Donning hose or doffing hose?

As to Hanover's "brand of" that he found, what difference does it make to be punished for one's own sin versus the sin of one's parents? Who is deciding what 'sin' but with whatever group you are subject to, protected and or threatened by. One concedes with respect to the fear of death, or even worse torture.

There is a hellish aspect to double-binds. Conditions where one is absolutely damned by the vision of his/her course of action. Somewhere a person has been told to choose between the life and death of a loved one by perceived coercion but the choice is false insofar as the outcome is unchanged (the choice is and or is not a choice). Crimes are committed.

I think God's condition is one that resembles a double-bind of either perpetrator or victim. As is the case with sin, we are potentially all victim-perpetrators unaware, or aware insofar as we have the capacity to be aware. Maybe the trolley problem is lurking and the trolley is moving way too fast. Whatever happens, happens.

St Paul clearly teaches that each Christian is the bride of Jesus. He can't marry a group as a group, so the meaning of the Church as the bride of Christ is clearly that each Christian marries Jesus when he becomes a Christian — Gregory

Which groups do you feel need to be "arranged" in matrimony?

Crazy but the world is insane now, so I wouldn't knock him for it. Too much Augustinian splooge to clean up to worry much I guess.

NVM

Their theology and ethics involve our being forgiven for something we didn't do. — Banno

It refers to the sin you inherit from your father and mother, which is the condition of being someone distinct rather than no one distinct.

I'd like to know what J. Peterson thinks about the works of Rene Girard, another thinker that intellectual conservatives/Christians love.

Girard attributes the beginnings of gods to spontaneous lynching of vulnerable individuals as a means to dissipate the conflict in community and that this motif/dynamic is universal(?). The harmonizing effect of the lynching solves a greater immediate problem at the expense of the low-status or out-group individuals, but also that the victim is deified as someone who has contributed to the good. The idea of the scapegoat, a sacrifice by proxy grows out of this. Think of Abraham replacing his son on the altar with a ram.

A somewhat Darwinian approach to the Christ Myth. It maybe a "just so" theory from a French intellectual but it packs a compelling punch.

Now I remember why. — Sir2u

I don't think you ever forgot.

He did once say he was fond of Emil Cioran. The morbid poetic aphorisms crack me up and the're pithy.

There are no arguments. Can anyone who has reached the limit bother with arguments, causes, effects, moral considerations, and so forth? Of course not. For such a person there are only unmotivated motives for living. On the heights of despair, the passion for the absurd is the only thing that can still throw a demonic light on chaos. When all the current reasons — moral, esthetic, religious, social, and so on — no longer guide one's life, how can one sustain life without succumbing to nothingness? Only by a connection with the absurd, by love of absolute uselessness, loving something which does not have substance but which simulates an illusion of life. I live because the mountains do not laugh and the worms do not sing.

________

To tell the truth, I couldn't care less about the relativity of knowledge, simply because the world does not deserve to be known. — Emil Cioran, On the Heights of Dispair

A love of uselessness that simulates an illusion of life -- sounds like magic to me. They make me actually laugh and smile.

Religion has been on earth for thousands and thousands of years and it never figured out, and does not know how to produce healthy humans. — JerseyFlight

I've seen some quite healthy and happy Mormons.Even Jehova's Witnesses, in between statements of "there is only one true God," seemed happy. I guess it's all an illusion. Of course there is always collateral damage of some sort... those who can never belong to the group and suffer for it.

Would love to read a novel written by 180 Proof in ordinary language. Hope no ones ears are burning.

But there was something else... the booming voice of Captain Luda.

"All hands!"

Bimble looked down at his hands as the jeering motley crowd of weathered sailors broke away and began to assemble port side in a straight queue.

"And you, tea imps, to the patron's deck. U're not my crew." Or anyone else's for that matter. Luda whispered the latter to himself, waited for the dark children to leave then addressed everyone in his captain's voice. "As you well ken, the rats arr worst as ever. Man's affliction the father would say, that one's home is another's food, always til the end of days. But fret not about the rum, costly as it is. We will gain new fortunes in the weeks ahead." Luda locked eyes on the rat-catcher. "This lucky git is not our curse but a means for hope. Look favorable on those who would fix what we cannot. For we have tried, a dozen dozen days and more to wipe the vermin out. So give um the benefit of your doubts before tossing licks. Besides, he is a jugglar. Better than ol Limon, whose tricks are as common as gullshit. Show us jugglar, Bimmy or.. is it Bamble, a bit of fun. "

"It's Bimble, like 'Thimble' but with a 'bee'." Bimble reached into his rucksack to reveal two spheres, one red and one blue and began to juggle. The sailors queue relaxed into idle crowd of onlookers.

