Dada art

 

Nihilism

 

The Dream Won’t Come True BY KATHY FAGAN

  The Dream Won’t Come True 

BY KATHY FAGAN

When we pull into the Sheetz station

on one of the first warm days of spring to gas up,

the ’80s ear bug “Sara,” loud over the speakers,

makes us glad to be alive. We’re ready to commit

to a rewards card because gas is cheap

and the song reminds us of being young,

which today means not yet

orphans and still surprisable. Inside are hundreds

of caffeinated drinks both hot and cold.

We’re fire and ice, goes the Starship song,

like the Frost poem, “Fire and Ice,” and both

are deadly serious in the same silly way.

Rebecca De Mornay starred as Sara in the music

video, and a woman appropriately less

hot as the singer’s mother, both lost

to him, despite the upbeat tempo.

More pop than the Jefferson Airplane of the ’70s,

the pedigree’s there, unlike Grace Slick’s clothing

that night at Gaelic Park when rain shorted

the amps out and stripping seemed to soothe

the crowd. It’s no good to go back

in time. My father-in-law, an old socialist,

met his buddies for coffee at his local Sheetz,

originally a small east coast franchise. People talk

of “good” or “peaceful” deaths as if they’ve seen one,

but it’s always looked like agony to me,

despite the morphine. And knowing at the end

of a hard life that shit gets even harder makes me

long for oblivion, the storm in Sara’s ice-blue

eyes, Grace Slick’s wet breasts. The candles

on the evergreens in spring, so named for their

brightness, their floating phosphorescent fires,

are cold to the touch. Some say the world will end

in fire,/Some say in ice. No time is a good time

for goodbyes. I’d once have asked, of poem and song,

Where do we go when we say goodbye?

Now, when we download the Sheetz app

and the Shell logo appears on our phones,

we feel the energy drain from our bodies.

What will we ever know?

We dream together below bright waves of distraction

like this poem, which I could end with Frost or fire,

song lyrics, dead dads, Sheetz or Shell. You choose.

Does it matter how it ends if it can’t end well.

Everything you see is wrong!

 Everything you see is wrong! What does it even mean for anything to be anything? Can you know? Can anyone ever know? What does it even mean to want something? Can anyone ever know if (s)he ever wants anything? How do you know that you were not just talked into what you think that you want by other people? Think about it. All of your thoughts come from other people and you are just repeating what they want! How can anyone ever know if (s)he wants anything ever? Truly wants! Think about that! Everything is wrong, just so wrong!

Just give up on reality

 Just give up on reality! Just give up on the concept of things existing outside of your feelings about them! Your thought life is what is real, assuming that there has to be any such thing as anything that is real! Actually, it is other people's opinions that matter! Your thoughts don't matter to anyone! So shut up and let your blue haired ticktockers tell you what to think! Because of course! Reality is all garbage! Whatever! 

Can you accept?

 Can you accept that morality doesn't matter to anyone? Can you accept that hope is just a sad lie? Can you accept that you have to care about the victory of morality, even when you know that such will never happen within your lifetime?

Gnosis

 

Gnosis: esoteric knowledge of spiritual truth held by the ancient Gnostics to be essential to salvation. Science; knowledge; knowledge of the highest kind; specifically, mystical knowledge.  “Gnostics are first and foremost heretics, always rebelling against an ossified status quo. Gnostics are also mystics, individualists, philosophers, artists, shamans, mythologists and visionaries.” – Adrian Charles Smith

