When it changed

Something happened this week while people were distracted by the Presidential election. It had to do with the election, but it was really about what was happening down in the foundations of the structure.

Something was changing. Minds were changing. Hearts were changing. Time itself was changing.

Remember in Ray Bradbury's story "A Sound of Thunder," where the traveler back in prehistoric times accidentally steps on a butterfly and thus when he comes back to the present everything has just gone terribly wrong. A fascist is elected president, when in the reality that the traveler left, that wasn't going to happen.

In 2000 AD, time went off the rails. A fascist was elected president through a succession of dirty tricks, and a host of bad things happened that wouldn't have if the popular choice had won: 9/11. The Iraq War. The banking collapse and stock market crash.

None of that was in the original plan. Who stomped the butterfly that caused the wrong path to be taken?

Then this week, we witnessed a miracle. The train of time that had jumped the rails, gone unaccountably wrong, somehow jumped back on! It took an act of collective consciousness and will, one that it seemed impossible could happen. And yet the impossible did happen, so things changed again. Away from the hell scenario that we were being ushered into by the smiling pink-skinned people who adorned themselves in flag colors.

I don't think it is an exaggeration to say that the impulse threatening us has been murderous in nature. Mostly they are content to poison our food, poison our minds, and bleed us dry. But in their dreams I think they would love to just randomly, casually, shoot us down and pile up the bodies.

What intense relief I feel. Not that it's over; it's never over. This battle is in the cards as long as there are atoms in the universe. But at least the man doesn't have his thumb on the scales any longer. How long has it been in the history of this planet since time got redeemed? Well, I think it just happened again.

The shape of quarks to come

NOTE: The following information has been superseded by itself, as scientific knowledge is by definition subject to constant revision. Thus anything that is said henceforth may be regarded as an illustration of quantum foam, in that the breakdown in structure it implies is embedded in the very structure of what is being said at the moment. This inherent self-referentiality and paradoxicality thereby temporarily converts qubikuity into a postmodern blog, for better or worse.
Someone mentioned quantum foam the other day as a pleasant-sounding thing, and I agreed that if you ordered a cosmic cappucino, you would definitely want it with lots of quantum foam.
Quantum foam refers to the miniscule scale where physical reality breaks down from the level of solid objects into complete immateriality. This is said to be at the incredibly tiny Planck length, or 10(-37) cm. The smallest bit of matter we know of is the quark. Now, I have been googling around to find out what a quark looks like. My guess is that it is not round like a tiny billiard ball. Anything that is on the verge of being dissolved into quantum foam is unlikely to be so regularly shaped. Furthermore, they are unlikely to be hard like billiard balls as well. My guess is that they have a spongy surface, rather like green cheese as in the case of the surface of the moon.
Of the six types of quarks (up, down, top, bottom, charm, and strange), the smallest is the up quark. The up quark is also known as a first-generation quark. By comparison, the bottom quark is quite large, but then it pops in and out of existence for only a micro-instant. Evidently, on that level, size doesn't really "matter."
For your edification I have found a picture of a bottom quark, again by googling. This is as accurate as present-day science can render it.

The rope

a skinny rope

hanging in space
attached to nothing

supports the weight of moons
heavy planets
eclipses
and sorrow

all air lifts
feet dancing up the aerial path
mind takes wing and
who can gainsay this
light quintessence

the rope could

pull it down and the curtain opens

The way it is

We are in thrall, no doubt, to unseen forces which may be human, alien, or a combination thereof. Their existence behind the scenes, pulling the strings, determining our lives in ways great and small, is well documented. Most people now accept the fact of a secret conspiracy that has existed for centuries and has led to control by a few of the world's riches. What gives them this degree of domination over people's lives? Their ability to control people's minds.

The project of dumbing down humanity, endemic in history for generations, has been going especially well of late. The PTB (Powers That Be) have discovered how to subvert our belief systems so that whenever we act in what we conceive to be our own interest, we are in fact doing the bidding of the impersonal power elite whom we unwittingly serve. Our accustomed basis of ethics and rationality lies in we believe about ourselves. We see ourselves as good. Our unconscious sees us as evil as a corrective and so they are at war with each other. Both are deluded.

This inner war that is fought every second in every cell in the body between the anti-entropic forces of life and the free radical forces of death finds its reflection in human conflicts and in the works of the imagination, which depend upon standards of opposition. The binary split which creates such dynamics of evolution and change in biological systems and cultural histories is terrifying and forces our minds into paralysis. It is as if we deny the reality of struggle all about us, in favor of the negligent peace of a separated mental stance. This fact is food for the PTB. It enables them to feed us on images of warring divinities, driving us to distraction, while their banquet tables are laden with the spoils of our feverish labors.

Now that I have spilled the beans, so to speak, about the aforementioned (Trigrammaton), your belief system may never be the same again. For that destructive act I may be labelled a terrorist, but hopefully not yet a martyr. To avoid that fate I must go underground, to Pellucidar. You will receive my next dispatch from an overheated room somewhere in the back of my imagination.