we can continually reflect on, evaluate and alter the factors that lead to our actions — Possibility

Pending the finding and better usage of the apparatus outside of time that has us choosing freely above and beyond our brain network process, one can hone one's natural awareness, connections, and collaboration—emotionally, logically, predictively, physically, and imaginatively, perhaps, by getting high on life, somehow, which ought to stir the pot of creativity. Well, it sounds good, anyway.

Heart-flight is love that the wondrous Earth brings,
Which winds to the soul whisper unimaged things;
Senses merge, as streams, to flow beyond joy;
Imagination fires enlightened wings.

They wanted to be free of their wills,
Since wills seem to be full of old-time ills,
So, they cut them off, now of wills bereft—
The problem is that there was no ‘they’ left.

There has to be some logically sustainable rendition of “free” in order for the will to do its job. — Mww

The general job of the will might be to insure the person's future in combination with reflecting the person as s/he has become as of that moment.

The fuss is about the consistency of the will, which, although appreciated as nature's useful means toward one's survival and keeping one to basically remain as true to one's self, leaves the person to necessarily be an automated process, which is not well received emotionally, since, well, then it seems one is not in control, whatever 'control' means, really, and who knows what benefit it could confer over the quick and deep process of two hundred trillion neuron connections figuring things out quite well.

Free: occurring without coercion within circumstantial and situational constraints imposed by normal conditions. — Pathogen

This is good, and it defines 'free' to be that the will is free to operate, the function of the will being to collapse scenarios of selections and their consequences into the best choice to be real-ized.

Hardly anyone would contest this, so there should be no big fuss so far.

Had the balance not been tipped in favour of matter over antimatter at the beginning of the universe, each would have cancelled each other out and there would be no universe. — StreetlightX

There are now a billion photons for every proton, indicating 10**9 annihilations early on. Somehow the rest of the pairs rapidly moved apart from their partners, going to who knows where. Perhaps this supports the inflation theory.

zEarly Afternoon at the OK Club — Part 2 — Priceless Treasures

Amorata Sultana informs me, after having just looked through the ‘Great Omar’, in thanks, that we have to celebrate together once a week until the end of time, so we head out to enjoy a day of Indian Summer:


(Click.)

Fall’s blossoms float, showers of fragrant beauty,
As leaves fade while the bulbs store up energy;
Faeries’ floral dreams grant this destiny,
For these leavings enrich earth’s potpourri.

For Ima Beloved, I have two more interpretations:

All’s thanks to Death’s prolonged sifting of ‘dies’,
Of the rest from the best, silly from wise,
The pointless from the pointed—selection.
Oh, through ink-black rivers we had to rise!

Life’s birthright, long signed by time, dust, and death,
Doth also suffice for Earth’s living quests
As their epitaph: RIP; time wears,
The DNA strands’ tips rip; dust is left.

So, what other rooms do we have in the OK Club? There are too many to mention now, plus I make some of them up as I go along; however, we shall get though them all eventually. Readers may request that we tour some of them.

There’s a room for Quatrain Poetry Slams, in which verses get traded back and forth, a room showing The Graveyard of the Gods, A Flower Lore greenhouse, an Elfin Forest, a Spring Fever Meadow, The Library of Babel, containing all the possible books that could ever be written, The End of Hell room, with Charon’s Tale, the Transmogrification of Omar And More story room, a holographic room with a Omar and friends discussing the human condition in an old tavern, the Room of the Future, and a time chamber that thrusts one back into Persian life of 800 years ago.

Another great exhibit is the ‘Collection of Priceless Treasures’, but indeed its content pales in comparison to living a full life.

I fear not death, Heaven, or even Hell,
For death is only life’s natural knell,
And Heaven and Hell are within myself;
The one thing I fear is not living well!

Among the priceless/worthless items:

Aristotle’s ‘lost’ book,
‘Beyond Metaphysics’, and, too,

Some nuggets of gold found
In the original Garden of Eden that was located
In the heart of the Amazon Jungle,
Wherein lie massive fields of Lady’s Slippers
And all of the flowers of Paradise.

There, I reached up—
And put the apple back on the tree.

