by Roman McClay
Then they wait to see what the alpha will do.
The State -the abstraction of the alpha for the human troop now- will do nothing, the State is blasé about such things. These are sub-clinical transgressions, they do not rise to the level of legal crimes, in the mind of the State. They merely undermine the human alpha, not the State, not Me the State, it is tacitly said in the mind, the ethos, the legal rationale of the powerful -but aloof- State itself.
The betas all notice this, and then they look to see if the human alpha will use violence or not. If he is sufficiently socialized, he will abjure. He will say -it’s not worth it - because he knows the tyranny of the State will come down only on him; he also knows the State will not punish the betas if he is a good boy and does not smash their faces with his capable fist for their perfidy, their plotting, their attempts to steal his women. He knows the plotting betas will get away scot-free.
This was not always the case. The State used to countenance -or at least look the other way at- such retribution as the data showed in Nesbitt and Cohen and their analysis of the southern United States .
But in the 21st century, it will be the human alpha who pays the price for the violence; not the betas. The betas will be poor victims in court, and all the sympathy goes to them even as they plotted and schemed and lied and broke 1 million years of The Code of mankind and the apes. The alpha male will be jailed for long periods for his violence; violence previously sanctioned by Nature for 1 million years; 1 million years, at least.
The State is now vulnerable to charges of Tyranny by over prosecuting honor-violence, or retributive violence, and also the State stands condemnation for Leniency by under-punishing anti-social -but not illegal - beta male behavior. The State does not punish lying, cheating, petty thieving and insulting of someone above the slanderer in the ancient biological chain.
The State is thus vulnerable itself to usurpation if this goes on.
The biological, the embodied alphas, the human alpha males alone in society, are first to suffer. Millions of them will be cuckolded, ruined, and then locked up if they react. They will suffer both from inaction or action; either way they are doomed. But eventually, the abstract alpha, the clockworks alpha -the State- will become undone too; for it rules too tyrannically on real alphas -punishing them harshly for natural behavior- and rules too liberally vis-à-vis betas -and females- by allowing them to engage in anti-social behavior that lacks the honor of the naturally upright alpha male.
All this exists -lives- in the math.
Betas are allowed to gossip, lie, destroy reputations, cuckold a man, and engage in petty thefts that police cannot be bothered to get involved in. Beta male -and female- behavior wears away like the wind and rain and sea on the vulnerable, lee-shore, rocks of the coastline of man. They erode society with these daily, unchecked, unpunished, sanctioned affronts to the alpha creed and code. They get away with it. And this emboldens them; and plots more and more ornate and ambitious are made.
Plots against real alpha males in real time, and increasingly against the clockworks alpha -the State- itself begin to emerge from both sides. As above, so below, as it goes…
Isaiah filed his report to his own database but did not upload it to the cloud. He had wanted to think on this for awhile longer, even as he moved forward with his plan.
The plan was not to be interfered with even if he -at some later date- decided the rationale for it was no longer actionable. Other things could be done with the raw material he was creating, forming, giving sanction to be made in the world.
8. B / ax Flower
Without the capacity for aggression you’re not going to get any respect. That doesn’t mean people have to fear you; but it does mean you have to incorporate your capacity for aggression enough so that they would fear you if you wanted them to. And if you think about it, that makes a lot more sense from a moral perspective than the argument that you should be nice to everyone; because if you’re nice to everyone merely because you don’t have any choice because you’re weak and ineffectual and harmless that’s not a virtue; you just can’t do anything else!
Harmless and virtuous are by no means the same thing. If, by contrast, you are capable of causing all sorts of terrible trouble and you know it and you know how, and then you decide not to do it because you can articulate -carefully articulate- a different route, well then you have the possibility for virtue. Because without the capacity to sin, there is no virtue in not doing it
12 Rules for Life Tour [Peterson, Jordan B]
We now call the positron the ‘antiparticle’ of the electron, because it turns out that Dirac’s discovery was ubiquitous. The same physics that require an antiparticle for the electron to exist require one such particle to exist for almost every elementary particle in nature. Protons have antiprotons, for example. Even some neutral particles, like neutrons, have antiparticles. When particles and antiparticles meet, they annihilate in to pure radiation… Because antiparticles otherwise have the same properties as particles, a world made of antimatter would behave the same as a world of matter, with anti-lovers sitting in anti-cars making love under an anti-Moon. It is a mere accident of our circumstances, that we live in a universe that is made of matter and not antimatter or one with equal amounts of both
A Universe from Nothing [Krauss, Lawrence]
Primitive man is not much interested in objective explanations of the obvious, but he has an imperative need -or rather, his unconscious psyche has an irresistible urge- to assimilate all outer experience to inner, psychic events. It is not enough for the primitive to see the sun rise and set; this external observation must at the same time be a psychic happening; the sun in its course must represent the fate of a god or hero who in the last analysis, dwells nowhere expect in the soul of man
Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious [Jung, Carl G]
I. 2024 e.v.
Arising at 0345, the moon was fuzzy, dim; a crepuscular light breathed upon his land and the land’s air and the air’s fog rose high into the clouds. The wind had stopped, the black trees stilled; he noticed a slight pinch on his back and surmised that this pinch is likely what woke him.
