a lamp and shouted, “YOUR PATHETIC ATTEMPTS TO OFFEND ME HAVE BACKFIRED AND NOW I’M HORNY AS FUCK SO I’M GOING TO CALL UP YOUR MOTHER, WHOM I HAVE ON SPEED DIAL, AND TELL HER TO ORDER A PIZZA PIE BECAUSE I’M COMING OVER AND I’M GONNA FUCK HER IN THE FAT ASS, THEN EAT THE WHOLE PIZZA IN FRONT OF HER WHILE SHE CRIES AND IF SHE ASKS FOR PIZZA I’M GONNA SAY NO BITCH, YOU’VE HAD MORE THAN ENOUGH GODDAMN PIZZA ALREADY.”

 

Bung Fu tore off his shirt and shouted “ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS A SPAG NAMED GOLDEN ROD WHO WAS ON HIS WAY TO THE BIG CITY TO MAKE HIS FORTUNE, BUT SUDDENLY HE GOT ELBOW DROPPED,” and with that, Bung Fu leapt onto Golden Rod, elbows first. They began to fight and roll around and scream crap at each other.

 

 

                   Nopants sighed.



Quote
DIALECTIC

by Sondra London


    I hate you
    You hate me
    We can’t talk
    We don’t agree

    .


    So here they come
    To rob us blind
    We don’t notice
    We don’t mind

    .


    Each one turnt
    Against the other
    No more sister
    No more brother

    .


    We’re all alike
    Lambs to slaughter
    No more son
    No more daughter

    .


    Suspected treason
    The new fashion
    No more reason
    No more passion

    .


    Here they come
    To take us over
    We just submit
    We don’t recover

    .


    Now I am you
    And you are me
    We never talk
    We just agree

    .


    Q.E.D.






Cramulus

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Re: Fractal Cult written subs
« Reply #10 on: May 16, 2013, 03:40:14 PM »
Quote
Memetics is extremely powerful

Q:    Where do you think Jesus came from?

Memetics 101 : How an idea like Jesus lives for over 2000 years

As an experiment, let me walk you through my take on Jesus from a memetic POV

So first things first: think about an idea like it’s an organism. Like a parasite. (Except parasites have a negative connotation… that’s not where I’m going) An idea lives inside somebody, its life-cycle involves copying itself to others.

An idea wants to reproduce. Sex, for ideas, means getting into somebody’s head and being retransmitted. Jesus is an idea that’s been passed from head to head for 2000 years, so it’s a very powerful idea — otherwise it wouldn’t have been retransmitted to begin with.

One of the major factors which makes an idea “viral” is that transmission gives a benefit to the person who internalizes it, and a benefit for transmitting it. Like when you hear a good joke - if it makes you laugh, you may pass it on, albeit in a slightly different form. When somebody laughs at it, you feel good and will be more likely to tell it again.

Let’s take the meme “Jesus saves” — if you believe it, it helps you better cope with certain situations. When you’re in a dark place, you can think about how Jesus will save you. And transmitting it grants a benefit too: if you tell somebody about Jesus, you feel good that you’re “saving” them, and you also gain credit in the eyes of the church. This is how people have a symbiotic relationship with ideas. Successful ideas are ones that have adapted, over time, to be as contagious and sticky as possible by providing a benefit for transmission.

Let’s take another popular meme: “Sinners go to hell.” This one works because it describes something really terrible that you don’t want to happen to you, and suggests a way out of it (namely: internalizing and re-communicating the reality of hell). Even if you don’t buy into the Hell idea, maybe you should hedge your bets and be a good Christian anyway because eternal damnation would be incomprehensibly bad. The worse hell appears, the more necessary Christianity appears. It’s in the Christian’s best interest to make Hell sound as awful as possible. (and that’s how Sheol, a “dark pit” gradually morphed into the more dramatic New Testament Hell)

Okay, let’s go way back. Some beardy sandal-wearing Jew is wandering around the desert dishing out spiritual knowledge. His followers passed his teachings on from dude to dude, and 2000 years later, we’ve still got a record of what he said.

Except this whole Jesus idea isn’t exactly original, there are lots of older ideas that have survived through Jesus. Mithras, for example, shares so many of Jesus’ qualities, you might wonder if they’re actually the same guy.

At that point in history, each region had its own religion - slightly different networks of nested ideas about survival and morality. These manifest as customs and traditions which provide benefits to those that follow them. Think about the Ten Commandments, for example, in terms of the benefits they provide: murder, adultery, and theft are things which can tear a small community apart… if we follow these rules, we live harmoniously with each other. So it’s beneficial to tell everybody to live that way.

Zoroastrianism (and later, Manicheanism) had this crazy new idea of Good versus Evil, Light versus Darkness. This made sense to people, and it helped them get along with each other. So when these Jesus stories started getting passed around, people explained what was going on in terms they already understood: light and dark. A hero who brings us the light and saves all of us. Doesn’t that sound good?

Amongst people that talk about God, etc, Mithra was already a powerful meme. People took the parts of those stories which made them contagious and re-purposed them - just like a comedian changing little things about his bit to get bigger laughs.

Teachers, gurus, & community leaders make a “living” dispensing spiritual advice, so they were going for the most powerful delivery. Stories that make their followers go, “Wow, this guy knows his shit and I should pay attention.” Whether the main character is Jesus or Mithra doesn’t matter - everybody agreed that embracing Goodness and rejecting Evil was important. The Mirtha meme infected (piggybacked) the Jesus meme.

Lots of other religious figures made it into Christianity that way. For example, the Jews had these pesky neighbors, the Philistines, which they did not get along with at all. The Bible gives you the sense that Philistines are liars and assholes, the worst dudes ever (it still has that connotation in modern language). This makes sense if you think about people from Springfield hating on people from Shelbyville. You tell stories about the Other which make you feel better about your place.

The Philistines had a god named Ba’al, a rain/fertility God who was worshiped in a bunch of Philistine cities. If you’re telling a story about Philistines to your ancient Jewish buds, you’re not dismissing Ba’al, you’re explaining who he really is. The Jews called him Beezelbub, the evil Lord of the Flies. And he’s not a real deity, he’s just another word we use for God’s nemesis. This supports the narrative of “we are the good guys, they are the bad guys,” which is contagious for a number of reasons. Primarily that it feels good to be on the “right” team.

So 2000 years later, this shaggy dog story told by some shaggy Jews is incredibly contagious. The meme has mutated into multiple strains (denominations) which are adapted, through natural selection for certain populations.

Natural Selection is the key to understanding memetics. When you choose one idea and reject others, you are involved in the process of Natural selection which is taking place over thousands of years. Just like a rabbit who runs faster than others is more likely to survive and pass on his genes, a meme that is more contagious is more likely to survive and mutate.



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Seriously, once you think about it, it’s obvious. Jellyfish aren’t real.

You’re telling me you’ve seen one? That’s what you think. Listen, anybody can find a plastic bag on the beach that can sting you. That doesn’t make it an animal.

Think about it. Invertebrate “Fish” with no central nervous system. Yeah right. You expect me to believe that the ocean is filled with plastic bags that swim around stinging things and eating dirt? Give me a break. The Easter Bunny is more plausible.

Jellyfish are a hoax. I’m not saying you’re in on it, I’m saying you’ve been duped.



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The Siamese Twins

Macro and Micro are Siamese Twins. See—


The fork in your hand feeds

the city you live in

          and

and the city inside you.

An egg breaks — whodunnit?

Zoom out: God

Zoom in: the Quantum Particle

Line up the elusive suspects. 

the witness can’t tell them apart



Quote

We’re in a double-bind. We are all complicit actors in the big nasty dystopian machine (you fuel it every time you vote or take out your wallet). But to change the micro-physics of power, we would have to toss aside democracy and install “the right kind” of benevolent dictatorship, which is also undesirable.

Smoke em if you got em.


Quote


From where I’m sitting in January 2013, I think the concept of utopia/dystopia is a form of apocalyptic thought - a catalytic fiction. I think we need a word for a world which has utopic and dystopic properties simultaneously.

Utopia and Dystopia have a sort of symbiotic relationship, no? Safety and privacy. Capitalism creates both wealth and sweatshops. The framers of the constitution had to put in safeguards to keep the newly minted American people from democratically electing King George.

I think Utopia and Dystopia are more or less the same elephant felt from different angles.



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The Monkey Experiment
by Cramulus

There’s a famous experiment where they keep a bunch of monkeys in a room for an indefinite amount of time. There’s a big white staircase leading up out of the room. Every time a monkey climbs to the top of the staircase, he gets blasted back down the stairs with a hose. When this happens, every monkey in the room also gets blasted with water. This makes them very angry.

Soon, the monkeys have figured it out: beat the shit out of any monkey that starts to climb the stairs. That’s the new rule.

At some point, they remove a monkey and send in a new one. He learns the rule quickly: don’t climb the stairs. And if we’re beating somebody up, join in. One by one, they replace each monkey with a new one who has to learn the rule.

At some point they can turn off the hose. The monkeys will reliably prevent escape. Policing the stairs has become a cultural norm. Eventually, they have this population of monkeys who are trained to beat up any monkey that tries to escape, but don’t even understand why.

The experiment is run by interns who are paid in course credit. Occasionally, an intern finishes the semester and leaves. New interns join the team and everybody explains how to feed the monkeys and how to record the data. But at this point, none of the interns are from the original group, none of them have met the scientists leading this project. Most of the interns don’t fully understand the point of the experiment.

The scientist who began the experiment left long ago. Other researchers were assigned to the project by an administrator in order to keep this valuable experiment running. None of the remaining scientists are actually authors of the paper, or even understand what it’s about. 

The administrator supervising the project isn’t terribly involved with it. He just prolongs the experiment because it’s his department’s main source of funding. But he didn’t begin this project, he just inherited it from his predecessor, who is on a leave of absence and hasn’t been seen in some time.

The company funding the experiment has a sum of money they spend annually on scientific research, mainly for tax reasons. But the person who reads and approves grants left last year. The last time anybody saw the man, he handed a huge folder to some new kid and said “make sure these stay funded.” Then he disappeared up a long staircase leading into the sky.


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In 1959 or 1960, Discordian personnel met in San Francisco to change Earth time. First words said was that only 2012 could be used on Earth to not change the 1 year Discordian calendar. So they applied the 1 year Discordian facebook group and ignored the other 4 years. The Discordian calendar was wrong then and it proved wrong today. This a major lie has so much evil feed from it’s wrong.

No man, woman, or child on Earth has no belly-button, it proves every Discordian on Earth a liar.

Even a child understands: there are FIVE SIMULTANEOUS YEARS in each 365 day rotation of the earth. 1-year thinking is evil and wrong.



