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Posts by FreeAssange

  1. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by Haxxor My theory is that during these near-death events, you experience time in a different dimension.

    I thought that I didn't experience time passing at all, but, then, in what I wrote, time is maybe the most significant element.
  2. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by Banana Muffin Mix I had a bottle of GHB and gave caps of it to everyone for free for lulz, we all got very sick. and then a month later in the news in a few towns over it was reported someone died from some toxic impurity or something, maybe cut with something retarded. I think they made it wrong SOMEHOW

    I got fucked up from it but I would get very sick and a pounding headache if I drank too much like it felt like a hangover while I was still drunk

    Yeah, I've come across a pretty wide variety of stuff calling itself G. You used to be able to order stuff from the UK that, I think, was something like jet fuel. Hit fast and like a ton of bricks, but didn't last very long. So you had to order twice as often.
  3. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by aldra LOL

    WHY

    My previous response probably came off bitchy. Didn't mean it that way. Was just trying to be funny so people will like me. Sorry.
  4. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by aldra LOL

    WHY

    Oh, some asshole cut me off in traffic.
  5. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by Kafka To me it felt more like a story than poetry, there was little emotion but it was good. I think you could make it more succinct. What was the coma like?

    Thanks, yeah, I had a bottle with about 20 doses of G in it. I dumped it all in a glass of orange juice and downed it. I know how gay that is. Then I went full ugly fag and called someone to blame them--total bitch move of the worst kind. I heard him screaming Noooo! into the phone as I went out. He called 911 and the firemen from the station less than a block from where I lived forced the metal door of my apartment and worked on me on my floor for more than an hour. Then somebody took me to the ICU and three days later I woke up sprouting tubes.

    I remember nothing at all between going dark and coming back up.

    The nurse said my friend had been there every day singing to me. He has a beautiful voice, she said. Yes, he does, I agreed. The doctor came in and asked how many fingers he was holding up and whether I knew who the president of the United States was. I replied, not still George W. Bush, I hope. He laughed and billed Medicaid half a trillion dollars and they moved me to a private room.

    My parents had flown in and were in my room when my friend came to visit. He had grown up in a singing family. His Dad had a huge church and, when my friend was about four years old, his silly goose of an aunt misplaced her keys one day and my friend happened to say the word "brown," which reminded the silly goose where she had left her keys. The silly goose declared on the spot my friend was "touched by God," since that four year old boy had been chosen as the vessel by which God would give the silly goose a hint where her keys were.

    My friend felt pleased with the attention and took it seriously and soon began "preaching" on Sunday mornings in his Dad's church. You see billboards sometimes advertising child preachers. I look at their pictures and see the years and years of agony ahead. The wages of sin is death! my friend would shriek into the mic in his cute little suit and the congregation would roar with laughter at the fucking cuteness of it all and his mother would beam with pride.

    But what's cute at four is just embarrassing at fourteen, so my friend put everything he had into being really really touched by God, which meant he became God and was incapable of making friends and every single day of all three years of high school, God ate lunch alone, locked in a stall in the boys' bathroom.

    That was all in the distant past when I met him, but it had left its imprint. He couldn't function very well in the world, suffered constant indignities, could be callous as shit, and lived in terror of imaginary enemies. But out of his tortured self came these bursts of jaw-dropping, wildly heterodox, insights that were totally his and suggested genius. He was, in fact, very intelligent. We did tons and tons of drugs together.

    I thanked him for singing to me while I was in a coma and told my parents that he had a beautiful voice. I asked him whether he would sing a song and he sure and stepped to the side, put his hands together, lifted his head, and sang To God Be the Glory. The door to my hospital room was open and that pure voice flowed out into the noisy, busy hospital and brought all the activity in the corridor to a complete stop. All the doctors and nurses and orderlies and patients and visitors stopped in their tracks and stood motionless, listening in silence to the powerful voice of my 5'7", scared-of-his-own-shadow friend. It was a dark gray afternoon outside and, while my friend sang, this bright red bird, like iridescent red, flew out of the gray sky and up to the window, which was one of those windows with no sill that you can't open. It stayed there the whole time my friend was singing, fluttering its wings to keep its perch, cocking its head, and looking for all the world like it was listening, too. Then the song ended and the bird flew away and the hubbub started back up in the hospital corridor.

    The next day, they moved me up to the psych ward for a weeklong observation. As soon as I got there, I asked for a pen and paper and began writing the text I posted above. I wrote non-stop and they had to force me to stop to eat or to attend the 12-step meeting. I've never had a similar experience. I wrote it almost exactly as you see it above, which is probably why it is too verbose and could use editing. But the words just came out in a steady stream until it was finished, so that's how I left it.

