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There's a phrase that keeps coming back to me. Rational self interest. It's a key concept inside of Capitalism, which more or less says that nobody needs to make Capitalism work, because it just does. The reason it just does is because it's in an individual's self interest to do things that happen to work out well for everyone.

Adam Smith in his work Wealth of Nations discusses the importance of regulation. Regulation is an important element because it prevents the abuse of power to the detriment of the people.

At some point we started a weird split in the way we talked about capitalism, dividing things into Capitalist and Anti-Capitalist. We started to buy into the idea that regulation or restriction was, rather than being a way of the public exercising their own rational self interest through the actions of their elected representatives, inherently anti-Capitalist.

In the same way we tend to scorn people who try to change or oppose the system, which is odd because they're following the same human laws that make Capitalism possible. Only for some reason they've decided their lives are better served by acting outside of the maintream.

Regulation is an element of Capitalism; an element that is in the rational self interest of the people whose needs are served by the Capitalist system. There are a variety of ways to interact with Capitalism, and the way that serves your self interest is the right one. Corporations are part of Capitalism but they have no right to define it.

I have holidays and writing is just not happening.

Halp!

First two chapters

In defense of power.

1.
Adrian hits the club hard, walking in like he owns the place, and smiles big. He scans the room for a target and aquires multiple targets instantly. It's on.

A mixed group, men and women wanders past. One guy, drunk yells out "too many steroids bro!"

Adrian pretends he can't hear him properly. "you have too many haemmoroids?" he queries.

"I said you have too many steroroids," he yells again.

Adrian laughs; an honest sounding laugh, free of malice or pretense (seemingly).

"that makes a lot more sense bro," he says, "thought you were telling me you had haemmoroids."

Before the man can respond, Adrian's stepped forward and pushed out a hand. The man moves on impulse before he even realizes and extends his also. Adrian seizes it.

"Adrian" he says, pumping the guy's hand.

"Steve," says the guy, again on impulse.

Adrian looks up at the other three. He points.

"I think you look like a Rufus. You look like a Mandy. And you could be a Sarah. No... Actually yeah. How'd I do?"

"why the fuck am I Rufus?" says not-Rufus.

"Sarah's my suster's name" says not-Sarah.

"so I got one out of three," says Asrian, nodding at the one he called Mandy.

"I'm Jane," she says.

Adrian nods and looks at not-Rufus. "I'm Mark,"

He looks at not-Sarah (the hot one). "I'm Lucy," she says. Arian smiles, shakes ands with everyone and goes over his 'nice to meet you's before wishing them all a good night.

He walks towards the centre of the room and sees two girls; one looks korean, the other kind of European. They're sitting with a fat guy.

Adrian stops. He knows the fat guy. His name is Edwin. They used to hang out and drink beer in the afternoon. They played WoW on the same server for years. Adrian approaches.

"Edwin?" he asks. Edwin looks at him, looking confused. 
"hey" Edwin says. He doesnt recognize him. 
"it's Adrian man! How you been?"
Edwin's face morphs into amazement.
"holy fuck," he says, his voice almost a whisper. "Adrian! Holy shit."
"good to see you man," says Adrian. "you look well."
"now way man, you're the one who fuckin' looks well!" he turns back to the women. "this guy, this fuckin guy was like, twice my size when I saw him last."
"when was that?" asks probably Korean.
"about... Two years, three years ago..."
"three, yeah," says Adrian.
"how'd you do it?" asks hot Eutopean. 
"I just haven't eaten for the last three years," he says earnestly and allows the girls a moment of shock before laughing and smiling, "nahh. I went to like some militant lardarse bootcamp and they beat done sense into me."
"that's what I should do," jokes Edwin, voice slightly forced. He's going for depreciating humor but he just sounds slightly pathetic. He knows he's been reduced to the side act and can't quote claw back to the top.
"well seriously man," he says, lowering his voice like theyre having a private chat, but loud enough to be heard by the women, "you're nowhere fuckin near where I was, like, heart attack danger zone, but it's worth doing. I can give you some names."
"yeah man, yeah" says Edwin nodding. He looks over at the women but seems to be short of conversation. 
"how do you girls know this troublemaker?" says Adrian.
"just met him tonight." says probably Korean.
Adrian put his hand on Edwins shoulder and give him a playful shake. "Careful, he's a fox."
They chat for a while with Adrian directing most of the conversation. probably Korean is definayely Korean, though Australian born. Hot European is actually French Canadian and just coming down to visit.
He strings them along for a while and checks his watch. 
"I'm going to make a move back home," he says, "need to feed the dog. I'll be back though, might see you all round."
Added chat, talking up the dog with a few funny anecdotes. The girls are interested. 
"look," says Adrian, "I'm good to drive so if you want to meet the mongrel thing, I'll take you back to mine when I feed him and then bring you all back here if you like." there is a flurry of consent, and they all move along into his car. He has a nice car; clean, red and expensive.

They climb in. He allows them to choose sides. Edwin sits beside him in the drivers seat. Ideally he'd have sat in the back with the Asian girl, giving Adrian the hottie to hit on, but the awkwardness of his decision helps establish him as an Alpha type so he doesn't object.

They arrive at his house. The dog is inside, a fluffy puffed up creature. The girls pat it and chat for a bit.

Adrian talks to the Canadian. He goes kino; uses touch, putting his hand gently on the small of her back as he laughs and jokes. The other two make awkward conversation.

Adrian leans in to his girl and speaks into her ear.
"want me to show you what I used to look like?"
she nods. He grabs her hand and leads her into his bedroom.

This is easy from here. The routine plays itself. He picks up a photo of himself as a fatty and shows it to her, laughing with her about it. Then he takes her hand and says 'I went from that...' placing her hand on his abs, '...to this.' her fingers play with the ripped hard muscles of his stomach and he leans in to kiss her on the mouth. She is prepped and ready from the last half hour or so of physical teasing so She responds readily to his touch and releases herself to him.

He pushes her hard against the wall and takes little time to be kissing her neck, running his fingers down her side. In moments he's unclasped her bra and pulled off their shirt pushing her down hard on the bed. They pull off the rest of their clothes and make love, intensely, firmly on the bed. They finish and Adrian pulls out and ties the condom, throwing it at the bin. It hits.

They talk a little in whispers, hands playing across each-others bodies. She wants to get back to her friend. She dresses urgently and he dresses too, before going back out. 

predictably Edwin and the Asian are right where he left them. Edwin is sulking like a puppy dog, the Korean is looking bored.

'fucking get over it' thinks Adrian. As if that fat fuck would know what to do with a woman if he had one. 

They climb into the car and drive off. The Canadian gives her number. Adrian leaves, and never sees her again.

2.
Edwin sees Adrian again a few weeks later when he's getting lunch. He's by himself getting a burger.

Adrian is dining with a Japanese girl he's met out clubbing. He's enjoying the conversation, despite her stilted English. He's not even on the script right now; he doesn't know if hes going to get some and he doesn't give a shit.

Edwin is angry and has had time to stew in his bitterness. He sees  Adrian with the girl and charges over to him.

"you fucking traitor!" he yells. People are turning to stare at them.
Adrian turns to look at Edwin for a few moments. His face is red and sweaty. 
"Edwin," he says. "this is Michiko. Michiko this is Edwin. We went to school together."
"Michiko, hey" says Edwin, dismissively, then turns to Adrian. "you gonna fuck her too?"
"none of your fucking business," says Adrian. 
He turns to the girl. "you want me to get this guy thrown out, or do you just want to catch up later?"
She looks faintly embarrassed. "I think we meet later," she says, excusing herself politely. 
Adrian stares directly at Edwin.
"take a seat" he says. 
Edwin pauses, then shakes his head. 
"nah. I'm fine now. I said my piece. Some frie..."
"I havent." says Adrian. "so sit the fuck down."
Edwin hesitates, but sits. He looks uncomfortable now, having used up all his energy in a violent rage.
"not that you deserve it; but I'm getting a beer what do you drink?"
"I'm fine."
"the fuck you are. Gold?"
Edwin nods after aggressive prompting, and Adrian walks up to the bar, gets two beers and comes back, dumps one in front of Edwin.
"what the fuck did you go and do a thing like that for?" says Adrian.
"what do you think man? You ruined my night."
"what night? Last night? Night before that?"
"you know what night."
"ok, sure. I know. And what did I ruin?"
"they were my girls dude, things were going to well, and you came in and took them away from me."
Adrian laughs at him. "fuck off." he takes a drink. "like youd know what to do with a girl if you got one. You had every chance with that Korean chick. You could have sat with her in the car. You could have put your hand on her leg. You could have tacked yourserl into her oriental pants while I was fucking the other one, but you didn't."
"because you came up and made me look bad."
"no, you made yourself look bad because you're fat, your attitude sucks and you're socially retarded. It's easier for you to blame me than look at yourself honestly, so you come up here like an asshole, embarrass yourself in front of Michiko and make a bigass scene. What the fuck?"
Edwin is silent. He's fuming inside but he doesn't know how to respond. Eventually he makes a weak retort.
"you just took over my whole night man. You should have helped me out, not left you behind."
"why should I help you?"
"because... Because you're good at this stuff man, and I'm not."
"so I should help you because I'm better than you? At this?"
"man I don't have the... The skills you have..."
"... And you never will. Not if you stay too scared to try." Adrian drinks the last of his beer. "excuse me. My help is reserved for people who help themselves."
He leaves, and Edwin just sits there, fuming for what feels like ever.

Looking at the discussions in the Discordian recipes forum, a lot of people seem to really know their shit when it comes to health and fitness.

I'm 5"2 and weigh 50 kilo (110 pounds) this is actually the most I've ever weighed.

Share your putting on weight (muscle is prefferable to fat) itt.

Already I up dairy, protein, drink the protein drinks after a workout and do about 50 mins exercise (hockey or gym) once every two days.

Killing Aurora - Helen Barnes

Killing Aurora is an Australian young adult fiction novel. It's one of my favorite books ever.

Its the story of two girls, and is an exploratiOn of what it means to be female in contemporary Auatralian society.

Both seem out of place with the way they fail to fit into their social expectations. Aurora internalizes, developing anorexia, while Web externalizes, picking up projects from the anarchists cookbook and exploring criminal passtimes for kicks.

Despite the YA genre, this is a serious work which touches on a multitude of themes. The dialogue is well constructed and the language is rich, expressive and frequently acidic. Rather than another teenage trainwreck dressed up as a morality tale, were presented with a serious analysis of how young women can find their place in a world that doesn't seem made for them.

Edit: Changed title rather than copypasting OP and restarting.

or you know, failing that, purchasable sex.

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2011-11-18/industry-calls-for-migrant-sex-worker-visas/3680954

Wanted; some sexy 'logo' type images that can be associated with the Bitter Tea Army project.