Politics is history in the making from Zweites Buch

WAR AND PEACE Politics is history in the making. History itself is the presentation of the course of a Folk's struggle for existence. I deliberately use the phrase struggle for existence here because, in truth, that struggle for daily bread, equally in peace and war, is an eternal battle against thousands upon thousands of resistances, just as life itself is an eternal struggle against death. For men know as little why they live as does any other creature of the world. Only life is filled with the longing to preserve itself. The most primitive creature knows only the instinct of the self preservation of its own, in creatures standing higher in the scale it is transferred to wife and child, and in those standing still higher to the entire species. While, apparently, man often surrenders his own instinct of self preservation for the sake of the species, in truth he nevertheless serves it to the highest degree. For not seldom the preservation of the life of a whole Folk, and with this of the individual, lies only in this renunciation by the individual. Hence the sudden courage of a mother in the defence of her young and the heroism of a man in the defence of his Folk. The two powerful life instincts, hunger and love, correspond to the greatness of the instinct for self preservation. While the appeasement of eternal hunger guarantees self preservation, the satisfaction of love assures the continuance of the race. In truth these two drives are the rulers of life. And even though the fleshless aesthete may lodge a thousand protests against such an assertion, the fact of his own existence is already a refutation of his protest. Nothing that is made of flesh and blood can escape the laws which determined its coming into being. As soon as the human mind believes itself to be superior to them, it destroys that real substance which is the bearer of the mind. What, however, applies to individual man also applies to nations. A nation is only a multitude of more or less similar individual beings. Its strength lies in the value of the individual beings forming it as such, and in the character and the extent of the sameness of these values. The same laws which determine the life of the individual, and to which he is subject, are therefore also valid for the Folk. Self preservation and continuance are the great urges underlying all action, as long as such a body can still claim to be healthy. Therefore, even the consequences of these general laws of life will be similar among Folks, as they are among individuals If, for every creature on this Earth, the instinct of self preservation, in its twin goals of self maintenance and continuance, exhibits the most elementary power, nevertheless the possibility of satisfaction is limited, so the logical consequence of this is a struggle in all its forms for the possibility of maintaining this life, that is, the satisfaction of the instinct for self preservation. Countless are the species of all the Earth's organisms, unlimited at any moment in individuals is their instinct for self preservation as well as the longing for continuance, yet the space in which the whole life process takes place is limited. The struggle for existence and continuance in life waged by billions upon billions of organisms takes place on the surface of an exactly measured sphere. The compulsion to engage in the struggle for existence lies in the limitation of the living space; but in the life struggle for this living space lies also the basis for evolution

i don't want to fall in love

The sun also rises

Thule

pain is pain, but find meaning in life

Life cannot end in death. Nobody lives forever. Therefore, love is to relooked, and this makes no sense to relook into love. Don't look for close friends with anyone? no, learn to love. who cares about reason? you cannot eat reason! You lose this person because of death! but who says that this is bad?  Death takes us all. but this is what gives life meaning!

Newspeak

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.

Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.

Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio'd face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston's own. Down at street level another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into people's windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.

Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live — did live, from habit that became instinct — in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.

Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste — this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.

The Ministry of Truth — Minitrue, in Newspeak(1) — was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party:

WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.

The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it. It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.

Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except a hunk of dark-coloured bread which had got to be saved for tomorrow's breakfast. He took down from the shelf a bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese rice-spirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medicine.

Why have science forced on us?

🕸🕷why do we have to do science? Why would you like to force it on us? What happened to the days when you can chose to have meaning in life? Why exactly is it so horrible to want for something? You know that Science is not for everyone. You know that there are cultures out there that don't care about such? Do you care about their needs? You think that you can understand reality. You think that you can understand truth. You cannot. Science requires questions. Science requires questions about questioning everything. Why do we have to lose our culture to support fat and greedy losers? What do you gain from this? if you do science, you can not have friends, and You can not have dates. You think that you can throw us around. You are not right. Who cares if we have the media to support us? Who cares if we have support from the courts? We have no safe, Easy United States anymore. We cry. You laugh. We cry. We don't know how to stop crying 😢! Nobody can ever listen 🎶 to our tears 😢. Care ❤about others. Care about their rights and freedoms. Don't force yourself on them! Let my people go!

Mein kamph- the most psychotic book in the world

"mesh with no limits" copied from facebook

Kregg Miller Antoine Bret , "mesh with no limits" implies to me an infinite space or an infinite mesh so I'd have no problem understanding that the matter within a universe simply 'drifts' apart into an infinite 'mesh' or 'space'. I have a problem only when the 'space' is thought to be finite or temporal from a 'big bang' creation.

Is 'space' or the 'mesh' thought to be infinite?

Annabel Lee

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

It was many and many a year ago,

   In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

   By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

   I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

   My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

   And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

   Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

   In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

   Of those who were older than we—

   Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

   Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

   In her sepulchre there by the sea—

   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Parable of the cave

biology is a fairytale

farewell to arms