And the Celtic Chronicles, we have, that were found
In an iron box beneath Glastonbury Abbey,
Revealing all of the tales from the Dark Ages,

And, from the tomb of the Holy Sepulcher—
The Holy Grail itself.

There, as well, a sliver of the true cross,
A small vial containing a drop of the Virgin’s milk,

A pebble, from a moon rock, given to me
By a polymath who works for the President,

A smart thinking and talking cricket named ‘Crick’,

The spear tip that pierced the side of the Saviour,

A few molecules of immortal air
From a sealed pyramid chamber in Egypt,

Some secret papers retrieved from the shaft
Of the bottomless CIA trash pit
Of “things that never happened”,

A thriving rose bush, just outside the window,
That was begun from Omar Khayyàm’s rose garden,

‘Flamberge’—
Prince Valiant’s ‘Singing sword’
(Twin to ‘Excalibur’),

Thomas Jefferson’s briefcase,

An original and intact Ming dynasty vase,

The third [missing] tablet of the 15 Commandments,

And the solution to gravity,
As it is a means and a result
Of quantum collapse from superposition,

As well as a tennis ball with my initials
Marked on it in a yin-yang style.

We also have the ‘treasure’ of a preliminary,
But solid indication of why the Cosmos exists,
Which Lisa Randall was nice enough to give me
From the LHC’s latest analysis.

I’m holding part of a brick that came from
Nero’s very recently discovered revolving banquet hall
That kept pace with the turn of the Earth.

I hold in my other hand a bone from
Early sapiens or of proto-man.

He is not gone, though,
But lives on in your heart and mine,
As in him lived all those before
Through which the universe itself came to life.
Amen.

Yet, all of these treasures pale in comparison…
To nature, living, friends, adventure, romance, and more,
Using Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat as a guide.

God offered Adam a perfect version of woman,
One who would even paint ceilings, cut grass…
But this would have cost Adam an arm and a leg.
So, Adam said, ‘What can I get for just a rib?’

God said to Adam and Eve in Eden:
‘Do what you like, but don’t eat the apple’.
Now we know that when you tell children
Not to touch something, they certainly will!

chirality — StreetlightX

Hail to the right-handed neutrino! It tipped all the balances.

Think it over — Shamshir

OK, let the tortoise cheat and win by taking the drug called 'speed'.

I don't even think it's a problem. — T Clark

After four or more levels of neurons (Damasio?), consciousness forms.

A brain process perceives its qualia, a brain-invented language of self-referencing symbols, along with it going into memory as qualia, with other brain area alerted but the global qualia result, which can attend to it further. Simple. No big problem.

Doses at the end, though stark. — Shamshir

How about this ending, with two fixes?

Dozes at the end, although stark.

to see things in dualities in spite of the fact that the universe does not. — T Clark

Perhaps our holistic all at once view versus our close-up linear detailed view gives a clue as to how the universe is organized.

I don't know what that means — T Clark

The message remains the same no matter the implementation/messenger, such as music is still music, whether live or via some other implementation, like an MP3 player.

But the fundamental point remains. — Wayfarer

The brain perceives its objects/results via the consciousness brain process as a kind of sixth sense?

But the mind is not an object of perception, rather 'that which perceives'. — Wayfarer

Consciousness is ever a subject and never an object, yet still a process?

Our awareness of our self is an illusion as described in eastern religions. In a sense, we are one with existence, the Tao. In another sense, we have separated the world into pieces - things, concepts, words, our selves. All of those are illusions. — T Clark

So seemingly real as an illusion such that a difference that makes no difference is no difference?

(The message remains, regardless of the implementation/messenger.)

Give employees stock shares in the company?

Omar Jr.’s Little Known Rubaiyat, Written Long Ago, Comes to Light

Omar Khayyam’s son, Jr., had to flee to Borneo after a fanatical sect of Sufi women, taking advantage of the increasing respectability of the once jovial city of Naishapur, it having become a temperance town, had risen in a body against the house of Omar and literally razed it to the ground.

