Thumbprint Dreaming

There is something wrong here. I don't know what it is. I don't know who I am. Molten construct of perverted crystal, I shirk and tower at once - Light strikes my back and the sun warms me, but I cast a tall shadow nontheless. I am meaningless. Impertubable. Ghostlike, wrapped in an engima tied up with lies. WHy? Where is my reality?

I wish that I could take back my life. Turn back the clock. Burn the history books and strike memory from mind until all that remained was a little curl of ash and a gready wisp of smoke drifting out the window.

Then my real work could begin.

No matter what I do, I trip over myself at every turn. I build walls between me and my bed. I taste rainbows on my thumb and my soul burns white-hot. I CANNOT SEE THE LIGHT.

I hate myself. I need to redeem myself. Actions cannot be undone, the best option is to simply burn bridges and fall into ruin. Find a new canvas, tear off the wallpaper, for no amount of scrubbing will clean these stains. Rattle the foundations and pull up my roots.

New York is not my home.

Language of the Future

I have come to recognise not a single 'god' so much as the occaional concious resolution of the universe condescending to speak in a way I can understand; a great alien buddha constructed of light who cried the song of dying swans in my ear.

You see I believe now that God is nothing. Not a single thing that really 'exists' in the sense we think of. There wasn't even a voice of god but rather a direction communication of information.

I'm almost inclined to say that information is indeed an aspect of God.

Data being the subjective interpretation of charmed quarks, without fermions to exert a force we are left with a wholly theoretical medium through which we transmit information - The vibration of air as sound, the flip of a magnetic particle, the pulse of a photon - These are merely mediums for data. The raw meme, the pure information, is utterly intangible everywhere except the human mind - The brain alone can condense these meaningless jabbers of energy into coherent, interpretable signal.

Though it doesn't really explain the presence of the archetypes. We don't really receive that information, it's inherent.

Why? It seems suspicious that the potential for creative thought is just an accident in the universe.

Creative thought, I fear, is an illusion. Everything that can posisbly happen, already has. It is happening right now, in an infinite number of split infinities. Under quantum uncertainty, we cannot know the future until we experience it - Making it the present. And until we experience it, we cannot derive what has happened. So therefore, we must assume everything has happened.

Nothing is your choice, everything is pre-determined. Free your mind by accepting blind chaos as your rudder in life.

What man deserves to die One Hundred Deaths?

It was Tathegata Buddha, the father Buddha, who said to Kannon the Compassionate, that "With our thoughts, we make the world."

With this in mind - I often meditate upon the death of myself or those around me.

Chocolate kills.

When we are alive, life is everything to us. For those who are dead, all they know is death.

In this; we know that people who speak endlessly of death have already left this realm. They are marking time, is all. They are waiting for a bus that will never come, but it doesn't matter, because they don't want to get on it because they don't want to go anywhere anyway.

Even a killer knows when there is a time for life. Hollow madmen whine and circle like vultures over the weak, their thin, reedy voices bragging of people hurt and souls stolen.

True killers, true masters of death, sit idly eating chocolate and wait for the rabble to pick each other off before making one, perhaps two clean strikes and solving the gordian knot.

The sharpest sword is the one never drawn in anger.

jericho burning.

Moments in time crinkle and dance. The karmic wheel turns ever onwards, inorexably, unstoppable. The irresistible force and the irresistable woman. My hands are broken and my lips are dry. My skin is tingling and my eyes are numb. This is beyond intoxication. This is the taste of hot copper in the air, and the blinding light in her eyes. When you can touch the universe but cannot become one - When events conspire to shrivel your heart and drain you of all but bitter miserdom - Remember that the base state of the universe is one of transquility. Despite how chaotic you may feel, despite what the negatives may be, there is an equal proportion of positives. Of matter. Of good to match the evil; and produce... what, exactly? positron and electron annihilate to produce energy. Good and evil couple to form... Enlightenment. When you reach that state of understanding when you can finally grasp that nothing happens by chance, and that everything is predetermined. That is when you realise that nothing's changed - Things were always like this. Nothing was good, nothing was bad, everything simply was. This is the Istigkeit. The orbit of worlds around two people because they are all that exist. Lightning splits the sky and unites ozone, draws current so quickly and traces back upwards, so all we see is the after-effects. That's how these things work. You never know the first strike. You only feel it when it starts to leave you, and you realise - No, wait. I need you. I can't be without you. Then the current surges and every neuron in your body fires and for the first time in so long, you can feel again.