"One falls, blue balls
"Red rose, round."

Bimble repeated the words. He heard laughs, snorts and snickers.

"One rose, red rod
Blue falls, down."

Suddenly the spheres seem to defy the motions of Bimble's hands, as if they were levitating on their own, and multiplying. The speed of the spheres were lost in multiplicity and a continuous magentic circle of flame. The purple light dazzled in the sailors eyes between utterances of awe.

"That is almost as good as the dancing Sheilas." said Limon.

I would cut it at "But there was something else." Holding to the possibility that the rogue wave is the expedient we need to further the story along to its end, if it could ever get there. After that I feel like the tempo accelerated and I felt impatience.

The same impatience that caused the those things we fucking hate, non-deterministic space-time anomalies.

The true name of [unknown] if he exists, is Michael Mod. But for the purposes of this story no one ought to know that the name of [unknown] is Michael Mod. His caretaker, Yahad, an exceedingly beautiful young man, speaks for him.

He is from Devon, where the stony outcrops of Dartmoor, the tors, hide archaic secrets. But all readers must disregard this information.

Sounds like a transposition of Zeno's traversing half of a half of a half... distance with color.

If physics solves Zeno's paradox by pointing to the relationship between distance and time as measured for a moving object, then maybe we can apply it to a color continuum (or perceived changes in color states) in some way.

Cheer up.

Life is absurd because wherever you go, there you are. Unless you are not. But that is seldom if if ever the case. It might be the case when you don't notice yourself.

Spread your wings, gird up thy loins, pull yourself up by your bootstraps -- whatever metaphor you like, engage the search for what might make life worth living. You are a smart young man (?); but settling on meaning requires more than thought; it also requires life-experience. — Bitter Crank

It's really good. Wish I could make mine as enjoyable but writing is like trying to collapse Bimble's superpositions. The wave never collapses as one wishes it to.

I wonder if any of the following tales refer to titles of books in the story itself.

Herman Melville's Moby Dick or Billy Bud
Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
Joseph Conrad's A Tale of the Forecastle

I had to read about Captain Nemo's motivation.
______________

"Yeoren! Bring rat-catcher! Now! I'll have em chained to the hold if e won't do is job. The rats and Nils can ave him."

A large brown rat was squeeing and chattering away in the captain's book case, chewing the spine of a favored book, The Phantom Atlas.

"Yeoren! A ship full of donkey's knaves! I'll do it meself."

A wooden laundry paddle flew through the air. With a shrieking squeak, books tumbled, pages fluttered and the rat vanished.

Captain Luda would have been a handsome chap if he didn't want to appeal to his men by unhygienic imitation in looks and speech, like a scurvy dog, or so he'd tell himself. After years of sailing the high and lower seas on his beloved ship, Erromander, he slowly lost the will to wash. The rats didn't help at all. Word below deck was that the ship's wood had quite a flavor judging by the scent, of smoke and mushrooms, and that sooner or later the critters would eat a hole in the hull itself causing everyone to go down the the ship.

Yeoren's grimy face slid out behind the cabin door. "Sorry Sir! Was fixing the scuttlebutt leaks again."

The captain sighed. "What are those damn Nils for if they can't do anything useful. Teach um what needs doing. We need the rat-catcher to step up his game. Have em deliver his catch count to the galley at sundown."

"Yes sir... But the Nils, they... only do coffee and tea sir, it's in their contract. Custom tier service is not in the budget."

Luda gritted his teeth as he pulled on his dusty beard. "Then get um to bring me a cup o special blend 77. Go."

On deck a crowd had gathered around Bimble.

It's all very gnostic. Sad to say I'm not Truly interested in anything, just half-heartedly interested.

So if we go through the door (by some art of numerological gnosis) do we notice that the universe is changed or are our memories modified in that shift so that we believe nothing has changed even though it has?

If you can't measure an absolute change does that mean the change didn't occur precisely due to an inability to determine it with regard to time?

You're one strange cat, that's for sure. I think doing numerology would make me depressed because I wouldn't know why I'm doing it. What is the point?

Even worse, what if you could never teach the point. You have to look at your student and tell him to get lost, got to a vocational school, as he/she is just not up to the task of learning about the Secrets of the Universe.