Not until the original Omaric madness had passed away was the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Jr., lifted into the light after an infinity of sudoret labor spent in excavating under the 9,000 irregular verbs, 80 declensions, and 41 exceptions to every rule which go to make the ancient Mango-Bornese dialect in which Omar Jr.’s poem was originally written, foremost among the dead languages!

Who knew? Scholars had missed it. The media had overlooked it. Now rediscovered!

Samples:

See, heavenly Zamperina, damselish,
The Day has broken Night’s unwholesome Dish,
The Lark is up betimes to hail the Dawn,
The Early Worm is up to catch the Fish.

O foozled Poetasters, fogged with Wine,
Who to your Orgies bid the Muses Nine,
Go bid them, then, but leave to me the Tenth,
Whose name is Nicotine, for she is mine!

Into some secret, migrant Realm without,
By the dun Cloak of Darkness wrapped about,
Or by ringed Saturn’s Swirl thou may’st be hid
In vain: be sure the Bore will find you out.

Mark how Havana’s sensuous-philtred Mead
Dispels the cackling Hag of Night at Need,
And, foggy-aureoled, the Smoke reveals
The Poppy Flowers that blossom from the Weed.

Come, fill the Pipe, and in the Fire of Spring
The Cuban Leaves upon the Embers fling,
That in its Incense I may sermonize
On Woman’s Ways and all that sort of Thing.

A Grand Piano underneath the Bough,
A Gramophone, a Chinese Gong, and Thou
Trying to sing an Anthem off the Key —
Oh, Paradise were Wilderness enow?

The Fair of Vanity has many a Booth
To sell its spangled Wares of Age and Youth;
And there have I beheld the Wordlings buy
Their Paris Gowns to clothe the Naked Truth.

Look to the Rose who, as I pass her by,
Breathes the fond Attar-musk up to the Sky,
Spreading her silken Blushes — does she know
That I have come to smell and not to Buy?

”Well,” murmured One, ”when in my ashen Shroud
My Stump descends to meet the shrieking Crowd,
I yet may know that in the Fire of Hell
There stands no Placard, ‘Smoking Not Allowed.’”

And while this corvine Clatter still endured
A lambent Flame, by fragrant Promise lured,
Crept in, as all the Inmates cried amain,
“The Shop’s afire and we are Uninsured!”

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore, but
Was I Smoking when I swore?
And ever and anon I made Resolve
And sealed the holy Pledge — with One Puff More.

O Thou who sought our Fathers to enslave
And ev’n the Pipe to Walter Raleigh gave,
I love you still for your Redeeming Vice
And shower Tobacco Leaves upon your Grave!

Then let the balmed Tobacco be my Sheath,
The ardent Weed above me and beneath,
And let me like a Living Incense rise,
A Fifty-Cent Cigar between my Teeth.

some method of exploitation — rlclauer

McDonald's raised wages, but lessened the workers; I went to one of the newer ones, where they had no cashiers, but did have one person to help people figure out the kiosks and then bring them their food, via a number taken and put on their table. Now the cooks in the back have to be somehow gotten rid of. I could never cook there, with all those beepers going off all the time.

The balance exists because it is relevant to our existence in relation to it. — Possibility

Maybe most the humongous amount of stuff in the universe being so massively produced is made possible by a zero-sum-balance from some tiny base primary stuff/potential, as thought to be with 'inflation', using #1, this bringing other balances into play, too. Seems to be no problem having a zillion tons of stuff around.

One foot in front of the other, so the world goes round and round. — Shamshir

Walking gives more energy than it takes;
It’s as easy as falling forward makes.
Thoughts ‘come clear, cares fade, alertness tingles;
Life’s spirit whispers one along, wide awake.

Reflections of illegitimate power structures which rely on exploitation — rlclauer

Sometimes, as with Rockefeller, Carnegie, and J.P. Morgan in the latter half of the 1800s.

Science has tried in vain for a hundred years to figure this out. — SteveKlinko

True, but probably because the private realm is near impossible to get at from the public realm.

I'm not sure it helps to move the mysterious explanatory gap to another processor with special power, as there is still the gap.

Some have it that the dispositions underlying reality are occasions of experience, yet, our instruments seem to detect waves, as ubiquitous in nature even.

