3/21/2007

A Call To Hack



Greetz to the Geeks
The call is out!
You are the commanders,
ghost bastards,
pirates of the ether!

There is a disease
in the light-pipes;
pumped in by the lusty thrusts
of the lowest scum
spewed into lives
a sickness that grows, and eats.

$pammers and $cammers
deserve no better
than to watch their bloated beast die
naked in the virtual streets.

  • Nuke their servers.
  • Exploit their processes.
  • Defile their Webspace.
  • Shred, Scramble, and Wipe their data.
  • Syphon their accounts.
  • Publicize their paswords


    You know the routines;
    get jobs there;
    let them pay you
    to bring them down;
    photograph the management wheeling
    out as much as they can pack into
    an office chair on the final day.
    Sell their corpse-rat souls to clandestine crime
    video the horror when the Man comes by
    to collect.

    You are so much better
    than I ever could have been,
    though I was good enough when it counted -
    you, with more than a million times
    the power and speed;
    your spooky intuitive decryption techniques;
    Oh, I envy the havoc you shall wreak!
  • 3/17/2007

    Jesus' stepdad was a Subversive Freemason!

    Joe was not just your average Joe - he was of royal descent; if not ennobled, he was threaded and blooded - and he was successful; so successful that he probably did during tax-time what I used to at work when there was a fire drill - locked himself in his office doing whatever it was he did with his hands until The Man came by to tell him he'd better get his type A together and head for Bethlehem or there just might be some PENALties in it for him. The reservations were never made, he showed up feeling like the mule he found out he was going to have to share quarters with. The Son of God's Stepdad (The Divine Cuckold) - that gets me - hey, if my wife had sex with God, I'd at least want a little, too - anyway, all things considered there had to be some sort of compensation; ergo, success. By the time they got to Nazareth, Joe needed a job, and he got one - bear with me.

    With all of the travelling they did for the first year of Jesus' life - they had to have money - bribes paid to the Romans, the Jews, any bandits they may have come across (what do you think they payed their taxes with, VISA? The Temple changers, mose likely - but a bank note from a Temple could be sold or stolen without too much of a fuss)- unless you say that Jesus' divinity did the deal; which is as good, if not better - if you didn't have the gold or lambs to pay the banditos, you'd get your throat cut for a good eatin' mule; that's some hard country out there. They had to camp, which meant support staff; especially with a pregnant and then recently delivered woman. Nobody mentions the help, but, they had it - so, if Joseph was 'average', then the standard of living must have been damn near that of a water-fat Utopia.

    He was wealthy, and he was skilled -

    The Jews were struggling to eat - and it was never indicated that Jesus grew up in squalor. No way, they took him to Passover feast every year - and when he went to hang out in Temple, his parents didn't even know he wasn't with them, for a whole day - they must have been really busy keeping track of the support staff and stuff that were with them - some of whom were supposed to keep an eye on the kid (kids, by then.) I know I can't afford to go to NYC for Chrimas every year, and there is equivalency in these analoguous ideas; Passover means lotsa food, lotsa presents, lotsa schmoozing; and ritualistic everything.

    Luke reported that, after the fast and feast and fest with the rich and famous at Temple (2:52) "And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man."

    By this verse alone, it's pretty obvious that Jesus ate well (grew in stature), didn't have any major problems, and learned his learnin' well (the wisdom part); a divine child should be King's College material (hey, they let Maugham and Tolkien in), and he impressed people with his either his skill in his trade - who taught him? Nazareth was a village that might has well have been in BFE.

    Whatever the case, there is every indication that Maslowe's hierarchy of needs was being met pretty solid.

    The idea of a hungry, rag-wearing, desperate kid growing up to be a learned Rabbi, prophet, and Incarnation of The Divine One a bit twisted - that's just church propaganda to help people feel complacent int their post-tithe poverty (sure, 10% goes to the church, but you're not considering the huge amount spent of Yahweh knows how many feast days, offering days, etc. ad alcohol - it numbs the pain.)

