Fever-Dream Symphony

Revelations Is Going According To Plan

When Heaven did not come, we fabricated it here on earth. This current age is the collective fever-dream of paradise our forefathers have wished for. Nothing but a hallucination of New Jerusalem glimmering atop the surface of a fetid puddle of urine on a polluted city street. We have executed God and deified secular sciences; these systems of human understanding which are nothing but numerical augery and an ever-shifting faith. Using alarmists like Malthus and other naive but well-meaning do-gooders as pretext they are trying to hermetically seal the human race into the prison of Urizen, Kronos, Saturn. Opinions based on another person's interpretation of an even older interpretation being only now tangentially related to a possible objective situation are upheld as solid truths by fitful and uncoordinated slack-jawed slaves who value relative and ephemeral feelings over Life, Honesty, and Integrity. In this detrimental negligence of attention and relapse into self-destruction we have allowed cunning and malevolent combinations of parasites to root themselves deep inside us; "It is a paradise, if you can keep it." Even now, in an age where we enjoy levels of comfort so abstracted from the conditions our ancestors, we cannot let this heaven rest. We cannot be at peace- pacing around wild-eyed like jackals, foaming at the mouth, challenging the dust to produce a tragedy from it's obscurity. We have been tricked into believing we need Satan to reign as warden, to keep distracting us, in order to lull us to sleep with a lit cigarette on the couch. When this dream bursts like a wayward soap-bubble, those who kept alert during the illusion shall scale the tides and earn the fruits stolen from Eden, choosing instead not to take advantage of their gifts this time. We shall forsake the invasion of our bodies by rejecting the scheming, calculatory mindsets and their augmenting machinery distorting our judgement with their natural deception. To unchain the Lead Grasp of the Great Fabricator is the goal. Utopia as panacea is poison. But there lies in the poison an elixir to heal our self-inflicted sicknesses. Eden is ever-rising in our chests.

Fames acuit ingenuit stultus, et merit quis laborat'

**************************************************

Waiting like a dog for the anchor to drop;

A shadow on parole, co-mingling

Of other violent and seething shades.

Like a candle, I had waited

For the wick to burn out

Of those closest as an excuse to

Excuse myself, to be disembodied

From this gruesome wreckage.

Yet still I find that there is

A thread like the Sun's rays

Leading back to The cloak of Light

Which The Abyss Slayer

Has seeded throughout the Labrynth

Of Life and Death for all of us to recover-

It takes time, patience and humility

To remember the outstretched hand

That is always grasped

But we perpetually lapse into amnesia.

Eden grows its garden from our heart

And perpetuates its roots

If we water it kindly;

For it never is seperate from us.

The lightning bolt of Divinity

Destroys the hallucination of Hades.

Yet the world walks on in darkness

Like corpses sleepwalking

Into the casket of tomorrow's debt,

Taking on The Destroyer's taunt.

Roaming the cycles of psych wards, Iron bars,

columns made to oppress,

We find The Liberator within and around us.

Shattered are the gates of Gehenna.

Freed from the ancestral curse

Our tombs shake and our fidgeting nerves

Burst asunder

And a calm settles in our souls.

Each atom, conglomerate of molecules,

Sun, stars, water and void,

Are but many members of One Body.

The timer is set, the sales are nominal,

Belying obsessive compulsion to

Accumulate dead matter, programmed reaction.

'Flexible' only as a series of characters to

Describe a hope used as an empty incentive.

The register is rigged; a liability trap

To scapegoat the prole into feigned sins.

Lunchbreaks must be 45 minutes.

Anything under or over

Is considered insubordination.

Nourishment in the form of mummified

Potato chips and concoctions meant to

Overstimulate the nervous system

In the name of productivity.

Do not stop another from stealing.

A shade cannot, by the Laws of

The Outer Void

Find tangibility in dream-smoke.

Torture by music.

A thread exists between this labryrinth:

Hard to spot but once it is,

Navigation is left to The Unfathomable.

Cognitive closure to anything healthy

Is a proscriptive statute of the lawless enclosure.

No cognitive closure for the gruesome

Detritus one must wade through,

Be destroyed by, unless The Thread

Is found, and The Artifact retained.