Here's an easy one for you: every event must have a cause. — 3017amen

What about the Fundamental event?

if you can point me towards the research you’re particularly referring to. — Possibility

I don't know, for all I have are some scratchy notes. …

Our rememberings try to describe reality as it really was experienced, but, that sheer essence may elude, although some general outline remains. Then, too, we add to it, subtract from it And reconnect by association to the new. Lo, the subjective metes out our reality; while the objective lies furthest removed.

Perhaps, we may have a memory that returns from a taste of butterscotch from which grandma’s home then arises, and then of connections further becoming. How do some crumbs, here, and of the past waft back as vapours unto our present? Do the senses of smell and taste, yet more fragile and more insubstantial, bear a unique burden of memory, as more enduring and faithful, rising up past the ruins of the rest? Just noting the butterscotch, back then, without its tasting, would not have made the mark.

Everything is connected within the mind, each germ of recollection ballooning into a revelation. Time mutates some ancient pastimes, and so they are not wholly recaptured, and sometimes rather fallible, even altered more by the call to mind, yet they are there. A memory begins as a changing connection between two neurons; the strength of the synapse changes so that the neurons can communicate. Thus, the taste of memory also activates the neurons downstream to do with one’s childhood days. The neurons have been inextricably entwined, yet, too, reconsolidate upon recall.

The memory making process need proteins for the cellular construction of remembrance, yet the life of a protein is but 14 days. And some hippocampal neurons die, and some are born anew, yet some memory seems immutable. Does the mind constantly reincarnate?

Aye, our memories must be made of a material stronger than cells, and must be quite specific as well. While each neuron has but a single nucleus, it has a teeming mass of dendritic branches, connecting to other neurons at dendritic synapses, such as the branches of two trees touching in a forest. So, it is at these tiny crossings that memories are made. Not in the trunk of the neuronal tree, but in its sprawling canopy. What marks a specific branch as a memory? what molecule awaits the taste of butterscotch?

It has to turn on mrna to help make the proteins.

I think this is still consistent with fifth dimensional interaction: the way we access memory demonstrates significance irrespective of time; it isn’t structured chronologically, but rather in relation to hierarchies of value. — Possibility

Hey, yeah, it is; good collaboration!

withering the acids of time’s reflux? — PoeticUniverse

I think the spellchecker changed 'weathering' or 'withstanding' to 'withering' here.

CPEB-3 — Possibility

In the brain, cpeb proteins are sturdy enough to resist time, they being virtually indestructible. Yet, they have plasticity, being free of the genetic substrate, to change their shapes, creating or erasing a memory. When we think, the neurotransmitters serotonin and dopamine are released by neurons, which switch the cpeb protein into its active state by changing their very structure. The activated cpeb marks a specific dendritic branch as a memory, recruiting the requisite mrna needed to maintain long-term remembrance.

Memory obeys nothing outside of itself; however, prions have an element of randomness built into their structure due to the inscrutable laws of protein folding and stoichiometry, even becoming active for no reason, so, due to unpredictable and unstable prions, we have some essential randomness. Such contingency is just like Proust predicted: the remembrance of things past may not be the exact remembrance of things as they were.

Early Afternoon at the OK Club — Part 1 — The ‘Great Omar’

The lone jewel encrusted ‘Great Omar’,
Now worth over 20 zillion dollars,
Sunk, with the mighty Titanic—
I plucked it up from the North Atlantic.


(Click.)

Amorata Sultana rushes over, and says, “I hear you have the original 'Great Omar Rubaiyat', created by Sangorski and Sutcliff, in 1911, after more than two years of their working on it, with the cost being of no concern.”

“I have it, intact and in perfect condition.”

“That’s impossible; it’s at the bottom of the Atlantic.”

“It’s not down there any more; it’s in my cellar somewhere.”

“It would have been soggy and ruined.”

“No, it was fairly dry, but for a hint of dampness, which I cured by by putting it in my microwave oven.”

“You are known for telling tale tales.”

“Yes, but those I make clear as hopes and dreams to be realized in the future. I’ve had the book somewhere, buried in my old book piles, for thirty years.”