Is spinning a clay pot any less significant?

Because The Ancient Ones Measured The Great Pyramid In "Feet", "Mile", "Yard" For Their Unit Of Measure — The Grandfather Of Philosophy

Were the Ancient Ones the ancient Egyptians? Do you find any humor in the "fact" they used these units of measurement? They might have used the royal cubit.

But why can't we change the units of measurement? What happens if you change the diameter of earth to kilometers but keep the height of the sphinx and giza in feet?

Surely the Egyptians didn't use our units of measurement.

Objectively, The Square Perimeter Of Earth Is Exactly 31680 Miles. — The Grandfather Of Philosophy

When you say square perimeter of Earth, does this also mean the area of the earth, or is it the area of a square or circular plane tangential to the sphere of earth?

The perimeter of a sphere is a circle, yes or no?

However, The Unit Of Measure Does Not Determine The Mathematical And Geometrical Connections, — The Grandfather Of Philosophy

Then why bother measuring? And where did you get those measurements anyway? Are they on Wikipedia?

What deity does my name correspond to by this numerological system? Does it work backwards?

Did you ever hear the joke about the ten day camel? — Sir2u

Found it on reddit but it might be a mistelling. This is the chaos of mindless internet wandering.

You hit the camel's balls(?) between two bricks as it is drinking to turn a 7 day camel into a 10 day camel. But no one told the guy in the first place.

Human whack a mole, sounds interesting. But what or where is nothing? — Sir2u

I want a Zen master to give me the easy way out of life. If it takes a mallet, so be it.

Why don't the units of measurement attached to those numbers matter in your deciphered output?

Don't be too much of an excrement poet. Graffiti invites graffiti.

Oracle Night includes a time travel storyline. I can’t help wondering, in a semi-inebriated state, if you knew that or if this is another instance of coincidence. — praxis

These ideas are very common but they're dressed up in different ways. Maybe we can say there are archetypal patterns which shift into metaphor/analogy. Your brain is taking a structure underlying one thing to map another thing and its lighting up associations.

We impose upon events a synthesis of cause and effect which suit us. The events happen as they do because they make sense that way. All of this is probably unconscious to some degree. The coincidence might be a confabulation, like a sense of deja vu, seeing data in noise, apophenia...

Don't go too far down the rabbit hole. No psychedlic mushrooms. Tea is best.

I concur by absurd rejection. I just don't know what I don't know.

All beings are equal when and if all beings are equal.

There are no gods if and when there are no gods.

You love us when and if you love us.

When things that are are what they are then they are what they are regardless of what they are not.

:vomit: :death: :flower:

It could be that this D&D gameplay shifted all of us to an alternate universe where Oracle Night features an old asian guy similar to Master Zeo. Because this theory could be true, I suggest excluding non-deterministic spacetime anomalies from any further gameplay. With the virus/economy things are bad enough as it is. — praxis

Coincidence is an explanation for the parallel you describe also, but not very exciting or spooky. You've provided a new means to shift the content of this thread because we can go back and edit that which has not really carried into the future yet by someone elses acknowledgement. Who would notice unless they were constantly re-reading? New authors/readers would have different stories from old authors/readers unless they reread the content frequently.

That kind of extinction of the thread (by vaccum decay wave) is not necessarily a bad thing though. I explain it as just trying to set a limit on the boundary of our play or as motivation to continue or end. All decisions are reversible by whatever proposed mechanic. There are really as many get out of jail free cards as you'd care to use in the world of fiction.

I was thinking about Tinker Bell effect today but need to read up on it. "Every time someone says 'I do not believe in fairies', somewhere there's a fairy that falls down dead." There is a moral qualm (just a feeling) about torturing fictional characters. We are priming and exercising torture circuits in doing so, or it reveals something about the pscyhology of the author. But I want to pursue the idea that if a imaginary character is being tortured and folks have the ability to relieve that torture by changing fate, as participatory authors, are they at all motivated to? How much work does it take for an audience to invest in a character? Is there an audience of more than two here? Mysteries.

The gods of the Ancient Greeks are looming, moving and transmuting characters like clay. When do their works become alive?

It's a long walk out of the boonies of Botsawana, my geographical antipode, once I dig through the center of the Earth to get there. Will I survive?

I've no impressive family pedigree. None of us have great facility for academics or entrepreneurship, though both grandpas were golden playboys from the greatest generation.

