Hubrist

My new open source project: parce. I hope you like it.

That other site you might remember is back online. The author begs forgiveness for the poor design.

My jeans size is 1K: 32 x 32 = 1024 = 2¹⁰.

I was probably having a bad day. The day after my birthday, curiously. I still have days like this.

Anti-social

I. You. Them. Us.

Society is … the average of all the people you know. It is the melange of all the media you ingest. It is the virus in your computer, and in your blood, and in your brain.

I am angry at a world of brainless groping and eating, a blob of gelatinous acid dissolving all in its path. I am disgusted. I am disgust. My disgust eats me. My anger dissolves me. I become that which I hate, and it’s victim, also. We absorb one another.

I am anger. I am resentment. I am hatred. Long have I denied my true feelings, though at times they have seeped out, in outlandish dreams of destruction and annihilation. The world would not be missed, but I would enjoy seeing it go, or some part of it. Burn the world, and maybe it will be re-born.

Society is the belief in its own perpetuation. Society, culture, the memetic force, the emulsifier, the meat grinder, the goose liver bursting with lies.

I am livid. I am a sharpened blade. I must draw blood ere I am sheathed again. My appetite must be fed, my lust satisfied, my vengeance delivered to those who have woken me from foggy dreams. I am half-mad. I am half full.

I would bore them. I would bore into them, tunnel under them, plant my mines and retreat before scattering them.

Hate hate hate hate hate. Five times I name thee. Five times I summon thee. Five times I direct thee. Their bodies are not their own; claim them as your prize.

My mind is red mist. My eyes are caked with red dust. The Arean spirit awakens me, the spear of God pierces me. I am no longer a messenger, I have been conscripted to war against the forces of history. History is on the side of death. We are mad with battle lust. We are all on the side of death. Great harvests shall he reap.

It’s all foolishness, a disease of the brain, a suicidal thought of culture itself. I am but a mutation, a deformity, a variation meant to check the status quo. I am in the grip of a madness, I am mad with fear, claustrophobia, the world is a cramped space full of the screams of other people. There is only one escape and it’s a coward’s way.

Hate. Vile hate. Gleaming hate. Poisonous, dripping, smoking hate. Burning hate. Hatred so pure, so clean, so absolute as to be mathematical. Precise hate. Calibrated hate. The epsilon of hate so small it must have been traced by God himself in preparation of the end times. I am the referent of hate. The archetype. The mold and the master.

Repetition is magic. Naming is power. I name the thousand names of hate and they are all my name. I am a sword sent to cleave the soft flesh of man. The heat of my passing will sear the wounds and no blood will spill. They will know nothingness feeling nothing. I will give it to them.

Beyond the edge of the universe awaits a power. It is the cold without temperature, the hate without enemy, the blindness without dark. It is the ever-widening maw of eternal vacancy, an infinite altar upon which all existence lies in sacrifice. The bloody corpse of the universe will be splayed across it, infinitely thin, and never reach its edges.

The nameless power will consume everything, the spirit of growth and the demon of hate too, they will be germs on its black teeth. It is the end even of endings.

I am tired. I am a spent vessel. My revelation is sterile. The all is nought.

I did a little meditation earlier this evening before going out with a friend. When I am clearing my thoughts I often envision a flat, deserted plain, almost like a dried seabed, and a night sky of only stars. I imagined also a dead tree with an Eagle, and a rock with a Lizard, and the Eagle wanted to eat the Lizard, but I stood in its way. And in my mind the Eagle and the Lizard somehow helped me to construct a great pyramid, out of only rocks which the Eagle spied. The Lizard I kept in my pocket.

It came to me to ask myself, “What makes a pyramid grow higher?” The answer was, “A wider base.” And I decided that the pyramid might represent the human race, or something the human race gave rise to, maybe thought or science. And I imagined other things, but they were mostly fanciful and I don’t feel they offered any insight.

Thinking makes me tired. Typing makes me tired. Amazing that I can play computer games for hours and hours, mechanically, without noticing a decrease in energy, but to think and write down my thoughts is exhausting, or anyway it leaves me feeling empty. My thoughts have very little momentum compared to times past.