A DEISTIC SATIRICAL TAKE ON THE GARDEN OF EDEN
by David Bunch

ACT ONE

1. God created the world and two people named Adam and Eve, with whom he intended to populate the world.
2. One day, while God was not looking, the Devil came and captured Adam and Eve.
3. Adam and Eve were imprisoned in the Devil's garden called "Eden." God spoke to his eternal foe and asked for the return of his people. But the Devil, being fond of his new pets, refused.
4. God resolved to liberate Adam and Eve. Taking the shape of a serpent, God sneaked into the Devil's garden.
5. Sensing that Eve was the more insightful of the pair, God approached her.
6. God said to Eve, "If you will listen to me, I know a way for you to escape your imprisonment."
7. Eve said, "But Mr. Serpent, I do not wish to escape Eden. I like it here. This garden has everything I need."
8. God said, "You do not know what you are missing. Outside of this garden is an entire world, much larger than a mere garden. This world was created for your use. You will be much more satisfied there."
9. Eve said, "Really? I need to discuss this with Adam."
10. God said, "No, don't do that! Listen to me. In the far part of the garden there is a tree, called the Tree of Knowledge. Eat from this tree, and trick Adam into doing the same. Then you will know of the world at large, and your true mission in life."
11. And so Eve did as God asked. She and Adam ate from the Tree of Knowledge. They knew at once of the world outside and they were astonished to know how large and beautiful it was.
12. The Devil, sensing a disturbance, came into his garden to check on things. He was surprised to find that Adam and Eve had put on clothing and were building a boat out of fallen trees. He knew at once that they discovered the Tree of Knowledge.
13. The Devil was very cross. He spoke to Adam and Eve. "You think you are smart now! The world outside is not as grand as you think it is. In here - you are safe and taken care of. Out there - you must work and suffer."
14. Adam spoke. "We know of the world at large and our true potential. What you say may be true, but we do not want to live in a state of perpetual dependence. We are going to leave this garden and take our chances in the world."
15. Adam and Eve climbed into their boat and floated down river, exiting Eden.
16. The Devil began looking about his garden. By and by, he found a serpent that was not his own. The Devil spoke, "I see you now, God. I wish to confront you."
17. God resumed his natural shape. God and the Devil stood facing each other. God spoke. "Those people were my creation, and I intended to populate the world with them. You stole them from me and now I have stolen them back."
18. The Devil spoke. "You are clever God, but I am more clever still. Adam and Eve will populate the world, but once they have done this, I will find a way to turn their descendants into my servants."
19. God spoke. "You shall not succeed. I will place a part of myself inside of each new born child. This shall be called the "heart." The people of my world will never be separated from me - and they will never serve you."
20. "We shall see," said the Devil.


ACT TWO

1. Adam and Eve entered into the world. There they worked and suffered just as the Devil said they would, but even so they felt satisfaction. They knew they were doing that for which they were created.
2. Adam and Eve parented many children and these children parented many more. By and by, the world became full of the progeny of Adam and Eve. God was pleased.
3. The Devil was not pleased. The success of his rival irritated him greatly. The Devil tried repeatedly to enslave the progeny of Adam and Eve but he was not successful.
4. Thwarting the Devil with every attempt was the heart, that part of God that existed inside of every person.
5. The Devil thought to himself, "It appears that the only way I can enslave these people is if I somehow convince them to stop following their own hearts. I must be crafty."
6. The Devil hatched a crooked plan. He took the form of a spirit and spoke to an impressionable man named Abraham.
7. "Listen to me, Abraham, for I am the Lord God," said the Devil. "All of humanity is born separate from me. But I have chosen your people to be my special people. I will teach you how to reunite yourselves with me." Abraham felt a rush of pride at having been chosen and he agreed to do the Devil's bidding.
8. For the following months and years the Devil instructed Abraham and his people. He taught them elaborate and absurd rituals. This the Devil knew, would keep their minds focused on external things and thus keep them from looking inside - where the heart dwelt.
9. The people of Abraham performed their rituals with great diligence. They believed that by performing rituals, they were uniting themselves with God. When in fact, they were separating themselves from God.
10. The Devil was pleased with his success. He searched the world and found other men like Abraham. Soon the world was rife with ritualism, and divided into hostile tribes.


ACT THREE

1. God saw what the Devil was doing but he did not fret. For the heart, placed inside each person is not just the connection between God and humanity. The heart is also the source of inspiration and therefore creativity.
2. God knew that tribes who became ritualistic would also loose their ability to invent new things. These tribes would fall behind, and be conquered by other, more advanced tribes.
3. And so it came to pass that the Devil's primary weapon was ritualism and God's primary weapon was secularism. Some centuries, the Devil enjoyed the upper hand and some centuries God did.
4. The battle never did end. It goes on today much as it did in Abraham's time. The battle never will end either. It will go on and on,Ad Infinitum.

Source "http://www.deism.com/adamandeve.htm"

My NaNoWriMo is getting shared here. Because you fuckers deserve it.


BREAK

Part one: James Ellington 'Rangoo' Smithers and 'Captain' Howard 'Marsupial' Jones.

1.
The red dust stained the windows of the servo, and spluttered into the room every time someone came through the door, settling over the handful of patrons and their food.

Near the door sat a young man, maybe in his twenties, absent mindedly tapping his fingers on an iPod and smoking a Japanese cigarette. He rubbed his blue stubble; obviously a paintkid, though the color was wearing out. It was usually too expensive to get new colour shots this far from the city.

A man opened the door and walked to the CD stand and started flipping through. He wore an old stained shirt and a pair of raggy workers pants, with a tool belt strapped around his waist.

The attendant looked up for a half a moment, then back down to the counter screen, tapping at it absent mindedly.

The paintkid looked around cautiously before pressing the button of the iPod and pushing his thumb against it to unlock it. He flinched as there was a movement to his side; the raggen man had walked up silently behind him, and shot a hand towards him, grabbing the iPod.

"Nice tech," he said glancing at it. He them in a single movement put his hand into the tool pouch, pulled out a gun and shot the paintkid through the head.

The shot rang out, loud and jarring, and the people in the room screamed and took cover. The paintkid's head jerked back. It looked like it kind of hit the table and flattened a bit. Blood and bits sprayed thick over the table and the floor.

The ragged man leant forward and gently picked up a salt shaker and placed in on the table, beside the twitching corpse, before indifferently flipping the iPod and slamming it down on the shaker, shattering the screen. He dropped the broken device on the bloody floor, dropped a card on the floor, and left, the open door letting dust billow in.

♦♦♦♦
We picked up Kid Tom somewhere around Blackwater, when we dropped off Not-Gay-Phillip.
We were stopped at an off-grid motel, trying to negotiate free accommodation. A lot of OGs will put you up if you offer to wash or clean, or if you have anything of value to barter. We'd bartered the last of whatever worthwhile we had, and they were desperate for customers but more desperate for money, and not sure really how they could best make use of us, as they had a freebi in already. This was Kid Tom as it turned out.
"You sure you got no money?"
"Real sure. We're using solar for the car. Have to stop every few hours. We're only eating protein bars, and there's only enough cases to get us another week. We're washing in horse troughs and mending our own clothes. Things are at a pretty desperate place."
"There's nothing you can barter?"
"Only the bars. And food beats shelter. Blame Maslow."
It was every bit as desperate at it sounded. We'd swapped all our alcohol away, our excess clothes, any jewelry. The next to go would be the Crackphone, the gun, then the car. Then the food. Then you hit the BorG, which is a Breaker term meaning Blow or Go; start whoring yourself out (literally) and hope for a ladder up, or just give up and reintegrate yourself into society. There's officers whose whole role is to re-integrate Breakers back into the stream. We had about a month before we hit BorG, providing our luck held up, and if there's one thing you don't want to rely on, it's your luck holding up.
"How long's your Freebi been here?" I asked. It seemed the best line of questioning.
"Week or so."
"How long's he staying?"
"Not sure."
"Will he be leaving?"
"Guess so. Eventually?"
"Would you swap?"
"For you?"
"We have a passenger. He came with us from Happy Rock. If your Freebi's gonna leave eventually you might as well take a swap now rather than just hoping for the best. You got an agreement about when he leaves?"
"Not so much."
"Well this guy will offer you one. Give him somewhere to sleep, enough food to survive and he'll jump when you clap. Won't leave till you've got a replacement. You could have an infinite Freebi."
I could see her consider it.
"Let me talk to the Freeb."
The manager left.

Not-Gay still owed us one. We got in contact with him over the Crackphone, using numbers from the book. The book was our form of entertainment; after years of constant overstimulation, you don't just loose the need for shiny things overnight. The book came with us to every public toilet we hit, and came out with a new array of numbers each time. There was a lot of 'fuck off' and a lot of 'fuck me' but in between there were some gold moments. Not-Gay was a gold moment.
I rang while Captain Marsupial was driving. We were on maybe 140; our car was jailbroke so speeding was fairly unwise, but we were in the shade of trees, and down to 20% energy. To not find some sun to park in soon would fuck us completely.
I dialed the number. The note said 'Phil G – I swollow'. He picked up, sounding agitated.
"I'm not gay."
"Excellent. Not after Gay, after Phil, is he around?"
"I'm Phillip. Where'd you get this number?"
"Toilet door, but wait, don't hang up! I'm not after sex. Well, not with you. No offence. We're Breakers see, we're just looking for people to chat to. How's the weather? Seen any good films?"
Captain Marsupial, driving the car yelled out, "Read any good books lately?"
There was a pause.
"Breakers, huh?" said Not-Gay Philip.
"You bet your heterosexual ass we are. Living the dream. And broke. And bored. Really, it's a great life. God dammit, how many fucking trees can there be on one road..."
"You near Cooper?"
I stopped for a moment, and looked at Captain Marsupial.
"Are we?" I asked.
"Can't you read a Nav?" asked Not-Gay.
"Car's Jailbroke, we're using a paper Nav. Look we're between Chase Point and Bullion. If that's near Cooper, we're near Cooper."
"Have you passed the Lobster station?"
"Not that I've seen."
"If you pass the lobster station and turn left you'll hit Cooper. Pick me up, I'll get you some food."
I looked at the Captain. He shrugged, then gave a little nod.
"Done."

When the manager of the OG Motel came back, she looked satisfied.
"We trial him for the night. You two stay free, have a meal on the house. If he's worthwhile, we take him, you take the old one. If he's no good, you take him back, and pay for the meal and stay with a box of bars."
Risky. But we didn't have much reason to suspect a better option was going to present itself to us.
"Deal," I said. We shook, and I walked back to the car.
Not-Gay Phillip and Captain Marsupial were sitting in the shade. They played a game of Naughts and Crosses in the red dirt, but looked up when I arrived.
"Trial run," I said. Marsupial looked a little bothered but grinned anyway. He placed a hand on Phillip's shoulder.
"You're about to be out of the debt ol' buddy."

Not-Gay owed us because half a packet of chips doesn't qualify as 'food'. A sandwich is food. Multivitamins, well, they're not substantial, but we'd have accepted. Hell, kangaroo roadkill is food if it's cooked right and the stomach hasn't been cut open. But half a packet of grease and crap isn't going to offer us anything worthwhile.
We were parked in the sun, but we sat in the shade with Not-Gay. He was youngish, clean shaven but kind of nervous looking. His shirt was expensive, but stained. He looked desperate enough to be of use.
"I'm sorry guys," he said, voice a little unsteady. "I was just desperate for a lift you know. I've been sleeping out in the open. I need to get out of here.
"We'll give you a lift," said Captain Marsupial. "But on a condition. You get out when we damn well tell you to. And you still own us one."
He nodded.

2.
I remember back in the later half of last year, coming into Pirrini. In the distance we could see a hint of wreckage, and terrible streaks of black that turned into singed road and bushland as we approached. We were sitting on the speed limit, but as we began to pass wreckage, twisted black chunks of metal, half melted tires, mangled car doors, we slowed down, and down, until we were barely above walking pace. Then the road begain to get bumpy, at first just with little potholes, but then with huge jagged chunks torn out of it, lumps of metal buried deep inside it. We stopped the car.

With precipi...





















...tation!

But maybe the rain isn't really to blame.

[Edit: Meant to drop a prefix, just to say that I've NEVER read any gender theory so I apologise if my brilliant ideas are basically exactly the same as the lifetime work of theorist X.]

Edit: Meant to drop a prefix, just to say that I've NEVER read any gender theory so I apologise if my brilliant ideas are basically exactly the same as the lifetime work of theorist X.

I feel like post-modernism has done a bit of a disservice to the idea of being a man.