Cramulus

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Re: Fractal Cult
« Reply #11 on: May 16, 2013, 03:44:24 PM »
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Advice for young artists behind the wall
by Enki

S̤̫͕̘̞͖͚̺a̦̝y̱̺͚̦̠ͅi͈͈̪ͅn̘͕̫̘̟gͅ ̪͙̖̪̖̘ṱ̟̲h̯͚͇͎̬̬̗̻͕ḁ͇͈͇̝̥̠͇t͙ ̞̠w̮̻͔e͇̯̝̼̬̥̠̟ ͈̬̦̗̯ͅh̥͖͇̘̪̖̝͕a̩͇͙͍̜v̻̥̲̥e̝͕̹̥ ̬̙̳̼ͅe͇n̬̝̟͍̯o̪͕̹̮̥̼̲̻̘u̥g͉̣h̬̹ ̱͎͔̜a͔̹̤̫̳̦͉r̜̞͚͕̣͕t̗͍̮̗̱i͉̬̰̭͖͓͚s̖͉̞̫̦t̤̯̹̪̳s̩̱̹̪̹ ͇̙̮̲̳̣̪i̪̫̩s̠̙̝̥͖ ͍̮̭͎l̘̝̩͓̦̖ḭk̝͓̣͍̯̗̱͉e̩͍̲̩̥ ͕͔s̭̭̳̣̙̩ạ̪ͅy͙̜i̗͎͙̻̟̣͙n̙̟̫̬̤̟̺͎̻g̗ͅ ͖̳̲̠̲̬̖̟w̺̬̯̠̞͕ͅe͎̖̮̝̗ ̖̜̬̙̦h̲̻̝̯̱̘̗̤ͅa͎͖͚͍v̟͇̬e̩̙̬̹͓̞̭ ̩̜̖̫̗̟̘e̼͈̗͕̙͖̣͚n̫o̰̻̠̼͈͉͕u̠̖̻̙͓ͅg͕͇̖͕͚̮h̝̭̭͙ ͔̞͍̦̬͖ͅ
͔̠̯̗̼̙Y̮͎o̙u͉n͇̦̫g̖͔͎̺͕̰̱̼ ͓͎̜͇P̺͔͖̺̫̬̪̩̫i͕o̱͙̳̲̥̤n͕̟̯̱̦̫͈̭̲e̝̺̳̦̘̝̠e̘͖̥̙̝̥r͎̖ ͎̣̣͎̙̖̩̻̯g̘͉u̬̭a̗̙̥̯̜r͈̣͉̖̣̹̤ͅd͈s͖̯̪̘͚̬͕̠ ̱͔̬̯͉o̜̗͈̫̼̣̦f̣̫͖̖ ̩͈̖͈͕h̗̪̯͕̳̥o͎̫͇͓̭͍̖n̬͈̳o͖̰͚r̝̫͎͕̩ ̤͎͎̘͉̖̮a̬̥͍t̟̻̫̬ ͓̩̳̼̻ͅa̩ ̼̟͔͕͉̣͚ͅm̱̹̤͍̞͉̭u̼s̰̝̜͓͉e̻̭̖͈͉̮u̯͎̟̬m̲̲ ̝̦̗̳̦̪p͍͈a̬̱̟͇v̟̩̺̩̯͔̱͈i̫̼̰̤l̳̥͕̜̦̝i̠̫o͙͉̩̹̠̹n̦͈̤̣̤̦̻͙ ̱̙̞͙͉o͚̦̠͖̩̙͔̩f̞̙̬ ͍͎̤t̰̱̹h̺̟͎͍̗͎e̝̳͕͎̜̥ ̼ͅt͕̥r̠̠̠͎͈a̠̙̝̯͇i̺̦̻̫̻͇ͅn̲͓̤̱̳̮̗ ̦͓̭͚͇͔̳t̞̦̫͈̝͚h͉̠̲̖̠̺a̩̩̦͉t̻̮ ͙̹͖̪͇̬̼̥b̤̹͖̭̲̮̞͎ͅr̝͇o̭̱̗̹̹̫̝̼u̩͎̹͈͖͉g̻̥͕̗̞̣̹̦ͅh̙͔̮͉̞̳̦̗̬t̙̣̙͙͍͓̦ͅ ̘L̪̗̥͓̰̫̦̦e̼̱̰ͅn̗͎̻̫͖̺͍i͉͕̟̹̱̗̲̻͙n̤͙͈̳̜̥̫̲’͔̝̻̼ͅs͓̥̭͚̬̰ͅ ̟̩͕̣͕r̖̙e̪͔̥m͎̙ạ̩̞͇̥̲̝i̖͎n̲̻̻̻̗̞̝̮͍s̯̼͍̹ ͇̺͓͍͔̯t̲͕̯̠̰̳̪̜o͓̻͚͚̺͕ ͓̲M̼͙̥̣o̲̱̪͕̝̳̲s̝̪͚̲̤c͉̘̘̣͓o͎̜͙͍̳̮w̰̻̘̺͔̩ ͎̺̟̖̩̦̬i̥̩n̙̪̗̦̣ ͇̯̰̻͔̳̗͉͍1̤̰̜̜̲̖9̠2̱̱ͅ4͈.̠̱̠͈̗̜ ̦̩͇̰͇H͎̝̦̲e͎̹̠̘͓̠̦͉͖ ̼͕̙̬̞̟̞ͅw͔̱̰͉̯e̠̬n̩̲̙͇̜ṱ͇̙͎̙ͅ ̣̲͔̼̫̩u̳̮̮͚̬͍̝̗p̣̬͕͇̞̟ ͖f̳͔͖͚̠̫̜r͚͈̘͖͖̼o̳̠̤͇͙̺̝m͇̙̟̳̝̜̟ ̬̣̘̱̤t̩̫h̹̞̝̥e̠r̯̥̺̜͓̰ͅe͚̭͓͍͚ ̗͓͉̜̞̙t̤͇̻̤ͅo̞ ̥͚̩̰͖̝̟Ḇ͇̭͎̙͓e̙̭̳̬̰̠t͕̻h̩͙͖͕̣̞̮e̪l̳̞,̲̬̗ ̪a̹̦n̥͉̭̳̯͕̻͖d͎͖̼ ̹̟̤̳̦̤w̳̗̲̲͚h̥͖̤̱̻i̩͓̪̭̮͕l͚͕͔e̠̪͚̲ ͍̻̗ḫ̳̠͍̹̭̜e̙̰̗̹̖ ̭̞͇̠̥͕̮w̦̭̗̭̣͖a̜͚̮͇̲̙s̳͓̬̖ ͉͖̤̱̰g͕̠o̫i͕̗͓͇̖n̻g̣̞͎̺̞̪ ̰̟̫̳̩͓̦̩͚u̮̯̤̠̮͉̭͔p͎͈̣̰̺ ̘̫ọ̦̦͖̪͎̘̟n̥̗̲̼̱ ̜̰̹t͈̹ͅh̠͉̥̱̦̘̘ͅe̩̞ ̱̰w̳̖̜͔a̩̬̗y̘͖̖̤̠̭,̲̺̯͔̳ ̩͉̹̝͎͚̝s̫̳͙̥̤͖̲o̝̖̤͈m̲̩̥̬e͙̖ ̫̟̞͚̠̪͎s̗͕͇̗̰m̠a̻͔l̥͖͎̱̞l̩ ̭͔̤b̟̱o̺̻̭̭͚̫̪y̼̝̩͔̭̣̞̞s̭̟̯ ͖͇͖͍͎̯c̪̘̞͚̠͇͍͕a̙̱͓̙̲̟̤m̝͕̥e͚ ̰̖o̹u̗̟̫͍̮̳t̩̣̹̼ ̰̥̗̘̜o̠̲͍̺̰̞̮f̲͎̤̣͚̩̞̥ ̳̟̪̫̳͖t̖̠̩ͅh̜̬ẹ̯̯̬̰̗̥̘͉ ̹̦c͎͉̞i͇̝̼̩t̙͙̳̙̯̰̖y̥̗̞̖͔̻̻̭ ̗̼a͙̘̪͎͇͚̗̜n̰͎͚͚̜̻ͅd͔̤͕̭͚̪͔̩ ̞͔j̗͉̤͓͇̻̰̲͇e̤͉͇̬e̟̼͓r̠̝͉̫̺e͓̞̭̭̞̺d͙̙̤̣̺̤͎ͅ ̠̤͍̹̤̳̱͕̱ạ̭͈̻̲̻̬ṭ͍͕̯ ͇̺̖͔̲͓̺h̫̙͕̮͔i̩ͅm͇͎͔͇̰͙̙̭̟,̜̤ ̦̳̘̟͇̜s͎̟̥̯͓̹a̗̼̪̜̯̪̭͚y̭͚i̼͈̯͓̺͇̣̻ͅn̹ͅg͔͕͖̥,̼̲̬̩ ̼̰̻̻̥“̲̰͖̤̳̮̺G̙̣͓̪̼̻ͅo͔̦̝ ̘̜͙u̘̙̺̰̳p̭,̹̠ ̩͓̺y͉̻͙̱o͕͖̥̞̥̻̩͖u̥̦ ͍͎̼͍̭͔b͔̖̗̣͙͎̭̠͚a̖̣̭̩̥͍l̪̣͖̗d͙̩͕̳h̩͔̥̦̟̙e̗͖͚̺̗a̖̤̙̰d͖̙͖̞͈̥̩̪!̙̲͓͇̰̹͕̲ͅ ̜͖̳G̩̗̙̯̘̠o̟̙̗͙̦ ̥̭̯͙͈̙̝ͅu͕̟̗̱̱̟̭͔p͉̱,̥͕̯̟̯ ̱͚̺̳̠͍y͔͙̺̮̤o̜̩u̘̘͚̠ ̙̠̲b͓͉̞a̠̺̠͚̹͉l̝̥̺̟̦̠͔d̞̝̠͕̦h͓̝̞̤͉͓̦ḙ̻a̺̯̩d̯͔͕̮̳̞͓͚!