Ajar – Free Writing Prompt/Idea

Image result for rain on windshield


Rain pattered hynotically against the windsheild. Making it damned difficult to keep my eyes open. Somewhere a million miles away a voice informed me that the door was ajar.

I hate getting out of bed. But she’d turned the shower on and now I had to piss. My lids were so heavy. Too heavy to open. But I figured I knew the bedroom well enough to navigate by feel.

I asked her what she wanted with the damned jar. But she just kept repeating the same question.

I was becoming increasingly alarmed by my inability to will my eyes open.

I swung my left foot over the edge of the bed and found an unfamiliar bit of empty space.

What the hell.

I kept edging my toes down towards the floor. As I flailed in frustration at my failure to gain purchase my body shifted.

My foot hit something wet, soft, and cold. No sooner did this bewildering sensation register then it was replaced by a sharp shooting pain traveling like an electric current up my leg.

I screamed and wretched as a wave of naseau emanated from my gut and up my esophagus.

I needed to get to the toilet.

I tired to raise myself up to my knees. I failed falling face forward into a cold wet carpet whose taste had the faint hint of moss.


I don’t currently have the time to write a full story so I thought I’d paint a bit of a scene and send it on out into the wild as a writing promt.

You are free to use it if you wish. No attributions necessary.

Just be sure to share your story if you decide to make something of it. I’m always on the hunt for fresh reading material. Cheers!


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Teatime, CreepyPasta Love, and Global Warming 2.0


Lot’s of madness brewing so I brewed some tea. Over which I have a bit of a ramble as regards CreepyPasta, and the tragically overshadowed problem of nitrification.

My Favorite CreepyPasta Narrators:

CreepyGhostStories: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCnK36WwcJDTEhyS7w3SQntg (CGS is also a prolific writer! Highly recommended.)

NaturesTemper: https://www.youtube.com/user/NaturesTemper (Fantastic voiceactor.)

Dr. Creepen: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCcZ_-5180OBED8NBkZgkRmQ (Great original music and tension builder.)

CreepsMcPasta: https://www.youtube.com/user/CreepsMcPasta (Very pleasant voice and a great eye for stories.)


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The 20’s, The Many Evils of Beans, and Soleimani


It’s the 20’s again! Meaning it’s no longer hipstery to wear fanciful hats. Where’s my flatcap?

The Pythagoreans thought consuming beans an evil. I think this idea of sin and many ideas of sin in general, as well as the whole drive to mysticism via asceticism has to do with homeostasis. I expand on this via fart jokes.

I also give a few impressions of the Suleimani situation due to all the ethical ramifications it, and the region, presents.


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Held – An Essay

Image result for ancient book


“Though there are many varieties of the view discussed. Utilitarianism is generally held to be the view that the morally right action is the action that produces the most good. “

The History of Utilitarianism | The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy


Held.

Something is held.

This holding is seperate from perceiving.

It is removed from direct observation.

Removed from the things that sight delivers to consciousness.

When something is held.

That thing becomes a book.

A book bound by the scope of its subject and the alphabet used to assemble it.

A book very much like the literal thing.

This metaphysical volume is imprinted on the synapses of those who hold it.

So it is that we have spent all ages trading books.


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Philosophical Doodles – Musings on the Virtue Signal

Image result for virtue signal


Ethics is the philosophy of morals. It is a discipline that everyone should master. A discipline whose mastery matters now more than ever.

It is so vastly important that the world depends upon it.

If you just asked yourself, “well Whaddaya mean by world?” Then congratulations you’ve engaged in philosophy. You’ve done so by delving into the realm of one of its chief concerns, namely, scope.

It is in this way, by degrees, that we will stop falling into the trap of mere moral preening and actually get about the business of morality.

Morality here is not meant in any schoolmarmish or religious sense. Nor is it meant in a purely practical sense. Morality is more like an imperative towards truth. That of a very particular truth. That truth being consistency, a very particular consistency, the consistency of good.

At this point, we come to perhaps the oldest philosophical question. What is good?

That is beyond the scope of this essay. It is perhaps even beyond the scope of human reason. But we do philosophy precisely for the purpose of transcending human reason. This is done iteratively throughout the ages in erratic fits and starts. But it is done.

And it must continue to be done.

This is because moral conundrums persist as moral conundrums evolve. If we continue to hunt them with the same spears and snares we may end up starving.

There is ample evidence of modern moral starvation.

For instance, virtue signaling is a modern plague. And it must be eradicated.

But to eradicate it one must be familiar with its etiology and when one is thus acquainted he finds that it’s not a modern plague at all. He finds this and another curious truth. The very people decrying virtue signaling are themselves, virtue signallers. Virtue signallers who signal their virtue by decrying virtue signaling.

How so? Because theirs is a folk ethic. Not necessarily via any sort of philosophical ignorance. No. But rather via its toe-dipping malaise.

What is meant by the virtue signal is a behavior. It is a form of preening with all the evolutionary bric-a-brac in tow. One wishes to be seen in the best light possible. As the healthiest, strongest, and most conscientious member of a social species. And thus they display the feathers they think will win approval. They trumpet the things that sound virtuous. Doing so without any investigation and merely for the thrill of grooming.

Doubtless, such a limbic behavior is nothing new. Doubly doubtless that it is limited to the proponents of a particular ideology.

How curious then that the label of virtue signaller is most vociferously ascribed to a very particular sort of person. The sort of person who is very likely a lefty and very likely consciously or not an adherent of postmodernism and is either in whole or part relativistic in their ethical outlook.

Do these people virtue signal? Granted that they are hominids…doubtless.

