Quit rejoicing about death.

Here’s an excellent article on things Christians and atheists should be able to agree on.


Notice before we even get to the list, the first thing is that celebrating the death of somebody you disagree with is a bad thing. When I posted this, I actually don’t recall if it was to a Christian or an atheist forum, the very first thing people attacked was, you guessed it, the part about celebrating people’s death. They seemed to feel they were perfectly justified and had every right to do so.

So a friend asked, “well if Glenn Beck or Bachmann or Palin had something happen to them, how would you react? Like let’s say Bachmann died in a car accident?” My response was, “that would suck”. He responded, “why, don’t you think she’s dangerous if she got power?”

Well I say, let’s quit pussyfooting around here. The real question is something like this. “Isn’t it totally awesome that Hitler’s dead? Shouldn’t we have cheered in the streets about that?” No, and here’s why. What you really want is Hitler to be stopped. That’s what had to happen. To me, it’s like these hypothetical questions.

If you were on a plane and it got hijacked, and the guy had a bomb and the only way to stop him was to kill him, would you do it to save the thirty thousand other people on the plane?

My first question is, why? Why must I kill him? Surely I could knock him out or something. Obviously you could construct your hypothetical to eliminate all alternatives, or just stipulate that, for whatever mysterious reasons we need not go into, killing him is the only way. But the question still stands, what happened to the alternatives? In the real world, they generally exist. What we really want is our hypothetical hijacker to be stopped. If we can do it without killing him, so much the better, I say.

So same goes for Hitler, IMO, or Bachmann, or insert whomever you think would be dangerous holding political office or whatever. The real goal is to stop them. That doesn’t necessarily need to involve death, and even if it does, it seems peculiar to me to rejoice in the death itself, as opposed to rejoicing in the fact that the danger was averted or stopped from going any further.

So that’s my take on why you shouldn’t rejoice at the death of other people. First of all, they’re human beings, with families and so forth. Second of all, in the case of the usual figures trotted out to support the case, it’s not really what you’re after anyway, you want whatever they’re doing to cease. So fine, rejoice about that all you like. But I don’t see getting all jazzed about death or other bad things happening to people.


Adventures in recording, watch me cheat!

Well, today’s adventure was getting the TranzPort working, finally finished, and rhythm rhythm rhythm! Practicing to a metronome, which I suck at, but not as much as I did. The cheating comes in because I’m going to record something I’ve sort of already done, and though unspecified, I think the challenge was to get all multi-tracky and stuff. That probably won’t happen this week, because tomorrow I have stuff in the afternoon and evening.

I don’t feel too bad about it though, I feel like I’ve actually made quite a bit of progress. It’s true I didn’t think setup would take the whole damn week, but instead of getting frustrated, my thought is, OK, it’ll happen like it happens. I know where I’m at, and instead of recording this week, it’ll be next week. I figure that’ll be fine. I’ve already got the drum I want to use picked out, so there’s the basis. What that will turn into, who knows? So it’s coming along. Sorry it won’t be this week though.

The contents of both notebooks.

Just to complete the narcissism here, let’s cover what I was into from, oh let’s say 1989-1991. I’ll do the notebooks in order. I titled the first one.

The Book of Alal

Alal is supposedly “the destroyer” in Sumerian, according to the Simon Necronomicon. This is likely wrong, it seems far more likely that this is cognate with the Hittite/Hurrian god Alalu/Alalus. I titled it because I was forced to label it by a braille teacher. The full title is:

The Book of Alal

Runes, ogham, languages, Etc.

The contents are:

a list of rune meanings from Ralph Blum. Terrible stuff, but it’s what I started on. A list of reversed meanings, this is from tarot and likely doesn’t apply to traditional runes at all. A list of supposedly traditional rune meanings, the order is all fucked up. A list of “futhark order”, but with Anglo-Saxon rune names. Way to go Ralph Blum, you suck. Three rune layouts, with diagrams.