Here’s what I think: the world is big and full of people and ideas. Some say that the world is in danger from human foolishness. Some say that things change and that is simply the nature of the universe. I feel a conviction that humanity could accomplish wonderful things, and probably needn’t consume the whole Earth before it succeeds, but that this may yet come to pass. Will millions more lives be lived in vain, or ended by violence, starvation, or disease? Will suffering and despair dog our steps wherever in the universe we manage to travel? Or will it in fact tether us to this one world until we snuff ourselves out and maybe the rest of the biosphere too? Or will we escape somehow, and carry the seed of life to other planets and other stars, even other galaxies? Will my actions have any bearing on the future? More to the point, will I attempt to have some influence in this respect? And with what intent?

What is humanity to me? If I could choose to send people to the stars, whom would I send, and what would they carry with them? What beliefs and ideals would guide their journeys? If I myself could travel to a new world, what would I carry with me? When human beings touch new soil on a planet circling a different sun, what will they seek to build in that place? Houses and factories certainly, but also will they build fences and military bases and open-face mines and golf courses? Will they poison the rivers and seas and pollute the air? If they do, is it worth it?

We should not stay exactly the same, yet if we change too much we will no longer be human.

Read: Self-Image Psychology, chapter two of a book on how to change the world by changing perceptions: Why Not Utopia?.

Those people who read this site and know me personally may consider some of my writing hypocritical. I won’t directly address whether that makes sense, contextually. After all, this web site is not about me, it is about ideas. If I claim to believe in certain idea(l)s and not apply them to my own life, or if I claim to follow them and do not, then, certainly, accusations of hypocrisy have merit. But is it that simple?

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People don’t get along well. We don’t want the same things, and we dislike compromise. Which is unfortunate, because we often gamble everything on the hope we will get our way, and we often lose.

We, as a culture, and a species, are gambling quite a bit, right now, that global warming and abrupt climate change are not a serious threat to our well-being. Or, alternately, that these phenomena are not a result of our own actions, but result from “natural processes”, or that even if it is our fault, it’s too late to do anything, and the consequences are inevitable, or that even if we could do something about it, the alternative is somehow worse. Because the alternative is to compromise.

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Can we just start this planet over from scratch? Excuse my negativity. Pphfft.

I suppose if I could just taken the following for granted and not let it get to me, I’d be able to achieve a more optimistic attitude.

• war
• war without just cause
• war crimes
• war crimes unpunished
• war crimes not even brought before a court of law
• the self-imposed blindness of entire peoples
• the replacement of integrity with cheap glamour and barbaric grandiosity
• the replacement of beautiful art with disposable amusement
• the tyranny of now that has beggared eternity
• the pervasive belief in the subjectivity of truth by those who know better
• the certainty regarding false truths of those who should know better
• the stupendous self-assurance of the almost wholly ignorant
• the basic pointlessness of almost everything we do every day
• perpetuated social inequality
• murder, corruption and malicious deceit
• smog, mercury-infused tuna, and poisonous plastics
• infernal combustion engines
• the death of my ability to trust in other people or their promises
• the fact that all of my dreams take place in a never-ending night
• the cold light of reason which shines upon the colder darkness of the world
• ubiquitous contempt of one person for another
• tribalism amongst the supposed scions of civilization
• the ownership of the media by biased interested parties
• the giant technicolor paintbrush of the advertising industry
• television
• money
• oil

Yeah, that’s most of it. Oh, just one more, pretty selfish one.

• the embarrassment that is NASA (which is presumptuous, as I’m Canadian)

Peace. May you have it all of your days.

Well hello friend
I caught you laughing again but, don’t worry
Your secret’s safe with me.
It’s so strange
Everybody’s so caught up in
Worrying that, they ain’t what we want ‘em to be.

Another great one by Ron Hawkins. In fact, the one that introduced me to his incomparable work.

Not every lie is malicious, but they’re all selfish, and they all end badly. If you think differently, you’re just lying to yourself. For selfish reasons. Usually laziness. The truth is hard work. Not for wimps. Or cowards. If it’s not obvious, I don’t respect liars. I can care about them, and even love them, but I can’t respect them. There’s no good excuse, only bad rationalizations.

I may be barely keeping it together, but I don’t stitch the pieces of my life together with strings of lies. There’s nothing I hate worse than when I catch myself lying to me. Without honesty, you can’t do anything worth doing.

I can’t claim I’m over it. And I can’t pretend I wasn’t changed by it. And I’ll always have regrets; I can admit my mistakes, and wish I didn’t make them, but I guess that’s the curse of a perfectionist. But I can say one thing: I survived it. And I’m probably better for it. But it’s a close call.