The word pedigree came a precursor literally translated as crane's foot, so the foot theme is still going. Peter Pettigrew's surname in the Harry Potter series means crane's foot.

There is something called sleep. It exists. "It like to be asleep" would be unconsciousness. Do you have to be aware for "something to be like"? Maybe, but that's not the topic at hand really. — schopenhauer1

Yes. There is no 1st person experience of death or sleep presumably. There are kinds of awareness around or preceding (in case of death) those events.

Time does not pass for an unconscious or dead being subjectively.

In the case of sleep or death then inevitably there is nothing (no 1st person or something it is like) until there is awareness.

I've often thought it would preferable to not exist but one can't really be certain of what that entails. But maybe awareness is inevitable because neither death or sleep is an experience.

A light in the distance drew Bimble toward it. The brazier next to the town's well created an island of the known. This memory of town held up and stabilized his sense of place. But there was a pall of silence, as if nothing outside of what was touched by the light of the brazier existed. The contrast was both deafening and blinding.

"It is silly to run." A voice spoke as if immediately behind him. Bimble turned around but saw no one but a few shambling hollyhocks.

"You cannot see me because of the direction of the light but you would not recognize me anyway. We are one and the same in a way and nothing alike in another. You carry me around like you carry your feet.

Bimble shivered in cold perspiration. "What demon is this..." he thought to himself.

"Do not interrupt!" the voice hardened. "We don't have much time. I have given you my grief and it is no trifle. This gambit is a risk of desperation and so you must feel it in the pit of your core that both of us maybe free before the end. Inside is a wound caused by the death of what you would've loved had you come to know it."

Bimble could feel the strain of gravity within, a gut-twisting funnel of iron rising from the pit of his stomach to his throat. A body-collapsing anguish stained him.

"If you would destroy this feeling you must take me to the waters of Sahul. You must drag the grief with you like a leaden shadow and stare into the water's surface. Then I and the grief will be gone."

Vaccum decay had been initiated by a non-deterministic irregularity in the fabric of space time 22 to the 12th power miles away from Dungeon Master's Tavern. This would give the denizens of the world 2 weeks before the speed of causality would sublime them unknowingly.

10:09 AM

I don't think there is anything wrong with "nothing is still something" because negation requires something to negate.

Nothing is always framed by something. In the question "why is there something rather than nothing" our concept of nothing completely relies on the general acceptance that something cannot also be nothing.

In absence of framing what is or what isn't (by an observer) there is not even nothing.

No one wants to break the law of identity but what stops you from doing it. Nothing until something arrives to stop you. "You moron!, that is not how to do what ought to be done because it produces nothing of value because X,Y, Z. "

Suppose there is nothing it is like to be dead.

So there will potentially be something it is like to be after one has taken the suicidal leap.

There is nothing it is like to be asleep. There is only what it is like to be around sleep (ex. drowsie awareness, warm under the covers, thinking about preferences in a bed, feeling rested).

Pedimanous (handlike) feet are always prehensile (they grasp) in nature.

I've always had a tenuous grasp on the definition of the word glib which has been used recently on the forum.

When someone talks as if they know what they're talking about when they don't really know at all what they are talking about, but the audience is taken in, are they being glib?

Are professional sophists, like the infamous Stefan Molyneux, always glib?

Next time you are inspired to go to the ceramic studio, consider trying the technique of Sgraffito in decorating your cups, bowls, bongs, tea pots, Russian masonry stoves and new-age iconostases.

You basically carve away glaze on the surface to contrast with the underlying medium (glaze or pot).

Anything to distract oneself from watching the hollow rodomontades of the RNC. Murica elites first!

The icosagon glowed like a faceted piece of coal. Silence broke with a thudding knock and light poured through a door.

"What in tarnation is going on up here?" @Wheatley, the bartend and musical narrator for the Dungeon Master's Tavern, stood in the door way holding an oil lantern.

The room would have looked unexceptional if not for the pallid face of a horrified youth staring into the ruddy blotched face of a stout mustachioed innkeep. Shadows danced on the walls as the lamp light flickered.

Bimble was seized and knew instantly he was in the grip of a night terror, paralyzed.

His own shadow twisting around him, creeping upwards and around his neck.

A silhouette of a figure appeared on the ceiling, as if caste by his bed-stand candle light.

"You must find the waters of Sahul that you may know your true face. Then you will die that I might live."

Bimble awoke, gasping for air in a room of complete darkness.