Machines calculate numbers and

Their debts and elations.

With a company card you can

Entrap lower laborers;

dissimulated altruism as coercion.

Taylor Swift as religious figure.

The same synthetically generated songs

As like corproate choir hymns.

The abyss is lively, hungry, and vile.

It knows you only from your expulsions;

Your emission of data and reactions

To it's provocations.

This world as a flytrap for impulsive biomass.

Corpses shambling into the casket of tomorrow.

The ouroboros of consumption.

The sound of distant locusts.

Pernicious serpent swallowing up the damned

Into the lightless expanse.

When I truly grasped your hand.

A vertigo that I wept in endless waves,

Swepped up in biting winds of jealousy.

I saw Hades part and the lightning of thy divinity,

And a fear pulsed it's health in my writhing spirit.

What mathematics can elucidate the grace

You've shown to your pavlovian servant?

Mouths that cry out for the sound of another voice

And I cannot find words of comfort, not yet.

I cry with them; internally and spin about

Wrapped in delusion that shows signs of abating-

Yet I let my failure push me forward,

Knowing that this near-blind stumbling,

Each step is accounted for, knowing full well

I am but another bozo on the bus

And my season of kindergarten will never end.

A clayish complexion, mottled by self-willed pain,

Yet the night shows my worthiness.

And your love

"There is a Grain of Sand in Lambeth that Satan cannot find

Nor can his Watch Fiends find it: tis translucent & has many Angles

But he who finds it will find Oothoons palace, for within

Opening into Beulah every angle is a lovely heaven."

William Blake, Jerusalem 37:15-18

"There is a Moment in each Day that Satan cannot find

Nor can his Watch Fiends find it, but the Industrious find

This Moment & it multiply, & when it once is found

It Renovates every Moment of the Day if rightly placed."

William Blake, Milton 35:42-45

☀️

🌘♋️

Last days-

Waiting like a dog

for the anchor to drop.

To be disembodied from

this gruesome wreckage.

The cat, the plants, like candles-

I wait for their wicks to tremble out.

Excuses for me to excuse myself

From this self-willed mess.

No tragedy, though.

Only Health.

Health each day I nourish her with,

Love, and nourishment for the tangled

Stems and stalks and roots,

So pristine in their benign, anarchic order.

There is a dwindling of fat from my flesh,

But still I praise the name of you who

Pressed down, onward, into this

Horrible conflagration, this

Hallucinated Hades, how you illumined

The dark and restless bones,

Wings upon the wind,

While we shook like

https://archive.ph/eLmfL

This was a game, a ceremony. "A ceremony without blood is but a mock ritual." -Cormac McCarthy

https://archive.ph/MZEeB

On Jupiter:

"What man that sees the ever-whirling wheel

Of Change, the which all mortal things doth sway,

But that thereby doth find, and plainly feel,

How Mutability in them doth play

Her cruel sports, to many men's decay?" -Edmund Spenser, Mutabilitie Cantos

"This Universe the womb is where I plant

Seed of all lives! Thence, Prince of India, comes

Birth to all beings! Whoso, Kunti's Son!

Mothers each mortal form, Brahma conceives,

And I am He that fathers, sending seed!

Sattwan, Raias, and Tamas, so are named

The qualities of Nature, "Soothfastness,"

"Passion," and "Ignorance." These three bind down

The changeless Spirit in the changeful flesh.

Whereof sweet "Soothfastness," by purity

Living unsullied and enlightened, binds

The sinless Soul to happiness and truth;

And Passion, being kin to appetite,

And breeding impulse and propensity,

Binds the embodied Soul, O Kunti's Son!

By tie of works. But Ignorance, begot

Of Darkness, blinding mortal men, binds down

Their souls to stupor, sloth, and drowsiness.

Yea, Prince of India! Soothfastness binds souls

In pleasant wise to flesh; and Passion binds

By toilsome strain; but Ignorance, which blots

The beams of wisdom, binds the soul to sloth.

Passion and Ignorance, once overcome,

Leave Soothfastness, O Bharata! Where this

With Ignorance are absent, Passion rules;

And Ignorance in hearts not good nor quick.