̜͉̖̩̹”͙̯͕͎̹̤̞͖ ͔2̩͙̞̘̩̟̺ͅ4͖̼̙̖͉͕ ͇͈̻A͓̻̥͕̫̰͎̲̬n̪̜d̘ ̦͎ẖ̗͉̠̟̞̲̞̤e̳͉̪̘̟̰͈̺ ̝͙͍̫̩t͙͔̩͇̦u̪̺͔̲̭̫̳r̮̝̤̜̮n̜̟̭̟̹͚̹̤e̩̲͎̮̝ḏ̳̥̥̝ ͓͓̮͔͉͔a̖̼̺̣͇͚͚r̬̟͓͈o͚̘̙u͕̙̥̻n̙̙̰̙d̲̘͇̞͓̤̬̝,̰̘̻̲͖̲ ̜̣̺͓͎̗̰̼a͎̭͓̬n̲͕̗̪̖d̥͔͔͙̰̙̰̯͕ ̙̘̲͔̙̬͔͖w̗͇h̹̣̬̱͔̫̦ͅe͎̗͇̞̘͎̙n̪̺ ̯̺̰̹͉h̯̹͙̯͇̯͚ͅe̼͓̲ ̩͖̖͓̼̮s̘̤̞̣a̪̫̲͔͉̥w̭̭̹̼ ̗͚̯̜̬̻̠t̗̤͓̱͔̟̳h̙͙͈͓e̗͚̙̮̣m͕͙,̲̺͉͔͎̲̟ ̪̤h̹̹͉̠͚̫̞ẹ͉͔̦̰̱̜ͅ ̟̭͉̗͓͎c̲̤͚̮̦u̖r̠̥͕̙͉̥͍̞s͉͈̣̘̘͇e͓͓̣ͅd̮̺͍̞ ͇͍̱̤̹̮̪̫t̤̣͇͉̦̜̼h͈͔̣̼̞ͅe̘͈͈̝͈̟̮̣m̼̙ ̜͉̤̠̼̣̜͉i̝̝n̮̪̟͈̣ͅ ̮̲̺̱̰̞̭ͅt̪̦͎̞̬̗̰͍ͅh͇̯͕͍e̳͙ ͎̬̣͈n͕͉̠͈͈a͖͍̯̭͔̗m̺͈̝͉e̲̞̪̝̗̜ ͎̙̞̮̞͕̳̩o̙̪͈͈̼f̻̹͎̭̰̭̦ ̦t͔̩͖h̤̬̩e̫͔͕͇ ͕̗̠L̦̠̰̹̻̝̮͎͇o̭̲̘͕̜̻̪r̟͇̜̝̻̼d̰͕̲̘͍̠̣.̪̳ ̤͕͕̮͚̹̞͖͙A̯̭͔̺̻̬̲ͅṉ͔̣̯̹̦ͅͅd̮̥̮̞̲͓ ̲̠̻̟̻̯t̹̣̰̤̝̣̝w̟ͅo̺ ͈̦̺͔̫̯̱̠ș̲̪̞̯͚̟̠h͙͈̙̤ḛ̻̗̻̙̞-̻̬̗͉b̻e͈̰͍a̭̠̳̞̰͕r͚̤͙s̖̤̯͇̪̫̙͍̟ ̤̘̻̭̝c̝̣͕͚̜͇a̼͖m̯̭̞͓̪̟̱̖e̹͙̖̣̜̭̗͎ ͖̲̺ọ͚͚͙̗͓̗̤u̙͔͉̝̜̺͕̟t̹̘͕͍ ̩̣̝̥̗̥o̹͖̭̥̹̖f͙͇̼̻͉̭ ̠̺̻̭͙͖̼t͍̱͉̻͚̻͎ͅͅh͇̰ͅe̝̖̤̪̗̼̪͍͈ ͕̗͖͖̩w̫̻̰̝͈̙̮̫̤o̲̣̲̗o̬̞̤̹͎̝d̤̬͓s͍̥̺̖̰ ̗̝̱̖̻̱̫̦͎a͇̹̳̰n̝̝d͕͉̠̥ ͎t̲̬̬͕̻͍̱o̦̜̹͙͔̪r̫̝̭e̗͔̼̰̻ͅ ̞͔f̹̦̥o̤͕̪̩̦͔̟r͎̳̜̬ͅt̗̣͓͓̥̹y̠̹̹̖-̟͙͖̝̹̥͙͖̩t̬̣͍͇̬͙̯̞w̼̣͉̰̱͍o͎̯̪͚̬̳͙͎̺ ̲̥o̦̮̯̹̱̗̘̜f̺͔͍̬̘̹̘̯̯ ̹̠͇̼̠͙͈̞t̜̯̺̳̣̺h̘̩͔̭̞̘͍e̙ ͖͖̪̝̟b̤̝͍̼o̝͈͍̱̹̻̻̰y̙̜̩̱s͔̘̺͔͈̦̺̘.̫̼̘̞̳ ̼͎2̬͔5̪̤̰̙̮ ̼̝̪̻̩̺F̱͉̺̮̬͎̹͍ͅr̗̟͓̜̺̞͍ͅọ̻̩͙̤̭̫̠m̤͖͖͓̦ ͎̻͔t̳̟h͖͇͔̹̮̲̩̳ͅe͉̯͚͇̦͕̥͈r͙̦͔͎̗e͉̪̲ ̮͙̳̗̭̼̟h̗̣̰͓̟̯e̬̼ ̪̯͈̝͇̬w̗̰͔̤̘͙̖e̺͇̞n͓̪̭̝̳̞ͅt̰̟ ̞̫͇̲͓̩o͉̪ͅnͅ ̰̯̲̗̭̖̭̤t͍̲͎͓̼͚̣o̯͉̤̜̝̭ ̟̮M̗̜̖̫ͅo͎̹͕̭̥u͎̞̭͓̩̘n͕̟͍t͔͚̼̙̘͔̞ ͎̳̦̤̗C̟̗a̱̗̰͕r̘̠m̫̜̩e͓͔͓͔̣ͅl̩̩̭̬̗͚̳,͙͍̗̝͔̗͓̖ ͉̰͎͈̻̪̰̤̜a̪̮͓̳̰n̙̜̣̘̳͎̲̺d̼͖̰̲͎͔̩̖ ̠f̼͕̥̞r͎̗̬͓͇̜̮o̯̮m̙ ̰̬̲͖̤t̟͉͎̜h͚̠͈e̠̙̺͓͈̲r͈̼̩͖̗͔̝e̤ ̱̙̠̲h͖͔͇̥̟ͅe͈͙ ̺̻̥̮͎r̝̦ḛ̯̟t̰̞̼̯̮͈͓ṵ̹͍r͔̠̰ͅn̯͎̼̬͙e̠͖d͍̳͚͈̘ ͍̟̙̣͉̥͙̱͓t̙̼͍̘̮̜̦͇̜o͓͉̻̞̗̻͓̣ ̠̰̬̝S̱a͖̼̰̪̟͙ṃ̰̘̠̖͔a̗͚͖͇̻͎̫r̞͙̱̳i͕̲̖̺̻̻ͅa͇̤̰̭̹.̗̖̣̻ ̜̥̘̪̱̮͇̜͔T͎ẖ͙e͚̰̖͎̦͉̦̼n̙̺̫ ̹͍̤s͔̲̟̠h̜̠̤̳̘̞͙e̱̦̳̠͖͚͖̪ͅ ̼̯̟͍̟̥̪a͙͙̭s̪̤̗̲̲͉k̙̼̘͚̬͍͉̼s̯̪̳͇̺ ̯̻̤͙̮o͓͙͕͉͓̖͚f̹̗̬̳̫ ͇̬͎̗̗̮̺̥̟i͖̞̮̦̯̦̹̻t͉͖’͈̺͚͖͕͈̟s͔̭͍͇ ̠̦̣͔̤̮ͅa̪̥̥̥̣̟ ̲̝̯“̘̩͉r̩̣̣̩e̜͓̮̰̺̪̪̞a̜̙̜l̼̰̬̫̬ ̼͖p̳̙̣̥r̗̭̘̤͈̤͓͈̬e͇̤̖̙̤̥̯s̜͈̭͔̲̖̺͈e͍ͅn̼͖t͈͚̱ ̠̗̙̝͍̲̙̣͚o̳̟̰̲̭̺͓ṟ̺̠̩͉͚̻̜ͅ ̥̹a͙ ͍͔̗͎̳͇͇̲ͅd͕̺̖̩̦̥ͅr̦̫̗a̖̪̞̲͖̮̩̳w̯͖͇͉̬̥i̠̲̣̺̱͚̙ṇ̮̙͚̱g̰͇̬̘͔̱?̥͚̺̖̼͔ͅ”̫̩͓̘̦͕ ̫ͅS͍͈͉̻̤̬o͙͓̲͎̪ ̻̰̜̳̪̳̯͕I͕̳̞̖͔ͅ ̦̥̯̺g̺̙̺͓͇o̦͔͉͇̹̲,͕̙̥̰̠̻̪̤ ̤̦̞̹ͅ“̝̦̠̥̥w̠͉͕̣̜ͅe̘̖͇̺̻͚̻ͅl̝̤l͙͍ ͔͇I̯̫̳’̯̞̙͚̻m̞̪̼̣̲̖̙̬ ̜̣̪̰r̭̻͍e̱̞̣̤̣g̜̘̯̼̠̹̪̭r̰̠̖͔̹e̤̞̺̠t̗͓̲̰͈̱t̪̯̳̤i͎̘͉̠͈̞̬̟̪n̝͓͙̘g͍̯̪̗̟̪ ͔̗͙̭͕t̮̼h̜̲̲i̘s͈̤̞͙̣͉̙̞͓ ̲͖̖̬̼d̖̫̱͍͇ͅe̟̝͚̩̖̰c͈̜̭ͅi̱͔s͍̼͕̙i͓̙͍̮͓͉͇̠o̙̱̩̬̗̬n͈̝̳̜͕̼.̩̙ͅ”͍̳̩̞̬͎ͅ ̫͔̬͎͈̱̫A̱͓͉͕̼͕n̯͙͉̦̭ͅͅd̠̤͔͎̰͚̱̻ ̭͉s̳̰̦̱͉̭ḥ̝͓͇̯̘͇̜e̙̞̞̝̼̟̫ ͕̩t͕̜r̺̦̞̰̟̝̗i͖̖̮̖̳ͅe̞̳͍̠̟̲s̹͔̥͉̜͈̫̥ ̳̮͈̲̼̣̙t͓̤̙̳̻̼͎o͈̹͚̮̯̹̰͖ ̝͔̣͙̞̱͍j̥̖̻̝̬͍̥u͉̝͔͈s̼̘̬̱t̤̯i̹̯͔̫̜̖̠̰f̫͔̱̺̫͖̗̜̲y̙͍̜̹ ̜͖h͔̼̯̘e͇̞̬͉͈͎͕ͅr͔̮s͕̯̗e̟̞̥̦l̥̫f̫͔ ̻͍̬̩͓̯b̟y͕̞̜͎͕ ̹s̳̯͉a̯̬̻̟ỵ̜̮i̼͉͙̣n͚̬̞̘͉̹̜g̝͙ ̭̙̺̮͙̪̪t͎̱̙̫͍̲ḫ̝̳̮͖̩̻͇̻a̫͇̭͍̜͙ͅt̻̹̯ ̥̩I̱̠ ̟̘̻̘͕̭̝̝a͕̝̼͉̗l̻̮̖̹̻ẉ̥̱̜a͇y̘̖͕͎̺͍s̟ ̳g͎̼̝̳̬͙̼i̹̼͉̗v̝̥͙̥e̩̘͚̬ ̩̯̥̮m͈̪̤̺̙͖̟͖ỵ͍̤ͅ ̬m̝̥̻̰̭̝o̪̗͕̘̪m̟̪̱ ̙̥͓̪̮̹̤a̩r̺̲͓̳͓͕t͙̻̮͉ ̩̥̲͇̲̲f̬̹̠͕̣̼͇̗o̲̲̠̜̘̖r͉ ̹̟̮̹͔p̖̣̙̰͍̞̟ͅr̫͉̫̤̰̱͙̹e͙͚s̻͙̰̪̲e͓̰̜͚̥͈̩n̳̩̳̩̮̣̯ͅt̪͚̙̣̘s͔͙…̳̗̦͚̲̦ ̙̺̩͔̭a̳̭̠̠̠̝n̫̠͚̬d͚͈̞̝ ͈̯͍̬͖̻̯i͉̘͉͙ṱ̻ ̼̱͇̫̮j̫̳̝̲͎u͍̻̼s͕͈͙̮͉̗̦̠t̯̗̟̯ ̠͖̩̯͕̻͉̯͖g̪ͅo̞̮͓̤̹t͉͕̺̟̥͔͚͇ ̗͖w̰o̼̫̣̦͇r͙̪͎̪̺̹̜s̩̺̹̝̠̰̬̤e͖͔̱ ̗̠̙̤͈a͈̰̖̱͇̦n̯̟̩d̥̰̘̦̮͈ͅͅ ̱̙͇̣I̙̪̺̰’͇̟v̯̫̗̝̯͇e̫͔͉̝̹̝̜͎ͅ ̟̦̙̜̜f̬̤e̖̦̥̘ḻ̻̪̪̝ͅt̜̩͔̮̯̩̪ ̪̬̺͚̬̼̤l̤̥̱͓̱i̘̤̳̯̘̮̩̩k̰͉̙̖̭e̩̞͎ ̯̻̣͙̠ṣ̥̘̺̩͍̗h͎̲̯̦̙̰̝̞i͕͔t̮͕̗̬̝͓̳̥ ͙̝s̖̳̙̰̫̼c̪̬i̹͍̙̱ͅe̝̥͉̭̟̯͉̤n̙͍̹̹̻ͅt̼̗̭͈̩͉i̩͙͓̮s̹̬͚͓t̫̱͈̭̘̮s̬̤̞͙̟̣,̞̳͇̖̩̤̯̮̜ ̘̞̰̭w̫̞͓e̳̥̮̞̦ ͉̖̜͕̠h̗̞͚̯̪̮̻a̼̤͓̝̝v͔͉̣̝̤̺͖̮e̹̹̺ ͚̘̥̰͍̼e̘̯n̠͓̺̺o̦͖͔u̝̱͈̠͍͚͚ͅg͉͔̳h͎͖̘̠̭̮̹̻ ̜͕d͖̹̤̗̖͔͈̠̼e͉̫̠͈̳̜s̰͓͈͇i̼͔g̫͚͓̬̣͚̖n̝̙͖̠̻̖̠̩e̖̟̜r̘̻̬̻̘̣̙s͉͉̥̱͈̲,̙͖̩͔̺ ̲w̘̰͔̗e̦̺͖ ͔͉̻̱͎̗̭h͇̩a̦̙̟̰̱ͅv̦͍̳̲̠͓̠ẹ͍͎͙ ̤̱̤̖e̦̠̩̩͍̤n̩̲̙͇͚̥̠o̰̪̦̟̣̰͓͙u̜͕͔̗͉̟̟̦g̞̫̗̳̖̝̫͉͔h̤͓ ̹͙p̫͚̹̮̝̰̟̟ͅo̳͍̤̘l̙͇̺͉͍̰̰͚̖i̠t͕͈̳̘̲̭͚i̹̰c̝̪̞̦̼̱i̱̪̝̙̠a̼̞̯n̗͓s̮͕ ̗̳̫̼̪͙ͅ—͖͔͔͇̮ ̭̪͙̘̣w͉̼̝͖͎e͚̣̖͙ ̼h̤̺̲̙̪̯̬̫a̠̩͕͇v̱̰͕e̮͇̹̖͉̙ ̠̤e̗n͙͈o̰̘u̟͇͍͕͕̺̰g̱͍h͈ ̞͖p̥o͖̦̼̪l̖̮̺̗͉i͓͈͓̟̦̝͙͇͔t͖̟̜̰͇ͅi͎͓̯c̻̥̩̦i̼a̙̞̩̲̜̰̬͕ͅn͓͕̰̖̖̘s̰̞̗̪̳̯ ̬̥͓̪͚—̳̬͙̠ ̠̠̬͚̩̦͖͓b̪͉̤ụ̞̯̻̘̰t̟̘̰,̙͓̻ ̰̙͖̮̺̠̘̝y̪̳̯o͔̗͔̤̬u͕̪̜̥ ̥̬̳k͈̬̻̗̫̺̦n̪o̖̗̩̞w͍̲̝̯̠̭̬,̭̩̗̦̣̲ ͔͇̞̪̼n̥̺o͓̩͉̮͙͕b̯̞̳͙͎̜ͅo̤d̼̥̙̯̟̺̭ͅy͇̹̲̖̤ ̺̝g̗e̠̲̫̞͖̪̳̮t̲̩̭͈ͅs͇͕̼̹͓ ͖̻̗͇̝͎͈̮tͅo̟̱̖̗ ̬͖̰͍̯̻̥̱b̹͓͖̝͎e͎̻͓̬ ̙͙͖̰̗͉͎̜y̫̣͓̩̰̭̟̩ͅo̻͙͇̖ṵ̼̹̭̮̼̤ ̬͚̹͇͓̻̙͎e̻̣͓͉͎ͅͅx̖̘͔c̣͚̺͓̗̪̜e͍̗͚̲̝͚̯̪p̠̜̙̦͓t̫̮̭͕̹̦̰̩ ̰̠̤͕̺͙̤y̤̫̮͔͚̙͔̘o̭̥̮̙̩u͙͍͙̤̜͔͇ͅ.̞̺͓̼̦͖ ̤͕N̖̠o̦͚̟̦̪͇̗b͔͉̹͍̼̜̬o͖͔̹͖̙̼̞̫͍d̲y͓̝̜̟ ͈̱̗h͍̼͓ͅa͇͍s̟͖͇̳͈ ̩̰̤̪̟̬̝̗y̠͍o̜̝̬̙͚u͇̗̟͓͔̣͍̳r̹̣͙̰̞̞̺̖ ̖̳̯̝͔̘̹p̫̼̘͈̝̲̖͎͉o̱̖̬̟͓̖̤̟ͅi͓̮ṋ̫̙̱t̞͖̺ ̤̮̼̤͙͉o̹̼̼͖̲̩̫͖f̼͖̥̗̼ ̮vͅi̪͚̙̫̮̲̺e̤͖͖̻w̱̩ ͙̠̠e͓̲͕͔̬x͎̬̟̲̩̖̮̤c͔̤̪͓̬͇e͉͇͚͙p̟̰̟t̗̙ ̮̪y̺o̤̳u̞̠͔̱̮ͅ.̺̗̱̥̜̫̞ ̖̪͍̞̟͖̗N̞̫͍̝̥̟o̝̝͉̠̱b̟̠̺̱͕̞o͔̟͎͙̥͖d͉̟̣̜̩͔͖͎y͎̟̼͕ ̭̫̮̰̰̠̭̝g̥͇͉̦͓e̬t̤̙̤̫̰͖̞s͈̥̠͇͙̬̮̝̭ ̝̺̗t͍͈̠̪͔o̳͖̝̝̭͔͇ ̲̠̝̩͍̻̻̣̝b͙̙̱̜̪̬̘̠̺r̳̬i̬͉n͇̠̭̦ͅg̳̭̙͈̣͔ ̫̣̼̮̱͎̘̞t͍͔̩̖̯o̺͔̫͎̠̙͉͉ ̼͖t͉͉̞h̺̠̤̣̱͓͓̥ḛ̪̱̲̟̳̭̘͍ ̘͉̲̜̼̳͖̙w̼͙o̯̦͇̪̟ͅr̫̲̼̺͚͓̹̼̹ḻ͓̘͙̺̦d̳̯̭̺̟̱̱͙ ̭̰̳̻͈̹̞͙t̯͖̺̞h̝͖̜̮̼̻̟̺e̪̮̫ ͚͎̖̯̘t̥̞̯h͔i̥͕͕̙n͙̞͉g̣̺s͉̮̣̹̪̼ ̯̱t͚̼ͅh͍͍͇͚̯̺ͅa̪̙͉̘ͅt͉̫̬̠ ̦̤y̟̪̲̩͚o̬̻̟̻̥͎̬u̝͙̝ ̻̖͕̹̱̥̩g̲̳̭͉̝̬̭e̼͓͎̥̣t̩͔̺̱̙͎͙͕̜ ͕̤͍͓̩̦̗͉t̠̘͖o̮̤̩ ̹̻̼̠͓̯̣ͅb͈̪͓̤̱͈̜͖̖r͙̟͖̯͓̺̬̠i̹̰n̠̳g͍̬͎͈̹̺̺ ̼̝̼̜̼͔̲̗t̜͈͕̙ͅo̪̯͉̼̠̣̺͔ ̠̬̗̥t̥̭̣͎̦̖h̦̖̦̫͍̻̯̝e̪͕ ̫̱w͕̥̥͎̬o̻̞̗̫͖͔ṛ͓̲l̠̦̟͇̟d̜̖̯̳͍̝ͅ ̩͕͕̳̯͎̭—̗̙̭̤̘̖͍̫ ͎̗u͍̦͎ṉ͎̠͙͙̩̰̥i̝̘̞̥̙͚͚͉ͅq̝̳̭u͈̪͎e͔̜͕̗l̼̦͎̳̯̞̻̹y͍͕̥̣͈͓ ̺̝͓̭̯͉g͖͔̳̥̣͉̬͎e͔͈ͅt̜̘͇̘ ͈̖͉̖̫͖̗t͙̖͙͇̺͎̤̱o̺̭̬͓͔̬ ̯̪̙̘̗͍̥b̖̲r͓͔͓̺̲̙͎ị̤͎̳̞͖̜n͙̬̦͎̮̣̰ͅg̲͎̩͓̲̗ ̫̲̖͍͙̤̺̥̺t̯̹o̱̬̯̝̮͇ ̠̮͔̹͚t̤͓̠̖̫̖h̝̭̰̝̠̪̼̻e̳̟̟̬̺͓̤ ̲w͖̖͎̠͖̱͓̭o̳r̙̫l̺̲̯̹̖d̩̣̳̹ͅ ͖̱ͅ—͕̺͎̺͓͕ ̤̻̱̦̖̭̙e̜̻̣͍x̼̺͕͎̭̤c͖͎͈͙͕e͚͚̜̳̞p͓̻̘ͅt̰̩̯ ͍̹ͅy̥͎͙͖͍̲͉͙͖o̻̻̻u̲̫͎̰̗.