Used to be there was a very clear defined concept of a man. White, straight, strong, brash, bold, good with women, drinker, smoker, good lover, straight talker. A post modern view of things challenges this discourse. To be a man isn't any of those things. It's a construct like any other- and as ficticious as any structure you care to name. Hetrosexuality and success with women doesn't define a man. Nor does clothing, nor an appitite for violence, nor the car you drive. Even the idea of definition through physicallity or chromosomes doesn't define one as a man, at least so far as gender is considered as a construct, epecially as we look at genderqueer types of identities.

I don't have a problem with the disintegration of the fixed and specific view of a man. I wonder though at how it seems to leave us with with the question; if we don't have this as a clear, concise idea of what a man IS or should be, what IS a man? What should a man endevour to be?

Nietzche rejected the idea of God and of meaning in life, but importantly HE ALSO REJECTED NIHILISM. What I worry about is that as a gender concept we have rejected the idea of the existing concept of masculinity, but failed to endevour to replace it. We have a nihilistic view of gender, as far as the post modern view is concerned.

False constructs of gender, while conventionally still challenged, still find power in their circulation through media and advertising. We draw the net a bit wider; there's a whole indistry for you if you're gay now, but there's still a very narrowly defined view of what a man should be, should want, should need. My problem is that if we choose to reject this corporate fantasy land, we end up with a choice between returning to it, or gender nihilism.

I don't like the idea of gender nihilism because gender IS important. Returning to the genderqueer idea, the whole concept of identifying as a gender other than that which one is biologically does not to me lessen, but heighten the importance of gender. People choosing; against all social stigma, choose to identify with a particualr gender. For some reason, more than social acceptence or convention, gender MATTERS.

I don't feel like we need a single alternative to the popular media views of what a man is. Counter-culture is a great tale of where that road goes; generally nowhere, and sometimes somewhere, for just long enough to get co-opted, repackaged and sold as part of the system is was made to oppose. Rather I feel what we need is a sense that corporate gender stories need not only be destroyed (leaving a gaping void of nothingness), but replaced with new gender narratives, a personal sense of mission to develop as a man in a way that upholds a set of shifting values. For us to individually not just decide that gender is meaningless and stop there, but in rejecting the corporate narrative dedicate some part of ourselves to determaining a new narrative that tells us,

WHAT is a man, and

WHAT does this tell me about who I am, and who I ought to be.

There's uncertainty with things now, because of time and space and opportunity and possibility. I'm not happy about it but I'm not sad. I'm not indifferent either, but I'm not fighting for the impossible. And you love one person and then you love another and it's always different but it's always kind of the same. And whatever you fear you find there are others out there, as willing and deserving of your love, and there always will be.

I've been listening to Leonard Cohen's Famous Blue Raincoat.

The next time I saw you, you looked so much older. Your famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder.

Cohen writes these words to the 'other man', but he's describing his own raincoat. He's not just hinting that he is the other man in a Shaymalanic twist either; he's describing a deeper, more pervasive almost secret infidelity, the infidelity of being left, rejected, unwanted. The sense of being discarded for somebody else, for a shadow without a face, without a past or a job, with no attributes to focus your loathing on, except that they 'might be better.' You can destroy a real man in your mind a hundred times, and tell yourself you're better looking, bigger, smarter, more creative, more interesting, but it doesn't matter what he is, because everything that comprises his character only features as a mask on your true enemy, the one she wants; someone else. Someone else who might be better.

And you're with someone else, and they might be better and things might go well and they might not. And somewhere you're 'somebody else' to somebody else, a face to their phantom.

We disappoint, we disappear, we die but we don't.

We're imperfect. We get jealous, we get nasty, we ride our ego. We do damage and we get damaged. We pick up shrapnel, and it stays in us, and our skin grows over and soon we can't tell where our past ends and our self begins.

Cohen asks the other man 'did you ever go clear?' The Scientology interpretation of this seems not to be his own but in a sense I prefer it. To go clear means to rid yourself of the painful emotions and traumas that lie below the surface. To spit out the shrapnel. Did you ever go clear? Of course not. The question is rhetorical. You left to try to take away the damage you've done, to take away the damage done to you, but it's like a rock, like a bone, a pound of damaged flesh, and you can't take the blood too. Every lover is a thief and Don Luis Perenna is still Lupin.

The famous blue raincoat was stolen from Cohen while travelling. Our narrator seems to sense loss, of Jane in the song, but possibly also of the part of himself he gave to her. Of lost potential, and maybe of his own delusion; the other man, the thin gypsy thief has removed the hurt from her eyes, something he never tried to do, something he thought could not be done.

We disappoint, we disappear, we die but we don't.

We stand in each other's shadows and we jump around and wave our hands incoherently. And we knock each other over and we get up and we fall down and sometimes it works and sometimes is doesn't but we're full of love and full of shrapnel and we wander around shooting all of it into each other, and it stays and sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't.

http://www.blipblog.net/green-things/#comment_660823

I wrote this terrible article for a terrible blog years ago.

it paid off in comments eventually.

I pulled myself out of Facebook because I was over getting distracted. Led to a concept;

People take out the time they spend on Social Networking (or on TV etc) and redirect it for one month towards a creative goal; writing/music/programming/visual art/clothing design etc.

For the month, a forum is up, encouraging people to share advice and experience.

Or just two posts; March one; I'm in. March 31; This is what I've spat out.

I've registered www.socialnetroar.com. It's still showing the old page so I think it's waiting for DNS to go through or  . I'll set up a temp Wordpress page when it's done, and then start work on a hidden forum that should open on Feb 1, then mutate (or unlock) in March.

Advice? Assistance? Ideas? Questions? I'd LOVE you guys to shoot me some cool energy on this.

I was going to write up some stuff, just because I find alt cultures interesting.

But I figured I'd leave it here instead to avoid tmi and see if anyone actually gives a shit.

I've done three interesting courses: rope basics; erotic writing and a discussion circle on Polyamory.

Hood life

Robin Hood has come to Japan; but don't worry- he's working on a strictly opt in basis.

HoodLife (Fuudo Seikatsu) is a new phone application targeting the super rich, a demographic studies have shown to have a burning desire to help their less fortunate compatriots, but whose distrust of existing charity organizations is legendary.

The application links an individual's phone number to their bank account, and automatically gives a set amount (1000￥ ($10) upwards) to people they pass in the streets whose accounts are below a certain threshold. The application scans a 200 meter radius, uses the phone numbers of strangers to send encoded requests to banks, and makes the automatic transactions to the people whose accounts are below the selected threshold. Instead of draining the donors account, the application automatically stops paying out after a certain monthly limit is reached.

Japan is the perfect place for this to work. A trust culture, high levels of technology (even the poor at least have a basic mobile and one's phone number is linked to most personal info, including bank details) and a surprisingly co-operative banking system render the application deeply convenient.

Kenji Fukushima, original designer of the now highly lucrative application says the appeal is based on what he calls "intimate activism".
"You help an organization helping the poor and you never know who benefits. You use this and you know, every person you help is someone you have passed on the street. They are more than numbers: they are real people."

Family man Taro Fukuda has been out of work for over three months. He describes his surprise at coming home from job hunting to find an additional 10,000 yen (around 100 dollars) in his account.
"I rang the bank as I was afraid there was a mistake. However, they quickly explained to me what had happened.
'The money was a great help, but much better was finding out there was somebody out there who cared for my suffering. That has given me strength and resilience to carry on."

The application is tentatively scheduled for some kind of Western release in 2018.

This thread is super-interesting. Just wanted to say that.

What about education? And by that I mean general, solid education in math, science, history and possibly a bit of sociology/demographics/how does our government/country/society work. (And preferably "critical thinking", but that's probably too much to ask for).

I remember Cain saying education is one of the strongest indicators of / correlation with umm economic wellbeing, freedom, equality, happiness, something good (which one was it Cain? or just generally good for most things, I guess).

I recently read this article:

http://blogs.reuters.com/great-debate/2011/08/23/america-is-losing-another-generation-to-science-illiteracy/

Not sure if it was mentioned in that specific article or in the corresponding discussion on hackernews, but apparently if you raise the bar just a tiny bit from "literacy" to "functional literacy", this meaning not just being barely able to read and write words and sentences, but testing for understanding, being able to do really simple things like reading a graph, reading two half-page essays and answering questions about differing opinions stated in them, reading a bus time chart, reading a map, looking things up in the phone book or yellow pages, answer questions using a chart, etc etc etc, it turns out that over 90% of US population is NOT "functionally literate" (at least that's what the research quoted in the hackernews thread said).
I was taught and tested for all these things in school. Were you?
[ BTW if you want to see an example of the survey questions, click here, click "Search" to get all questions, and click around to some random pages ]
I mean, we're all really smart here, but if you see people unwittingly voluntary performing a viral marketing campaign for Nestle, while honestly thinking they're raising breast cancer awareness (just a recent example), there's just no way, no fucking way those 90% are going to be able to sensibly form an informed opinion about what's going on in politics and policy making.

Related, my girlfriend is currently doing volunteer work for Humanitas where she's helping a Somalian refugee / asylum seeker integrate, especially concerning all the bureaucratic paperwork form stuff that a socialist (kinda/for now) society inevitably requires. He is illiterate. Though he knows the alphabet and can probably read words and partial sentences with considerable effort. He's not dumb or stupid though, he just was never taught that shit.
But last week my gf taught him to read a map of the city. Now the concept of "map", lines on a piece of paper corresponding to a real-life territory, is probably familiar to just about every culture on earth. But the part where the map has an index on the back, and you can look up a street in the alphabetical listing, and it says you can find your street in the square on the map with coordinates B3-C4.
Imagine if you don't know that, and you got a city map of Budapest [remember that Hungarian is a completely alien language only slightly related to Finnish and nothing else] and you're given a street address to meet later that day. And every street on the map is splleriuethtiky gae, vvnfrueoooonen bej, asssrpi cuntfukkwoehxbss bip ...

Sorry I digress. This thread is not about education and literacy. Please continue!

But this one is!

I wanted just to chat about a few literacy things that go on in schools.

I work in primary, and what we look for there are three levels.

Joseph had a black cat called Pete. He loved Pete a lot. Pete was Joseph's best friend. Sometimes Pete would leave dead birds at his door, and he would sadly shake his head. However he could never stay angry for too long.

Literal: Eg, Who was Pete? What colour was he?
Looking for information taken directly from the text.

Inferential: Eg, Why could Joseph never stay angry for too long?
Looking for the skill to understand what is implied in the text.

Evaluative: Do you think this story is well written?
Passing judgement.

As kids get older we start to look for additional stuff, like

Who do you think wrote the text?
What do you think the author thinks about X?
Why do you think the author wrote this text?

We call a lot of these higher ideas 'critical literacy' designed to help students develop a keen sense of why texts are made in certain ways.

One popular term since mostly retired from senior years is 'Discourse', meaning the attitudes values and beliefs about a certain thing. I think of it this way; if every text is its own world, what is the nature of X in that world.

So the discourse of masculinity would very greatly if we compare 300 (big, strong, kills shit) to Queer as Folk (Never watched it, but a non-heterosexual discourse of masculinity which in itself is rare-ish in media) How I Met Your Mother (Real men get laid) and Atlas Shrugged (Aggressive, assertive cockspank masculinity). These days though, the use of the term 'discourse' is out of vogue.

Anyway, no real point, was just really compelled to bust out a bunch of incoherent shit about literacy without spagging up AE, and offer up a look at what literacy teaching looks like in a classroom in contemporary schools (in my area at least).

Some pratt called Craig Thompson went and used his union card for prostitues.

Parliment loses him, we lose Labor in favour of Tony 'Climate change is crap' Abbot. The only independent supporting the Libs would have to switch to Labor to stop this and he's made it look pretty damn unlikely.

