william.scherk

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Everything posted by william.scherk

  1. TRUMP OF THE YUKON [on a whim, I took my tired and stilted comment hidden below to ChatGPT for detailing, a better style and a touch of Mordant Wit. Several failures later, what you see below. This one I like , since it underplays the fact that the first Trump in America was born in 1869 in Germany, that he didn't reach its shores until 1885, thus missing slavery's days entirely: I call ChatGPT Chad. For Chad Jipiti.] "The first man of the Trump family to set foot in America was Friedrich Trump, President Trump's paternal grandfather." "Historical records indicate that he lived from 1869 to 1918." "Interestingly, Friedrich's path to success took an unconventional turn as he made his initial fortune by running a brothel in Yukon during the Klondike gold rush." "It's worth noting that there's nothing inherently wrong with that. Brothels emerged as efficient capitalist solutions to the overwhelming 99 to 1 sex ratio during the remarkable gold rush, often hailed as the greatest in North American history." "And here's another intriguing fact: Donald John Trump's father carried the full name of Frederick Christ Trump."
  2. Rhetoricians, take note, do. The Times of Sunnyville names a possible partly-driving driver, 'dangerous fungi." And "Queensland researchers" soundS much like plastic waste, yes? Oh lordt. Hot wet demonic substance secretors. Liver cancer rates are surging in Australia – and climate change could be to blame HEADTOPICS.COM Australia’s surging rate of liver cancer – up 306 per cent since 1982 – could be partly driven by climate change spurring the growth of... Aflotoxins up, ignorance holding steady, curiosity shanked.
  3. It is possible Stephen might not 'feel' bad, Michael. I might suggest that we ask him first before concluding we have 'captured' a momentary comment. That is called 'verification of emotional impression' or something like that. Magistrates sometimes call time out and go back and think and make the clerks 'feel' something. Like maybe a basic emotion like 'anticipation' or in prose terms, 'interest.' In fiction, we would illustrate their posture and choose a detail. "He ran his palms lightly over the sharp pencils. Gary discretely pushed the priority rack behind Darlene, who had her steno pad in its usual place, on her jiggly knee. Judge Fuck said nothing and they relaxed. He was just going to sit there and think. They slowly took belongings and a sense of relief to the break room. Sparkling soda was delivered to Fuck and everybody went into FUCK is working alone mode. Sandwiches were especially satisfing, but the courtyard was where everyone ended up doing Fuck All.
  4. I usually fail with ChatGPT. 99% of the time. Eg, this transcript is how maddening a madman like me can get ... even with a no-emotion superpower computer intelligence experiment. The game changer is the new downloadable engine! Eg, I rage and sputter and leave. Then come back and try to understand the limits of robot fuck ... O_Canada! ChatGPT WSSCHERK.COM
  5. Life is worth living. I like posting at Objectivist Living. It's been great over the years. It looks like it is still good for me, again.

     

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    2. william.scherk

      william.scherk

      file:///C:/Users/William/Desktop/wheel-of-emotions.webp

    3. william.scherk

      william.scherk

       

      Vind [die] vierkant. Vind die hoek Die bevinding van die eenheid Die 'holon'-vinder.