    I don't know, did my friend visit me inside my coma with a religious vision or something? I just don't know, but, hopefully, you can see why I have wondered ever since whether the text is something or isn't it. It is, it seems to me, a radical new way of conceptualizing God--maybe a desperately needed new way. Anyway, that was my coma.



    btw, when I returned to my apartment nearly two weeks later, my door was still wrenched off its hinges, my music was still playing, and my bowl and a bag of drugs were still lying in plain sight on my desk.
  6. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by Sudo I like part 5 the best

    Thank you for reading it.
  7. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    I can't tell if it's useless, or a new religion, or what. I figured here would be a good place for feedback if anyone is so inclined.

    ================================

    Part I

    From the womb
    I am surrounded by the action of the universe.
    I feel my own weight.
    I am placed.
    My place is a sphere and
    I am at the center of it.

    And every moment of every day of this, my life
    my senses—the middle men for everything I know—
    tell me the whole universe spreads out from me,
    always,
    in every direction.

    I walk.
    A tree comes into view, and a rock...
    They slide toward the center of the universe as I approach,
    then slide again away from the center with my progress
    until they are gone.

    Along the way I discover fire
    and suddenly,
    because I will it,
    the rocks and the trees are transformed
    into tools and resources.

    I am pleased.
    I have expressed my rationality in the physical world
    by acting in terms of it as it really is.

    I call this expression of my rationality "science"
    and suddenly the universe
    is pressed into the service of my desires.
    But my desires (I discover soon enough)
    are limitless.

    I will be busy until the end of...
    the end of...
    time.

    I explore time, using my science,
    and discover I can see the universe without me.
    And beyond that I see the birth of the universe itself
    until I realize I am looking at the death of a universe without me
    and the distance of both is one eternity.
    They meet in the middle and there I am.

    I stand back and from the middle of eternity I look at what I have done to the rocks and the trees.
    I consider the breadth of my knowledge;
    It, my science, is a marvel.
    It is my tremendous achievement:
    an immeasurable accumulation of intelligence across ages.
    I am Scientific Man.

    Take a look at me:
    Scientific Man in the middle of all there is
    has been
    or ever will be,
    forever expressing his rationality in the physical world around him,
    wielding his tools,
    consuming his resources,
    striding across the universe,
    straddling eternities.

    I am the master of all that exists.
    I am impressive.
    I am lovely.
    I am dangerous.
    I am a very clever monkey.

    Part II

    One day, something remarkable
    and very troubling happened
    to the clever monkey.

    I had had some project or another
    underway, that day, and I was
    busy with the earth and my objects
    and my science.

    Behind me, as usual,
    my desire grunted and grumbled impatiently.

    In the course of my work,
    I found myself contemplating for their suitability
    the properties of a number of objects in the area.

    Suddenly, I gasped out loud
    and jumped to my feet
    trembling and deeply unsettled.

    One of the objects,
    as I was contemplating it,
    unexpectedly contemplated me back.

    There was nothing in all my experience,
    in all my science,
    to prepare me for this,
    for being the object of contemplation.

    So I, clever monkey,
    simply stood and stared
    rooted like a tree to the spot where I stood,
    immobile as a rock.

    And then I noticed there were others.
    Many, in fact.
    Many objects contemplating me,
    looking back at me.

    For a man of science, of course,
    it was unnerving—
    in the physical world,
    one is never the object of one's object.

    I marshaled my cleverest science
    hoping to find some way to fold these new and unique objects
    into my rational, self-centered approach to the universe.

    But in the end,
    only Linnaeus, of all my scientific brethren,
    could offer help: I could only name them.

    From then on,
    the contemplating objects of contemplation were called You.
    And falling out of the nature of the thing,
    I became Me.

    So there is Me,
    in the middle of the universe,
    at the center of time
    observing the objects around me.

    And there, observing Me back, are You,
    and You, and You.
    And You. Observing Me!
    You. Me.
    Me circle cautiously.
    You circle Me,
    and Me ape You.

    Me are fascinated that You find Me so exceedingly interesting.
    Me mesmerizes You,
    and Me cannot tear Me eyes away.

    Then I notice that You contemplate Me from the middle of the universe,
    and from the center of time.
    Move! Move!
    You cannot be in the place of Me!

    Me science strains to account for You implications.
    You are Me when You observe Me,
    and Me is You,
    but the impossibility of it cuts Me adrift.
    Blind, deaf, disembodied,
    out of place, out of time.
    Me senses are discredited;
    no longer trustworthy,
    and all Me knowledge begins to wash away like sand under a torrent...