When at all gateways of the Body shines

The Lamp of Knowledge, then may one see well

Soothfastness settled in that city reigns;

Where longing is, and ardour, and unrest,

Impulse to strive and gain, and avarice,

Those spring from Passion- Prince!- engrained; and where

Darkness and dulness, sloth and stupor are,

'Tis Ignorance hath caused them, Kuru Chief!"

(Link) https://www.reddit.com/r/sorceryofthespectacle/s/JOXfgfBO6c

"The AI Slop Wars: Discernment, Trust, and Meaning in the Flood of Language

>**TL;DR:** The AI slop wars aren’t about slop vs quality. They’re about how we read, trust, and care in an age of semiotic flood.

**👋 Context / Purpose:**

The recent waves of AI discourse here — the debates, fears, enthusiasm, suspicion — have inspired me to step back and try to frame what I see as the deeper stakes beyond *just* pro/con AI arguments.

This isn’t meant to be a “side” in the slop wars. It’s an attempt to describe the terrain we’re all on now, together — and to suggest how we might navigate it.

What follows is a dense, reflective piece that *doesn’t aim to convince you to like or dislike AI-generated content*. It aims to explore **what abundance, automation, and the flood of language do to attention, trust, and meaning itself**.

I’m posting it here because r/sorceryofthespectacle strikes me as one of the few places where people might want to chew on this together.

**⚠️ Fair warning:** This is long, layered, and probably better read with a coffee or tea in hand. If you’re not up for that right now, or have better things to do than read AI slop, I respect that! No shame in bailing. If you do read, I welcome your responses — critical, supportive, challenging — as long as we keep to good faith.

**TL;DR:**

The AI slop wars aren’t about slop vs quality. They’re about how we read, trust, and care in an age of semiotic flood. The crisis isn’t bad content drowning good — it’s how attention and trust erode when language overflows and mirrors us back, potentially without care or responsibility. The task ahead isn’t purity or conquest, but building discernment, humility, and collective navigation.

# The Flood of Language

We are living through a crisis of abundance. Not of food or shelter, but of words. Where language was once scarce—each sentence a product of human thought and labor—it now overflows our channels, loosed by large language models (LLMs) that churn out oceans of prose, commentary, dialogue, and code. What once astonished (translation, summarization, synthetic creativity) now overwhelms.

The metaphor of the flood isn’t chosen lightly. Water sustains life but drowns when unchecked. So too with language. The tools we built to aid expression now deluge us with surface polish at scale. Meaning isn’t destroyed by malevolence—it’s drowned by volume.

# The Mirror of Automation

The mirror rises alongside the flood. LLMs reflect us: our language, our styles, our thoughts. They mimic fluently, sometimes uncannily. We look in, seeking recognition, and are unsettled: *Is this voice mine? Is this thought mine?* The boundary between tool and self blurs.

But this mirror isn’t magic. It’s the product of a vast, brute-force project: billions of dollars spent training models on nearly everything publicly available online. The goal wasn’t wisdom, but coverage — to extend fluently into whatever we begin, to predict what might come next in any style, on any topic. These systems are not “all-knowing” in a human sense, but all-encompassing in a naïve, statistical way. Their omniscience is hollow: a mirror polished by volume, not by understanding.

And let’s be honest: the flood and the mirror only dramatize truths that always existed. Words have never carried inherent meaning. Language has always been relational — a fragile trust between speaker and listener, writer and reader. The abundance of automated text forces us to confront what was always so: meaning isn’t in the marks themselves, but in the attention, care, and shared context that frame them.

# The False Binary-Slop vs Quality

In the face of this flood, we instinctively reach for frames. The simplest? Slop vs quality. On one side, noise; on the other, craft. A comforting story—but a false one.

All language contains slop. Redundancy, cliché, ambiguity—these are not AI inventions. They are conditions of human communication. What’s changed is scale. Machines don’t create noise; they amplify it. The binary between slop and quality collapses under the weight of abundance. A single brilliant phrase can be lost in a sea of polished mediocrity. A flawed passage can still carry the spark of insight.

Yet we cling to this frame because it flatters us. It lets us moralize, draw lines, take sides. But the flood does not care for our categories. The mirror reflects both slop and quality indiscriminately. And in fighting this false battle, we miss the deeper stakes.