“Could you retrieve it for us to put on display?”

“Sure, along with a reproduction that can be freely paged through; I don’t want the original to be touched any more, beyond that which I had to do to take photos of the pages, from which I later also made a video.”

“Today is not April Fool’s Day, Austin.”

“Which is why I relate this on a non obvious day.”

“Aha, you don’t really have it!”

“Oh, I do; I’m just building up the suspense.”

“OK, then tell me about it.”

“Here is a sort of poetic description of it.”

 The Find of the ‘Great Omar’ Rubáiyát

(It’s presently lost again, in my basement lair,
But I know it’s down there, somewhere,
For I scanned some images from it there.)

The book has 1,051 semiprecious stones,
Set in 18-carat gold, many in the cover alone,
5,000 separate pieces of collared leathers,
And 100 square feet of 22-carat feathered
Gold leaf in the tooling and the edges weathered.

It had been purchased by a Jewish investor
In New York City, over a century ago, and more.

It went down, down, the sounds whirling around,
When the ice broke through the Titanic’s crown.

Vivid illustrations by Elihu Vedder’s artistry
Adorn the passages of metaphysical poetry,
But the most compelling aspect of the book
Is its ornate binding—two years it took.

It is bound in morocco leather fine
And inlaid with a peacock design,
Beneath elaborate arches, exotically
Engulfed by a flowing grape vine tree.

Its cover is implanted with precious stones,
Including rubies, garnets, topaz, and amethysts,
And emeralds, each stone set in 18-carat gold.

It is a magnificent masterpiece of its kind,
With three peacocks in the heart of its bind,
Surrounded by vine sprays, a snake in an apple tree,
Roses and poppies, with the whole worked within
In leather and jewels, amid the verse pearls’ wisdom.

250 amethysts form the bunches of grapes,
And the decorative ground is pure gold scape.

Down it went, into the black, watery abysm,
Resting in the oak casket of its prison.

The specters of death and life’s impermanence
Permeate Omar’s quatrains, which themes thence
Are reflected in the tooling of the jeweled Rubaiyat,
Carried out by the firm of Sangorski and Sutcliffe.

The front cover features a resplendent peacock motif,
While the inside back cover centralizes the bony skull.

Unlike the vaunted dead aboard the Titanic,
The name of the great book lives on and on.

Phoenix-like, the glorious peacock spreads
His lustrous plumage through the years,
In further irony and emulation of Khayyam.

The ‘Great Omar’ jewel-encrusted edition
Of the Rubaiyat needed three renditions:
The first one went deep in the Atlantic,
And the second was destroyed in the Blitz.

Stanley Bray salvaged the precious jewels
From the WW II bombed out bank vault,
And by 1985 had made a third one,
Which remains safe in the British Library.

That the first ‘Great Omar’ Rubaiyat
Had gone down with the Titanic
And the second one burned is all to do with
The transience of human existence.

Down, down, its spell was treasured for us alone.

My uncle was finishing up on a Titanic Deep Sea
Documentary, in 1987, and so had invited me
To the site, after principal photography
And filming had been wrapped completely.

We sent the robot probe down for one last peep,
On a special mission, into the depths of the deep,
Where the veiled lightning slept, in its lonely keep.

We viewed the wreck remotely, on a monitor;
We saw death and decay sleeping everywhere.

The probe entered a gaping hole in the hull,
And we directed it toward the specie room,
The place reserved for the more expensive,
Secret, or official parcels crossing the Atlantic.

Down, down,
We are the bright forms beside thee.
We illuminate thy quest.

The probe’s beam lit the way as we guided it
By referring to a map of the mighty ship.

Down, down, as the moth flies into the flame.

In time, we found the secure metal box, #14,
And grabbed it with the probe’s robot arm,
Then carefully backed out the hearty probe
Though the ship and on up to the surface.

The box was water tight, rust sealing it the more.
We cut through the lid, and there it brightly shone;
We had the original of the ‘Great Omar’.

Perhaps there was some extended discussion
Of literary treasures at dinner on the Titanic
On the fateful Sunday night of April 14, 1912,
Which sumptuous feast was hosted by the Widners,

For Captain Smith was there, and a few more,
Alongside the bibliophile, Harry Wilkins Widner,
Who was bringing home many a festive jewel
To festoon his already impressive collection.

