Tuesday, June 10, 2003


Got sick of the psi site I was working from. Just too daft, you see. I realised that I've just had enough of a certain kind of daft. 'Scuse me, I feel a Bruce Banner moment coming on...

I'm getting more and sick of the denial-of-science crud that seems to infest everything these days. Don't like the scientific method? Don't think science has anything useful to say about the way the world works? Fine. Only do me a favour, yeah? Get the hell off the internet. That computer you're tap-tapping away at as you write yet another of your smug, pompous, reflexive diatribes is a product of the system you're so keen to denounce. In fact, get the hell out of modern civilization. Go and live in some desert place or a jungle or something, try and scratch a living in a hunter-gatherer stylee. Possibly you'll get some hideous disease, or something big and ugly will pass by and eat your legs; however, this shouldn't phase you at all because (as you keep telling me) we all create our own reality, maaaaan. I'm sure a clever little person like you will just whip out your copy of Solipsistic Wankage For Dummies and rustle up a new one.

See, if these jerks had an actual real Zen Master instead of a headful of skindeep Little Book of Po-mo slush, the Zen Master would have bonked them on their big stupid heads multiple times until they stopped coming out with this "reality isn't real" guff every time they opened thier mouths. There should be an emergency line where you could phone for an irate Zen Master to come round and bonk heads with a stick. Dammit, there should be some kind of Zen Fairy, some little sprite that appears whenever a nincompoop comes out with that "well, reality is, like, a mental construct, yeah? So we all create our own reality, you see? There is no spoon-- no, no, listen-- there is no spoon!" bilge, and whacks them repeatedly over the head with a really really big whacking stick. "Deconstruct this! BONK ON HEAD!"

See, as long as stick go BONK against skull, one needs science. As long as we are confined within the cloven pine of cause and effect, we shall need to understand the nature of the physical universe. Just trotting out stuff about how we shape the world with our minds and blah-de-blah-de-blah doesn't make the world disappear in a puff of special effects.

Don't tell me we can escape our linear, 2-and-a-half-D world when you don't even know what that means. You haven't escaped. You haven't even sorted out conjugal visits and a place on the prison's adult literacy programme. You haven't done squat except read the Illuminatus books, take very weak acid and then talk everyone's ear off. You are boring and repetative and need BONK on HEAD.

Also: Magick not parapsychology, fool. There's a certain amount of overlap, but it's not the same bunny. Not at all.

Also also: You do realise that the oh-so-liberating "all history is fiction!" thing you keep trotting out could be employed to bolster some verrry dubious political stances? Not going all Godwin's Law here, just sayin'.

Aaaanyway. What were we talking about again? Psi. Right. Having given up on Wingmakers, it's back to The Playful Psychic, where they at least pay lip service to the concept of reproducable results. Just going over the basics for now, psi-balls and the like. My psi-balls feel pretty good, firm and springy. I love playing with my psi-balls, squeezing and rubbing and... okay, okay, I'll stop. Seriously, there does seem to be a bit of an improvement, but it's hard to say. Could just be playing head-games with myself. We shall see. In any case I belive I shall stick to this excercize programme for now.

And in other news:

Book: Fine-tuning alphabet. Must have started it over at least a dozen times now. Working on humans-only scenes while the alphabet takes shape. Two characters keep wanting to cop off with each other. I don't want them to cop off. Mucks up plot. Will chuck a bucket of water over them in a minute. Also, I've developed a frankly bizzare crush on one of the bad guys. Stupid characters.

Spanish: Having trouble committing irregular verbs to memory. Stupid irregular verbs.

Job: No job. Fed up. Too old to waitress, apparently. Will poke agencies harder, but I fear the real answer is to call upon the Powers to aid me. Which I hate doing because every time I do it they send me something utterly FOUL, like litter-picking or whatever. Joke's over, guys. Whatever I was supposed to be learning from this-- graduated! Want nice happy job now. Go on. If you're going to play fast and loose with my metabolism and sleeping patterns, you can at least help me with the job thing.

I know you're reading this. I can hear you breathing.

Stupid Powers.

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