My angel. My serenity. Never falter, never slip. Forget the past, because the present is all you can affect, and even then, anything you can do to change your path, you've already done. Nothing else matters but this white-hot moment when we come together, at long last, and the seas bil around us. When a thousand people stop and stare. When the earthquakes shake the planet to dust and the man in his armchair, blinks a little, and continues eating breakfast. Take my hand and join me in the universe.

SPONTANEOUS MATH LECTURE YAY

a Dirichlet series is a difficul thing to simplify past the equation and integer boundaries, but I'm giving it a shot anyway because it gives me an oppurtunity to revise and remind myself by jotting down everything Ic an recall... So, when given a series {an}n ∈ N of complex numbers we try to consider the value of

{inf|sigma|(n=1)} (an/(n^s))

as a function of the complex variable s. In order for this to make sense, we need to consider the convergence properties of the infitite sequence stated above.

If {an}n ∈ N is a bounded sequence of complex numbers, then the corresponding Dirichlet series f converges absolutely - that is, to a whole-number point - on the open half-plane of s such that Re(s) > 1. Generally speaking if an = O(n^k), the series converges absolutely in the half plane Re(s) > k + 1.

If the set of sums an + an+1 + ... + an+k is bounded for n and k ≥ 0, then the above infinite series converges on the open half-plane of s such that Re(s) > 0.

In both cases f is an analytic function on the corresponding open half plane.

The convergence of a Dirichlet series is the intercept on the real axis, of the vertical line in the complex plane, such that there is convergence to the right of it, and divergence to the left. This is the analogue for Dirichlet series of the radius of convergence for power series. The Dirichlet series case is more complicated, though: absolute convergence and uniform convergence may occur in distinct half-planes.

On the whole, the analytic function associated with a Dirichlet series has an analytic extension to a larger domain, and it'll be rare to see one used in another fashion.

ITT, we change the world.

Understand, now, that we stand on the precipice of a world aflame. Where society is soaked in gasoline, and we, the citizens, are all holding a precariously-balanced source of ignition, that devious spark that most of us call an opinion.

Unfortunately, a lot of very stupid, narrow-minded an ignorant fucks have an opinion which they are forcing onto even more gullible fucks desperate for direction. Case in point?

http://au.youtube.com/watch?v=wX8-Pzq85U4

That fat fuck is brainwashing millions of soccer moms and religious zealots with flat-out lies, half-truths and deceptions - Not even a real doctor.

people like this are destroying the planet.

Now, I'm not saying that kid was in the right. he wasn't. he was a fucking muppet, smoking salvia because "He was bored". When children that young try to get into psychedelics, they need to be very carefulyl and slowly amalgamated into a state of greater understanding through meditation and introspective discussion before they even think about taking the drug... it's a good thing that his mother tried it too, before allowing her son to continue, but she was a weak-minded individual letting her douchebag kid steamroller for cheaps highs and TOTALLY MISSING THE POINT of the divine mint.

End ignorance. Educate thineself.

I WANT ALL YOU TO SMOKE DMT AND JOIN MY CULT MOTHERFUCKERS.

This is what it sounds like when swans die.

But what is death?

Life is the subjective experience of a concious mind recognising change over time. Death, we can assume therefore, is the opposite of this. Or perhaps the absence? Death is the absence of change over time?

Then therefore, what is time? The moment variable in the equation? When we know that the planar heterotic superstring consists of a closed loop with two planes of vibration - Clockwise and counterclockwise - time, perhaps, can be considered the intersect of these two planes, the bidimensional delta plateau from which we integrate to yield the ghost shadows we call 'memory'... The residual data left from every fermion striking the surface of our transdimensional continuum. Time, I think, is the concept we have dreamt up to allow us to function with some degree of sanity - A kind of giant pile we sweep everything into so we don't get caught up experiencing past, present and future simultaneously. We will need to overcome this barrier if we ever wish to transcend reality.