A list of ogham names and meanings, from Celtic Magic by D. J. Conway, I’m pretty sure. I never used these because I could never find a set of ogham. It’s just as well since, as we’ve seen from her spell, her grasp of things is pretty shaky.

A love spell from the Simon Necronomicon. I’m pretty sure the first word, “munus”, is woman, but it’s either slave woman or woman from the mountains, which one exactly escapes me at the moment. So yeah, aside from anything else about that book, I wouldn’t really trust its spells either. Research is a bitch, ain’t it? This is followed by Simon’s little Sumerian, likely Sumero-Akkadian, dictionary, which I also wouldn’t trust.

A very long list of words with meanings in various languages, painstakingly copied from etymologies in a braille dictionary.

After that is the aforementioned love spell from D. J. Conway, then a list of gods from her as well. Following that is “The Alphabet Calendar of Amergin”, a title I’ve never heard it called before, though I’m not sure where it’s from. Then the Welsh poem about Urien, and then Irish triads.

The second notebook has:

Reworkings of a couple lines I was apparently playing around with, a list of lines from Lovecraft’s “At the Mountains of Madness”, Jabberwocky, a list of letter and number pairs for a language (technically a cipher) I was making, a list of words translated into said cipher, a list of words and names (mostly of gods) translated into sequences of numbers (no idea why), diagrams of DNA bases, a chemical diagram starting with CO2 + alcohol through pyruvic acid leading to lactic acid (what is this, muscular fatigue?), a chemical diagram of photosynthesis I can’t read most of anymore, a list of gods from The Forgotten Realms DND supplement, a list of Egyptian gods, the works of Wi Hang, The Worship Festival, a long list of chemicals and their formulas, the list of random words, Things to be Pissed off About, the random poems, and the myth with God’s campfire.

Last one, and this one looked to be going places too!

Again, I have no real idea. Clearly influenced by Native American stuff, which I probably hadn’t even encountered yet. As a random note, I’m transcribing all of this stuff because the braille is getting hard to read. So I figured I’d make a copy, just because. The name of God is probably influenced by Pawnee Tirawa, likely encountered in a story by H. P. Lovecraft, “The Mound”.

In the beginning there was the campfire,
The campfire of Tyrwa-Owuror,
But the most evil chipmunk,
Caused the fire of God to disappear,
Whereupon all things died.

So God created a hero,

More random shit.

No idea. I’m going to number these to separate them, but they’re just on the page separated by some blank space.


Here I am,
Sitting in this place,
And just because I want so,
To kill you,
You want to take an axe,
And rip my heart,
From my body,
Do you see,
Because you can’t know all,
That’s like God.


(The book of life is like air to all,)


God is my fruit bat,
I live to get my blood spattered,
Over little pieces of God,
And we are all unknowing people.

Things to be pissed off about.

I got sick of all those chicken soup for the soul books, apparently, and decided to write my own list of things to be pissed off about. Enjoy!

Earth is only the third planet from the sun.

Jupiter is bigger than Earth.

That damned weird color of the Sun, that fucking yellowish thing.

The damned fucking Chipmunks.

Unruly bodily secretions.

“Ggglllrrrkhkhkhrrrnnn”, will not replace, “How the fuck are you?”, as a greeting.

Saturn has those damned rings.

That fucking side of the Moon we never get to see.

God-damned idiots.

Telephone recordings.

Tough chewy meat.

Those damned annoying geese.

Y c’t r,d :, x’s 9 brl, ha ha ha. (I tried my best OK?)

Sarcastic blind authors.

Falling rocks, don’t the damn things hurt?

You can bleed.

You can breathe.

Sane people.

Things in this book you don’t understand, like “Grankivulpinsknm.”

What the hell?

After “The Worship Festival” comes a long list of chemical formulae I’d copied from various places, and then this. I have no idea what it is. Enjoy it anyway.


More bad writing from when I was a teenager.

This is clearly influenced by Henry, and stuck in that desire to be overly clever we have at times. Oh well.