He pulled out the sharp edge of the photograph that had been used as bookmark but had now been under him. He placed it upon the spayed book that lay next to his shoulder, among the .45 pistol and holster, among the extra pillows and rolled grey sheets and black divan; among the grit and sand in the bed.
He linked his music to the blue tooth speakers and began with huaynaputina by Mogwai at low volume, increasing over a 5-minute interval to come at rest upon a slightly higher level from where it began. The music would rise in volume with he and the moon still in perigee .
He took inventory of his mind, and remembered the dream:
Alone, but aware of his two girls behind him, entering a restaurant, they all unwanted; unserved; wait staff annoyed. His mind on sushi; darkness shrouding the entrance to the kitchen; he faced it, stared into that double door of black and…
There is not one person, indeed not one living being, that has not returned from death. In fact, we all have died many deaths, before we came into this incarnation. And what we call birth is merely the reverse side of death, like of the two sides of a coin, or like a door which we call “entrance” from outside and “exit” from inside a room. He had heard this, no, read this, on the table cloth, in Sanskrit that he could -for 161 seconds- be allowed to read.
And then he had awoke.
He had been remembering things in small increments, and pushing them away as silly fantasies, as self-indulgent and paranoid. But, just now he allowed one idea to stick around and announce itself, how opaque are most thoughts , he thought, they remain unnamed, un-spoken, this is how women think . Women think in dreams; dream-like clouds and haze; and what they must see. He marveled at the other sex. He realized some women were rational though, and he immediately worried for their souls. These were modern women, as rational as bankers, and they had no children,
no love, no lives.
Men had to be rational, they were designed -doomed- for it, but women -some women- chose it, he thought. He just saw that as odd as men taking estrogen and wanting to have tits that would never produce milk; for a child they’d never sire as they had no womb. He just wanted to be exactly what he was. No more and no less.
Mankind is the only creature to take images and turn them into reified language, abstract symbolic ideas, articulated , he guessed. Animals dream, some even speak in proto language, he thought of the prairie dogs who announce with chirps so subtle it takes a computer to delineate out that they have repeating sounds for which animal -human, pig, crow- and what color -red, black, white- and other concepts. But they do have an almost language , he thought.
All the clocks of nature seemed analog to him now.
He ruminated on this, and wondered about the building blocks of language, and that for some humans, language must be, necessarily, further along in development than the rest. It stood to reason; and just because he was likely one of those for whom the bullet was farther along the arc of its elliptic, this was not a necessarily hubristic sentiment.
He still wondered about death. Was it his to dole out, was this his generosity -his capacity- bequeathed by God like to the wolf, the disease, the devil? Was he doing -or refusing- his duty when he abjured? Why did most men not see this debate? Did one have to be sane -or insane- to even question modern morality? Was he the only one who even asked anymore? Was he to be the black dot of courage -the advancing northern slope- to the white yang of cowards? Had he grown white himself on the southern side? Was he to be the black sun in the white sky? Had he failed to specify?
Some people are better at all manner of things, and an advanced language human would by definition feel things here articulated, there discreet, that others would not. And he -despite how others would feel- insisted, or maybe proffered, authors were the greatest artist of them all .
Most would obviously choose musicians, because that was most resonant with their own minds. Humans are more receptive to the innate numinous character of music, as language often dominates their left brain, their rational mind, the emissary. Music is felt in the right hemisphere; the master. Whatever the king likes the court likes too.
The symbolic, dream-like use of language is at a disadvantage because of the parts of the brain it uses for transmission and reception. But, when the right hemisphere can speak in language, then there is some chance to reach that part of man. Maybe he was just being chauvinistic about his only talent, if he was a musician he would agree with the mob, the righteous crowd’s declaration that music was the real artistic milieu , and that language was too utilitarian for his placement of it in that high domain among the creative class.
He didn’t believe that, of course, but he had to allow for the possibility; in all things, possibility . This is, in fact, one of the signs of a truly thinking person, the ability to move from impression, feeling, instinct, and engage in a dialectic with the self.
There was no rational mind per se , but you could at least ask the questions of the self that you would pose to someone else. And so, he asked, do you overvalue language and all its conceits and constructions, what it builds in the minds of man, how it piques the interest and intersects with the natural world? Are you like Milton’s student-of-revenge: in love with your own rationality and clear and sharp logic?
Is something missing from your analysis of what is true ?
Or is language helping you? Does it offer something, some tool, that you can use, to pry up the floorboards you once thought were at bottom of this craft of ours? Can one endlessly dig, or is it too an elliptic? Is it all an ouroboros asp, with chaos swallowing order and excreting out some amalgam of itself and what it refuses? Does, he thought, DNA even have no bottom now, bootstrapping itself from its own RNA, which is itself made of proteins that are encoded de novo?