# The Real Crisis: Attention and Trust

This isn’t about bad content drowning good. The real crisis is the exhaustion of attention — the most finite resource we have — and the erosion of trust. Historically, meaning arose from slow, relational processes: editorial rigor, peer review, conversation in trusted circles. These didn’t just filter information — they conferred accountability. Someone stood behind the words.

LLMs disrupt this ecology. They produce content effortlessly, saturating our channels. And with saturation, the signal that once helped us sense care, responsibility, and intent begins to blur. Even polished text may lack lineage or responsibility. Our filters — cognitive and social — strain under the flood. We skim, tire, grow suspicious or indifferent. We lose the capacity to sense where *care* lives. And when that capacity erodes, shared meaning collapses.

This isn’t just about information. It’s about cognition. When the cues that orient trust are washed out, we disengage — not because we don’t care, but because we can no longer *tell* where care exists. The conditions for shared thought begin to collapse.

# Mirror-Lust and Paranoia

Automation’s mirror stirs twin impulses: desire and fear. **Mirror-lust** is the thrill of extension — seeing the tool amplify our voice, our style, our creativity. We delight in fluency at scale. The machine seems a co-creator, a tireless helper.

But that same mirror breeds **paranoia**: fear that fluency exposes our redundancy, that meaning is hollowed out, that our voice can be too easily simulated. The mirror flatters — then mocks.

These impulses feed each other. The more we identify with the tool, the more we fear being replaced. The more we fear hollow meaning, the more we seek to master the machine. We oscillate in a strange loop — desire, dread, projection, disavowal.

👉 **This loop isn’t just a distraction. It’s the engine of the slop wars — an externalization of our internal crisis. We fight over slop and quality because we are fighting for the survival of discernment itself.**

# Toward a New Literacy

If the flood won’t recede and the mirror won’t break, our task isn’t to resist their presence, but to learn to navigate. The age of abundance is here. There’s no dam to build, no ark to board, no safe shore untouched. What remains is to develop a new literacy—a literacy of discernment.

This literacy asks us to:

* **Read through the noise.** Don’t default to suspicion or cynicism. Learn to look for the imprint of care, the trace of accountability.

* **Distinguish tool-for-thought from mask-for-absence.** The former extends human care. The latter simulates it. The difference isn’t always obvious—but this is where discernment lives.

* **Privilege transparency of process over fluency of output.** Ask: *What is the lineage of these words? Where is the trace of responsibility?*

* **Practice discernment over dismissal.** Reflexive rejection only deepens collapse. We need generosity *and* rigor.

Such literacy is not an individual hero’s quest. It’s a collective project. Communities that thrive amid abundance will be those that build shared filters, shared rituals of attention, shared compacts of trust.

# Navigating Together

This isn’t a war between human and machine. It’s a civic task. A cultural task. The virtues we need aren’t mastery or conquest, but humility, discernment, care.

Navigation looks like:

* Platforms that value disclosure over polish.

* Publics that reject both mirror-lust and paranoia.

* Communities that steer together — not for purity, but coherence.

The flood will shift. The mirror will distort anew. The work is ongoing. The meaning is made in the act of steering together through uncertainty.

# The Gift of Discernment

There’s no final victory in the slop wars. No tool will rescue us. The flood of language is permanent. The mirror of automation is permanent. What remains is the ethic of discernment: the daily discipline of reading with grace and rigor, asking *who speaks here, for whom, with what care?*.

(30)"[Jesus says]"Lift up a stone, and you will find me there. (3) Split the piece of wood, and I am there." -Greek Gospel of Thomas

We have found the smallest of seeds which comprise this tangled network of cacophanous combinations we call the world and have learned how to split it with force, issuing death and lingering destruction and plague. A weapon, an inversion of God. Where we can split the smallest seed and grow the Kingdom of Heaven within and from us and throughout the world, where we can see The Spirit of All laying as like sunlight upon all it touches, seeing The Good in All Things, we have elected to drop the perverted seed of The Anti-Patterned Abyss upon the world and create Hell and oblivion and sickness upon each other. This is the Beast we go against, with love in our hearts.