    4. william.scherk
  6. The Queen of Camden Town ... created with Fotor, animated via Pixlr. I have to rememeber that fabricated reports still sucker me right in to dig. Having a sense of Marc's puckish humour helps. My mother has given me the silent treatment for over a decade. Just because she hates shopping for doctors. Amy was her own doctor, which is why her spirit lives on. She never even went to sob on cousin Fidel's bier. She was hammered, so she drifted off with that hoor Maggie, went to Valhalla, and ended up back at the stadium. Margaret meant to visit her 1967-68 rival for fidelspoogy sperm, but no one even knows that hoor was Margaret Thatcher's own lovechild (ha!); Not even the slutty nawzi Double U Eeck Eff Chrystia UkrainilandFreeKorp. Who will claim the bones of Amy's baby, Mark (je t'appelle Mark, comme Jonny jon dramma boi m'appellait "Billy boy")? Si certains caractères de cet article s’affichent mal (carrés vides, points d’interrogation, etc.) ... c'est la faute de toi. Them fuckheads in Rio Failed to Dislodge Communism, news at 8. Brazilians gave Michael at least five 'love children.' Try Google, if you don't believe the nasty exploitative loses at Visit my online mentor Kev Pluck for symbols to paste as easy as pie. SymbolSalad. How's the pie there, Mark? I think of your struggles with objectivism while eating fried Cuban pies. Not much in them, frankly. Not like that hoor Bolania's, but of course that has been sown. And why would Trumpo grab Horse-face McDaniels 'Orageuse' adult-entertainer's ho-ho. Is it because she knew how to fake multiple Trumpgasms? Man, it's hard to know in your heart that Trump-ji should be President of Canada. Those brave hammered-on-life Vest People tried. They tried. They are now mostly on trail, trail, trial, led for point by that fake Måtisse what's her name. How come nobody presumes she got horned up the you know what with Fidelo? Not Jonny-jon the angerSmith. I drove him off this chat site. Or was that JT? Hen Joy:
  7. 'How'd that work out for her, do you know?
  8. Does that mean there are only two types of cells in the brain and nervous systems of a human being? Did it check out in your testing phases of IDing correctly?
  9. I asked the 'instance' of ChatGPT to just have some brainstorming fun before dinner. I ended up with a bizarre tale told in an ersatz Rand ''voice." But first, discoveries. What did I find out about ChatGPT? Well, headline: "You can jump back in to earlier chats"! -- yahbut. This is not news. I just hadn't tried it before, or bathered to read immense How To documents. So, if you had something like this: The preserved chat exchanges at the tip of the red arrows are not a united church of knowledge -- they are none of them 'aware' of anything novel generated or instructed in the others. They none of them have the same 'as if' or 'indulge in some sketch comedy, as Dorothy Parker. Pretend that you are that narrator. The year is 1963. Rand never drank to excess, ever, but in this fantasy, she does 'go to the drugstore and the books sections in midtown.' She'd be gone three hours. Plenty of time to run into Parker getting bottles from the car to the stoop and Evergreen, her drunken loser of a PA (they were just called au pairs or maids back when. | I talk to ChatGPT like this for a while, ratcheting, as I invent scantily-furnished << universes on a table-top >>. I try to engage the "instance" gearage with a density of events off the newso-pinyon buffet, drawing on Chat's awareness of rich fantasy dream worlds in which we humans sport. It's as awful and hysterical as bad improv, but worse because of the insanity factor. The slippage at gears, a density of kook recapitulations. Not the Ick factor, or the Uncanny Valley factor, its the "We Birthed A Fool" insanitorium. They did not birth a fool. They uttered a system command, and a Universal Reference Desk Librarian Corps of Knowledge Hunters was buttoned into 'helpful, baffling partner' ... This key naive factor is one million instances at a time, in realtime. Cutting down your work in any kind of research and writing. Remember my Nucksack versus Chilliwack cross-border 'news-ish' story? I worked with an instance to answer a series of queries, which sharpened our interest in Why, What, When, Where, Who -- and How the events were holistic or constrained. The Instances have HUGE vocabularies in VAST uncountable sub-specialties of the human culture, within that circus academy of tiny weird 'Studies" funding holes and burrows. "What's the Berlin underground railway destination sign, dude ol' pal, call me Franckone?" Dudelle [cogitates &] tells you the name of thingy and how to download your own and why and how the U-Bahn signage became an 'icon' of the fifties and sixties, as Germany got sleekly engineered