The Scrapyard --or-- CNO's brain dump

[chaotic neutral observer]

A month ago, a friend of the family passed suddenly.  He was diagnosed with cancer, and then shot himself in the head.

He was a small-town resident handyman, someone everyone knew and liked.  He was the kind of guy who, given a problem, would immediately grab his tools and tackle it, without thinking it through much.  Sometimes he made a mess, but he got the job done.  In the end, he applied that work ethic to himself.  So it goes.

He and I weren't more than acquaintances, but he was good friends with my mother, and she's pissed--not that she expresses it much.  I'm not sure what I feel about all this, or what I'm supposed to feel about it.  Am I supposed to be angry?  That doesn't make sense, no one exists to be angry at.

My last memory of him was last fall, when he helped me remove the stump of a plum tree.

This is all very stupid.

[chaotic neutral observer]

I drive a coupe.

If we were meant to drive vehicles with four doors, God would have given us four arms.

[chaotic neutral observer]

You can make lemonade out of your lemons, but the acid remains.

[chaotic neutral observer]

Trusting you
Doesn't mean believing you will catch me if I fall.

Trusting you
Means knowing you well enough
That I won't be surprised
When you don't.

[Doktor Howl]

A friend is someone who has not yet had sufficient motivation to throw you under the bus.

[chaotic neutral observer]

After people make a decision, they have a predisposition to believing it was the right one (also see: Sunk Cost Fallacy; Brand Loyalty).  I took the road less traveled by, which, in hindsight, was the correct choice, and proves my intellectual and moral superiority.

This type of bias is often present even when the person didn't actively make a decision, and their state is a result of external factors, or an accident of birth (My food preference/skin colour is superior to your food preference/skin colour).

Naturally, this extends to the country of one's birth.  On average, the citizens will show a natural tendency to construct and amplify a narrative that "this" is the best country in which to live, and other countries' way of doing things is evil/wrong/backward/barbaric/inefficient.

If a country's narrative is broadcast widely enough, and loudly enough, they attract immigrants.

I don't know where I'm going with this.

[chaotic neutral observer]

Who is John Galt?

Elon Musk is John Galt.

A Captain of Industry, a Titan of Business, he is embodient of the self-made man, a modern Prometheus bringing the Glorious Future to the waiting masses.

And like John Galt, he too is a fictional construct, an emanation of a flat and feeble imagination which has only a cursory understanding of economics, science, politics, management, or engineering; a creature that only exists to the extent that people believe in him.

John Galt's author was Ayn Rand; the creator of the fictional Melon is the real-world Musk, supported and abetted by his cult of libertarian tech-bros and adoring fanboys.

Politics has Trump; Technology has Musk.


Have a link:  DEBUNKING ELON MUSK Pt1

[chaotic neutral observer]

I had a dream.

I dreamt that I was character in a work of fiction, and I raged and screamed against the author to let me out, to give me freedom.

But that's nonsense.  For an author to write characters as if they have independent existence is self-indulgent and pretentious.  The author does not have unlimited power within the scope of his writing; he cannot create something which acts in opposition to his will.

With a god, it is not quite as clear; a limited god, who participates in a universe, but is not of it, may co-existent with independent entities.  But a truly omnipotent god, who created a universe from scratch, and whose constant attention and intervention sustains and continues that universe, cannot create beings with free-will.  He can only pretend he can.

If I dreamed of this crap, what does that mean?

I am the belly-button lint of the universe, contemplating itself.

[chaotic neutral observer]

Everyone is haunted by ghosts only they can see.

They're with us from infancy, wandering, lurking, following.

Even before we learn to speak, we learn they are not part of the common experience.  No one else sees them, hears them, smells them, feels them.  Language can only be used to convey concepts we have in common; what only one person can perceive, can have no meaningful name.

We form blindspots.  No-one else sees them, so they're not there.  This isn't mere disbelief, but a strong and unshakeable belief in non-existence.  Sometimes it takes a little longer to develop, and the adults laugh and say we have an "imaginary friend", and that we'll grow out of it.  And to be fair, sometimes it is an imaginary friend...and sometimes, it's neither imaginary, nor friend.  But we always learn.  We must.

They're  opaque.  They're with you even now.  When you're driving and a car comes out of nowhere;  maybe your attention lapsed...or maybe there was a ghost blocking your view, and you simply couldn't see it, or the vehicle behind it.

You bump into a chair.  You stub your toe.
Maybe you misjudged your path...or maybe you were subconsciously side-stepping to avoid the ghost only you can see.

[chaotic neutral observer]

What does it mean to be discordian?

What does it mean, when anyone can attach the label to themselves, and, like the christians, anyone else can just as easily say they're not a real discordian?

What does it mean if I can look at someone who's never heard of discordianism, and recognize that they reflect my own discordian ideal, that they're discordian without knowing it?

What does it mean if, when I meet someone calling themselves discordian, discover they're close-minded, bigoted, incapable of introspection, an otherwise horrible specimen of humanity, and yet I must nevertheless acknowledge that they're still undoubtedly, unquestionably a discordian?

It means nothing.  Discordianism is just another trap.  You stick a label on yourself, pretend that it changes something, and now you're one of the Enlightened Few.  You acknowledge the parable of the barstool, but you don't really believe in it; it's just a story.  You've got this.  You know how it all works, now.

Hail Eris.

[chaotic neutral observer]

That is not the light at the end of the tunnel.

No, that's just daylight reflecting off the company president's buttocks, as he moons us while he prances off to exercise his stock options.

[Doktor Howl]

That is not the light at the end of the tunnel.

No, that's just daylight reflecting off the company president's buttocks, as he moons us while he prances off to exercise his stock options.

I believe that it is a matter of flawed perspective.

The light at the end of the tunnel IS sunshine, but you're seeing it from the bottom of a well.