    So, I think I've established that; for Jesus to be BMOC with the priests, he had to have some background - he wasn't fully transfigured until after the temptation in the wilderness almost 18 years later - he had to get his education the meat way.

    Another point people sometimes overlook - there wasn't a lot of wood in that area - if Joseph was a tekton, someone who worked with his hands building things; someone who made a good living doing it, while living in VBFE then he was probably working for the Romans, wealthy citizenry who probably lived in Jerusalem, or for that craven idiot Herod, someone like him, or, at least, one or the court pets that were always hanging out wherever favor or money might be had.

    King Herod's Temple was begun in 19 BCE. This was more like a total refit of Zerubbabel's Temple, (also known as The Second Temple built around 515 BCE), with some major additions. The project requred 10,000 skilled workers; and around 1,000 Levites (hereditary Temple workers) who were trained as carpenters, masons, etc., to service the areas of the temple where laymen were not permitted to go.

    Did Joseph work on any part of Herod's Temple? Jose Saramago believes so.

    Bob Corbett wrote:

    excerpted from
    THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO JESUS CHRIST

    By Jose Saramago. Translated from the Portuguese by Giovanni Pontiero from the 1991 O EVANGELHO SEGUNDO JESUS CRISTO.

    ...
    how do Joseph and Mary eat? Jesus is feeding at the breast, but Jewish law requires a 33 days laying-in period for the woman followed by an animal sacrifice in the temple for purification. Joseph and Mary are quite poor and young with no savings. Joseph must find work and Saramago puts him to work in the reconstruction of the temple in near-by Jerusalem. The angel messenger turns out to be a disgruntled soldier talking with his buddies about this crazy job Herod has given them. Joseph overhears this complaint of the madness of Herod, the horror of having to kill these young children, but the impossibility of resisting his order without getting themselves killed. When Joseph hears that the slaughter is to be in Bethlehem he races off to save Jesus and hides Jesus and Mary deeper in their cave.


    ...and he goes back to work - in the midst of some 11,000 skilled people who are being underpaid and oppressed, not just by the Romans, but by Herod, as well - the kind of place where secret societies pop up. They couldn't do much about Herod, but the Romans were another matter - this particular instigation developed over several decades to rebellion, and was put down (rather nastily) in about 70 CE.

    He was God's step-dad, had a good amount of respect, if not influence among his peers - and people liked his son. He certainly knew about the plumb line, the level, the compass, and the square- I'm sure, like anyone doing any kind of construction, he used them ever day.

    My conjecture - Joseph was not an average Joe, a nobody - he was one of, if not The progenitor of the Ancient Free and Accepted Masons.

    Sick

    I remember, today
    Charles Bukowski
    and how he drawled
    his life out, reading
    memories, not just copied,
    transferred; gone from inside,
    like Burroughs two days after
    the doctor started leaving his phone
    off the hook

    The static rap in my brain;
    contrapuntal guts, empty;
    desiring their emptiness;
    bitching from old habit,
    denying solace;
    tendrils seem to reach,
    invisible through my skin
    hooked directly into
    the rip and slap of thought;
    confused and aggravated
    by bright sun and tepid wind.

    I'm a shell, then the nut
    then the seed, then a flash
    and a thump; this heartbeat
    seems to move, sluggish
    from chest to head to wrist;
    checking for leaks? Or, just
    trying to find a way out
    which I have forgotten about?

    Out the window, they run, drive
    hurry by; it's like watching
    old film in bad light;
    or, a hangover with no satisfaction
    of how it got like this from last night.

    I am sick and tired, and sick and tired
    of being sick and tired;
    and the day moves me through
    waves of hope, and cross-cut currents
    of metabolic dross, and I just hold on
    longing for darkness, and bed,
    and patent-pill, and / or alcohol
    induced respite;
    and the backhandedjoy
    found in every breath,
    that I don't ever have to take tha one again
    while feeling like this.

    Yuck
    ~b

    3/16/2007

    I found a place - it'll do.

