duro

This is alarming. One of the reasons systems of control are so effective is because they hate you but don’t allow you to hate them back. He who defines truth, re-produces his desire. She who defines hate, desires with impunity. nostr:note19rw5cg4wtaqlf8sa46pmsrhxc5gm2ywj8ju577nppgcd6c2pm9zstjk7tp

People are problem solvers. The threat of other people's freedom is not a problem to be solved...except to those who profit problematically.

There will come a time when everyone stops pretending and everything is alright nostr:note1z55jg76vc2mk8eze8sdzaqgxnsk8lveztnvka8fnggk5q6m3tulq3jd97m

I look forward to the day when my nostr dms contain something more than variations of “hope you’re having fun trading crypto,” “how’s the crypto market treating you,” “interesting crypto market isn’t it,” and “hey.”

No self-respecting man describes their height to the half-inch but every man who actually terminates at the half-inch rounds up. This wisdom is encoded as a hidden gift to you when I tell you simply & without reflection that I am six feet tall. And when I say that I went to grad school in London there is a moment where the idea of me seems slightly more intriguing then it does after I clarify London, Ontario. Whether or not you know implicitly that my saying "I've lived in Buenos Aires" also means "I know how to avoid getting pick-pocketed on the train" depends not on your idea of me but on your idea of you and your idea of the world and all the frames and scaffolding that bind your thoughts comprehensively and contemporaneously together. When I was a child my ideas of the world were bounded by the limits of my legs and the imperative to be home in time for dinner. In that world I remember losing the sun beneath an endless tangle of wooded wilds and catching frogs in the swampy pond hidden like a witches coven at its heart; I remember carrying my Star Wars action figures to play with Paul on his back step hours spent inventing new mythologies for ideas of good and evil; I remember playing road hockey with the other boys in the neighborhood the winter afternoon so frigid that to be hit by the ball was to welt from the sting of a thousand wasps; I remember us gathering in Steve's basement to listen to Iron Maiden for the first time on his dad's stereo, the excitement as he ripped the cellophane off the album and the crackle-hiss of the needle that preceded the onslaught of guitars and the operatic, almost alien vocals; I remember at the playground, or once at the corner store, when the pain of some indignity was worse than the fear of getting punched in the face, and a favorite t-shirt was lost to the contents of a bloody nose; I remember with an almost preternatural clarity the cover of a Maclean's magazine left lying on the table union jack stretching in from the left triband flag of baby blue and white stretching in from the right each pulled together in a vice-like knot so tight that both flags dripped blood. The headline in capitals WAR. I didn't understand why but this image mesmerized me. The names Falklands and Thatcher are there inside along with a photograph of a battleship dull grey in an ocean of blue. This memory, this idea of an idea I once experienced, appears suddenly to me one afternoon sitting in Palermo as she tells me about the betrayl of general Galtieri and las Islas Malvinas and the young Argentine men under-provisioned and misled whose blood I saw as a young boy on the cover of that magazine on the kitchen table a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. He is still there mesmerized but I am behind him hand on his shoulder together a key to the cryptograph. #poetry #writing #philosophy #memory

“If you don’t get it, I don’t have time to explain it to you” is actually low-key deep wisdom. I can’t really convince you of the sublimeness of Dave Turncrantz’s drumming, or the expanded life-world made available by deadlifting and dead hanging, or even the increase to mental sovereignty that comes from denominating value in Bitcoin. What would that even mean? The best I can do is invite you to experience it for yourself, and perhaps encourage you with descriptions of what you might expect. But even that is not guaranteed. How an experience touches us and changes us is elusive. The transformation is a co-production between the self and the world, not an one-way entitlement between a consumer and a magic pill. nostr:note1y4qp6q3z4t7qdelrv8d02yees38qj5gugaxaft44wg3dqdws62vsclzqy6

Anonymity was outlawed last night in the latest update to the anti-memory laundering (AML) code and when I protested in all-caps "THIS IS ALL A FORM OF PSYCHIC GUN CONTROL" I was attacked for my lack of journalistic spintegrity. But I remember growing up I was full of undocumented agencies just waiting to be discovered-- cryptovariable be-ings and becomings, strange and novel assimilations of affordance and affect. Capable, credential-less and bored we'd cut class and pulse, and flex, and flow our way to rarified enlightenments like laughter in the clouds. Everything gets faster now. Speed devours distance everything is closer speed devours time everything is burnt out. Inflation is acceleration that debases what it speeds up an escape velocity but from what? To be moved by the world is to be in the world a resonance rather than a blur.

It is what it is: this world here and now, and my life in it for which I am responsible. Now here's where it gets a bit uncanny. This line came to me as reward at the end of longish train of thought. It felt like incremental progress, and I was satisfied. But the experience of it coming was of something submerged, shook loose, and rising to the surface. Was this really my thought, or some waterlogged detritus that I trawled from somewhere long ago and then left, forgotten in the mud? So I googled it. And sure enough, AI told me that the words are attributed to Fyodor Dostoevsky. Of course they are. In retrospect that makes perfect sense. They have his spirit. They must have been down there for a long time... it's been, what, 20 years since I've read any Dostoevsky? And isn't it wild that I nailed it completely, word for word. What book was it from again? Why can't I find it? Oh, he never said it at all. The AI hallucinated. And then I hallucinated. Maybe I'm still hallucinating, I don't know. All I know is that.... It is what it is: this world here and now, and my life in it for which I am responsible.

The opposite of love is not hate, it’s nihilism.

Hoppe here is literally the socialist meme about “not real communism!” How much better would this video have been if it was at all informed by contact with the facts on the ground and real world constraints? In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice. In practice, there is. But sure, Hans, you could “fix inflation in a week.” nostr:note17s239s3xzdk8gxczgsg058w9u57m3kyzkxe5q7vewwajssp8g8usjxsdgr