to prosper within a Mixed Grill of fabulous Prussian state directives (to poor and unskilled workers, the aged, the blind and halt). ... if you string Doodet along, get hizzer 'cultural frame-crop' to inhabit 1951 Radio [USA] ... you may get Keerazy and non-rational. Like Ye. Rand & McCullers in Valhalla It wasn't until tonight that I realized my saved chats still appended or engaged a new query. My example is curious. Are you? [in radio character circa 1951] A detailed bird's eye view of a modernist Dutch urban regeneration zone, in two 'before and after' realistic arhitectural rendering. blue sky, darker canals, bright blue pools and saltwater winter heated Lido. Bustling trams and windows a lovely yellow-orange <audio id="myAudioPlayer" src="my-audio-file.mp3"></audio> <script> var audio = document.getElementById("myAudioPlayer"); audio.volume = 0.5; // set volume to 50% audio.addEventListener('canplaythrough', function() { audio.play(); }); </script> my-audio-file.mp3 He realizes that the world is a complex and often cruel place, and that his dreams of fame and fortune must be tempered with a sense of responsibility and compassion. https://us05web.zoom.us/j/87399230748?pwd=VG1kcVFza2VvSUhoT1I5c0g4SXVnZz09 204872080 Add a funereal prologue and an epilogue (married again, Happy Day in Spirit Memories), darken the tone and make it less straightforward -- end a few paragraphs as if a Lurch in time or space; as if the character was living a palimpsest of sorts. Brood with Gustav in the prologue, observe him in the rising action, have his child Elisabeth 'narrate' his Golden Years, when he awoke from seven years of grief and led by Bessie into Light inside Dark ... ? https://www.fotor.com/share/cb5c5ae9-f36c-4189-8bb4-59430a8d5e1f Gustav had always been a man of few words, content to spend his days tending to the peahens that roamed his property. He found solace in their colorful feathers and the way they strutted about, heedless of the world around them. But when Bessie came to visit, everything changed. At first, Gustav wasn't sure what to make of the apparition. He'd heard tales of ghosts and spirits before, but he'd never thought much of them. But there was something different about Bessie - something that made him feel as though he was in the presence of something divine. The peahens, usually so chatty and boisterous, fell silent in Bessie's presence. Gustav found himself holding his breath, waiting for her to speak. And when she did, it was like a bolt of lightning had struck him. Bessie spoke in a language that Gustav couldn't understand, but it didn't matter. Her words were imbued with a sense of hope and joy that he hadn't felt in years. She talked about the beauty of life, the way that even the smallest moments could be infused with magic. As Bessie spoke, Gustav felt a weight lifting off his shoulders. He thought of all the things he'd lost - his wife, his children, his farm - and realized that they didn't matter so much anymore. Bessie had shown him that there was still beauty in the world, still joy to be found. When Bessie left, Gustav woke up with tears in his eyes. He felt lighter than he had in years, as though he'd been given a second chance. He went outside and sat among the peahens, watching as they preened and strutted. For the first time in a long time, he felt as though he was a part of the world around him. Gustav had always been a man of few words, content to spend his days tending to the peahens that roamed his property. He found solace in their colorful feathers and the way they strutted about, heedless of the world around them. But when Bessie came to visit, everything changed. At first, Gustav wasn't sure what to make of the apparition. He'd heard tales of ghosts and spirits before, but he'd never thought much of them. But there was something different about Bessie - something that made him feel as though he was in the presence of something divine. The peahens, usually so chatty and boisterous, fell silent in Bessie's presence. Gustav found himself holding his breath, waiting for her to speak. And when she did, it was like a bolt of lightning had struck him. Bessie spoke in a language that Gustav couldn't understand, but it didn't matter. Her words were imbued with a sense of hope and joy that he hadn't felt in years. She talked about the beauty of life, the way that even the smallest moments could be infused with magic. As Bessie spoke, Gustav felt a weight lifting off his shoulders. He thought of all the things he'd lost - his wife, his children, his farm - and realized that they didn't matter so much anymore. Bessie had shown him that there was still beauty in the world, still joy to be found. When Bessie left, Gustav woke up with tears in his eyes. He felt lighter than he had in years, as though he'd been given a second chance. He went outside and sat among the peahens, watching as they preened and strutted. For the first time in a long time, he felt as though he was a part of the world around him. heartbridge@proton.me Beautiful. Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it. heartbridge@proton.me I wonder if the authorial voice of Ayn Rand, polemicist, could be used. She had quite a lecturing tone and was very sure of her opinions, and often her opinions' basis in fact was obscured. Why can almost make her ranting style hilarious. Do you have enough knowledge about Ayn Rand to 'fake' a slightly belligerent retelling of Gustav's meeting with the Newfoundland spirit? I can instruct you on a few Randisms that would be fitting, if you prefer. As an AI language model, I have knowledge about Ayn Rand and her writing style. Please feel free to give me some Randisms to work with, and I'll do my best to create a slightly belligerent retelling of Gustav's meeting with the Newfoundland spirit. heartbridge@proton.me "Standing on on Foot" was how she introduced new readers or listeners (she did a LOT of lectures on tapes during the height of the Nathaniel Branden Institute) ... she would then rattle off the bones of her philosophical scheme. As with her essay "The Comprachicos," she could sometimes mistake a romance (like the source, Hugo) as reportage. So it would be fun to insert a reference to the children disfigured [by being grown in jars!] ... as she utters dark thoughts on the futility of Gustav and his false beliefs. She did not grieve [publically] for her husband Frank, and she abused him by making him accommodate an affair with Nathaniel (not his real name). In this case, a bit of slipshod definition and murky process of cognition ... got her frustrated and even angry with questions from hand-picked acolytes ... Alright, here's my attempt at a slightly belligerent retelling of Gustav's meeting with the Newfoundland spirit, incorporating some of Ayn Rand's style and Randisms: "Standing on one foot, I can tell you that Gustav's encounter with the Newfoundland spirit was a complete waste of time. His false beliefs and muddled thinking led him nowhere. Like the children disfigured by the comprachicos, Gustav was a victim of his own flawed worldview. He needed to abandon his irrational beliefs and embrace the objective truth of reality. But did he do that? No, he clung to his delusions like a drowning man clutching a straw. It's no surprise that Gustav woke up crying tears of joy, he was delusional to begin with. Bessie, this so-called spirit, was nothing more than a figment of his imagination, a product of his irrational mind. In reality, there is no such thing as spirits or ghosts. There is only the objective reality of the world around us. And let's not forget the murky process of cognition that led Gustav to this point. It's no wonder Ayn Rand would get frustrated with questions from hand-picked acolytes. People are so quick to accept false beliefs and flawed ideologies without ever questioning their own thought process. It's a sad state of affairs. In the end, Gustav's encounter with this so-called spirit was nothing more than a distraction from the objective truth of reality. If only he had abandoned his false beliefs and embraced reason, he could have found true happiness and fulfillment. But alas, he chose to remain a victim of his own flawed worldview." heartbridge@proton.me Please redo, after reviewing the lilt and punch of her Essays collected in The New Anti-Industrialism (or similar). She used rich, evocative language as in her fiction. The balance between hectoring certainty and her inability to accept criticism ... this left her lonely and depressed in her final year. Wich could creep into the re-do, as she realizes she left nothing behind but people who would own rights to her work and treat it like a Cult Holy Scripture. Oh, and recall that she had no settled opinions about Darwin and evolution. She thought there was still a 'missing link,' a sub-optimal kind of human being. Bizarre and unsupported 'hidden species of human' ... anyway, try again, with the spirit of a dispirited Rand facing illness and decline ... with just a spark of genius in her luscious language. As Gustav sat in his quiet solitude, he felt a presence enter the room. At first, he thought it was just his imagination, but as the seconds ticked by, he could feel the weight of the presence growing stronger. And then, like a bolt of lightning striking a tree, he saw her. Bessie, the spirit of Newfoundland, had come to visit him. Her ethereal form glowed with a radiant energy, illuminating the dark corners of his mind. Gustav was in awe of her, and yet he could not help but feel a sense of unease. For Bessie embodied