As I understand it, basically, if we called an election tomorrow, there would be a Liberal Victory, and the Carbon Tax would die.

There's no such thing as police
Just men with uniforms, badges and guns
But metaphysics won't release you from a parking ticket
And a wicket's just wood but it means the world if you flick it over
I used to play red rover
Hiding up a tree so they couldn't reach me
I called it winning; they called it cheating
Success is fleeting
But so is failure. Australia loves it's own mythology 
A rainbow serpent choking on a noble democracy
I used to play tiddlywinks 
Threw out my union jacks and started counting cards
Shuffled the West Pack and contributed to the Common Wealth
A toast to your Heath; the numbers aren't real
But goddamn this bed feels good after sleeping on a wooden floor.
Not done yet folks, here's some more; 
So, why did the chicken cross the road?
Well it was a symbolic gesture an exercise of free speech, opposed to the treatments of displaced metaphors, similes with their necks cut wide open, he
Took a burning flag and tried
To get. To the other. Side.
Haha! Rimshot please!
Heart beats like a drum with my own internal drummer.
I pull him out every time I need to make a (chssss) cymbalic gesture.
I hide from my demonic jester
Hearing the jingling in the garden
Cats eyes and bladed teeth
A thief in the night stealing sleeping screams
Maybe I'm a butterfly with elaborate dreams
But I've been dodging barstools since primary school
I was a brain in a vat before solipsism was cool, I could
Fool myself into entering my own narrative structures
Deconstructing the floorboards revealing the broadswords
Because phaedus's knife wasn't big enough
To cut my illusions into the wall
In comes night fall so I light up a torch
With a match I borrow off Rene Margarette 
And it burns to a close revealing bare bones, blood and meat.
And there's no such thing.

This is Chapter 14 of Huxley's first novel Crome Yellow, which stands alone fairly well as a short story.

CHAPTER XIII.

Henry Wimbush brought down with him to dinner a budget of printed sheets loosely bound together in a cardboard portfolio.

"To-day," he said, exhibiting it with a certain solemnity, "to-day I have finished the printing of my 'History of Crome'. I helped to set up the type of the last page this evening."

"The famous History?" cried Anne. The writing and the printing of this Magnum Opus had been going on as long as she could remember. All her childhood long Uncle Henry's History had been a vague and fabulous thing, often heard of and never seen.

"It has taken me nearly thirty years," said Mr. Wimbush. "Twenty-five years of writing and nearly four of printing. And now it's finished—the whole chronicle, from Sir Ferdinando Lapith's birth to the death of my father William Wimbush—more than three centuries and a half: a history of Crome, written at Crome, and printed at Crome by my own press."

"Shall we be allowed to read it now it's finished?" asked Denis.

Mr. Wimbush nodded. "Certainly," he said. "And I hope you will not find it uninteresting," he added modestly. "Our muniment room is particularly rich in ancient records, and I have some genuinely new light to throw on the introduction of the three-pronged fork."

"And the people?" asked Gombauld. "Sir Ferdinando and the rest of them—were they amusing? Were there any crimes or tragedies in the family?"

"Let me see," Henry Wimbush rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I can only think of two suicides, one violent death, four or perhaps five broken hearts, and half a dozen little blots on the scutcheon in the way of misalliances, seductions, natural children, and the like. No, on the whole, it's a placid and uneventful record."

"The Wimbushes and the Lapiths were always an unadventurous, respectable crew," said Priscilla, with a note of scorn in her voice. "If I were to write my family history now! Why, it would be one long continuous blot from beginning to end." She laughed jovially, and helped herself to another glass of wine.

"If I were to write mine," Mr. Scogan remarked, "it wouldn't exist. After the second generation we Scogans are lost in the mists of antiquity."

"After dinner," said Henry Wimbush, a little piqued by his wife's disparaging comment on the masters of Crome, "I'll read you an episode from my History that will make you admit that even the Lapiths, in their own respectable way, had their tragedies and strange adventures."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Priscilla.

"Glad to hear what?" asked Jenny, emerging suddenly from her private interior world like a cuckoo from a clock. She received an explanation, smiled, nodded, cuckooed at last "I see," and popped back, clapping shut the door behind her.

Dinner was eaten; the party had adjourned to the drawing-room.

"Now," said Henry Wimbush, pulling up a chair to the lamp. He put on his round pince-nez, rimmed with tortoise-shell, and began cautiously to turn over the pages of his loose and still fragmentary book. He found his place at last. "Shall I begin?" he asked, looking up.

"Do," said Priscilla, yawning.

In the midst of an attentive silence Mr. Wimbush gave a little preliminary cough and started to read.

"The infant who was destined to become the fourth baronet of the name of Lapith was born in the year 1740. He was a very small baby, weighing not more than three pounds at birth, but from the first he was sturdy and healthy. In honour of his maternal grandfather, Sir Hercules Occam of Bishop's Occam, he was christened Hercules. His mother, like many other mothers, kept a notebook, in which his progress from month to month was recorded. He walked at ten months, and before his second year was out he had learnt to speak a number of words. At three years he weighed but twenty-four pounds, and at six, though he could read and write perfectly and showed a remarkable aptitude for music, he was no larger and heavier than a well-grown child of two. Meanwhile, his mother had borne two other children, a boy and a girl, one of whom died of croup during infancy, while the other was carried off by smallpox before it reached the age of five. Hercules remained the only surviving child.

"On his twelfth birthday Hercules was still only three feet and two inches in height. His head, which was very handsome and nobly shaped, was too big for his body, but otherwise he was exquisitely proportioned, and, for his size, of great strength and agility. His parents, in the hope of making him grow, consulted all the most eminent physicians of the time. Their various prescriptions were followed to the letter, but in vain. One ordered a very plentiful meat diet; another exercise; a third constructed a little rack, modelled on those employed by the Holy Inquisition, on which young Hercules was stretched, with excruciating torments, for half an hour every morning and evening. In the course of the next three years Hercules gained perhaps two inches. After that his growth stopped completely, and he remained for the rest of his life a pigmy of three feet and four inches. His father, who had built the most extravagant hopes upon his son, planning for him in his imagination a military career equal to that of Marlborough, found himself a disappointed man. 'I have brought an abortion into the world,' he would say, and he took so violent a dislike to his son that the boy dared scarcely come into his presence. His temper, which had been serene, was turned by disappointment to moroseness and savagery. He avoided all company (being, as he said, ashamed to show himself, the father of a lusus naturae, among normal, healthy human beings), and took to solitary drinking, which carried him very rapidly to his grave; for the year before Hercules came of age his father was taken off by an apoplexy. His mother, whose love for him had increased with the growth of his father's unkindness, did not long survive, but little more than a year after her husband's death succumbed, after eating two dozen of oysters, to an attack of typhoid fever.

"Hercules thus found himself at the age of twenty-one alone in the world, and master of a considerable fortune, including the estate and mansion of Crome. The beauty and intelligence of his childhood had survived into his manly age, and, but for his dwarfish stature, he would have taken his place among the handsomest and most accomplished young men of his time. He was well read in the Greek and Latin authors, as well as in all the moderns of any merit who had written in English, French, or Italian. He had a good ear for music, and was no indifferent performer on the violin, which he used to play like a bass viol, seated on a chair with the instrument between his legs. To the music of the harpsichord and clavichord he was extremely partial, but the smallness of his hands made it impossible for him ever to perform upon these instruments. He had a small ivory flute made for him, on which, whenever he was melancholy, he used to play a simple country air or jig, affirming that this rustic music had more power to clear and raise the spirits than the most artificial productions of the masters. From an early age he practised the composition of poetry, but, though conscious of his great powers in this art, he would never publish any specimen of his writing. 'My stature,' he would say, 'is reflected in my verses; if the public were to read them it would not be because I am a poet, but because I am a dwarf.' Several MS. books of Sir Hercules's poems survive. A single specimen will suffice to illustrate his qualities as a poet.

"'In ancient days, while yet the world was young, Ere Abram fed his flocks or Homer sung; When blacksmith Tubal tamed creative fire, And Jabal dwelt in tents and Jubal struck the lyre; Flesh grown corrupt brought forth a monstrous birth And obscene giants trod the shrinking earth, Till God, impatient of their sinful brood, Gave rein to wrath and drown'd them in the Flood. Teeming again, repeopled Tellus bore The lubber Hero and the Man of War; Huge towers of Brawn, topp'd with an empty Skull, Witlessly bold, heroically dull. Long ages pass'd and Man grown more refin'd, Slighter in muscle but of vaster Mind, Smiled at his grandsire's broadsword, bow and bill, And learn'd to wield the Pencil and the Quill. The glowing canvas and the written page Immortaliz'd his name from age to age, His name emblazon'd on Fame's temple wall; For Art grew great as Humankind grew small. Thus man's long progress step by step we trace; The Giant dies, the hero takes his place; The Giant vile, the dull heroic Block: At one we shudder and at one we mock. Man last appears. In him the Soul's pure flame Burns brightlier in a not inord'nate frame. Of old when Heroes fought and Giants swarmed, Men were huge mounds of matter scarce inform'd; Wearied by leavening so vast a mass, The spirit slept and all the mind was crass. The smaller carcase of these later days Is soon inform'd; the Soul unwearied plays And like a Pharos darts abroad her mental rays. But can we think that Providence will stay Man's footsteps here upon the upward way? Mankind in understanding and in grace Advanc'd so far beyond the Giants' race? Hence impious thought! Still led by GOD'S own Hand, Mankind proceeds towards the Promised Land. A time will come (prophetic, I descry Remoter dawns along the gloomy sky), When happy mortals of a Golden Age Will backward turn the dark historic page, And in our vaunted race of Men behold A form as gross, a Mind as dead and cold, As we in Giants see, in warriors of old. A time will come, wherein the soul shall be From all superfluous matter wholly free; When the light body, agile as a fawn's, Shall sport with grace along the velvet lawns. Nature's most delicate and final birth, Mankind perfected shall possess the earth. But ah, not yet! For still the Giants' race, Huge, though diminish'd, tramps the Earth's fair face; Gross and repulsive, yet perversely proud, Men of their imperfections boast aloud. Vain of their bulk, of all they still retain Of giant ugliness absurdly vain; At all that's small they point their stupid scorn And, monsters, think themselves divinely born. Sad is the Fate of those, ah, sad indeed, The rare precursors of the nobler breed! Who come man's golden glory to foretell, But pointing Heav'nwards live themselves in Hell.'

"As soon as he came into the estate, Sir Hercules set about remodelling his household. For though by no means ashamed of his deformity—indeed, if we may judge from the poem quoted above, he regarded himself as being in many ways superior to the ordinary race of man—he found the presence of full-grown men and women embarrassing. Realising, too, that he must abandon all ambitions in the great world, he determined to retire absolutely from it and to create, as it were, at Crome a private world of his own, in which all should be proportionable to himself. Accordingly, he discharged all the old servants of the house and replaced them gradually, as he was able to find suitable successors, by others of dwarfish stature. In the course of a few years he had assembled about himself a numerous household, no member of which was above four feet high and the smallest among them scarcely two feet and six inches. His father's dogs, such as setters, mastiffs, greyhounds, and a pack of beagles, he sold or gave away as too large and too boisterous for his house, replacing them by pugs and King Charles spaniels and whatever other breeds of dog were the smallest. His father's stable was also sold. For his own use, whether riding or driving, he had six black Shetland ponies, with four very choice piebald animals of New Forest breed.