The clockwise vibrations live in a ten-dimensional universe. The counterclockwise live in twenty-six dimensional space, and interact with fermions to produce a net entropic effect. Entropy, of course, being the measure of disorder in a closed system. Though in truth, our 'closed system' should really be considered the universe, we don't [i]really[/i] know just how closed our universe is - I often wonder if some of those images we're picking up, some of those radio signals and cosmic noise, are nothing more then reflected signals from ourselves a billion years ago, which spun out into the aether, struck the 'edge' of time and space and merely warped back upon themselves to come back the way they came... The universe, if it has a shape, will be a torus, or perhaps a kline bottle, being the only 'real' shape we can contemplate a metadimensional depth to... Of those twenty six dimensions we mentioned earlier, sixteen have been compacted to maintain a trans-dimensional equilibrium without inducing a massive resonant effect due to the asynchronous waveform. If you recall, Kaluza's original definition only included five dimensions which did provide a static pattern and a balance, but did not explain the force exerted by weakly interacting massive particles. So, our 'closed system' should be considered the empty spacetime held inside this twenty-six dimensional net, where the moebotic superstring covers every angstrom simultaneously - For until something strikes it - Until something observes it - That string is more like a sphere, in every possible iteration simultaneously.

Where was I going with this? oh, yes... Given that death is the absence of change over time, to integrate that change to get a static '0' answer would require a phenomonally fucked up curve... something on the magnitude of a gyroscope locked in three dimensions, forced to precess into time. Death is not the end of life. Death IS life, merely extrapolated into a dimension we cannot currently percieve in this eminently weak fleshforms.

Let Spirits Dream

I've been doing acid for a while now, but for the first time last night, I really felt what it was all about.

No coincidence that last night was the first oppurtunity to go as hard at it as I've always wanted to, but [i]holy fuck[/i]... This world, and everything in it... Psychedelics are the most important thing we have. The most dangerous weapon in our arsenal. The one tool with the potential to change the world, if only applied in the right way. We spend billions of dollars exploring the farthest reaches of space when we know so little about the glowing universe that hides between our ears. When xenophobia and baseless, abstract religious fear, corrupted from its pure do-unto-others roots into some bizarre form of cryptopsychology, seems solely designed to alienate and standardise, to shape living flesh into cold marble until every thinking, breathing individual stands alone in a room full of people who look and think, exactly the same. To flatten out those peaks in humanity, the spikes on the mass spec, the individual points of reason, truth and logic. Those glorious moments of humanity.

There has to be some reason why [i]that[/i] particular iteration of experiment was spilt on his hand. Maybe they all were and the 25th was the only active variation, I don't know. But... There is poetry hidden in that molecule. The way that the aromatic pi electrons are conjugated all the way up to the carboxyl group of the amide function... This keto-enol tautomerism is more then simple chance. This is, for me, the first evidence of something else. of something intelligent on a much grander scale then anything we have ever before comprehended, contemplated, or theorised. Our receptors are doors with many-faceted locks, where many different keys will open the door in many different ways. it will always swing on the same hinges, but depending on which pins are engaged by which key, an entirely different world will be waiting on the other side. LSD is a nightingale key. With spiderweb teeth, scant angstroms in length to twitch and tick across the warm wet surface of space and reality.

Open your third eye. Stare into the darkness, and wait for it to blink.

Life grows around us like a skin, to shut away the outer desolation.