Do they virtue signal more than others, or more precisely is the virtue signal more intrinsic to their school of thought than to others? These questions of scope and definition are also beyond the problem domain of this essay.

What is pertinent here is that those that levy these allegations not only trumpet their own moral positions with giddy abandon but have devalued a time-honored survival strategy.

This essay began with the bold claim that the fate of the world depends on eImage result for dr strangelovethics.

Since one of the most influential species in the world is a very peculiar sort of hominid. The only sort that can post philosophical doodles to their blogs, then it follows that homo blogious, whose cousins have prehensile digits perched alarming close to triggers for nuclear armageddon learn to get along.

Such learning will not be achieved by ignoring the nature of humanity.

It will come by understanding the mechanisms that make us tick. And how such deeply ingrained limbic processes still continue to influence those of us most fastidiously on guard against them.

This is not to say that one shouldn’t call out empty gestures or hypocrisy. Rather it is to encourage us all to take a closer look at our own views and the views of our opponents.

In so doing we will find that virtue signaling is inescapable.

So perhaps the solution is not to eradicate virtue signaling. Just like castration is not a remedy for promiscuity. So is the excising of a major organ of memetic reproduction not a remedy for moral masturbation.

Since, like sexual reproduction, the virtue signal is inevitable; perhaps, instead of being puritanical we should learn, as we have with all other base impulses – to be civilized about it.


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Plastic Rose – The Changing Nature of Memory


Isn’t it interesting or perhaps more fittingly alarming that we have precious few markers of passage? A letter is such a finite thing. Perhaps no more finite than a tweet but certainly more tangibly finite. Because the leaf, the bit of tree, it will yellow and curl and return to earth. The words that it held in scripts so reflective of the man and mood that etched it, they are so personal, and thus so exquisitely temporal. You can picture these textures in the grand tapestry of time. Yes, of such markers there are precious few.

The modems hum, the screens glow, the constant podcast prattle. These innovations are worth celebrating. Yet as much as they inspire they alter the nature of inspiration. What is the qualia of this novelty?

What sort of poems, novels, philosophies, and sciences will flow from the omnipresent memory of machines? From these mirrors into which we can instill our favorite reflections and gaze thereupon to our heart’s content – can we expect an accurate picture? And if high definition does indeed provide accuracy is it fertile? Or is it merely a reflection of saliencies that serve onanistic solipsism.

It is difficult to tell how we will change. It is perhaps impossible to know how altered we already are. It is definitely impossible to know how altered we were at the advent of the transistor. For such knowledge is ephemeral. It is gone with those that possessed it.

It is precisely this thing, ephemerality, that we must watch.

For a flowers beauty is in the rareness and brevity of its blossom.

A beauty which the plastic rose destroys.


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Reaching for Content in the Spirit of Walt

 


I was actually really set to record some music that I thought would be decent. But then I got muscle spasms/cramps in my arms because I am a girly man and will never be governer of California. So instead I did a shitty guitar jam with my crampy arms and then had a go at Jack Bickham’s 38 Common Fiction Writing Mistakes.

Interestingly enough as I was clicking around my tabs this article showed up:

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/how-to-keep-criticism-from-sinking-your-confidence-walt-whitman-and-the-discipline-of-creative-self?utm_source=pocket-newtab

I haven’t read it yet but I’m fairly certain from the volumes in my ex-girlfriends house that Walt Whitman is the cunt who wrote Blades of Grass and punched his editors. I was going to invoke him as the sort of person who wouldn’t give a damn about 38 most common anythings. But temper it by saying O come on, you can’t just shit out whatever you want…

And then I shat out whatever I wanted.

So hail Bacchus and Hail Whitman.

Cheers!


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Warm n Fuzzy

Related image


So Coast to Coast just came on across my old mid 90’s radio my grandad now uses to listen to conservative talk radio.

Gave me a warm n fuzzy feeling.

Same as when it came on in the wee hours of the morning as I was driving through a college town looking for a lady friend that I found asleep in her car outside of some kinda hall.

I always know when people are being dumb somewhere. And Art Bell is always there to tell me that the ghosts, aliens, and alien ghosts that tell me these things like some sorta cosmic Lassie are probably real.

Warm n fuzzy I tell ya. Warm and fuzzy.

Like a Sasquatch.

Image result for sasquatch
Though many of em are known to be smooth and cool.

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Tidy (Poem)

Image result for tides

So clean and so neat

Doesn’t it just insist

That there is a steady beat

That things persist

But the static on the screen

Seems less uncanny

Than what is plainly seen

All or any

Tidy

On the shelf

Tides are never tidy

You’re talking to yourself

Slip and fall into a pool of summary

Drowning for a grip

In a sea of solipsistic symmetry

Till there is a slip

And a billion points of light

Reveal the origin

The tidiness of sight

Complete in shattered pieces of a glass of gin


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Jack was always last…

Image result for wheatfield


“There’s nothing out there,” I said stepping across decript floorboards.

They creaked in protest.

“Ok,” I responded. “I guess there’s some wheat in the field. Though it’s wilted.”

The wind shuffled the flies on the brick windowsill.

“What? You thought they were paper airplanes?” I chuckled.

It was cold. It was cold for a few nights now. I wondered where Maria was.

I looked at the tracks. The train was still. I wondered what it was waiting for.

My father’s watch was broken. I left it open where the flies had been and let the rising sun glint off the face.

It’s reflection traveling in the direction of Novgorod.

A crow cawwed in the distance.

It must have been a week since I’d gone up the stairs. I judged as much by the empty tins clustered like crown jewels in the corner.

I fiddled with the cross round my neck.


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