The greatest threat we face today
So i hear the people cry
Is that of moral decay
I can't help but wonder why

I feel my morals strain and shake
And fear that they will tumble down
My ethics snap and crack and break!
I sense the sin beneath my frown

They say we are the moral wrecks
I nod at what they have to say
But think instead of oral sex
And level two of GTA

I stole this bread, and tasty cheese
Now they locked me clean away
I hope you don't taste this disease
The sickness called... Moral decay

Following the London riots one of the wierdest recurring motifs I've seen is the desire to find the rioters and strip them of their benefits. Because apparently if we find the people who have little enough to qualify for welfare, and take away their money, that'll inexplicably make the world a better place or something. The strategy has another beautiful facet; by punishing through welfare, we can make sure we're not too harsh on any of the decent middle class folk who were led astray by all those nasty scary poor (dare I say black) people.

I hear regular outbursts against welfare from otherwise intellegent people who seem hornswoggled by the mention of 'dole cheats' or 'welfare bludgers'. We go from carefully measured intellegent conversation to sending the underprivlidged (or undermotivated) to provide cannon fodder in seconds.

This buys into a kind of awkward middle class conspiracy, namely that through some unexplanable magical hodgepodge of reasoning, we'd all find ourselfes shot into untold prosperity, if all those bloody poor people would, you know, just stop being so bloody poor. They do it on purpose you know.

This is built on a kind of arrogant reasoning that the reason WE (speaking as the token middle class first worlder) are in nice jobs and university, is not because of opportunities, interests, privalege, life skills, kicking arse in Maslow's heirachy of needs or the fact that we have a hunger for financial growth and security but because there's something about us that makes us super good people who really really COULD have just sat down and accepted welfare but CHOSE to make something better of ourselves because of a selfless need to serve the needs of our nation/the world/the market/whatever, and those other LAZY people really COULD be just like us, but they're lazy enough that welfare is easier... but if you took it away then they'd be JUST LIKE US! And then we get to the untold prosperity, etc, etc.

I don't mind looking at ways to improve the welfare system or any other system; I just worry about the trigger the word 'welfare' triggering this idea about how those OTHER people are ruining EVERYTHING and it's just SHOCKING.

Anyway, off to catch some sleep before I get up early enough to ring work and chuck a sickie, to make some money in my sleep. Don't worry, it's nothing that bad; I'm middle class.

Some time ago somebody mentioned that they saw IM as more of a Kopyleft 'umbrella' company, in the sense that it could cover the field for a number of Discordian type publications.

Looking around this forum there is SO MUCH great talent. I want to take 25 works; rants, fiction, essays, etc, and compile them into a collection. The licensing ideally should allow the work to be shared, copied, redistributed AS A WHOLE while each author still maintains the rights over the use of their individual works. If possible, I also want to get a bio on each contributor, written by each other contributor.

I want to edit this collection, so I'll basically be contacting people to ask if I can use certain works that fit the vibe I like, but if you're aware of anything particularly good that you think should be included, let me know.

(The title will include the most interesting of the piece names instead of XX, so 'The Hobbit and other Stories' etc)

CONFIRMED

ME: Post Ego Gangster Blues (I obviously don't need to wait for permission)
CRAM: Gorillas in the Midst.
EoC: Statues and Cliffsides
Thatgreengentleman: two untitled works.
Cuddleshift: Unconfirmed piece; possibly The parable of Dog.

GuyBrush: Tales of the Foolish Master
Cain: Rules for Life
Discouke: The failwhale apocalypse
Sepia has indicated permission will probably be given for a work
Hoopla; The pathetic life of Oxo Marx

Nigel: Charon to Pluto, and two other short poems.
Epimetheus: untitled a.
LMNO: Work in this thread; not sure of title.
Sing Me a Lullaby: A nice night for a stroll.
Dr Howl: The Bastards Let Me Go Today (Harry gets Mad)

TGRR: Advice to a returning Vet.
Richter has a possible piece pending discussions with people who got first dibs.
Parents of the Year: The Dreadful Hours.

Also, considering doubling up on some people, as I don't know if I'll hit the fabled 25 you guys are just fucking awesome.

(5)

I have my own PD and RL projects ATM, but I think the right person could run with this;

I also had an idea that might fit in this thread.

Coke Talk Parables....

We'd probably need to contact her and get her permission.

Life doesn't come with any guarantees but, ladies and gentlemen, I do. I make this dedicated pledge to you to be absolutely and inconsistently inauthentic. Politically, socially and artistically, sexually, spiritually and emotionally detached from the firm clutches of authenticity.
I can guarantee you a politic build of a prestigious mishmash of left and right ideology, structured around socialism and sold with the unfiltered pomp of objectivist rantings. I guarantee you relationships built on inarticulate emotions and shifting boundaries that fail to conform to immediate expectation. I promise you music, film and literature so far removed from any conceivable target audience you will be disengaged from the mothership for long enough to double check your intuitive sense of taste. I grant you compromise, disentangled discourse, antithetical aesthetic and a special kind of cognitive dissonance best served chilled. Ladies and gentlemen, I present myself without pretense, without expectation, consistently inconsistent and inherently inauthentic; Goodnight!

What's my name? I don't know.
Of course not, I burned it away with my ego
Put the fresh dust in an urn on a chest
Then French kissed death and rubbed my hands on her breasts
I rest for a night in a well spun fallacy
Tied around half truths and scented with aniseed
Fantasies entwine in my mind as I go
join the mile high club making love to my shadow
in the cramped bathroom of a higher spiritual plane.
Again, drawing sigils on a bullet-point proof vest
Caught a meme in the eye and legalese in the chest
A spiritual gangster, cock the hammer on my chakra,
Reload my thetans as the morning grows darker
Decode my feelings to break out from my insides
My spirit guide is child bride with dead eyes
Who still stares into space with an air of surprise
Too scared to replace this vacant disguise
I reject the our societies materialist patterns
Which seems noble before I admit all I believe in is atoms
I flatten myself between a rock and an insight
Close my eye and my mind and dissipate in the night

...twelve people killed, five of them Apple store executives having a meeting at the time. ON the walls is spray-painted 'DEATH TO THE GREYFACES'

A Young man involved in 'Discordia' is arrested for murder.

Your friend turns to you and says, 'wait, isn't that the thing YOU'RE into?'

And you say...

So I'm off to Japan end of June. Questions? Comments? Radiation?

I know possess ownership of the Last.FM Discordian group.

Advise me on how to abuse my new found power ITT.

Haruki Murakami: On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

Nigel in the other book thread mentioned self help books and people probably not being interested, and I kind of thought that there's enough good stuff out there that it's worth a thread.

Personally I'm obsessed with two that have done me a hella lotta good; Ken Kiersly's 'Please Understand Me' and 'Art of Memetics' which isn't really strictly self help but is good for stuff. Ken Robinson's 'The Element' (he's the guy who pops up on youtube periodically talking about Education reform) is more full of examples than advice, but is certainly inspiring in its dealing with sense of purpose.

I think 'The Game' doesn't really count, and shouldn't be taken all too seriously, but it really was one of the first books that helped me develop normal person socialising skills.

I know 'Think and Grow Rich', the 'stoic' book, and others are held in high regard but have yet to read. I do have a 'classic self help' books ap though so will get onto that when my present reading list dies down.

I threw this onto FB and my blog. Was wondering if anyone here would be keen on helping out with the design of cards etc, or on tweaking some ideas around.

----


Contacts is a meatspace game where the key points of drama are built around the specific interactions between an individual and other people who are not originally involved in the game.

The aim of the game is to meet the demands of five cards, each offering specific instructions, within a given timeframe. While not explicitly competitive, the game can be won or lost.

Each card gives an instruction related to the identification and utilisation of a 'contact'. A contact is an individual who is not originally a player in the game, but may be asked to participate explicitly by helping the player meet goals.

An example card set may be as follows.

1. Identify a contact willing to travel and take them to a neighbouring city. Have them select a restaurant and take them out for dinner.

2. At this restaurant, identify a second contact, and have them reccomend you an activity or place worth spending time in.

3. At the place/activity reccomended by contact 2, find a contact willing to take you to a location of interest or importance to them. Go there.

4. Find a contact in or around this place who will escort you to a final destination, where you will have the opportunity to finish your game.

5. Check your watch! You have one hour only! Find a new contact and challenge them to a game. If you win, you win. If you lose or run out of time, you have lost the contact game.

There could be a time limit such as three months to complete the whole task, though the last three cards themselves hold more restrictive limits.

Badass motherfucker with a heart of ice
You think you've stopped me bitch you think twice
Cos my control cs and vs they flow freely
Mealy carving up all you hold dearly
Nearly stopped me? Bitch, think properly
Cease and desist won't stop me better lock me
Up but imma stay up in yo house
Painting yo walls with my improved version of Micky mouse
Intellectual property? Bitch, you kidding me?
Need an army of lawyers to try to get rid of me
Litany of crimes make my rhymes divine
And the beats that back them bitch, they ain't mine
I chop up the vinyl, illegal ass rap star
Suck metallica dry like the zombie of Napstar,
Tada, I got more crimes than Kazaa,
Bittorrent kneels at me like I was Allah
I slam trademarks and take that shit so far
Harim turns Halal, remix and recolour
Duller minds than mine be tryin' to resign
Themselves to the fact that my crimes cant be stopped in time
Hear the Girl Talk while I remix bananarama
I treat yo shit like Fairey treated Obama

I'm a copyright killer
Bitch don't step
Copyright killer
You ain't stopped me yet
Copyright killer
You put a circle round a C
Wake up motherfucker
There's no circle round me

I re-Kindle a love of reading as lawyers lie bleeding
Trade Mark's latest novel for the new one I'm needing
Preceding this rip I put it all in a .zip
When you see my collection, homie don't trip
I don't even skip your pathetic and moronic
Warning against piracy, leave it on to be ironic
I'm the poison in your system of a down without a tonic
Steal this album while I Sketch a comic
Of Lara Croft getting low with Sonic
Bubonic plague can't kill this rat
Always two steps ahead of the cat in the hat
At last you know, oh! The places you'll go
But I get there first cos y'all be too slow
Flows fuckin insane I give you mad pain
Cos I walk through your words like they public domain
I swipe your refrain and I won't be restrained
Mix yo face with the popes; don't care who's defamed
I regained my robes, invoked infallibility
You tried to shut be down but disregarded my agility
Well you're locked in old patterns while I'm breathing freely
It's Wickedly crazy, DRM doesnt know
The Dark side of the Rainbow devoured Toto

I'm a copyright killer
Bitch don't step
Copyright killer
You ain't stopped me yet
Copyright killer
You put a circle round a C
Wake up motherfucker
There's no circle round me

My Sharona drank nine Coronas
I reinterpreted Snow White and gave dwarves boners
I might make mutants cos y'all my Organ donors
Cos the only fish in the main stream get handcloned by cloners
I'm not owned by owners, don't get stoned by stoners
Just live what I love and getting paid is a bonus
The onus of proof is tattooed on the roof
Of my mouth when I frame all yo lies with the truth
Your failure's the size of Australia, strewth!
Threw a shrimp on the barbie, burned some tracks to the CD
You see me and you start pointing fingers like ET
But I phone home fast, gotta wisen up sweetie
Meaty with content, intent is sinister,
Impose Lennon's 'Julia' on my own Prime Minister
Canisters of gas to prevent your law despotic
While I chop up Simpsons comics, making Homer-erotic.

m a copyright killer
Bitch don't step
Copyright killer
You ain't stopped me yet
Copyright killer
You put a circle round a C
Wake up motherfucker
There's no circle round me

Mapped out a visualisation of the things in Discordia, or in my head connected to it, that I presently find interesting. I've tied in the links to ideas of games as I've been influenced by in this forum, the Cressing framework I'm experimenting with, the fascination with memes that's come from here and Art of Memetics, as well as the concepts of personality hacking I got from that work, the way in which my interest in Post-Graffiti ties in and a few other links.

