CORONAVIRUS: And the reality manufacturing machine — Part 1

Coronavirus: What is it? It has been likened to the sun... Photo Shopped image of SARS-CoV-2 This, supposed killer of the elderly. A pandemic, but is it? This small thing, maybe as suggested it is some 100 nm in size. It has closed down an economy -- this thing, that has killed fewer people than the standard influenza virus in the last thirty years. So I went looking for it, and all I could find were computer simulations, digital constructed models of electron microscope information

CONSPIRACY THEORIST

There is, a specific type of smugness when someone within a group of like minds calls out the heretic. When group thought has totally permeated the platform, as a bastion of central opposition and knowledge to a world that is seemingly going insane -- a world is unknowable in the end. Too many possibilities. Can I prove that? Without falling into skeptical thought, not really.  Nothing can be proved without a doubt, it is a matter of the evidence collected in favour of what one believes -- or the group believes. We are all capable of that confirmation bias, even those who point out the heretic. Doubt can always be generated, with enough intelligent thought. And so as long as that persists, truth in the fact can never be absolute. And must always remain in doubt, a sort of plastic thing...

IN THE JAWS OF THE BLACK DOG: Part 3

Autism has left me in ruins sometimes emotionally -- many times socially, and yet as the artist, I have soared to the highest ground it has shown me I feel. The risk-taker, the expanded vision, the imagination journey as visuals are my chosen language. The ability to see something so very complex and decipher it and und4erstanding its meaning. Collaboration with other artists has produced works by me but not me solely.  Objets d'art I would not have been able to accomplish alone. I am a gifted painter in my own right, and I say that without any false modesty. Autism has made me quite visual in my learning and expression of myself...

IN THE JAWS OF THE BLACK DOG: Part 1

Being autistic is a highly volatile condition to be involved with as a human -- of course involved would intend one's participation, willingly, intentionally. That is both wrong and right. I have no choice really in the matter. I am autistic, it is me. But then again I know who I am.   Autism is difficult to describe from a personal point of view. From that deeply personal point of view. Some days its world ending and others it is magic; an affliction sometimes, a life-long confrontation with reality -- and if asked I would prefer not to have it -- and yet again, I absolutely cannot see myself in any other way, and being autistic and different is something I would miss if I was neuro-typical (whatever that terrible term means). I believe it has something to do with linear thinking. Convergent as opposed to divergent in the thinking process. Study shows a threatened and shortened lifespan in most cases for those with autism -- ASD, Asperger's. That is a considerably shortened lifespan. And what I mean by that is, that the high functioning autistic adult is averaged at a lifespan of about 54 years old, forty years old if that autistic is unable to speak or communicate...

What do you think AI is all about?

Individual spirit -- they just don't get it. You speak about spirit as the real self, and you get that look from them that you get from your dog when your playing an harmonica. Spirit is about freedom, and freedom is not outside, I find it is inside me. And I have no idea why I keep forgetting that. Oh yeah... stimulus-response. And so the question came up the other day, from my friend Jon Rappoport. It was based around freedom and the loss of it. Now, I must say Jon is an excellent fellow and after reading him for decade or so, I am convinced now that I am not crazy, that the world that we live is a manufactured reality, that there is a massive industry that 24 hours a day, 365 days a year toils to came our minds enslaved...

POEM: WHAT NEXT!

Eight-carbon molecules in rivers of waste, and the sun in a sack cloth hauls itself up again into the sky. And looks down in disgust at what was…a good idea. These mayfly lives, passing through and piling up, one upon the other as sediments on the basement of this world. Built up in that wake of seconds upon seconds. Relent. Red cushion for a place to sit, amidst rancor. Nihilism for a heart, and reluctance. And crazed mystics still keep pushing shopping carts up hills of abuse...

POEM: YELLOW FISH

I was painting ten paintings the other day. In the music studio and lost an idea among a pile of dead poems sitting on a shelf, it was a good idea! It was something about the sound a bird makes after a terrible storm; for the world is stilled and made over completely in that single solitary second. This is not the only world…by far...

Poem: IT’S NOT THAT COMPLICATED…

  by Michael Burns The versions of old stories took on a life of their own. The sheer amount of time involved, expressed itself as well. It began to no longer be a campfire tale, an interesting thing one speaks about on a long voyage. It seemed it became the most logical answer to that age-old problem -- well, wonder that is...many people tried to exploit it, they push mystery into what otherwise was a simple thing. Claimed they had inside information. Claimed all kinds of things. Swore to high heavens they knew someone who, knew someone...told lies, to impress their friends or lovers. And some were, genuinely delusional, or crooked, or just plain old lonely, and looking for attention, swore they knew the real truth of it. It was in fad, and then out of fashion. Some even threatened, to eradicate that curiosity for good. Others, went to war over it -