The ocean liner had sunk like a stone in the dark,
After the iceberg had sliced all of its compartments,
Rousing the world to the nature of this fragile life.

Down, down, as the bottom draws the stone,
Where death reigns over all that is known.
…

Khayyam was born of humble origins;
His surname means ‘tentmaker’,
But he rose to a life of study,
Under the benevolence of the Sultan
In what is present-day Iran.

Omar Khayyam went down in 1123,
And with him went a gifted philosopher,
Mathematician, celestial observer, and poet.

The ‘Great Omar’ Rubáiyát Publisher’s Gem

These pearls of thought in Persian gulfs were bred,
Each softly lucent as a rounded moon;
The diver Omar picked them from their bed,
Fitzgerald strung them on an English thread.

The 'Great Omar Rubaiyat' book:

However the story seems much more problematic when we talk about retrieving memories, accessing word meanings, dreaming and having ideas. Who is accessing this mental content and from where? — Andrew4Handel

The brain retrieves relational memories as needed, via some very fast lookup process, which is amazing in itself, and perhaps our conscious glimpses into these imaginings are dimmed qualia, as a good shortcut, these memory images having 90% transparency so as not to interfere with the direct qualia reality currently present.

The subject would ever be the brain itself, perceiving itself, as kind of a higher sense than our regular senses. Yes, we are ever trapped in the 'mind' (it is the brain, too). The brain's own evolved scheme of more and more symbolic language becoming through higher and higher modules is so unique and extra amazing that we can hardly believe that it is the brain's doing, and, yet, where else would it be happening.

Chalmers posits that information can be represented in two ways, physical and mental, where the mental is just as fundamental as something like mass.

High Noon at the Club – Part 2a — Moving Pictures

My old friend, Iam Cayenne, approaches and says, “How do the skies and water currents move in those Jewett images?”

“By magic.”

“C’mon!”

“I add a special ink to selected areas that stays wet and rolls around.”

“No way!”

“They are done via my secret formula”

“But the people don’t move.”

“That would harder to do, but I’ve accomplished it using actual magic.”

“I doubt it.”

“OK, here’s a painting I made out in our Cemetery yesterday of Omar and his beloved.”

“Ha, it’s not moving.”

I wave it around in the air and say, “See, everything is moving, and if you put your ear closer to it you can hear them talking.”

“Get out! No way! And the people aren’t walking around in the scene. You’re just shaking the whole painting. And there’s no speaking or any sounds coming out of it.”



(Seriously, to make still images move, add them to Final Cut Pro, as many as you like, then copy them and place them in a layer underneath, so, now we there are two layers the same. In the top layer, blue and green will be made transparent and in the bottom layer everything will be in motion, but this movement will only show through where the top layer is transparent. Thus, one will see green leaves, green grass, and green bushes moving, and blue water and blue skies moving. Or even clothes patterns moving and other surprise items moving, such as bird feathers.

When applying a color key to the top layer, select just one still image, because trying to do them all at once won't work, one with both blue and green, for then blue and green can be keyed in one go. Then, use 'copy' and 'paste attributes' to copy the key to all the images. In the bottom layer, select just one image, and apply the 'underwater' filter to it, lowering the parameters way, way down. Then 'copy' and 'paste attributes' to all the images. This method will work on videos, too.)

we have the ability to freely choose — RogueAI

We have the ability to sensibly choose, according to how much sense we have in our will. Some do it better; some worse; some are naturals; some struggle. We end up, hopefully, in professions we are good at.

Evil is a problem for God — TheMadFool

One would think so, yet 'God', whether the invented one or a 'good' one, lets evil spirits run free, blah, blah, blah.

It seems disproportionate and excessive - do we beat our children senseless to make them understand a point? — TheMadFool

Or do we torture them with flame? There goes the believers' unequal argument comparing God's discipline, and as such to be allowed, blah, blah, blah.

No need to be greatly annoyed, for the believers, as all of us, have to do what we do, whether silly or intelligent, as l luck would have us. Learning is out for the deeply indoctrinated, and so any progress is out, they being stuck.