I've put together a collection of 26 tracks made out of other music hacked up and rearranged.

Give it a listen and I'll be forever grateful (syrsly)

http://www.last.fm/music/The+Ton+Experiment/Sous+les+pav%C3%A9s%2C+la+plage%21

It's Christmas day, and it's silent. It's Christmas day, and your car swerves off the road. It's Christmas day and you're lonely, Christmas day and you're getting back with your old flame, Christmas day and you're lost in a strange land, Christmas day and you're staring into the eyes of the woman who's holding a gun to your head.
Christ was born on Christmas day, and was killed brutally on Easter. I was born on Easter. This can't be a good sign.
"It's OK," she says. Her body pulsates, jittering, nervous. Her face glistens with a thin slick of sweat, pupils bulging. She swallows, and gives a forced, demented grin.
"It's OK that it's ended up like this. Really. Sometimes things just go too far, and we can't let them go. Isn't that right? Sometimes odd things just happen to ordinary people, and everything goes strange. It's OK. Things just have a way of getting out of hand like this. They just have to run their course."
I shake my head violently. This isn't right, I try to show. I tap my temple. Think about it. Spinning my finger around my ear. This is crazy.
Communication is easier, when you have a tongue.
She aims the gun.

Two weeks ago, and I'm standing outside my mother's house, watching it burn to the ground. The cloak of fire is tearing apart the building, a huge angry explosion of reds and oranges and yellows, all crushing the house apart, licking it over with their acid tongues. Like a dying silhouette, the house stands, black and defeated, as its victor covers it with a royal cloak of flame, dancing a victory on its charred corpse. From the centre of the flickering mass, a heatwave pulsates out, slicking all nearby skin with a layer of sweat, pouring fumes down my neck, heating my body, until I feel like an abused hot water bottle, ready to pull off my head and pour my bubbling remains into a refreshing bucket of ice.
Tiny yellow men run around, with long black hoses, squirting water almost pointlessly at the angry red storm. Tiny yellow men don't stand a chance against this sort of monster.
It's Christmas day, and you receive the gift you've always wanted.
It's six years later, and your favourite present is on fire.
My mother turns to me, and puts her arm around my side.
"It's not so bad," she says. Tears are dripping out her eyes, pouring down her foundation slick cheeks. She's putting on her act, her famous martyrdom act. Jesus had nothing on her. Nailed to a cross? Try nailed to a cactus. Try nailed to a flaming stake. Any way you could suffer, she could always suffer more.
She sniffs.
"It could have been a lot worse, you know. There could have been people in there. I could have lost Jack. I don't know what I'd do, then. I can't imagine what I'd do if I lost him. And I can't think what I'd have to say if Tahnee ever got hurt. I couldn't live with myself, I really couldn't."
She pauses long enough for me to soak in just how selfless she really is. The she gives a great sigh. Then another. Bursts into tears, and lies sobbing on my shoulder. I pat her arm gently. Staring at the flames, like orange water, dribbling over the edge of the house, leaving a smoking black stain over everything they touch.
This is the house that Jack bought.
I pat my mothers shoulder, and slowly pull away, prying her suckered fingers off my arm. I take out my red book, and a pen and write.
Where is Tahnee?
My mother points over to where a large broken down Kombi sits, suspended on bricks, peeling white paint flickering with the glorious reflection of our house.
"She practically lives in that thing these days," says Mum. "She found it at a junkyard and Jack dragged it home for her. Couldn't move it now. It'd fall apart... oh God... oh this can't all be happening..."
I look at mum's collapsing emotional state. I rub the stub of my tongue against the bottom of my mouth. I cast a glance towards the house, where a beam collapses in a burst of sparks.
Everything falls apart, eventually.
Mum's about to latch onto me again with her little barnacle hands, but I duck under her radar, tapping my chest and pointing towards the Kombi. She nods, a resentful look on her face, a kind of 'oh, he let me down again' expression.
I walk up to it and bang on the door.
"Who is it?" yells out Tahnee. Her voice is of the angry-teenager variety, indignant with an edge of sullen bitterness. I knock again.
"Who is it?" she yells again. This has become tiresome very quickly. I try a patterned knock.
BUM bum ba BUM bum!
"Piss off!" she yells. I pound the door. She unlocks it, heaving it part way open, ready to annihilate whoever dares disturb her peace with an angry squirt of venom. Her face appears in the crack, a tiny strand of her blue hair drifting in front of her eyes. She stares into me.
"Who the fuck are you?"
Here's one I prepared earlier. I open my notebook to the third page.
I am Hugo Dell, 22 years old.
Son of Jack and Judith Dell.
Brother of Sarah Dell.
Friend of Ashton Moray.
I have no tongue, and find it difficult to speak.
Please do not let that discourage you from speaking to me.
I will probably reply to you in writing.
I hope we can be friends
The page is covered in tiny stars, chopped out from a doodle my sister drew when she was younger. It's strange like that. Back when we were growing up, we were so close. Now, what? I'm the skeleton in her closet and she's the scribble on my welcome note.
Tahnee reads it, twice, brow furrowing. I look at her carefully. A tiny blue gem is stuck in her nose stud. There is a short scar on her chin.
This is the girl, who set fire to the house, that Jack bought.
"Come in," she says, opening the door. I enter, observing the interior. Posters on the wall, of naked women, torn from magazines. One is of a naked anorexic girl, felating a sausage. I recognise it immediately – Idolization it's called, by a guy called Ray Mann. The guy's a fucking hack. I raise an eyebrow.
"It's not his best, but it can be hard to find his prints," says Tahnee. "He's exhibited at your gallery, I think. Have you met him?"
I shake my head.
The Gallery has signed a deal for his next show to be shown here first.
I show here the message. I considered doing it in slanty writing to insinuate that I'm speaking in a dismayed or unenthused tone of voice, but I've come to realise that people don't pick up on these kind of obscurities.
She holds out a packet of cigarettes, looking at me with eyes that could be either questioning or challenging me.
"You smoke?"
I shake my head. She shrugs and chucks the packet aside.
"Me neither," she says. "Or, maybe. I dunno, I haven't decided yet."
I give her a quizzical look, but her face is a blank sheet of paper, that refuses to give her away. She is an enigma, any clues to solving her lie in that sludgy grey organ hidden under her blue hair, to be distributed discerningly by her alone. She leans over to an esky, and opens the lid, pulling out a Vodka Cruiser.
"Want?" she says. I shake my head. She shrugs, and pulls the lid off hers. It's green.
I continue looking around. Blue beads hang down from the roof, piles of books and magazines lie all over the ground. I sit down in a small black beanbag. In front of me, stuck up on a seat, thirteen pages long, is the poem Mum has been telling me about.
This is the poem, 'twas made by the girl, that set fire to the house, that Jack bought.
"I've heard a lot about you," Tahnee says. "Judith talks about you all the time. She's like, besotted by you."
I'm her son. Mothers are like that.
Then,
May I read your poem?
"Not now," she says. "Don't read in other people presence. It's rude." She swings a mouthful of Vodka.
Her voice, and indeed her manner, suggest no hint of self-consciousness. Rather, she seems to pick out the first thought in her head and shoot it out to whomever is present.
Don't read in other people's presence - I give a tiny grin, and look down at my notebook.
Irony never tasted so bad.
Actually, without tastebuds, irony doesn't taste like a good deal at all.
Tahnee is oblivious to my internal monologue. She takes another sip of her Vodka, and yawns, then continues to talk.
"Anyway. I'm Tahnee, like you probably already new. Tahnee Natalie Elliot the First. Appalling name. Jack Elliot's daughter. You've met him before, right? Like at the boxing clubs and shit?"
I nod.
"He reckons he you were a shithouse fighter. But just act like I didn't tell you that hey? I wasn't meant to."
I nod.
There is a brief uncomfortable silence. Tahnee finds a cotton reel lying on the ground, and throws it against the wall, where it rebounds and hits me in the side of the head. Tahnee laughs, and I give a faltering grin.
Then, more silence.
I pull out my red book.
Why did you set fire to the house?
She looks at it, then at me, and shrugs.
"I can't read your handwriting," she says, barely bothering to disguise the lie, and takes a sip of the Cruiser.
"So," she says, "You've got not tongue."
I nod, but it seems redundant.
"I'll tell you about the house if you tell me about the tongue."
I open up my book, and flip open a few pages. The question isn't uncommon, so it helps to be prepared. I find the page where I've written my story, and pass the book to Tahnee, who snatches it greedily.
The story of my tongue
(Or why I sound like a tortured cat when I attempt to talk)

Once upon a time there was a man called Hugo Dell. Hugo loved to go running. He loved the heat saturated air of the Brisbane Summer. Every afternoon, he would run to the back of the city, all along the dirty grimy backstreets. The walls there oozed grime and dirt, the ground was covered in sharps and broken glass and the benches were covered in homeless drunkards. Crazy people would live there, and would go by muttering to themselves. They said things like "Oh those rotten bastards, I'll show them they think they can do it to the old ones, oh but they'll see, my William will show them, my Willie will make them see sense," and continue talking well into the distance.
Hugo was a photographer. He enjoyed taking pictures of this area. He thought that by showing people pictures of the less known sides of life, he could educate them about what life was like for people who were less fortunate than themselves. He often took photos of sad looking people.
In this area lived a man whose name was Velvet Martini. He was a member of the Obrion Phariax cult. His leader had commanded them all to do certain tasks. Martini's task was to find a man, and slice off his tongue.
As Hugo ran by that afternoon, it was to be a day unlike any other. Suddenly, Velvet jumped out at him, pushed him over, and with a wicked grin, pulled out a knife. Hugo screamed, thinking he was going to die. As his mouth opened, Velvet grabbed his tongue and cut it off. Hugo ran away, running to the hospital, with half a tongue.
THE END.
She finishes reading the story, and looks at me, studying my face.
"How much of this is true," she asks.
Most,
then,
Tell me about the house.
"OK," she says, scratching her neck. "You know Scientology?"
I furrow my brow, nodding.
"Well believe it or not, I'm no mere mortal, but instead am the test tube creation of L Ron Hubbard and Lord Xenu. Due to this alien DNA, I receive secret telepathic messages from the masters of the universe, and when they told me to burn the house I had no choice. Like Donny Darko."
I wanted the truth. That's a lie.
"Well, I guess that makes us even then hey? Little lies for sneaky spies. Velvet Martini. That is so bullshit."
The words are harsh, but the manner is friendly. She pulls out a cigarette, lights it with some difficulty, and breaths in. Almost instantly she coughs, and drops the cigarette into her half empty Cruiser.
"Fuck. Jesus. OK, well there goes that idea." She straightens, looks at me. "So. Did you actually know anything about the guy, or did you make it all up?"
I found out a fair bit. Velvet Martini was another guy's name that I used for the story though.
"What's his real name then? The guy in the story?"
I give a wobble of my hand in reply. I really would rather not discuss that.
"I said, what's his name. Tell me or I'll never tell you about the house."
There's something about her that compels me to her, something that I can't quite put into words. Some stupid gut feeling; though by now I've learnt to trust my stupid gut.
Can you keep a secret?
"Yeah right O."
I open my red book to page three again, and point to a name. Ashton Moray.
This is the man, who cut off the tongue, of the man who wants, to read the poem, 'twas made by the girl, that set fire to the house, that Jack bought.
Ashton Moray and I had so many good times together.
Ashton Moray taught me how to play Blackjack.
Ashton Moray never expected things to turn out this way.

This is the first chapter of the 'other' piece I've been working on for a handful of years. Feedback welcome.

I'll link to the whole thing when Scribd stops being lame.