The Worship Festival

“Pay attention Vardik.”

“All you do is complain Nyakvar”, said Vardik, as he scratched his head absently.

“I was telling you about the Evil People. They’re the people who sacrifice humans to the demon we read about in the Good Book. They are bad. They hate the Lord God and His son Jesus. It is said in the Good Book, that one should take an eye for an eye, and so we shall. We will torture and kill them as they have done to us.”

“Praise be to God”, Vardik screamed, slinging his gun over his arm.

The complete works of Wi Hang.

I could make up a back story for Wi Hang *Pron. we hang of course!), but why bother? It’s just something that occurred to me one day, for no particular reason that I can discern. Clearly he was intended to be Chinese. I don’t even think I’d started reading Daoist stuff at this point, though it’s possible I’d gotten hold of the Wilhelm I Ching. Two poems, the only ones that I know of, survive, to my knowledge I didn’t write anything else. That’s good because they’re a little redundant, honestly.

The first is more clearly a poem, the second seems to have started off as a story and then veered into a poem. I have no idea when I wrote this, probably when I was about fifteen or so. I do remember one other thing about it, which we’ll get to in a minute. Behold:

The Wuhu Pole and the Wiwac Tree
Wi Hang

The Wuhu Pole and the Wiwac Tree,
O what a sight to see.

We went to the Wuhu Pole and the Wiwac Tree,
With Hwili Kong
And the sailors three.

We said “wuhu” to the Wuhu Pole.
We said “wiwac” to the Wiwac Tree.
We went wandering wee.

Notes: This was the poem as I originally wrote it, the last line being clearly indebted to e. e. Cummings’ poem “In Just”.


Somebody, Justin or Henry, I can’t recall whom, suggested it was unfinished and I should add something else. I did, but reluctantly. So here’s the final, and IMO spurious, stanza.

We whipped the Wuhu Pole.
We whacked the Wiwac Tree.
We whistled wildly.
We saw God.

The second poem follows, without much comment.

Wili Wang and the Wali Walker
Wi Hang

This is the story of Wili Wang and the Wali Walker.

One day Wili Wang went to see the Wali Walker,
Because he heard that it walked Wali,
But that was just a rumor.

Wili Wang whispered to the Wali Walker,
The Wali Walker walked wearily near him,
Wili Wang asked, “what is a Wali?”,
To which the Wali Walker replied,
“Wali is walked by the Wali Walker,
And life is a joy.”
End of Part I

I guess this was supposed to be some sort of epic or something.

Irish triads

Triads are a form of Celtic gnomic poetry, i.e. wisdom poetry, much like proverbs. The Celts were really into the number three, apparently. These turn up in both Irish and Welsh literature. There are probably collections of these online as well by this point, and I should track them down. I have no idea where these are from, I got them out of a book while researching a paper back in high school. That report, presumably containing a bibliography, is on an Apple IIE disk somewhere or other. Anyway, enjoy some Irish triads.

Three excellent qualities of narration: a good flow, depth of thought, conciseness.

Three dislikable qualities in the same: stiffness, obscurity, bad delivery.

Three things that are always ready in a decent man’s house: beer, a bath, a good fire.

Three accomplishments well regarded in Ireland: a clever verse, music on the harp, the art of shaving faces.

Three signs of concupiscence: sighing, gamey tricks, going to hooleys.

Three smiles that are worse than griefs: the smile of snow melting, the smile of your wife when another man has been with her, the smile of a mastiff about to spring.

The three with the lightest hearts: the student after reading his psalms, a young lad who has left off his boy’s clothes for good, a maid who has been made a woman.

The three doors by which falsehood enters: anger in stating the case, shaky information, evidence from a bad memory.

Three times when speech is better than silence: when urging a king to battle, when reciting a well turned line of poetry, when giving due praise.

Three scarcities that are better than abundance: a scarcity of fancy talk, a scarcity of cows in a small pasture, a scarcity of friends around the beer.