    Henry Ford (who was the turn-of-the-20th equivalent of what we would call a geek/nerd), said:

    [i]"Start living your dream now, whether you are ready, or not."[/i]

    That quote popped into my head as I was answering the phone to talk to my (I found out during the call) new landlord - though, I had some minor (mostly cosmetic) reservations, I went with it.

    I will be about an hour's walk, or a 20 minute bus ride from my kids.

    So... I found a room to rent with a common kitchen, bathroom, patio - it's small, quiet, and will do for now. So, I paid 1/2 the deposit, and now I will be packing with a purpose; so, it should go a bit faster.

    I figure I'll be there for about 3-6 months.

    My internet will be off by the 20th, or so, and I won't be back up until somewhere around the 10th of April.

    This all feels a little sub-real, but, It's nothing unexpected.

    Peace

    3/15/2007

    Observancy Disassembling: Holes

    Packing my things away; a few
    boxes taped; stacked; done-
    the rest is disarray;
    the process retarded,
    passionless because, as yet
    I haven't found the next place.

    I feel my emotional anchor coming up;
    slowly, drawn link by link -
    a jarring inside me; tidal shifts of
    current, mass, wind, and gravity;
    balanced atop this weight,
    rising from below.

    I stop and, mindful
    of the fragile clutter;
    step out to grab a plastic bag,
    or take a smoke break;
    the reason doesn't matter,
    every time is the same.

    I leave behind the known;
    patterns of comfort and personal order
    which I have often seen behind my eyelids;
    and, if I should jerk awake, or reenter
    this room, from within or without;
    and stop, and really see the change.

    The ragged edges of the disassembly,
    cavities eat away at jumbled shelves;
    surfaces empty in time-lapse;
    cleansed and wrapped and packed
    against one another like days
    in my habituated brain.

    Puzzle-piece teeth sharpened on
    blank walls which; perspective inverted,
    seem to drip my life from them
    into cardboard cartons that,
    for a sharp moment,
    seem more like depth-less holes.

    3/14/2007

    Godnarbian Solution Revealed: Transcending the RIAA

    "The best rational defense is a good irrational offense."
    ~me, I just made it up.

    Or Is It?

    The RIAA contends that reproduction of recorded media should be paid for. RIAA has established guidelines, which the CRB has supported.

    At the same time, the RIAA contends that artists are reaping more benefit than they should from an expanding audience.

    The RIAA has acquired a fair amount of power to recover revenues, which escape this system of payment via piracy.

    These tenets, rationally displayed and validated by the RIAA, and upheld by the CRB create an irrational system in which every aspect of the entertainment industry (in this case, music) now operates.

    So, what to do?

    Looking at the problem in terms of numbers, because, that's what it's all about; artists want money for their work (or, someone comes along and convinces them they [i]should[/i] get paid for what they’re doing), record companies want money to lavish their empire, which results from sales and distribution, and, of course the peeps who want cool tunes, rockin' jams, and, roughly, any coherent (even, sometimes, incoherent) permutation of the mathematics and inspiration; the combination of which creates music.

    The money flows one way, the packaged data flows the other way. Artists and peeps are willing mutual suppliers; you play me a song I like, I'll give you what I can afford to show my appreciation - if it's not enough for you, you go away - if your music sucks, I will go away. The music industry couldn't care less (not unless it has to) how much I can afford, nor whether or not your music sucks – just so long as they can convince artists to make music they can convince me to buy, then they get the bulk of the money, and control of the distribution and packaging of the music – because, contractually, they own it.

    The RIAA has lobbied, schmoozed, and arm-twisted their way to being the single representative of a multifaceted monopoly. The industry claims that it is losing money due to copyright infringement and revenue imbalances caused by low prices to re-distributors and high payouts to artists. If these claims aren’t outright lies… Well, I don’t see, nor have I heard it reported about David Geffen, or anyone vested in the music production / distribution industry loading up the Escalade with stuff for the pawn shop.

    It’s all about numbers – the numbers of pennies to millions, no billions of dollars that pass through the hands of the industry every year – an irrational self-serving system wearing the clothing of a rational business backed by The Law.