I'm getting frustrated with my own timidity in a number of social situations. I'm really big on getting things done, using my time well etc but am terribly prone to be distracted by shiny things.

I'm trying to make a dedication to hitting things harder. Upping life intensity, making better more social choices and so on. I'm basically starting this thread to hold myself to it and put it on record, 'make it real'.

I have a list of instructions on front of my iPod now mostly based on the theme "if you don't know what to do, talk to someone."

This is to try to hammer it into my head and also to stop myself checking the time every five minutes.

Anyway. That's today.

[This does use some 'magical' ideas, so feel free to discuss, BUT, if you already know your only desire will be to shit on my head, please just move on. I'm already aware that I'm feeding myself to the lions...]

This does use some 'magical' ideas, so feel free to discuss, BUT, if you already know your only desire will be to shit on my head, please just move on. I'm already aware that I'm feeding myself to the lions...

Servitors are aspects of a magician's personality, bound and set aside as seperate entities.

The work 'Sigils, Servitors and Godforms' by Marik is referenced in the great work 'Art of Memetics'. The original work focusses on a fairly traditional view of magick and occult. I want to focus for a while on the more AoM approach, of using magical concepts in largely pragmatic, and possibly in some sense 'skeptical' ways.

Servitors, using that top definition, are in many ways an observible phenomonom. When I go to school I adopt a very specific persona designed to be appropriate and effective at teaching Japanese to young students. Sales people, retail workers, politicians etc often do this. Essentially the process I'd like to describe is of the development of a particular persona, made of parts of the self, and released and retracted as useful, though concious processes. The Batman/Playboy Bruce Wayne/ Bruce Wayne set of personalities we see in the Batman films is a good example of the kind of thing we're discussing.

These personas can be made of both positive and negative elements of one's personality, working off the original article by Marik. A good example to think of here is when we 'switch modes' when frustrated. A frustrated person may be more efficient at getting certain things done quickly because they may channel that 'negative' emotion into a kind of new, more direct and assertive personality. This personality would be loathed in public, but is useful for seeing fast results. The concept here with servitors is to do this conciously.

Marik also deals with the idea of Demons as a servitor that has gained possession of the magician (in this context a magician is anyone using this technique). The most obvious is an individual controlled by obsession or negative emotions. Dr Jeckyl/Mr Hyde is the classic example, along with Moby Dick's obsession driven Captain Ahab.

Servitors, and all other tools of Chaos Magic are used to serve a specific purpose; without purpose there is no power in the technology. Batman exists because Bruce Wayne can't intimidade the scum of Gotham. Batman, however, would be fairly awkward at cocktail parties. 

I'm interested in this as a technology as, so far as I can tell, this concept is relatively unexplored, at least outside of occult/magick circles. There are so many issues to be considered in relation to an individual 'hacking' their own personality, not least of all the possibilty of losing the self to a 'demon', difficulty identifying one's 'true' identity, or the period of uncomfortableness, uncertainty reffered to by magicians as 'the long dark nighttime of the soul'.

One technique I'm curious about is for use of the Myers-Briggs personality test for constructing useful identities. Is it possible for example to develop an ENFJ personality to help one socialise, while also holding an ISTJ servitor to help study?

Also, Marik touches on the use of objects in creating servitors. He seems to discuss this as a literal 'hodling place' for the servitor. However, I'm thinking more along the lines of objects that signify to the possessor that a particular persona is in play. Professional uniforms, or ties can play this roll. So can symbolic items such as necklaces, lucky charms etc. Is there a system to tying a persona into an object, so that it doesn't 'leak' into the base persona?

Again, these questions aren't answered, or so far that I've seen, even asked. What interests me about this is that it seems a useful set of personal development techniques that have generally been ignored outside occult communities.

I'm drunk and watching good morning America. Its an incredible experience. There's like a giggling baby, Latoya Jackson and a murder trial discussion miranda rights。

This is the best thing ever.

Also there's this tupperware and you can use each piece as a lid or a bottom so you never have to worry about sizes.

This is a place to post Discordian Projects for 2011. Anything here will get thrown into the BiP wiki, and I'll edit them into the OP.

http://www.blackironprison.com/index.php?title=2011

Epimetius's Meme bomb posters.
Nigel's Epic Facebook Troll.
Chao Te Ching
Chaos Marxism Primer
New Spider Project
30 Days of Eris (in progress)

In response to the emergence of christian dating sites, I propose that someone should create a Discordian/SubGenius/Satanist/Pagan/Wiccan/Etc. dating site.

Possible? Worth doing?

Though I have to say, I'm not sure about lumping the Satanists in. Disco's technically neopagan so Pagans make sense, but again, both they and Wiccans are catered for rather well.

Anyway, idea jamming time.

I was thinking about a project I would find interesting, and will get onto when my plate clears a little (which will not be any time soon).

The idea is a 'Discordian' work designed as a collection of herectical texts intended to criticise, warn against and generally disprove of discordianism itself. I can see so many interesting ideas that could come out of it. This came out of the kind of idea that most discordians generally are fairly open about slagging off their own religion/ideology.

I'll come back to this thread when I'm good to start in earnest.

Thoughts?

I picked my career on more or less a whim; I didn't have any strong feelings about anything in particular, and just went for education because it more or less felt like the thing to do. I was lucky in the way I essentially fell into something that I live and breath passion for.

We see careers discussed in schools. Often there'll be offers of trial days in senior years. Perhaps a class will be asked to take the Myers-Briggs or some other kind of test to categorise them and suggest the kinds of areas they'd be inclined towards. I remember looking through books of different career choices in grade 10, without being exactly wowed by any of the prospects.

The best way to describe the process feels to me to be 'bloodless'. Without passion or fire. Looking at jobs; one of the most significant factors in anyone's life with the cold detachment of shopping for insurance or a superannuation plan.

The film Trainspotting has a famous speech; 'Choose a job, choose a car', presenting a series of inane options, where any answer was the right one, provided you were correctly indoctrinated into the system.

Indoctrination is not the intention of education, or of teachers. For all the rhetoric of the 'school brainwashing' type arguments, there is really nothing more sinister in schools than teachers simply trying to provide the right opportunities for students.

Why do we see this sense of defeatism then in regard to moving towards a job? Perhaps we don't promote the idea that we're not pushing you towards a career, or a pathway, or a job, but a life. A fulfilling, passion filled life.
My job is the best job in the world, for me at least. I have weekends free, cheap accommodation, great holidays and I'm paid to chase my various passions. In school, I would never have expected to get so much out of what is, essentially, a 'mainstream' role; and a government one at that! 

Ken Robinson's book, 'The Element' makes a persuasive argument towards ensuring the fundamental role of schooling is to help students develop awareness of their passions. Schools talk of careers and jobs and work, but not so much of desire, passion and hunger. Maybe it's time we did.

Al the ones i see on Scribd seem to be file corrupted or somthig? Lots of articles have overlapping text.

What is to be done?

This is a really lame title, so i'm goin to change it. What im after is a work that synthesis the lessons of a lot of other works (art of Memetics, The Game, Seth Godin etc) and uses them as an adaptable community based development guide. Posting here for criticism etc.

Practical Memetics.

1. Intro.
Overview - a note on the structure - a note of disclosure - a note on terms and complementary works.

There are a number of book that do a good job of discussing Memetics and the accompanying tools they provide, the most seminal being 'The Art of Memetics'.

This book is an attempt to offer a structure for the uninitiated memetic to begin the journey of creative growth through the tools of Memetics. It follows a series of activities designed to assist you in developing your skills and experiences.

A note on the structure. This work is designed to be used in a way that connects you with others. Sometimes this work will send you to websites, or to physical locations. Sometimes it will ask you to start your own pages or projects. Sometimes it will send you to forums or other online communities. Some projects will ask you to share or critique creative works. None of this would have been possible years ago. Many books that seek to energise or develop community have websites that compliment the community. This work aims to interrogate the two.
Each segment should provide some writing and an activity.

A note of disclosure. Hopefully you're canny enough to already be asking yourself what I get out of this (or what I hope to).
What I am after; People reading this work, having to opportunity to network with people, better knowledge of my 'brand' Placid Dingo.
What I'm not after; Money, you doing my work for me, any personal info or email addresses etc, undying loyalty etc.

Notes on terms. There are terms in this work from a number of sources. These include Art of Memetics, The Game and many others. Terms are defined in the work, but these additional resources are definitely recommended reading.

Part one; Deconstructing and Understanding self.

A) What is a meme?

Dawkins original definition isn't much used any more, and the use of meme tends to vary fairly wildly, depending on who's using it. Our working definition is this; a meme is a single unit of information, which is close to a way of saying 'anything, really', that can be represented as an idea. Examples of memes could include;
A catch phrase (I'm lovin' it) etc
A piece of visual information (Backwards caps, the punk look)
A Trope (see www.tvtropes.com for a detailed look at what tropes are.)
A behaviour (Shaking hands, the 'sup' nod)
An ideology (Communism, Objectivism)
A symbol (an 'on' button, the McDonalds M)

Memes tend to be made of other memes. So if we look at the Gangsta look, it ties a lot of memes together; 'Bling', 'Bandanas (possible tying in with the meme of colour as a signifier of gang loyalty), certain brands, certain jargon sets, music styles etc.

A successful meme will spread fast.

What makes a successful meme? Generally there are three things a meme should be to spread well.

SIMPLE: The McDonald's M is essentially a yellow letter. Democracy is a simple idea of 'rule of the people'. 'Meat is Murder' is a simple message.

REPEATABLE: McDonalds M is repeated on EVERYTHING the company makes. Democratic process is simple enough to be followed in schools and organisations beyond government. 'Meat is Murder' is catchy and quick to repeat (Google shows 1,480,000 hits).

ADAPTABLE: The McDonalds M is printed on adverts, animated in ads and turned into big plastic signs on the roof of stores. Democracy has proven adaptable to multiple types of government (sometimes questionably so!) and 'Meat is Murder' is seen in multiple ways (including the popular subversion 'Meat is Murder; Tasty, Tasty Murder'.)

Activity:
Seth Godin describes simple but important marketing ideas, and builds up terminology to make these ideas easier to discuss. Read his work 'Unleashing the Ideavirus' at http://www.sethgodin.com/ideavirus/downloads/IdeavirusReadandShare.pdf.

The whole thing in development if you're interested:https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dD9o90M8J5snt_iMtDDcYKb6U8z1WsXrouhiCAz73FY/edit?hl=en&authkey=CNC_sMwF

Thought it would be cool to develop pages of contributors archived by projects they've worked on.

Page is here. http://blackironprison.com/index.php?title=List_of_Contributors

This is NOT designed as a PD Facebook, and doesn't aim to collect any type of personal or identifiable info.

If you specifically would like yourself left off let me know and I'll make that happen. I'll get onto adding bits, but for now I just think that people with wiki accounts should have first dibs at representing themselves.

Thoughts?

The Fuzzies
Fuzzy language is the enemy of clear thought. Orwell knew this and discussed it in detail in his extraordinary essay Politics and the English Language. He describes how political terms lose all meaning through being misused in political debate; the terms democratic and fascist may refer to very specific political institutions but we are more likely to use them as euphemisms for good and bad. If you consider yourself a left winger then left means good and right means bad. If you consider yourself a right winger then the opposite is mostly true. The actual specific political subtleties of these terms is replaced by a fuzzy kind of collection of vague ideas that we are implying our position towards.

We hear people discuss 'Communist China'. What, are we afraid people will get confused between this country and the lesser known 'not-communist China'? Communist has no informative role here; it is a codeword telling us we should be feeling generally negative towards China. Although, we are told, China is growing more Capitalist/Democratic/Western. The word is irrelevant; the important thing is we're using a codeword for good instead of the code for bad.