He ran a diagnostic on his apoptosis regime, his endocrine, his other things unseen. He breathed. He watched the light appear in his mind if not from dark dawn.
He watched as his mind modeled each helix unzipped and fixed and then reattached, he felt the click of each protein match. There seemed a shimmer, a halo, a coronal glow; some ineffable thing to his genome. How can a man truly look at himself? he thought, he has no reference, no perspective down in the ocean dips of relative swells. He sees only hills of sea; the land or any other ship, any vessel, might be close but he would never know as it falls as he rises and gains as he loses .
He is stuck in a valley, an entropy basin, an attractor of the thing he is. At bottom he would always be , he thought as the light outside -unlike the progress of dawn- stayed the same color and brightness and brilliancy, as the moon moved the hue remained exact, no progress in light at this time of night. He stared instead at the inside of his lids and breathed once deeply to reset his pulse/ox levels.
The air was so thin up here; he a naturally shallow breather -out of nervousness?- he then asked. He allowed the respirocyctes to oxygenate his blood with twice-daily deeply taken breaths. He felt the redness return to his blood, the blood to his capillaries, the capillaries to the surface of their skin; his face flush again.
What was this thing, he asked, this conceit, these images chiral that refused to meet? Like puzzle piece and puzzle board, a bit above the whole, the whole enclosed. He heard Voluminia say to her martial Son:
You are too absolute;
Though therein you can never be too noble,
But when extremities speak. I have heard you say.
Honour and policy, like unsever’d friends,
I’ the war do grow together: grant that, and tell me,
In Peace what each of them by the other lose,
That they combine not there.
His post-genetic coder hummed in steady state silence, its inertness is what moved him. It re-regulated all the things his sub-cortical regions did 99% as well; that extra 1% kept him optimal for any zone, any condition both inside and out.
It linked him to all the features of the house and each body part, to each thing once opaque to man, he could read the barometric pressure of air above his land. He could read the latticework of his teeth, his ribs, the mitochondrial cells strewn and aglow like stars in a dusty nebulae ; he could see his germline DNA.
Images produced by his PGC, turned to language in T, C, A and G. He added the other 22 of course, and with alphabet in hand and mind, he built his insides line by line.
Was such introspection, he thought, some interoceptive hybrid ever possible before this, before such technology, did ancient man know this much of himself, tantamount to memetic biology?
He saw sea beasts sleeping with their square heads down, like Tursachan Chalanais in cruciform wedding gowns; the blue of ocean as dense as universe immense, he felt crushed by the floe of ice and steam as the first submarines. He pushed into territory not meant to be seen, the place beyond the flaming swords of cherubim; east of Eden. He saw in this pelagic state, one leviathan bent and hewn like Taulas of Menorca on the outer wall, and asked what relation is one to all?
God , he thought, and meant just that: God!
He let the ideas flow over his river rocks and half buried bones, he pulled back and saw a topo map, he imagined himself now a feral, Ronin crow, with four sets of eyes fore and aft, two above and two below. The red of flesh the white of bone, the black of the imperfect, still unknown; the colors that rose from inner vibrations and machinations, he watched as his cellular growth was slowed and then sped up again to some music of metabolism and his 0400 somnambulism.
He knew it now, the landed corvid clear not black, he saw 1 million men with what he lacked. They could all see their progeny, and they could also look back and see each Jack and name them on each finger, with the thumb turned up, then down, hovering inches above the ground; their lips moved without a sound .
But he knew, he knew the words in their minds, they had revealed his thoughts in k
ind. He was new, too new to be 50, his aches and scars and overprotected heart, his memories of disastrous starts, his limp and limited range of motion, his compression fracture and brittle emotion, all had once been borne by someone else.
He -Blax thought- had been an isomorphic not of the veldt , he was not born, but built, Rotam et Sacoma; wheels and weights. He had been shorn smooth by the Fates and regrew himself each day. Ah, this made him more -not less- animal, instinct over high thought now, that gravid sow; the perfect heart of machine; the logic of a dream .
His lids opened once again, he was unsure of what was dream and real; this hypnopompic state was devoid of sound, the house was like a vacuum, an air locked chamber; the monkish cell within all nature. Then he heard the music rise; Scotland’s Shame by Mogwai clasped its sonorous hand around his mind and like a shell produced the sound of tides. The moon moved in the night. The sun - he assumed- would rise, as he fell back asleep and each hemisphere prayed to the river in between.
II. 2019 e.v.
The tray was a stupid color beige, almost orange, he thought, like a faded orange. It was just the kind of thing that could have easily been pure gray -and thus pleasing- but nobody cared. This, he thought, was the central crime, all those hydra heads that came -sprung up- after Hercules was buried, the shit men in his place had to deal with, it was these crimes they must focus upon: the corruption of artisanal craft.
How much could be improved if people just cared enough to make it 10% better, just 10%? That was enough to change the color of this entire prison to black and grey and then it would be beautiful, but instead they made a pastiche of thing, orange doors, this lack of color before him, undergirding the equally colorless food, this, he paused, well, now it was turning a washed away green, it was like opacity, not color.
