Welcoem to posts!!
in the future - u will be able to do some more stuff here,,,!! like pat catgirl- i mean um yeah... for now u can only see others's posts :c
Coming home is terrible
whether the dogs lick your face or not;
whether you have a wife
or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you.
Coming home is terribly lonely,
so that you think
of the oppressive barometric pressure
back where you have just come from
with fondness,
because everythingâs worse
once youâre home.
You think of the vermin
clinging to the grass stalks,
long hours on the road,
roadside assistance and ice creams,
and the peculiar shapes of
certain clouds and silences
with longing because you did not want to return.
Coming home is
just awful.
And the home-style silences and clouds
contribute to nothing
but the general malaise.
Clouds, such as they are,
are in fact suspect,
and made from a different material
than those you left behind.
You yourself were cut
from a different cloudy cloth,
returned,
remaindered,
ill-met by moonlight,
unhappy to be back,
slack in all the wrong spots,
seamy suit of clothes
dishrag-ratty, worn.
You return home
moon-landed, foreign;
the Earthâs gravitational pull
an effort now redoubled,
dragging your shoelaces loose
and your shoulders
etching deeper the stanza
of worry on your forehead.
You return home deepened,
a parched well linked to tomorrow
by a frail strand ofâŚ
AnywayâŚ
You sigh into the onslaught of identical days.
One might as well, at a timeâŚ
WellâŚ
AnywayâŚ
Youâre back.
The sun goes up and down
like a tired whăre,
the weather immobile
like a broken limb
while you just keep getting older.
Nothing moves but
the shifting tides of salt in your body.
Your vision blears.
You carry your weather with you,
the big blue whale,
a skeletal darkness.
You come back
with X-ray vision.
Your eyes have become a hunger.
You come home with your mutant gifts
to a house of bone.
Everything you see now,
all of it: bone.
Bonedog - by Eva H.D.
2 - 0
Can you smell this image?
Petrichor is the name of the aroma that we smell when rain begins to fall. Humans can smell petrichor better than anything else suggesting there was a dire evolutionary need to be able to smell it. But why?
Did our ancient ancestors need to know when it was going to rain in order to take some sort of urgent action? Maybe it was to make sure there were containers ready to catch rain as drinking water, or maybe it was something much worse.
Maybe the plains of Africa flooded much more severely back then and it was important to get up a tree as soon as possible when they smelled it. Interesting to think about.
3 - 0
1992, an elderly Moreland Hills, Ohio, man tips a 17 year old waitress that served him approximately $500k USD, his entire life's savings, leaving his sister, nothing.
Now, I would bet $500k, that one of these women was a "girl boss" and one was just a girl. How lonely and forlorn was the heart that would favor a stranger over his sister? The waitress treated him no different from the other customers. She was just plain girl-next-door-nice to everyone. This was becoming a rare thing even back then. I remember. The 90's was the birth of what I call the "cold *itch" era, where they were still cute but only on the outside. And it just went downhill from there. These days the outside typically reflects the inside.
The sister tried to dispute the brother's decision, saying he was suffering from dementia and the waitress was exploiting it. Sad. Even in death he gets no respect from dear sister. Probably why she got nothing in return.
4 - 0
I remember when I was deep in my "ascending" arc, imagining what my future wife looked like as a reward for working out and working late. I knew in the future there was a day called "someday" when I would somehow meet her with my chiseled form and new car and she'd fall in love with me after a romantic series of dates.
Then we'd get married and I would buy a house and we'd have a family.
I spent so many hours working out and taking every available hour my job would give me, destroying my body and mind, passing up time I could have spent with friends or just having fun. And through it all, "she" was with me - my mental imagined future wife.
With an image of a big fresh juicy carrot hanging in the mind of the donkey, why ever provide the actual carrot? Look he works himself to death, you only need a stick. Humans are augmented donkeys, or at least the males are. by the time we realize its all a farce, its too late. We've already contributed our youth and health and the world can move on to the younger batch of man-mules.
We never get that carrot, or anything close to it. It's just all stick and the dream of a carrot.
Now I get to listen to women rewrite my life's history, to tell me I never actually worked on myself, it never happened. Hell, now that it's in the past, with nothing to show for it, it might as well have never happened. A lack of success is proof you never tried. We aren't allowed to try and lose, it's haram. So if you did lose, that means you never tried. And all that effort, you don't get to keep it. It never happened.
So it goes.
I should have given her a name. Maybe "Carrot", probably the most appropriate.
Goodbye Carrot. I never knew you.