    Me begins to sense You are the enemy of Me,
    and You begin to hate Me.
    Me hate You and curse the day Me first saw You,
    You tell Me,
    snarling with Me hate
    and Me terror
    and Me loss.

    I need a place to think
    and so I find a place in which all the objects are proper ones.
    I conclude since there can be only one center of the universe,
    there can only be one Me.
    And that Me is I.

    So I tried to ignore you
    and concentrate only on those objects that behaved.
    I tried and sometimes succeeded.
    But, despite my best efforts,
    I found my attention irresistibly and repeatedly
    drawn back to You.

    I couldn't seem to leave well enough alone,
    and no sooner would my attention alight on You
    than I would find my attention rewarded
    with another spate of mule-headed mischief.

    It was frustrating, frankly, and it made me angry.
    And the more I dealt with you, the angrier I got.

    So, when You or You came into view,
    I turned away.
    It was I and my objects
    there at the center of the universe
    in the middle of time.

    Oh, my science!
    I am awed by your scale and your complexity.
    But, I have discovered,
    You are more complex still.

    Scientific Man, you are clever,
    but, I have discovered,
    You are cleverer still.

    You laugh. Science never laughs.
    You cry. Science never cries.
    Though science understands the human eye,
    science cannot see You eyes.
    You eyes sometimes cloud with sadness,
    You eyes sometimes sparkle with joy,
    Sometimes You eyes narrow with suspicion.
    Sometimes they flash with anger.
    Sometimes they harden into hatred.

    To all these, science is blind
    and it would break
    your heart, Science,
    if you could see beauty.

    And oh, my science,
    unlike you,
    You can feel my pain.

    I have discovered why I cannot seem to ignore You
    to eliminate You
    to live isolated and satisfied with Me science and Me objects—
    a very clever monkey
    in the middle of the universe
    and the center of time.

    Because I hate, and love,
    and feel sorrow, and joy.
    Because I am You.

    Part III

    Clearly Scientific Man is inadequate to explain
    both Me and You.
    I need to find a fuller man,
    a man who can include the reality of Scientific Man,
    and exceed him.

    Like Scientific Man,
    my new man must express his rationality in the real world.
    To be more fully real
    he must act in terms of the world as it really is.
    But my new man must also account
    for the impossible paradox
    of the individual centrality
    of all the Me and You.

    And so, for the first time since the womb,
    I step back from my senses,
    I step back from the information they feed me—
    a small step to suspend—
    suspend—
    the basis for all my rational action.

    I say:
    Oh You, and You, and You, and You:
    I grant you Me and I am You and
    You and Me are equally in the center of the universe.
    ...and the immediate benefit is astonishing...

    Where before my world was limited
    to all the objects around me,
    now to that objective reality is added a new realm.

    Suddenly, society spreads out before me.
    And politics, likewise,
    like the lights of a city coming on as dusk passes.
    And politics and society blaze out into the falling night,
    lighting the darkness.

    And I have a new man.
    I consider what to name him.

    I discover I can send ripples of understanding through my societies.
    So do I call my new man social man?

    I learn I can act reasonably in political ways.
    So do I call my new man political man?

    No, there is a better name for the Scientific Man
    who has suspended for a bit his science,
    his senses,
    his relationship with the rocks and the trees.

    I look out on the vast city below
    stretching out in a yellow haze
    into an endless sea of lights
    blinking on and blinking on...

    I stretch out my hands
    and there is a pipe organ before me
    as large as a mountain
    and my fingers are spread a mile wide
    over the keys.

    I drop my hands and an enormous chord—
    a giant urgent Beethoven chord—
    swells up out of the earth
    and flows lava-like with power out over the city.

    The city below me shudders in recognition.
    And by that shudder
    I know I have expressed something true.

    The shudder shared as it washed over the city
    is the mutually shared recognition of the truth I have expressed
    and the new man is thus discovered acting rationally
    in terms of the universe as it really is.

    How much more deeply rational becomes clear
    as I consider the nature of this discovery.
    For this discovery, unlike the discoveries of Scientific Man,
    cannot be made by Me acting alone in the physical world,
    nor by You acting alone in the physical world,
    but requires the higher reality of both
    You and Me acting together in the world.

    The truth just discovered
    required the creation and the validation—
    the chord and the shudder.

    This man who, with humanity, shudders
    at the power of truth—
    this politicized, socialized man,
    this Scientific Man made more fully real,
    this more rational man,
    this one who creates and validates,
    I call Artistic Man
    and the power that washed over the city I call Art.

    Part IV

    Upon the appearance of Artistic Man,
    Scientific Man is enslaved.
    To You and You and You.
    And Me.