Life grows around us like a skin, to shut away the outer desolation. For if we clearly mark the furthest deep, and stare with hot, hollow sockets we should be dead long years before the grave. But turning around within the homely shell of worry, discontent, a narrow joy appears. We grow and flourish and rarely see the outside dark that would confound our eyes. Some break the shell. I think that there are those who push their fingers through the brittle walls and make a hole. Through this cruel slit, they stare out across the cinders of the world with naked eyes and play themselves against the many-armed envy, the cautiously optimistic lifestyle that persistently waits for one of us to slip up, at which point life opens up beneath us, a grave maw that devours you whole, spitting out your flesh form like an owl, while digesting your soul and free will.

knowing themselves, and too much else beside, these soulless acid-fuelled machines of brain they can derive the truth of time and space. the only thing wrong with the present, is that according to messers heisenberg and and schroedinger, the bastard doesn't exist because the present is the future and the future is the past, and it's all the same bag of bones anyway. We can't observe the future until it becomes the present, and the past we cannot observe at all - We can reflect on recorded observations, but they too, are a single-sided argument in the quantum debate that only represent one possible timstream and situation. So until we do, it's both past and future, and the present is only the monodimensional resolution of this whole tangled mess. The present is just the simplest and crudest way of observing the change in entropy over the span of the reaction - Which is a bit of a shitfight in itself, given our total inability to measure this change. it's a constant process of coming into being, and passing away. The future is now, the past doesn't exist and the rpesent is the lie we wrap ourselves in so we don't have to try to predict what's coming up next.

Life on Mars

So, that was my 18th birthday. Dominated by alien heads, vibrating red ohms, my good friend dimitri and a very cute girl with fishnets and a slinky skirt.

Is this what my parents had in mind for me? There's artline texta on my shoulder, and sunflower seeds in my hair. My upper lip keeps twitching and I should really brush my teeth.

Better turn the bass up for this one.

I've been to the other side of the world for the girl of my dreams, and I've been into the darkest depths of the human psyche and my personal condition. I've been beaten, shot at, set on fire, hugged, sucked, slapped, heart-broken, patronised, praised, spat on, yelled at, whispered to, moaned in the ear of, tortured, dragged out of the house to go get high, placed on a pedastal, questioned, probed, interrogated and loved. I have breathed. I have lived.

I have finished my dress rehearsal. Eighteen years of preperation have gone together to form this bright, crystallising moment. The truth shines like new steel, and it tastes just as bitter.

No more fucking around. No more burning away hours of time for unecessary self-gratification. I've finally got a shot at a decent uni. No more bullshit and deception and mind games and personal gain and pivate interest. There are bigger things at stake here.

There's that impeccable truth I keep coming to. That I keep deluding myself with. That I keep reminding myself of, and testing the constitution of. That whire-hot glowing chunk of confidence that says you-are-the-man-with-the-bulletproof-brain. When I can have had five tabs and some people not even know that I'm tripping. When DMT does nothing any more. When I can feel individual serotonin receptors cracking and puddling like teeny-weeny stars of crystal meth inside my skull. When I can still talk coherently ththrough nang hits. These are golden moments that say to me "You will not have a bad trip. You are not the same as those people. No matter how hard you go, you're not going to break anything inside that tired young skull."

The next time I catch myself thinking that, I'm going to slap myself. Intellectual capcity, mental fortittude and psychological stability. Not to mention raw tolerance of psychoactive substances. These are not a measure of a man's worth. A man'd worth is judged by how he takes these stanchions of logic and drives them home into the scene, how he can figure out not what the doof can do for him, but swhat he can do for the doof.

it doesn't have to even be anything. I'm not saying that you should all go out and start donating to the organisers and bringing bunches of free bannanas for everyone - But you're welcome to if you want. It's not a tangible thing. It's the knowledge and passion of the doof, and the willingness to act and, more importantly, to not act, when the situation calls for it.

Please, whoever's doing that shit, please stop bring your friends who plow through the gate, and who steal the fuel for the jennys. Just don't tell them. Everyone is welcome at the doof, unless your behaviour is making others feel unwelcome.

All that being said, i think I'm done with doofing for a little while. Maybe take a breather for a few weeks and see how I feel. I might just want to get some cash together and skip town for a while - Go on holidays somewhere chilly and Sereana-flavoured. We'll see how the next few weeks pan out, I guess.

So yeah. This is it. Eighteen. Legal and liable, at long last. Culpable for full criminal prosecution and considered responsible for my actions.

bastards.

One day, skyscrapers will kneel to allow the sun's passage. The hands of a few will hold the very reigns of this world. The day will come when the sky spits heroin and the earth grinds its teeth in frustration. The people will rattle and roll like marbles in a copper cup.