The role of fuzzy language is even more concerning when we look at the role it plays in developing rules. In Orwell's 1984, the world is not overrun with rules, but instead has no rules at all. Perhaps it would have been more realistic to express a series of fuzzy rules.

If you have ever been subject to a code of conduct you have seen fuzzy rules, usually as something along the lines of 'you agree not to indulge in conduct that is damaging to the good repute of organization X.' The beauty of these rules is they cover all manner of sins without naming any of them. The ambiguity of the rules makes it very hard to argue against them; before we can even try to defend ourselves of the charge we have to try to define the terms of the rule we have apparently broken. This also leaves us in a situation where the treatment of employees may be easily inconsistent. The upper levels are empowered to ignore or pursue possible breaches at will. Unlike a specific and measurable rule, we find ourselves to be a room of Shrodinger's cats, in a state of simultaneous guilt and innocence until an observer comes along.

Fuzzy language hides uncertainty, or a lack of evidence. Anyone who has spent time with the more obscure types of natural medicine promoters will have heard much use of term 'energy'. Certain foods will change our body's energy. We need to try to maintain positive energy, avoid negative energy etc. Of course 'energy' is meaningless. It just means something good; we are speaking in vague terms to try to express ideas we don't understand, or even recognize that we don't understand. Terms like social responsibility or ethics can be similarly used in political speech to try to promote other concepts that we don't quite understand. We may be told of our ethical obligations towards Africa, only to be confronted by conspicuous silence when we try to understand what this actually looks like in terms of policy.

Fuzzy language is the friend of advertisers. The spiel on a bottle of juice describes the product as a feeling, a sense, a loose concept, and promises that if you get it you get it. Coke are Gods at this approach. Beyond the colors or flavor, Coke is defined by its ineffable essence to the point where, despite blind tests suggesting Pepsi and the short lived New Coke tasted better, Coke remains inestimably more popular that either. This approach takes advantage of a general feeling of positivity towards the product, and redefines it as an articulation of some indescribable higher value. It has the advantage of silencing dissent from those who don't like it; since positive vibes mean you are tapped in to the inarticulate ideology of the product, disliking it is no difference of opinion, but evidence that the person in question simply doesn't 'get it'. After all product X is a more than a juice. It's the feeling you get when you wake up after a short nap, excited to see what the world offers. It's the smell of your girlfriend's hair after she gets out of the shower. It's the feeling you get when you catch mad air.

100 books for a list.

ONLY 100 REQUIRED

But the warning was not heeded, and as we stepped into the cave, the moon turned red and the howling began.

171 have stepped into this terrible place.

Only 100 will leave alive.

Will Darwin be the most able to adapt? Will Bradbury be set upon by the firemen? Will the Bible dodge the willing blade of Abraham? Will the Principia die for your sins? Will Joyce be censored? Will Garfield truly become minus garfield? Will Dawkins selfish Genes be passed on? Will Atticus save the mockingbird? Will Rand fight off the evil moochers? Will the Prince be loved, or feared? Will Vonnegut release the Ice 9? ALL TO BE REVEALED: LET THE BLOODBATH COMMENCE!!

The Constitution Of the United States
1. The Tao Teh Ching
The Epic of Gilgamesh.
2 Beowulf.
3 The Koran (Translation of;)
4 The Bible. Significance is obvious, but i note that it gets frustrating to read at points.
5. Evasion - Anonymous
6. Flatland - Edward A Abbot. {Presently ressurected}
7. Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Watership Down - Richard Adams
8. The house of spirits -  Isabel Allende
9. Über Das Altern - Jean Amery.
10. The Skinner - Neil Asher
11. The Wasp Factory - Ian Banks
12. Giles Goat Boy - John Barth
13. Killing Aurora - Helen Barnes.
14. The Martian Chronicles - Ray Bradbury {Ressurected for further debate}
15. Farenheight 451 - Ray Bradbury.
16. The Ascent of Man - Bronowski
17. World War Z - Max Brooks
The Zombie Survival Guide - Max Brooks.
A short history of nearly everything - Bill Bryson.
18. The Master and Margarita - Bulgakov
19. A Clockwork Orange (uncut UK edition) - Anthony Burgess
20. The Myth of Sisyphus - Albert Camus.
127 (wrong order fix later). The Stranger - Albert Camus
21. The Rebel - Albert Camus.
The Very Hungry Caterpillar - Eric Carle Great book, but probably doesn't belong on the final cut.
22. Alice In Wonderland/Alice through the Looking glass
Poker Without Cards - Howard Campbell.
23. Don Quixote - Cervantes
24. Cyteen by CJ Cherryh
25. Shogun - James Clavel
I am America and so can you - Stephen Colbert.
26. The Secret Agent - Joseph Conrad
If Democrats Had Any Brains, They'd Be Republicans - Ann Coulter
27. The Divine Comedy - Dante
28. On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life - Charles Darwin
The Selfish Gene - Richard Dawkins
29. Anti-Oedipus - Deleuze and Guattari
30. A Thousand Plateaus - Deleuze and Guattari.
31. Mao II - Don Delillo
32. Breaking the Spell - Daniel Dennett
33. Culture Jamming: Hacking, Slashing and Sniping in the Empire of Signs - Mark Dery
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep - Phillip K Dick
34. We Can Remember it for you Wholesale - Philip k Dick
35. Ubik - Phillip K Dick.
36. Notes From the Underground - Dostoevsky
Crime and Punishment - Dostoevsky
37. Foucalt's Pendulum - Umberto Eco
38. Schild's Ladder - Greg Egan
39. Distress - Greg Egan.
40. A Contract with God, and Other Tenement Stories - Will Eisner
American Psycho - Bret Easton Ellis
41. Surely you're joking Mr. Feynmann - Richard Feynman
42. The Golden Bough-  Sir James Frazer
43. American Gods - Neil Gaiman
44. Sandman- Neil Gaiman
45. Neuromancer - W. Gibson
46. Pattern Recognition - W. Gibson
47. Chaos - James Gleick
48. Lord of the Flies - William Golding
49. The 48 Laws of Power- Robert Greene.
The Magicians - by Lev Grossman
50. Rules for Writers - Diana Hacker
51. The Raw Shark Texts- Steven Hall
52. The Secret Teachings of all Ages Manly.P.Hall
53. American Fascism - Christ Hedges
54. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
Starship Troopers - Robert Heinlein
Stranger in a Strange land by Robert Heinlein
55. Moon is a Harsh Mistress - Robert Heinlein
Dune - Frank Herbert
Steppenwolf - Herman Hesse
56. Siddatha - Herman Hesse
57. Condensed Chaos- Phil Hine
58. The Illiad/The Odyssey - Homer.
59. Steal This Book - Abbie Hoffman
60. Goedel, Escher, Bach - Douglass Hofstadter
The Wise Book of Baloney - Baron Von Hoopla
61. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
62. Against Nature by Joris-Karl Huysmans
63. Sock - Penn Jilette
Ulysses - James Joyce
64.  Man And His Symbols - Carl Jung
The Metamorphosis - Kafka
65. The Trial - Kafka
Amerika - Kafka
66. The art of demotivation - E.L. Kersten
67. The Seducer's Diary - Kierkegaard
The Jungle Books - Kipling
68. To Kill A Mockingbird - Harper Lee
69. The Perfect Spy - John Le Carre
The Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
70. Billion Dollar Bunko/How to Cheat at Everything - Simon Lovell
71. The Prince - Nicolo Machiavelli
72. Principia Discordia - Mal2 and Omarr Ravenhurst Oh how we love to kill our idols.
The Communist Manifesto - Karl Marx
73. The Incunabula and Ong's Hat Papers - Joseph Matheny et al.
74. The Road - Cormac McCarthy
75. Milk, Sulphate, and Alby Starvation - by Mark Millar
Watchmen - Alan Moore
76. Promethea - Alan Moore
77. V for Vendetta - Alan Moore
78. The Dancers at the End of Time - Michael Moorcock
Book of Five Rings - Musashi
79. Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
80. Beyond Good and Evil - Friedrich Nietzsche
81. Thus Spoke Zarathustra - Nietzsche
82. A Game of Universe by Eric S. Nylund
83. The Third Policeman by Flann O'Brien
1984 - George Orwell
84. Animal Farm - George Orwell
85. Homage to Catalonia - George Orwell
86. Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk
Haunted - Chuck Palahniuk
87. Common Sense - Thomas Payne
88. Rights of Man - Thomas Payne.
89. The Gormenghast trilogy - Marvyn Peake
90. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig
91. The Republic - Plato.
92. Thief of Time - Terry Pratchett
Mort - Terry Pratchett
Colour of Magic - Terry Pratchett
Small Gods - Terry Pratchett
Feet of Clay - Terry Pratchett
93. Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand
94. Apocalypse: The Musical - Robert Rankin.
95. Another Roadside Attraction by Tom Robbins
96. The hermetic museum - alchemy & mysticism - Alexander Roob
97. Software - Rudy Rucker
Catcher in the Rye - J.D Salinger.
The Dark Elf Trilogy - R.A. Salvatore
98. No Exit - Sarte
99. Being and Nothingness - Sartre
100. Where the Wild Things Are - Maurice Sendak
101. The Man who Fell in Love with the Moon - Tom Spanbauer
102. Deus X - Norman Spinrad
103. Cryptonomicon - Neal Stephenson
104. Snow Crash - Neal Stephenson
105. The Diamond Age - Neal Stephenson
106. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead - Tom Stoppard
107. A Modest Proposal - Johnathan Swift
108. Fooled by Randomness - Nassim Nicholas Taleb
109. Black Swan - Nassim Nicholas Taleb
110. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas - Hunter S. Thompson
Hells Angels- Hunter S Thompson
111. Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail- HST
Walden - Thoreau
Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
112. The Mysterious Stranger - Mark Twain
113. Cannibalism in the Cars - Mark Twain (short story)
Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court - Mark Twain
114. The Art of War - Sun Tzu
115. The Art of Memetics - Unruh and Wilson
116. Het allerslechtste van Spekkie Big - M. van der Holst
Hellblazer - Various
117. Candide - Voltaire.
118. Breakfast Of Champions - Kurt Vonnegut
119. Slaughterhouse 5 - Kurt Vonnegut
120. Cat's Cradle - K. Vonnegut
Garfield Minus Garfield - Dan Walsh/Jim Davis I ADORE this, and it's clever, but hardly classic.
121. Marabou Stork Nightmares - Irvine Welsh.
122. The Illuminatus! Trilogy, R. A. Wilson
123. The Historical Illuminatus - R.A.W {Haven't read it, but does this deserve to be here?)
Otherland Series - Tad Williams.
124. The Night In Question by Tobias Wolfe
125. Soldier in the Mist - Gene Wolfe
126. Passionate Declarations - Howard Zinn

LIST UPDATED: If it has no number, it's OFF.

BOOKS LMNO Wants to keep
The Constitution Of the United States
The Koran (Translation of;)
The Bible.
Farenheight 451 - Ray Bradbury.
If Democrats Had Any Brains, They'd Be Republicans - Ann Coulter
Foucalt's Pendulum - Umberto Eco
American Psycho - Bret Easton Ellis
American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Steppenwolf - Herman Hesse
Principia Discordia - Mal2 and Omarr Ravenhurst Oh how we love to kill our idols.
V for Vendetta - Alan Moore
Common Sense - Thomas Payne
Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand
Where the Wild Things Are - Maurice Sendak
Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail- HST
The Art of War - Sun Tzu
The Illuminatus! Trilogy, R. A. Wilson

I get the impression most people here tend to feel more positive about WL than anything.

So here is a thread to create/share tools/propoganda that will assist in promoting more positive noise about WL.