    As Artistic Man creates and validates,
    Scientific Man becomes a fetch boy
    for the creator and the validator.

    Never again need he be merely a clever monkey,
    for now he is in the service of creation;
    his desires are informed by art.

    Scientific Man is still as powerful as ever,
    he has lost none of his power over the rocks and the trees.
    Indeed, his abilities continue to expand with breathtaking speed.
    He daily dazzles with new marvels
    and the glittering mountains of crap he has spent a lifetime gathering
    would be the envy of any crap-gatherer.

    But in the glow of his accomplishments, sometimes,
    when surrounded by all his crap,
    Scientific Man forgets his position of servitude.
    So impressive are his achievements,
    so attractive his acquisitions,
    so clever his contrivances,

    Artistic Man, too, will sometimes forget
    who is the master and who is the slave
    and he will bend his head to his slave
    and hand him the whip.

    At more rational times, however,
    Artistic Man will confront the insubordination of the
    clever monkey crap-gatherer.

    I have seen your work, says Artistic Man to Scientific Man,
    at those times when you have dared assert your rank above me—
    of my enslavement to you.
    That I should have ever submitted myself to you and your hubris
    proves only that I am human, that I am not—
    God? Scientific Man interrupts derisively.

    You once told me that you were Economic Man,
    continues Artistic Man, ignoring him,
    and proved to me with some h + o (cu/s) = (po) + c /(u + s)
    that I was your slave.

    For a time I believed you;
    you were, after all, very grand back then.

    I handed you my whip,
    and the lights in the city were nearly extinguished
    and the music from the pipe organ on the mountain was crude and violent
    and the only shudders in the city were those of terror and old women
    as they drew a curtain on the agony of a city
    cast under a blood red haze.

    Finally, even you had to admit your science was not up to the task—
    that your Economic Man did not meet the standards of reality—
    and you handed me back my whip.

    Another time, Scientific Man,
    you told me you were Psychological Man
    and you proved to me with some blahcus blowcus
    that you were my master.

    I believed you and handed you my whip.
    The lights of the city became thin and shrill
    and meager as the spent whore left grasping at the fleeing night.

    And even you eventually needed morning light
    and to feel the sun
    and you handed me back my whip.

    Another time, Scientific Man,
    you told me you were Sociological Man
    and you proved to me with some ad hocusinem pocusology
    that you were my master.

    I believed you and handed you my whip.
    And the lights of the city grew feeble and small.
    They lay distant, scattered across a wide dark swamp,
    flat and sluggish, crying solitary in a mad, parataxic rhythm.

    Immobilized by the empty weight,
    you handed me back my whip.

    So let's have no more coups,
    Scientific Man, you clever, clever monkey
    roaming the city under a yellow haze
    in the middle of everything
    forever in the center of time.

    Part V

    The Artist is up on the mountain.
    He plays and the power ripples across the city
    and You and You and You shudder in recognition of it.

    I know, as I watch the city shudder below,
    I know that to shudder in recognition is not the thing recognized.
    Artistic Man merely reproduces a yet higher man.
    It is Artistic Man who recognizes something more real than himself
    and a city shudders at the power of that which he recognizes.
    I look closely, listen intently,
    feel my way carefully for this power under the ripples and shudders.

    But my five physical senses are useless.
    I sense the artist's power some other way.
    Oh, the power of that finer, higher sense,
    embracing the five senses and all the cleverness derived from them
    and adding the higher fuller reality—
    the heart that sings,
    the eyes that love,
    the look of compassion.

    I am a member now of a vast city,
    down on which from the heights of Art I gaze.
    I see the shudder of recognition as the power in Art.
    I understand that the thing recognized is more fully real,
    but I struggle to name it, so I recall the manner in which I made my first great leap forward in reality.

    I remember suspending my belief for a moment—
    suspending all the knowledge my senses were feeding me—
    and I looked around at this universe at the center of which was I.

    And I said, No. I am not at the center,
    nor are You, nor are You, nor are You,
    And in that way Art was born
    and my world became more real.

    But I had forgotten time.
    I had forgotten Me and You still in the center of time.

    So I looked backward,
    but saw only a man standing at the beginning of eternity;
    and forward,
    a man at the end.

    So we took our hand and stepped out of the center and looked up—
    up at the center, which was the whole of eternity,
    at the unity,
    at the One...

    Instantly we see the great city below us
    spread out across the universe
    and pulsing in time to eternity.

    Ah yes, we have accomplished that reasonable step,
    that perfectly rational step.
    We have acknowledged we are not at the center of time.