̜̻̦̳ ̪͍͕̼̮͚S̮͓͍̻ͅo̗̯͓͉̰̝̣͓,͉͉̤͚͖̫ͅͅ ͈̣̠͇ͅs͖̞͙̬̳̘͕ͅa̗̪y̙̥͕̠̩̖i̹̥̬͎̝͈̞ͅͅn̹͈̻̯g͎͚̩͎̤̳͙̺ ̞͕̫̩͚̣t̥̠̺̭͓̯ͅḥ̗̖ͅa̹̮͉ṭ͚ ͈͇̞̬̙̯̹t͉͙̣̤̱̝͔̤̩h͇̝͚̹̰̟e͖͔͉͉r͔̻e͓̱͔ ͍͚̣a̲̻͇̟̪̳̻r̳̞͕͉̖̞̤̻e̫̫̙̬ ̗̰͕͇ͅe͙̲̩̞̩̰̯n̟̗̖͉̗̞͕͔ͅo͔̟̖͈̮̥u̖̱͈g͇̳̻̩͍̲h̬ ͖̗̻͉̹w͓̖͍͔̰̫ṟ͓̫͙͉͍̦i̟͓̪͖̯̖͔t̼͈͔͕e͉͓r͕̭͇s̯͈ ̭͙͇͇̝o͚͚͍̪̼͕̖ͅu̘̟̱̣t̘̟͔̖̳̯͚ ̳̠͈͙̤t̩̞h͓̖̹̘̗̣͕ẹ͈͎̥̞̩̯̜r͙͉̗̲̺e̘͓͕̤,͈̣̱̘ ̝̼̠̲̤e͚̠n̞̫͉̫o̤̣̮̳͉̻ṷ̗̥ͅg̮̦̤̥̘̲͓͇̖h̖̱̯̟ͅ ͖̬̲̤̹̱ḏ̭͇̫̠̤͈ͅi͉̺r̠̺̻̹̼̖̳ḙ̩̤c͇̫̭t̠͍̖͈̹̫͉̺o͍̮̥̰͚̮ͅr̞̫͚̞̗͈̹s̳̣̺̼̰̘̺ͅ ̜͈̦̭̝̣͚̫̼o͈̲̳̙̟̣̰ͅu̘̳̫͙̖̖͖̘t̹͍͍ ̝͙̰͇͖͇t̻̥͕ͅh̦̲͈̪e̝̩̞r̺̳e̝̙,̟̥̞̠̫ ͕̫̼̼͖ͅḛn̦̻̘̮̰̰o͈̞͚̫̣̬̮u͓͍̻̳͖g̝̳̙͇̹̗̰h͍̗̟̮͍͓̩ ͉̖̠̬̥̫̥p̥̮̗e̺̭̞̖̻̲̱̱̜o̠͕̯̟̪̮̘̭p̪̮̳̟l̯̼̤͈̳͙e͙̯̟ ͙̟̯̻̫̮͓w̞̝i̹̺t̝̣h̖̼̤͍͖̘ͅ ̦̳̠̩͍p͚̼̰̣̺̖̹o̩̰i̺̗͚̬̣n̬͍͈̜̺͉̳͓ͅt̘͈s̼̰ ̤͔̘̝̭̗̱o̯̤͕̩̳̗͍f̻̪̭ ̣͈͕̱͔͇v͕̗̲̰̤ị̪̣̗͚̘ẹ͇w͔̹̖̯͕.̖͔̳̘̳ ̜͇͍̹̝̳̮O̟̘̼̤̫͚̘̲n̙e̜̜̗ ̠̲̦o̖̞̗͉̳͔̣f͚͚̱ ͇͉̖͎̤͍͈̥t̹̺̹̪̺h̻͉̝͍̺̻̩e̳͇ṣ̩e̟̹̩ ̟̹͙͈̺̯̗̠͍d̦̞a̩̹̖y͔̤̰̟͔̩s̜̙̮͓͚ ̬̤̩͚͍ͅͅA͉͇͔̟͍̰c̜̻̠̖͔͓e͔̖͙̗͔̪ ̯̖̤̟̟̖͇w̭͔͎͈̭͔i̩͈͈̝̞ḷ̫͙̗̞̠͙̹l̳̝̞̗͉ ̫͚̬͚̗̱͓p̼̖r̫̭i̝̜͉n̥̦̥t̝͎͉̖͔ ̫͔̹͔͈t̺̝̰͚͍͍h̟͉̯̥͇̬e̬̞̜̘͖ ͈͓H̝̰̝͍̹̻̤o̻̥̳͖l̟̺̞y̮͖͙̟̙̰ ͉͓̰B͉̦̪͖̺͕ͅi̦̣̲͎b͙͕̭̫͈̩̪l̞͈̞̜̲͖e̤̲̤̫̭͙̜̱ ̖̹͈̖͔̭̯̮a̩̗s͈͉̟̹ ̻̤̱̣͓̘͇ͅa̮̯̣͎̭͙̤ ͓̝͙͍̩͈̰D̝̦̮̬̖͎̺͉͚o̰̮̝̩̹̩̟͙u̥̳̜̘̩͍̫͇ḅ̬̞̤l̺e̗̺,̟̦̦͈̰̼̙ͅ ̩̭b̟̭̞̟̗̥̜͇a̹̠̤͈̣̺c̞̘k̭͇̼͚̤̗̩͚ ͉̯͚̣t̳̙̘͔̯͍͕͖ͅo̼̰̤̬͎̟̙̮ ̩̥b͍͙a̘̟͈c͇̮̲̠͇̻k̳͇͓͔͙̲ͅ,̺̱̗͉͍ ͓t͎̰͔h̤͚͖͚͚e̳͓̟͈̖̜͇ ̟͈͕̥O̺͔l͇̣͓̘̠̯̻̫̗d͉̰̞ ̗T̺e̯̫̺̱̙͔̳̪s͍̝͕̼͚̯t͇̬̱͔̲̼̣a̟̪̟̱̳͎m͖e͇̰͎n̝̻̣̲̥t̬̳ ̭͔̬̜͖͖̫a̘͚n̙̘̱̣d̰̱ ̱̬̬̟̻̳̹̲̦t͔̲̮̜̳ͅh͙e͖̰̲ ͇͇̠͕̫̭̣͔N̯̮e̩̥̤̜͖w͕̭̝ ̗̳̳̭̼̼̦̫T̹̬̖͉̪e̳̳̹̝̱͚̝̦s̥̭̮͍̞̜͙̖t̝̭ͅa̰̖̞͉̟̮̱̲m̗̝͉̝̹̖e̹̖̺̗͙͈̮̙n͍̬̹̣̟͇̺t̬͚͍̞̫͕͇͖ ̳͎e͖͎͍̭̲̺̭͖ͅa͕̘̫͖̪͎͖̻c̫̹̙͈̹̗h͈̹̘͎̱͎͔ͅ ̝͈̫̜c̮̠̬͉u̬̺̳͉̹̳̻ͅt̺̹̬ ̟͉̬͖̩̥ͅt̝̥͎̦̯̙̰̝̥ọ̦̥̠̹ ̠͔e̬̠̜̹̤x̝̞̟̘̖a͕̻̳̬͇̱͕c̪͕̳̰̝t͉̭̩͉͕̘͔̯l̳̼̟̟̠͖͚̰y̼̗͎ ̱3̦̩̺0͔,̪0̯̝̭̺͖͚0̟͎̜̲̘0̰̱ ̬͉̯̖ẉ̜̜̻̫͍͓̠ͅo͕͙̗͎͎̤̭r͙̯͕̺̝d̯̥͚̦̪̱s̞̺̣̟͎̺,͓̠͔̘͔̯͎̻ͅ ͖̹͔̭̙̙̻͔̖t̼̗̲̮͉̝h͉͙̯̙͚̦̘̺̻e͎͉̖ ̲̱͈̱O̩l͓͚̟͙̲͖̺̞̫d̹͓͉ ̰̩̱͉͕̼T͈̰͚̹͕̳e̟͖̬̥̗s͍̖̜̱̘̖̫̘͖t̮̘̥͍͍̯̯a̤̘m̞̣̙̜̤͖e̻̮͉ṋṱ̟͚̥̰̩̺̣ ̘̗t͎̤̳̯͙i̦͚̳̗̗͈t̹͍̫̬̟͉ḷ̝͓e̹͚̘d͉̣̙̣̣̠ ̹̦͈̜̫̞ͅM͚̝̳̮͈̲̣a̳̣̣͉͚̠̪̥s̝͕͙͎͈̦t̗̤͚͇̺̼̲e͕̩̫͖ͅr̻̗͓͉̥ ̼͓̺̯̞o̗f͍̝͓͍͍͔̭ ̘͔̩̮ͅͅC̬h͕̩̘̞͎̙̤͈a̲͎̱̥̦͔͕o̱̹̣̩̬̗̭ͅs̮̱̱̬̞ ̖͎̺̟a̟n̻̳̳̹ḍ͎̤͚͕̯ͅ ̞̗̝̯̭͔̘t͍̺̼h̠̼͖̳̻̱ẹ͖͈̰̝̖ ͙͎̝̗̥̪̯Ṇ̤̳͎͙̫̤͍e̜̳͎̫̩̰͉͇̰w̬̮ ̜͓̩̠̻̺̞̖T̘̙̫ͅͅe̯͉͖s̗̥̖ͅṱ͇a̤͎̳̠̤͎̝̤m͇̖̹e͖̥͉͍̼̮̭ṇ͖ͅt͔̖̫̰̘ ̙tͅi̭̯̟̯̳̳ͅt͎̣͖̠͓͇̞̻̯l̰̳̳̞̬̣̞e̟̬̩̤͙͚̝d͓̟ ̭͇T͔̥͖̻͔͓̦̙h̭̞̝̠͈e͇͍͇̤̺̣ ̦ͅT̮̫̫h̻̝͕͔͎i͚̙̳͎̥n̩͉g̭̩̜̘̦ ̩̼̥̙w͍̪̫͍̘̺͖i̭͎̟̲̺̰t̳͖͚h̠̖͔̝͕̻ ͓̠̼̖̙̙̘ͅT̞̰̟h̹̼̙͇̩̭r͚̹e̠̺ḛ͙̗͚͇ ̯̹̻͉͇̘̻͍S̠̳̯̬͙̰̹ͅo͍̪̻̳̰̹̠̱ͅu̩͎̫̬̦ḽ̖͈̟͈̰̯̱s̗̠̼̗̗.͓͈͔̰̹̳ ̩͉ ̪̳͉̪̱̤ͅW͈̪e̤̜̹͕ͅl̟͓̱̫͚l͈̝̪̥̱̩͈ ̻̯̖̦̳y̲͚̳e̲͍͎̮͔a̘̥̥̺̼͍ͅh̫̲̮̪,͖̦̦̰ ̬̜t̳̠͉̮̼h͍̹̤̫̭̘ͅe̫͓ͅr̘͎̠̹ḙ̻̠͇̦̪̤̰ ͍̻͈͎̪̜͓a͇̞r̩͉͉e̼̙̤͓̯ͅ,̺͚͇͓͎̥̝̟ ̹̥̮̼̙b̝̞̘̪̤̪ͅu̬̣̦̰̲̹͙t͙ͅ ̗̲̯̖̗̝n͔͕̳̳͚̭̩̦o̘͍̪n̘̮̱͍̯̮͎e̜̠͙̖͙̦͕ ͕̞͉̫̲̦͙o͍̦͖̻͎̼f̲̪̥͖̭ͅ ͈̙͔̖̤t̯̣͙͈̦̦̜̩h͓̼̦̺̫͈̣̤̜e̟̱m̤̮̹̭̲͔̺ ̦̹͓̜̣͖ḁ̝̘̪̤̟̙r̭̤e͈̱̮̯̠̤̥̟ ̯̖̮̼̬͓̺̭y̙o̦͚͉͉͈u̹͉̬̙.