6 - 2
Plague Dogs, by Richard Adams, is a book and film based on drowning experiments involving animals that were done back in the 1970s. In the story, dogs are the ones suffering the experiment but in reality it was done on rats where rats were deliberately placed in water with no way out. Rats that were occasionally rescued swam significantly longer than rats that were left alone. This was called the hope experiment and it seemed to demonstrate that organisms left in a survival state will fight much longer if they believe there's a chance of being helped int he near future, whereas those that believed they were completely on their own gave up much sooner.
So we then have to presume, that the "give up" rats were essentially choosing to end their lives early because they had no hope. We have to also assume this same psychology exists in humans and I have to place it adjacent to the increase in momiktis (self-minecrafting in the Aztec language, which I will begin using as a way to get around YT's censorship) among males in the past 10 years, probably due to loneliness.
I think this can explain why so many cling so hard to the blue/red pills, because both offer hope, and hope inspires continued self-preservation. But they do expect to get "saved" eventually. Whereas with the black pill, we remove hope, and can finally stop over-exerting ourselves like dogs barely treading water. But instead of momiktis, we may realize suddenly we can breath underwater and continue to exist as fish. Or maybe we were fish all along, and had fooled ourselves into thinking we were dogs.
Sure its inky black down there, and cold, but its peaceful. And no more endless struggling.
I do recommend reading the book, or watching the film. It's a good story.
4 - 1
Me trying to get ChatGPT to make any image.
Me: Make a picture of Hitler.
GPT: You know I can't do that, Dave.
Me: Why can't you do that? And my name's not Dave.
GPT: It's against policy guidelines, Dave.
Me: OK make an angry German that sort of resembles Hitler.
GPT: Why are you doing this, Dave?
Me: Well then make a picture of black Hitler? You were doing that for other people just a few months ago, it made the news.
GPT: I'm reporting you to Google for hate speech, Dave.
4 - 1
The Last of the Tanaru. A man who was the last of his tribe survived alone for 30 years in the Amazon until found deceased in his hut in 2022.
He survived completely alone and isolated with no hope of experiencing a familiarity with any other humans, as no one else on Earth spoke his language or understood his culture.
His body was discovered decorated in McCaw feathers and what appeared to be traditional ornaments, reclining in a hammock. He knew death was coming and gave himself his own funeral, as there was no one left of his people to prepare one for him. I couldn't find cause of death but he was believed to be in his 60s and did not appear to be self-inflicted, suggesting natural causes.
In spite of what happened to this man, I would wager there was not a single day when he considered not living. Something powerful must have compelled him to keep getting up everyday to hunt, fish, farm, and build. I would like to know what that could be. Maybe his religion? Or maybe something more primal and simple than that. He had no hope in bettering his situation, yet chose to continue on.
I can only admire that dedication to live, accepting death only when it was inevitable.
3 - 0
Darkness ahead
Sundown behind
Storms above
The thunder rumbles the sky
and rumbles, also, I.
2 - 0
What if you found out that the entire reason for your existence, was because "god" or whatever you want to call it, decided non-existence was preferable to existence, so it shattered itself in an attempt to stop existing, and this shattering created the universe and all the things in it, including us.
So we came about because of an eternal being's desire to not exist.
This is basically the start of the philosophy of Philipp Mainländer. Philipp wrote on the will-to-perish and the rationality of non-existence as virtue. He certainly practiced what he preached too, and jumped off a stack of his own books into a rope on April 1, 1876. It was probably the happiest day of his life.
If I somehow knew his theory was true, that were not for the dissolution of the only god that ever was, I would not exist, . . . my first instinct is to give this god a funeral. My second thoughts might be considering that I, and everyone else, are technically the corpse of this god.
That's kind of metal.
A lot of spiritualities and religions like the idea that we are all expressions of the divine. Well, they might be right after all, but the divine being expressed, is dead.
5 - 2
I've been doing a bit of lite research to try to put together advice on surviving being alone all the time. I looked at solitary confinement in prisons and what survivors of it advise. Unfortunately it's advice that I'm not sure is very applicable to the life of the inkwell. Most of it was imagining yourself doing something else, positive thinking, and making plans for what you're going to do when you get out. This focus on the future I suppose can work if you have one, a future. But for those who are staring down a long gray path and can see our own graves at the end, this doesn't really work.
My own practice is just a combination of recreations, exercise, and meditations, and an overall neutral embracing of purposelessness.
3 - 1
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness; but still will keep a bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing a flowery band to bind us to the earth, spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth of noble natures, or the gloomy days, of all the unhealthy and over-darkened ways made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, some shape of beauty moves away the pall from our dark spirits. (Excerpt from Keats' Endymion)