    To transcend these fallacious reasons for squeezing both the artists and the peeps for more number, and to keep the dynamic model analogous, we have a simple solution at our disposal that completely transcends the ir-rational paradox of the recording industry, the RIAA, and the CRB.

    Pi.

    It’s all in there.

    Every CD, DVD, piece of software, (good, bad, flawed by one byte (every byte)

    f(c)=n!^(n-1) – where n is the number of elements, factorial raised to a number which describes the maximum number of numerative cycles before the described set could be observed – pi is irrational because it goes on forever. Any rational sequence can be found in Pi because it is a non algebraic function – it cannot be reduced to zero (null.) It is, therefore, transcendental.

    What I’m sayin’ is that Pi holds all copyrighted data ever to have been, or which shall be devised by the mind and machine of man. You can’t shake it, and you can’t break it.

    Begone, foul beasts!

    Happy Pi Day

    ~b


    "It's All In There"

    3/11/2007

    Meditation at Work: The Maharishi Effect

    "Woo" or "Whoa!" ?



    Please consider from the excerpt from the following article:



    The Maharishi Effect



    4,000 Yogic Flyers from 62 countries creating coherence, improving the quality of life and reducing violent crime.

    A 21 percent reduction in the most violent crime categories was reported when over 4,000 people from 62 countries gathered in July of 1993 in Washington, D.C. to practise the Transcendental Meditation and Yogic Flying programs. A final report by a 27-member independent team of scientists and community leaders found that the crime drop was consistent with the predicted causal role of the group of Yogic Flyers.




    This study shows the decrease in violent crime rate (orange line) when over 4,000 experts gathered in Washington, D.C., in July, 1993 (shown in highlighted section). Scientists took into account changes in policing, weather patterns and all major factors known to affect crime rates. This chart also shows a time-series analysis prediction without the coherence creating group. Source: Institute of Science, Technology and Public Policy: Technical Report.


    IMO, to refuse to consider data; to call it "Woo", because we cannot understand how to empirically connect it's qualifications and it's quantifications; here lies the border between ignorance and discovery.

    3/03/2007

    Observancy Disassembling: Inversion


    My Space, such as it was

    It hasn't hit me yet, I can feel it coming;
    the rush of blood to the head, the vulgar flush;
    like a freight train, late for stupid reasons;
    Plain white bright light, moving;
    yet, far enough away;
    27 days.

    The first CD that came off the wall
    was the hardest - 50 more down, and
    I'm a CD/pushpin removal expert;
    craning my neck just enough
    but, not too much - 7 hours of
    carpet cleaning have already taken
    their toll.

    Tom Waits' Rain Dogs
    came off the ceiling in pieces
    leaving an articulated sliced disc
    in negative; pristine paint swaddled
    in the champa-stain memory
    of this, my space.

    I had to stop
    to take in the process
    no photos, please
    but songs to take hold
    of this moment; wrap it
    and stow it away;
    time will be when
    I'll need the key, maybe
    a crowbar, too.

    I watched the gloaming
    from this obstructed window;
    poured a drop of something
    insubstantial, yet essential
    from each pore, no blood;
    translucence - like a scent
    breathed for years, then lost
    for decades, to find it waiting
    spun out of time, web-charged air
    a step beyond
    some strange door.

    What have I wrought?
    can I guess; there's no telling
    what mischief waits no matter
    the choice; the scenery changes
    but the lessons are the same
    until they're learned;
    until their smell, alone
    announces the change of skeins.

    I built this web;
    node and conduit;
    paths and patterns;
    structure and desire
    wind, wave, and gravity
    pressing me towards
    some edge, not dark
    but mystery lit, opaqued
    by hanging time; signs
    that only serve
    to draw me on.

    Today I decided to go.
    And so, I begin to move;
    shifted down, low gear traction,
    meticulous detail springs
    into focus, a fantasy of
    stepping between moments,
    every moment, solid and bright
    observancy disassembling
    storing itself away
    for some tomorrow I cannot
    yet begin to grasp.

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