̲͎̤ ̳̟̬̣̲A̯̮̹͕̬n̳̥̜̤̺̥d͉̬̭̠̣̞͖ ̞̤͕̤̺̙̗ͅn̝͈o̞̣̦͙n͚̠e̠̬ ̻̝o̳̬̺f̭͇̰̗͕ ̤̘̬̠̞̦ṱḫ̼̲̬͖͇ͅͅo̱̰̙͚s̮̪̳e̩͓̜̺͖̰ ̪̥̯p͚̰͇e̙̞̣͚͇̥ͅo͕̭p̘͕̳̗̺̹͖̖͇l̜e̜̠͍̳͉ ͚̹̱̟̫̰i̪͕̜̯ṣ̟̯͓̭͇̭ ̲̩̰̼g̩͚̱̹o̮̩̙̯̲͔̞i͇̗͓̠̼ͅͅn͚̼̟͚g̰̺̬̪͖̮ ̫̼̩t̹͇͙͓͉̙̹̘ͅo͍̭̱̣̖͙ ̥̪̹m̺̼͎a͎̭̻̖̦k̪̜̫̳̙̮e̳͔͖͓̘̜̩ ͕̠̹͚͉H̝͈E̲̘̜̲̜̫ ̫̞̯̣̠̻̻C͎̼͈O̠̬̹̤̦̲̲M̞̦̣̦̝̻̜E̪̲͉S͙͙̰̜̝̦͈̣ ̳͇̟t̞̝h͔̣̣̳̣̙̝e̟͇̰ ͇̞̺̬̹̠̙a̻̹͔͎̹̠͖̫r̟͇̥̣t̻ ̮̯T̻̰͔̰̜H̘̰͇̻͈ͅE̥̳͉̺̹̫͖ ̪͎̦̩T̙̮͈̞̳H͇͚̖I͚̺̲̭̣N͉̪̹G͚͈͉̘̼ ̭͔͍͔̲̘͉W͔̖͚̗͕̯͈͚̟I͙̠͎̤̰ͅT͚͍̳H̰̣̤̟̭̖̭ ̲̲̥͈̥͕̞̤T̹H̯̯̱R̖̥̺̰͚̺͎̩͔E͕̼͚̦E͍̖̟̫̗ ͚̟E̼̙̳̲̯͖͓͔Y̩̦͈̠̣̮͍̼̘E̞͖S̙̰͙̘̖ ͈̥͇͖̯t͖̖͈̙h̪̤̹̲̭͙͔͙a̤͍͖t̜̩͙ ̖̦y̭̱̯͉̬̱͎̘̱o̝͈̖ṳ̻̰̱̯̰̘̩ ̠̰̪͉̺̗̲̲a̫̼̲͙r̳ͅe̩̦̮ ̬͍͕̱̣̼͚g̤̦̗̰̥̤̙o̰̺̯̦͔͇ͅi͇n͔͕g͕̞̳͙͇̣̥̳ ͚̖̲t͖͈̦̩̩̹̩̞o̠̳̳͎͉̺̙ ͕̝͖͙ͅm͎̺a̩͍̠̹̙̙̣̜k̟̬e͓̟̯ͅ.̜͈̱̹̺ͅ ͙̤̻̰͈N̜͍̙̗͙̤̖̦͔o̤̼n͍̭̮͕̬e͓̻͇͕͔ ̞̬̩o͙̬̰̦̯̮͕͕̼f̙̞̮͚̩ ̝͉̝͓͍̬̟͔t̥̮͖h͔̜e̯̦m͎̼̠ ̞̩͓ị̞̖̲̝̼̻͇s̲̭̳̞͚ ͖̰g̩̱͖ͅo̖i͎ͅn͍̗͙g͔͙͓͖ ͔̪̬̱̖̩̝̠t̟͉̺͍o̻ ̙͇̞͎̗̯͙̪̫c̩̼̩͍̫̼̤h̪̻͙̼͕̣ͅa̜̦̟̳̹̭̯n͖̰̙g͉̤̙̜̞̭̫̜͖e̻͎ͅ ̹̘͙̹̺̱̻̥ͅp̞̱̮e͍o̫̖͚͙̬p͖̜͎͖̠͍̟ͅl͓̭̩͙̦e̥̪̤̞̪̫̠̦ ̯̝͔͓̺̭I̭͖̥̯N̤̗̳̺̣̱̹̳T͓̝̣̰̲̜O͓̬̙ ̝͚̜̠̜͕T̖̝̮̞͈͖ͅH̭͚I͈̮͚̬̤̪N͓͙̯G̖̻S̻̜ ̺a͎̺̙͖͔̼̻n͈̣͈̗͇̳͓̬d̫̖͇͎͎̫ ͖c̼̣̞͔ͅh͚ͅḁ͓͙̣̤̜n̹g͖̥̗e̞͇͍ ̤͈͖̣̯͈t̜h͔̞̗͉̬͔e͕̱ ͈w͎͈̭̬ͅo͖͍r̠͔̥͕͍̻ͅl̙̤̗̘͇͕͕ḍͅ ̙͓̪͔i͎̲n̖̻͕͇̬̦͉͇ ̠̜͔̟̭͓͉̺ṭ̖͙̣̱h͉̫̻̱̲̲̰̫e̥̰̘ ̩͇͉̼͓E͈̤͍͉L̲̲͙D͓R̬̤I̟͖̦͖͖C͕̬̼̘H̩̳̯̩̦̘̟ ̖̘͚̰̫̩A̮͙̝̜͔̳N̟̣͈̯̙̞̤ͅD̬͉͓ ͍͉͕̠̥̬͕͖U͚NͅC̻͖̱̜͓͓̥A̯̳͉͓̠̖ͅN̤̝N͓͖̰̯͖Y̟̞̱̰ͅ ̟̙ͅw͖̯a̗͚̹̻̜͖̲y̠͙͕͎̜̬͙ ̟̘͔ͅt͓͈̭͇̯̗h͎̗̭̳a̬t̺̹͖͔̥̫̩ ̳̪̟̝̭ͅy̘͔̥͔̥̗͓o͔̻͎̘̼u̖̣̲ ͖̗̜̳̹͔c̟̜̖͎̙̪o̼̣u͔̺̺͙l̞̖̮̹̗d͕̹ ̰̦̯̳̱̗͍c̣̟̝͕͓̟͕h͚̭̰̙̤̘̪a̟̱̮̪̰̙ͅn̗̘g͇͍͓͕̫͇̦e̫͇̞̼̘̹ͅ ̱̫̞̝̦̮i̖̗͎̰̫ͅt͓̦̖̣͎̖͖̹͎.̮͇͕̮ ͈̟̻͕͚̰ͅͅS̹͈͎̹̹̱̫̻o͍̣̟̰ ̫i̗̪̬̞f̝̗͖ ̦̖̱̟͉̠̜̙̙y͈̲͓͓̖̪o͎̗̠̹̫̟͈u̱͕̟̘͎͉̻̻ͅ ̫͔̗̗b͍̞̫͎̖̫͇̻e̙̣̻̺l͉̙͇̬i̮̭̻̱̤̖͙e̮͍͙̱̮̹̙v̻̗̯e̪̩̠ ͔̯s̺o̝̯̰̹͇͇̲m̯͓͖̺̝̟̘̫e̯̪̣̲b̯̝̩o͖ͅd͇̥̩͙̫̭̝ͅy͉̻̱̫̯̺ ̱͎͈̱̗̯t̪̻͉̯̳h͕̹̖̼a̳̗t̘͙̳͎̤̯͚ ̫̞̝̻s̺̲̪̠̪ḁ̗̥͕̼y͓̹͎̥ͅs̗̬̯͙̮͕,͇̘̤͓͉̱̟ ̱͕“̘̹̗n̮͉̻o̮̟̗̭,̪͕̳̩̲̱ͅ ̤̬̯n̜̙̩͚͍͈̣̗̖o̗͓̯̩͇,͓̮ ͕̝̟͍w̬̖̺͔͖̦͇̟e͇̖̭’͚̮̘v͍̬e͈͓͉̺ ̠̩̯͕̞̤̞ͅͅg̜̙̹o͎̱̘̜t̘̝̮̤̟͓̥̥ ͈͚̞̬e͇̯̺͈̳̳n͈͚̘̭̲̞͙̘̙o̞̬u̯̼̟̭̠̻̘̭̻g͍̳̝h̖̝̮̮̣ ̱̞̬̪o͔̩͍̬̳̯ͅͅf͍̞̞̼̥͖ ͉̦̙͙̦̟t͇̗̘̙̟̙̻h͙̯͉ͅo̮̣̖̦̙͙̥̙s̬͔̟̳e͎,̳̻̖̫̩̗̲̯”̜̤̠̙ ̦̺͈͔͚̫͕͈͎t̯̳̙̟͎̼̼͕h̦͉͕̪̞͔e̬̺͎̟n̳̜͚̤ ̟̮̙͖a͉̹͎͔l̦̖̤͇̱͇ḽ̰̥̮ ̰i̠̳̫̩̺̞̲͎t͚ ͍m̹̣e̮͖a̲̝̲̻̣̫̞̭̮n̞̹͉͍̟͍s͙͚̩ ̯̤̭͈͇i̞̣͚̥̫͓̩̥ș͙̠͇̘̤ͅ ̥̤̟̩͔̭͚t̘̲̮̙͉̖̬h̩͚a̟̺͉̙̥̞͙̱ṭ̬ ͍̤̦͍̖͙͙y͎͚̻͚̮͇o̥̭̜u͈̺̤͓̞̼͇ ̺͕͚̳a͓̣͇̟̼r̼͍̻̝̙͙̞̩e͇͙͚̭ ̪̻̘̹̦̮͔̺g̼̱̣̻̜͚̭i̭͓͕̱̰̙̖v͈̞̯̥̜͕ͅi̺͎͖͕̹̮͖n͔͖̱͔̼̩g͙ ̱͔̺̹̩̥u̫͖̰̥̘p͎͇̟̞ ̙̞ỵ͍̳̩̯̩̤o͖̣̠͖̟̫u͇̙̜̞̱̝̩̤r̳̦͕͚̮̮͕̠ ̖͍̙̠̭͚c͙͇h͎͉͇̳̞̣͔a͕̦̙̘͇̜̮n̮̼͔̙̪̦͔̯̰c̮̬͇̗̜̝e͓̮ ̙̫͉͓̳t̫̳̲̱o̝̰̺̭̗̹ ͖̯̜͓̯͖c̞̬̠h̻͎̪̼͙a̭͍̠n̫͓͚̳̣͈g̟͚e͕͈̭͓̱̗ ̝̱̝͈͕t̤͖͈̜̣h̝̝͕̟͉e̯̝̟̬̗̠̜ ̺̻w̝o̟̱͓̬͔̮̖̫̲r̩͕̲̣͇̬̮̙ḷ̯͇̹̝̼̥dͅ ͓̯̗̤̟̥̙̰i͕̻n̬̝̘̹̩͕̙ ͉̫t̖̝͙̹̝̞̤ͅh͕͚̰̤̟̟̗̣e̥̠̪͖̠͙ͅ ̞̭w̬̣a̫̺̬y̥̝͙ͅ ͔̥͎̼͖̖̞͖ͅt͖͔̩̞h͍̫͎̹̝̻͚̘̫a̰͇ṱ͔͉͙͙͈̼ ͙̩͖̝̗͕̖͔̠o̦̣̝͚̤̥͖͇n̰̘̫̝̹̺̗l̟̯͓̺̠͍y̩̹̹̰ ̙̮y̥̗͎̼̠̥̖̖o͚̣̲̫u͎̳̘̺̯̦̖̙ͅ ̥̗̪͓̲̟̥͚̪c̝͓̠͔a͈͇͎n̺ ̗̣̖̗̦̞̠c̣̮̦͖̝h͇a͇̬̬̫̦n̮͕͍̮̞͇g͕̬͎̱̭͓͍͓͎ḙ̼̝̥͇̗ ̞̟i͚̘̠̗̲̬̞t͚ͅ.̭̩̖̰̱̤