    I look deeper, and I notice that if I unhinge the city from my own centrality
    it spreads out across the universe below me,
    but to spread out over eternity
    it is not enough that I strike the city's shackles—
    You must, too,
    and we raise the next generation as the previous one raised us
    and we have our before and after...

    And two, become one,
    not in the middle of the universe: the We omnipresent.
    not in the center of time: the We eternal.
    the We in which there are
    no sides,
    no centers of the universe,
    no centers of eternity.

    We have a new man acting in terms of the world as it really is,
    exalted by Artistic Man,
    revered by Scientific Man...

    Religious Man.
  8. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by Kafka Maybe. Rn for all I know it could be smut, so can’t say.

    If it's smut, I'm in
  9. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by Wariat the whole russian army and govt are nazis. they use the Z symbol like a swastika.

    And the Ukies are literally Bolsheviks, which is about a million times worse than Nazis for real

    the ancestors of the Bolsheviks were the khazars, a violent Turkic people who converted en masse to Judaism in the 7th century--even cutting off the ends of their dicks. We know their descendants as Ashkenazim. Guess where the ancient kingdom of Khazar was located. Exactly in present-day Ukraine
  10. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by the man who put it in my hood there is nothing worse than an uppity tranny

    unless it's an uppity tranny on her period
  11. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by DrugSmuggler

    You try getting an election flat out stolen and see how easily triggered YOU are. Twitter's banning of the Hunter Biden laptop alone was enough to tip the scales.
  12. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by Bradley The nastiest thing i ever got into drinking is black coffee instant.

    Imagine the bitterest strongest, hardest taste. The worst of them is like folgers choice

    i personally get the one that comes in this hard glass cass bottle, two scoops and water will bring it up to a nice brown froth.

    I like to drink it when im not drinking alcohol because chances are i haven't had much/any caffeine in awhile so the shit has a startling affect on my normally lethargic form

    Today is my second day without drinking any alcohol, i've decided it's 12 days into the new year and the official start of my sobriety albeit that i originally had decided to start it when i entered jail.

    It takes the edge off to add some crystal meth
  13. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]


    Are things so bad yet that posting this around the internet will land you in the gulag?
  14. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by the man who put it in my hood All coffee is black

    I think the preferred nomenclature is "beans of color"
  15. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by Kev exaggerating historical atrocities and making up numbers is not productive.

    The Bolshevik genocide lasted 70 years, from 1917 - 1987. By the time Hitler came to power, Stalin had just cemented his power and already there were 20 million murdered Christians. The pace of the genocide picked up during WWII and ground on long after the defeat of the Third Reich. The 66 million figure is in line with modern scholarship, and was the number Alexander Solzhenitsyn came up with in his remarkable 2 volume study, 200 years together. The SPLC and Wikipedia call it "antisemitic," which means, from them, "accurate."

    https://craignelsen.com/library/gulag/200_Years_Together.pdf

    Another strong indication his figures are accurate--this Nobel laureate's book was never translated into English. It had to be done by volunteers.
  16. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by Nile First thing he did was put cameras up. Front and back entrance. Somebody still stole a bike he had tied on the front step, which he in a roundabout way was making accusations about. Like I would steal my neighbors bike, or even steal a bike at all.

    I don't really care about the cameras but they obviously make it hard to…. Help him understand.

    throw a super-street black tranny an eight-ball to bang on his door when he's not home and when his wife/gf opens the door have miss thing ask for "mike" or whatever his name is and then say well you better tell mike i want my 25 dollars or ill have my whole muthafuckin house down here he know the deal
  17. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by the man who put it in my hood It's illegal in my country to exchange money for bodily fluids

    got milk?
  18. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by POLECAT well Lammy is a self proclaimed Commie so I would be sad for lala but, fuck around with a commie and find out comes to mind.

    AMERICA!!!

  19. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
  20. FreeAssange Houston [our argentine adverbial dick]
    Originally posted by Donald Trump I got a strike for saying Israel was white supremacist of course, because facebook is run by jedis and pretty much all jedis support Israel and are complicit in the crimes Israel do, no matter what they claim (I can think of like 3 exceptions).

    For instance someone like Naom Chomsky runs cover for Israel by claiming that America controls Israel.

    If you want to learn to lie like a jedi, take reality, and invert it.

    Pilpulism. t's real thing. Years ago I noticed that Mormons have a particular way of arguing by denying what they are obviously saying/doing and accusing you of doing/saying it at the same time. Very funny they think of themselves as a lost tribe of Israel--something like that. Like minijedis

    Here's the most important book written in the 20th century

    https://craignelsen.com/library/bolsheviks/the_controversy_of_zion.php
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