I wonder how one would explain the process of education’s influence on a ‘fixed will’ in anything other than metaphorical language, though. — Possibility

Memory:

The past is never past, at least while we’re alive.
Memories, while re-cognized and ephemeral,
Still have a very basic core of persistence.
 
How does this past remain,
and what kind of substance
Could there be that lives
so completely outside time?
What makes it so strong that it can ever survive
The merciless climate of the well trafficked brain?
 
In what storm’s eye does it reside, in the center
Of the maelstrom of the change and growth of cells?
What are these indestructible grains that persist
Among the shifting sands of time, bare and alone?
  
A memory returns from a taste of butterscotch,
From which Grandma’s olden day’s home
then arises,
And then related connections further become.
 
Reminiscence stirs connections within the mind,
Each little germ of recollection ballooning
Into a wondrous and glorious revelation.
  
How do such apparitions reappear, sink and swell,
Float and change,
withering the acids of time’s reflux?

We know why—prions. …

It's bullshit — darthbarracuda

In the new dictionary-thesaurus:

Bullshit: transcendence, intangible, immaterial, spirit, 'God', supernatural, beyond-physics, etc.

Omar-inspired:

When Allah mixed my clay He knew full well
My future acts, and could each one foretell;
Without His will no act of mine was wrought;
Is it then just to punish me in Hell?

The idol house is as the mosque, a shrine.
And chime of striking bells service divine;
Gueber’s belt, church and rosary and cross,
Each is in truth of worshiping a sign.

Why would the All Knowing, Loving Expert
Compose with Power His designed Concert,
Then decompose His meant Magnificat?
Because there’s none Such beyond the turret.

The sky, a vault, spans our worn lives below;
Jihun a course from our strained eyes aflow;
Hell is a spark struck by our vain distress;
Heaven but an instant when content we know.

How long of temple-incense, mosque-lamp tell?
How long of Heaven’s rewards or pains of Hell?
See, from all time ‘What is to be, will be!’
The Lord of Fate did on the Tablet spell!

I drown in sin—show me Thy clemency!
My soul is dark—make me Thy light to see!
A heaven that must be earned by painful works,
I call a wage, not a gift fair and free.

In Heaven, they say, dwell dark-eyed Houris fair,
And that pure wine and honey will be there;
If wine and woman we love here, ’tis right
Since all the same’s the end of the affair.

In Paradise, they tell us, Houris dwell,
And fountains run with wine and oxymel:
If these be lawful in the world to come,
Surely ‘tis right to love them here as well.

To add to the confusion, consider what (if any) difference there is between ontology and metaphysics. Both pertain to what exists. — Relativist

Yes, so there is but ontology; so long metaphysics; all is physical.

So long; enjoy the babble of Babel.

Um, global warming is bringing the floods back, along with horrible heat. This is the end. Bye.

TOE — Steven Twentyman

So, you see from the video that the information content of Everything is zero—random—the TOE, or, in other words:

The Fundamental Eterne of the causeless,
Whose state cannot have inputs to its mess,
Dooms ‘God’, along with any specifics—
The bedrock of All must be randomness.

Of the random base, some small parts endure,
And code as quarks, which code for atoms pure,
As at each new realm new laws determine—
But for when bedrock’s touched—effects for sure.

so anything that COULD have happened already has. — Steven Twentyman

And will again and again. Luckily we have all of it in the Library of Babel:

where do we go from here — Steven Twentyman

What is the gist of the equations?

Nice to have, although we already know the truth.

Peer pressure — Gnostic Christian Bishop

Big indoctrination, from which not so many can recover.

Life’s cruelty satisfies all repentance,
So this credit give me when Thy sentence,
While here, too, I sin to cancel Your debt,
And away from the holy mosque jump the fence.

The Christian God is vengeful, demands of,
And tortures us with threats of Hellish shove.
Well, if I were a God and ruled above,
You could remove all my powers but love.

There’s no external creative deity.
Don’t worry, this verse has no impiety,
For we are the creative principle;
Intuitive strength is our propriety.