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In a Fractal Cult Meditation, you focus on the structural similarities between the small and the large, the internal and the external.

I find it helps to focus your attention on a fractal image, but you don’t have to be too picky - fractals are everywhere.

Note the patterns of urban life: they are much like the patterns of the body. The circulatory system brings nutrients to your tissue, just as a street brings customers to a store front. There is a cyclical force which pumps everything along.



That force feels like action, then rest. Action, then rest. Action, then rest…

Work, weekend, work, weekend, work, weekend…

Green light, red light, green light, red light, green light, red light…

Sometimes it sounds like this: “thesis, antithesis, synthesis… thesis, antithesis, synthesis…”

Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub…

Fellow explorer, understand this!

The pulse of your body, the pulse of creativity, and the pulse of the city originate from the same source. They are echoes of the same rhythm. The only difference is the level of magnification.

You are a cell in the world’s body. Relationships are tissue. Organizations are organs.

When something moves you, it’s also moving your city, it’s also moving the nation, it’s also moving the world.

This mysterious pulse manifests differently elsewhere in the fractal. Along the Mandelbrot coastline, all the peninsulas and capes and other protrusions are unique, though structurally similar.

When you experience this connection, you begin to feel the pulse everywhere. Even microscopic experiences during your day carry the full tidal force of the entire cosmos.

You are waiting at a red traffic light.  You sense it’s about to turn green. And something inside you takes its foot off the break.

And then the crowd surges forward into the light.

Cramulus

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Re: Fractal Cult
« Reply #12 on: May 16, 2013, 03:52:31 PM »
Quote from: cramulus


“Pissing on your idea” is the Seth Godin term for when somebody wants to modify your idea before they’ll support it. “That’s a good idea, you just need to change it like this”…

It’s like a dog marking territory.

By changing it, they are investing their ego into the idea. Their hope is that by aligning the idea with their own goals, it becomes more attractive, more worthy of their support.

Seth says: don’t sweat it… If you care about your idea, and you want it to grow, LET people piss on it (if that’s what it takes to get their support). That is how small ideas grow into big ideas, they become everybody’s territory.

Robert Anton Wilson also thinks about ideas in terms of territory, but he doesn’t romanticize the collaborative process. He agrees that ideas are the current incarnation of territory. All our primate territory-guarding behaviors, hard wired into our nervous system, have been adapted to do battle in a theater of ideas. Many of our conversations are the exact same behavior you see in a junkyard dog barking at strangers who smell like Other territory. Not very romantic, no?

Either way, they agree on this:

Ideas are excrement



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Chao Bellied Sneetches
by Cramulus

Hi guys! Just wanted to give you a quick update about how things are going at the fractal cult. It’s been … interesting. About two weeks ago, everybody divided up into camps and moved into the north and south wings of the monastery. It was pretty tense for a while.

Basically, despite this cult being specifically non-religious, everybody here is a Discordian Pope. So nobody is under each other’s authority, and that creates this oppressive sense of responsibility. Everybody owns the cult. And since they don’t want to be associated with anything shitty, they get kind of defensive about it. Crazy defensive. 

There are a lot of creative types here, and apparently that means they have to be expressing themselves all the goddamn time or they’ll wilt or something maudlin like that. So after an hour of argument we finally concluded (notice I didn’t say “agreed”) that we should put on a play. Then, after another hour of argument, we agreed (but I wouldn’t call it a conclusion) that we should do The Sneetches by Dr. Seuss.

Everybody was happy. It was a wonderful moment. It was quiet and everybody was smiling. I enjoyed it while it lasted.

Suddenly, the serenity and harmony was decimated by the sound “admission fee?” passing between somebody’s lips. The entire building immediately exploded with flaming shit. There was a huge argument about money and labor and half the cast made a big scene and quit. Then they came back so they could shout more. Eventually this one guy said he’d put in all the money and take responsibility for the play, and I guess that solved things, because now he was the Director and everybody calmed down. But only a little.

The Director was excited! He said he wanted to do the costumes this certain way, (Spandex) and a bunch of people flipped the fuck out said they didn’t want to be in the play if it had spandex because it will make us look awful and the audience will judge us. The Sneetches had to wear big foam bodysuits which concealed the actor’s identity or they’d drop out.

The Director got really frustrated because he had basically paid for the thing, and he had always wanted to do a spandex play. Even if some of the cast would look pretty bad in spandex, he thought it would be honest. Somebody said, “I can’t believe we’re going to tarnish this Seuss’ work of art with this amateur regional theater bullshit.” That was followed by a wave of groaning and eye rolling. And that’s when people started picking sides and moving their stuff into bedrooms on the other side of the Monastery and muttering under their breath all day.

On day two, somebody got peed on.

On day three, somebody was thrown from the balcony and he got a concussion.

Then they peed on him.

On day four, there were peace talks. Except that’s a rather generous usage of the word. More accurately, you could call them I have to get this shit off my chest talks. There were tears. Oh there were tears.

At about 11 PM on day four, we reached an agreement to cancel the play and never talk about plays again. Ever.

If this rule was broken, we would all share the punishment: having to go through this entire debacle again.

Somebody took it one step further and said “Okay here’s an idea. No more group projects. Everybody do your own individual thing, team up with others if you want, but trying to please everybody here is a huge waste of time.” Everybody started nodding, that sounds like a good idea, then one guy said “Fuck that, you’re not the boss of me,” and then the shouting started, and totally out of the blue, a stream of hot pee blasted across my cheek, and that’s why I’ve been holed up in the bathroom with my laptop since yesterday.

I’m starting to hear weird noises outside the door.

No.. Instruments? No no… LOTS of instruments?? This is fucked up. After all that drama about drama, please tell me we’re not starting a big full-cult band.

Please tell me that?

Because seriously—-

—-I have no idea where I left my harmonica.




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“How things work”, a work in progress

     A long time ago,

     there was an argument about how things should be

     a romance of contemporary pressures

     Today,

     the battle is over, the lovers are dead

     and their ghosts will haunt us

     Forever



http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Path_dependence


Quote



Cthonic Chronos
by Enki

The Greeks had a very Lovecraftian view of time, as personified by Chronos. A monstrous inevitability, time has not only eaten the past, but will eat the future, and everything it ate was in some sense its descendant. Hungry and ineffable, this personification of entropy is much more frightening than Maxwell’s Demon (who personified negentropy).

Remember: one day, unexpectedly, time will eat you. It cannot be predicted or avoided, so try to live your life so that when the final boss of the universe defeats you, your last thoughts are “fuck yeah, that was worthwhile”.




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The koan of the derivative work

Wen the Monk entered the cell of his friend, Tu-Tzi Fru-Tzi to find the floor uncharacteristically full of crumpled papers.

“Tu-Tzi, what are you doing?” Wen asked. “Some kind of origami floor?”

Tu-Tzi looked upon his hands in despair. “I’m trying to write something, but everything I do is derivative” he cried.

“You’re trying to avoid derivative work?” Wen asked. “How original!”

After a few hours of watching cat videos, Tu-Tzi was enlightened.


Quote
A Meditation on Slacktivism

Bung Fu entered the mojo dojo, where Nopants was practicing his google-katas.

“Brother Nopants,” said Bung Fu, “Social Media is tiresome. Everybody’s standing on soapboxbook, tweeting about causes, everybody’s signing petitions, everybody’s reaching towards unity … while sitting still. Some people call it ‘slacktivism’ - a way of making yourself feel like you’re helping without actually doing anything. Is it wasted energy?”

Nopants cleared his cache and said, “You are correct in this, Bung Fu - the individual has little power over the group. To change a group, you must act on a group scale.”

Bung Fu smiled, “So posting about politics and social justice is just an ego game, it makes the individual feel good but doesn’t help the group?”

Brother Nopants shook his head and spoke slowly, “The group and the individual are the same. The group reaches for unity through its members. The individual posts are powerless, but as a group…”

Bung Fu sat in silence for some time.



“Is the individual really so powerless?” asked Bung Fu.

Nopants shook his head again, “Some are, because many groups are not positioned to affect each other. But as I said, the individual and the group are the same. Even your individual question carries a group’s energy.”

“Which group?” asked Bung Fu.

“As an individual” replied the monk, “you have the power to choose.”


Cramulus

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Re: Fractal Cult
« Reply #13 on: May 16, 2013, 04:03:01 PM »
Quote from: enki
I have mentioned before in passing the connection documented between popular music and occult practice. I have come to the tentative conclusion that this is a subset of the general connection between occult movements and economic elites, and how this relates to leisure-class societies.

Most of us spend a large portion of our time working. It is anomalous to have large quantities of leisure time prior to old age, but there has been a leisure class since at least the establishment of Eridug more than six thousand years ago. The leisure class is defined not by not working, but instead by not needing to work (and thus having their occupation driven by interest rather than economic factors). My thesis about leisure class occupation is that there are three primary categories of popular leisure-class occupation, one of which is dominated by mysticism.

Those classes of occupation available only or mostly to those who are not viscerally and mortally concerned with the accumulation of money are: physical philosophy, abstract philosophy, and time-wasting. Physical philosophy contains such things as tinkering, home improvement, small-scale engineering, painting, sculpting, scientific experimentation, electronics, model trains, and computer programming — things that are ostensibly potentially profitable but whose potential for profit is a gamble. Abstract philosophy has potentially higher stakes and a lower success rate, and contains both those things we think of as philosophy today, mysticism, the occult, and more rigorous practices like mathematics. Time-wasting contains things like casual golfing — things that are done to fill leisure time but not done in such a way that money could be gained from them.

A rock star is not initiated into the occult by some record-company-sponsored ritual. A rock star, when he or she makes it big, no longer has to work day and night to make it big; there is more leisure time (though I am not implying that rock stars are slackers; a self-made band, as opposed to a group manufactured by a record company, must generate enormous quantities of flukes before managing to get signed — Radiohead sent out demos for years under the name On A Friday before they managed to push out Pablo Honey — and an established artist can have those flukes published rather than sending demos to yet another company). If you no longer have money woes and you can get away with putting in a third of the work you have for years, you can either maintain your current effort (and potentially burn out) or you can take up those things that you could not before. As a result, The Beatles made Crowley and Hare Krishna references, and Bowie writes songs about the Sephiroth. It is easier to get into the occult in a group already saturated with occultists and ex-occultists, and the popular music scene is such a group. But, other notable successful musical artists have taken up building instruments or painting or piloting commercial aircraft.




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Kerouac vs Hesse

When you throw a rock into the water, it will speed on the fastest course to the bottom of the water. Somewhere along the line I knew there’d be girls, visions, everything; somewhere along the line the pearl would be handed to me.

A true seeker cannot not accept any teachings, not if he sincerely wishes to find something. I hid in the grapevines, digging it all. I felt like a million dollars; I was adventuring in the crazy American night. The potential Buddha already exists in the sinner; his future is already there.

Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish. We fumed and screamed in our mountain nook, mad drunken Americans in the mighty land. We were on the roof of America and all we could do was yell, I guess — across the night, eastward over the Plains.

During deep meditation it is possible to dispel time, to see simultaneously all the past, present, and future, and then everything is good, everything is perfect, everything is Brahman. We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked at each other for the last time.

Here is a doctrine at which you will laugh. It seems to me that Love is the most important thing in the world. We were already almost out of America and yet definitely in it and in the middle of where it’s maddest. I think it is only important to love the world, to explain and despise it. But we should regard the world and ourselves and all beings with love, admiration and respect. Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk — real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious.

I had to strive for property and experience nausea and the depths of despair in order to learn not to resist them, in order to learn to love the world, and no longer compare it with some kind of desired imaginary world, some imaginary vision of perfection, but to leave it as it is, to love it and be glad to belong to it. Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?




words by Hesse & Kerouac
arranged by Cramulus & Zarathud




“Who is the Master that makes the grass green and the poop funny?”



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by Enki

In Defense of Trolling

Trolling is a public service.

Of course, it doesn’t calm flamewars. However, by causing flamewars, it forces those engaged in them to take on a level of self-reflection they would otherwise not consider. A good troll will not only cause all the irrational emotional reactions, but (as an often unintended but nevertheless socially invaluable side effect) pit those being trolled against each other in a context in which they are exposed to how ridiculous their own beliefs really are.

A flamewar, because it is an ostensibly rational discussion driven entirely by pathos, is a very clear and obvious trace of the irrational or pathological basis at the root of many ostensibly rational beliefs; once someone realizes that some deeply-held conviction is deeply-held because of a single anecdote or some personal psychological need, if they are mature they cease to be emotionally engaged by a simple challenge or a calm discussion of the topic.

There are plenty of accidental trolls, of course. Any culture clash is indistinguishable from intentional trolling, because alternate reality tunnels are alien in unexpected and unconsidered ways. If we were born where they were born and raised as they were raised, we would believe what they believe; until we are challenged with an incomprehensible set of beliefs, we cannot approach our own set of beliefs in a balanced way and consider whether or not they are sensible.

Because alien cultures are getting less and less alien and more and more familiar, the impetus for introspection has become the occupation of two main groups: science fiction authors and internet trolls, both of whom synthesize new and alien worldviews by inverting some detail of an existing worldview and taking it to an extreme.








“An event is worth a thousand meanings.”




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- The city of fog -

White Plains, New York

or Dream White Plains, New York?

All cities are recursive

within the dream

   there is an entire copy of the city, down to the smallest detail

(zoom in further)

    including a person who dreams another iteration of the dream city

(now zoom way out)

the real city is an iteration of


Cramulus

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Re: Fractal Cult
« Reply #14 on: May 16, 2013, 04:15:22 PM »
Quote from: cram

Fractuplets

You start with a picture of the whole universe Mandelbrot

and lean (like a friend is about to whisper a secret)

             closer            and closer

until you see the earth

 until you see the nations

  until you see the cities

    until you see the streets

     until you see the people

      until you see the veins

       until you see the cells

        until you see what matters

———and there’s the Whole Mandelbrot again out the passengers side window, we wave to the universe like kids on a road trip————-

zn+1 = zn2 + c  …. this is what it says:

our body and our cities are cousins 

our nations and our selves are cousins

our molecules and our big ideas are cousins

the big and small are

structural Siamese twins

                       triplets

                 quadruplets

             pentuplets

 Fractuplets,

               you and I




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caps like they’re made about 28 and lives in the window disappears or if it’s any constellation, you are a retarded impulse!

my brain just sold her drugs so easy to read my cock

It’s poop you encounter. A lion answers, ”that loser makes me shit”

that’s not sure what’s crackalackin need right on the fuck those guys because they’re talking about you

how many oranges are you joyously rotating on?

six oranges in question

stuff in my office is only one big orgy


still the middle school have blossomed into chicks who have only banged in three+ years

jesus [dildo icon]s dildoes

bring and brag is an oft overlooked chest full of people in ohio

hey pang hates moon light, having a half dozen of his blog

two modes: compromise, and dictate.

but what is a reptile podling sex slave or something

sure, they’re a bunch of the challenge, you get a mission which were just people worship anything awesome this game called ”from clowns both had a bedroom

and while talking on principiadiscordia.com or the chance to kill the evil wine drinking british press won’t publish it, but we need somebody moralizing about my food safety protocols” is a protest to a long haired butt monglers

hoboner


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bees live in hexagons

humans live in cubes and rectangles

the self tessellates

and the macro is micro shaped


“If you don’t like the two party system, at least support the corpus callosum”










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    Will Turner: The Black Pearl?
    Jack Sparrow: Do you want to know what it is?
    [Will Turner nods]
    Jack Sparrow: The Black Pearl is everywhere. It is all around us. Even now, in this very room. The drink would not satisfy. Food turned to ash in our mouths. And all the pleasurable company in the world could not slake our lust. You can feel it when you go to work, when you go to church, when you pay thy taxes. It is the world that has been pulled over thy eyes to blind you from the truth.
    Will Turner: What truth?
    Jack Sparrow: That you are a slave, Will Turner. Like everyone else you were born into bondage.
    Elizabeth Swann: You like pain? Try wearing a corset!
    Jack Sparrow: Born into a prison that you cannot smell or taste or touch. A prison for thy mind. Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Black Pearl is. You have to see it for thyself. This is thy last chance. After this, there is no turning back. [opens hand, unveiling blue pill] You take the blue pill, the story ends, you wake up in thy bed and believe whatever you want to believe. [opens hand, unveiling red pill] You take the red pill, you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.
    Remember: all I'm offering is wearing a corset. Nothing more.
    [Will Turner takes the red pill after a few moments of thought, and washes it down with a mouthful of water from the glass next to him]
    Jack Sparrow: Follow me.




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    Mr. Burns: Harry Potter. We meet again.
    Bart: Voldemort?
    Mr. Burns: Yes. You see what I've become? See what I must do to survive? Live off another, a mere parasite. Unicorn blood can sustain me, but it cannot give me a body of my own. But there is something that can. Something that, conviently enough, lies in thy pocket.
    [Bart attempts to escape.]
    Mr. Burns: Stop him!
    [Smithers blocks Bart by snapping his fingers, causing flames to block off every exit.]



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“This next part I don’t remember so hot. All I know is I got up from the bed, like I was going down to the can or something, and I walked over to the TV set and turned it on to a dead channel-white noise at maximum decibels. Only, I missed. I didn’t connect. This is what the whole hep world would be doing Saturday night if the Nazis had won the war. It probably hurt him a little bit, but not as much as I wanted. Not even the Sun God wants to watch. It probably would’ve hurt him a lot, but I did it with my right hand, and I can’t make a good fist with that hand. Don’t waste any time with cheap shucks and misdemeanors. Go straight for the jugular. Get right into felonies.”

—    Catcher in the Rye / Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas


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“What makes the desert beautiful,” says the little prince, “is that I’m just going through a phase right now. Everybody goes through phases and all, don’t they?”

—    The Little Prince / Catcher in the Rye


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“It is the stillest words that bring on the bullet. Between the eyes of every endangered panda, static comes on doves’ feet.”

—    Nietzsche / Palahniuk


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7:00 - 7:10 AM - Daily Fractal Cult Chant (in Julia Hall)

In 60 seconds, say OM once.

 In 60 seconds, say OM twice.

  In 60 seconds, say OM 4 times.   

   In 60 seconds, say OM 8 times.   

    In 60 seconds, say OM 16 times.   

     In 60 seconds, say OM 32 times.   

      In 60 seconds, say OM 64 times.     

       In 60 seconds, say OM 128 times.   

        In 60 seconds, say OM 256 times.   

         In 60 seconds, say OM 512 times.   

Then we’ll have breakfast.


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Cult Leader

Bung Fu the Fool been in the Fractal Cult for a few weeks but never seen the person in charge of it. Nevertheless, he had been hearing a lot of talk about a Leader. He started asking around about the guy, hoping to meet him in the flesh.

After a few days, Bung Fu concluded that nobody in the Fractal Cult has actually met the Leader in person. Or if they have, they have been instructed to be really dodgy about it. They always said these vague mystical things about him like,

“He is greater than all of us,” or

“When you eat, you feed the leader,”

and most infuriating of all, “The Leader transcends the duality of self and the other.”

What the fuck does that even mean? Bung Fu cursed to himself as he searched. Bullshit cult probably doesn’t even have a leader.

Finally, Bung Fu got a hold of his old friend, the monk Nopants. Specifically, he got ahold of his neck and slapped him, “Who is in charge of this cult? Give it to me straight! I’ve gotta know!”

Nopants calmly answered, “Let me ask you this - who would the cells in your body say is their Leader?”

“Uh, me,” said Bung Fu quickly.

Nopants stuck out his tongue. “Slow down. Listen - the person who just said ‘me’… your cells have never met that jerk cult leader.”

Bung Fu dropped the monk and slapped his forehead. Nopants muttered to himself, “And if they ever did meet him, they’d probably grab him by the collar and slap him.”

          It took a few hours, but eventually Bung Fu was enlightened.



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“Love, which absolves no beloved one from loving, looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was much like another, and the sea is always the same.”

—    Dante / Kerouac / Conrad


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So I got in my car and drove deeper into the Universe

I tried to leave the Fractal Cult compound today. I haven’t been off the reservation in a while, I just assumed we weren’t allowed to leave. So I kind of expected that I’d be stopped by guards or something.

I was standing in the parking lot, fumbling with my keys, when I saw one of the Brothers walk by.

He shook his head at me. “You can’t leave, you know.”

“Are you gonna try to stop me?” I asked him, getting into my psychic kung-fu stance.

“No no, nothing like that,” he said as a butterfly landed on his head, “I mean it’s impossible to leave. There’s nothing outside of it. It’s the whole universe.”


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“Man is free at the instant he escapes from the deep to the shore, turns to the perilous waters and gazes.”

—    Voltaire / Dante