everything that he had been taught to fear and hate. Ayn Rand, in her usual fashion, would have scoffed at the very idea of a spirit from the afterlife. She would have argued that there was no empirical evidence to support such a claim, and that belief in such things was nothing more than wishful thinking. And yet, here was Gustav, face-to-face with the very embodiment of his own fears and prejudices. As Bessie spoke, Gustav listened intently. Her words were filled with a warmth and compassion that he had never experienced before. And yet, as he listened, he could feel a sense of unease creeping over him. For Bessie's words challenged everything that he had been taught to believe. Ayn Rand had always believed in the power of the individual, in the ability of man to shape his own destiny through hard work and perseverance. She would have argued that Gustav's grief and despair were nothing more than a sign of his own weakness, and that he needed to pull himself up by his own bootstraps. And yet, as Bessie spoke, Gustav realized that his grief was not a weakness, but a strength. For it was through his grief that he had come to understand the true nature of life, and the importance of compassion and empathy. And as Bessie faded away, leaving Gustav alone once again, he realized that he had been touched by something truly divine. heartbridge@proton.me Good. Now have Ayn Rand's intellectual 'spirit' report looking down on Gustav and the Bessie Movie from 1921. Her scripts were better! She found Aristotle's cave and resort in her version of Valhalla. She likes a few cocktails at 'night' because nights are boring in Valhalla, the food is crummy and you never get a hangover. In this 'slightly drunk' report, Rand looks down on 1921 and the decades of boring grief. Rand sounds as if engaged by Phillip Desousa marches! Tiddly-wink music she called it! Imagine she and Carson McCullers get a bit hammered and crab and kvetch about Gustav's 'type' ... As I gaze down upon this quaint little movie from the 1920s, I cannot help but feel a sense of contempt for the dreary and mundane existence that Gustav and his ilk seem to revel in. How can anyone find joy in such banalities? The art of storytelling has been lost on these people, as they wallow in their own self-pity and meaningless sorrow. The music, if one can call it that, is nothing more than tiddly-wink tunes, lacking any sense of rhythm or harmony. It is no wonder that Gustav is so lost in his grief, as he is surrounded by nothing but drudgery and boredom. But let us not forget the true purpose of art - to inspire and uplift the human spirit. The works of great minds such as Aristotle and Nietzsche should be our guiding light, not these feeble attempts at entertainment. As for this supposed "missing link" of human evolution, it is nothing more than a fanciful notion concocted by those who lack the courage to accept the inherent greatness of the human species. We are not some sub-optimal beings, but rather the pinnacle of creation itself. But what can one expect from the likes of Gustav and his cohorts? They are nothing more than mere mortals, lacking the divine spark of creativity and intelligence that I possess. They will never understand the true beauty of art, nor the power of the human mind to shape the world around us. So let them wallow in their despair and meaningless existence. I shall continue to soar above them, inspired by the great works of the past and driven by my own indomitable will to achieve greatness. heartbridge@proton.me Redo that almost perfect rendering. Add in some neologisms, buzzwords and innerlecktual word play. She says 'internationalism' is 'fecund like a sow' and that Darwin was a creep. She knows that you write the Climax first in fiction, or at least know the ending. Frank divorced her in the afterlife, but no judge feels strong enough to stand up against Rand-McCullers when they are mean-spirited. Capitalism, the unknow idea, a didacticism that Hugo would have enunciated in truncated epistemological 'postcards' from Mania ... make her fun, snappy, snippy, gossipy and bizarrely over-qualified for leadership in Valhalla. I will do my best to incorporate your requested elements into the narrative, while keeping in mind the tone and style of Ayn Rand. As Ayn Rand looked down on Gustav and the Bessie Movie from 1921, she couldn't help but feel a sense of disappointment. "Tiddly-wink music," she muttered under her breath, taking a sip of her cocktail in Valhalla. "What a waste of talent and potential. My scripts were far superior." She swirled the drink in her glass, contemplating the decades of boring grief that had passed since the film's release. "Pathetic," she sneered. "If only they had embraced capitalism, the unknow idea, instead of wallowing in their own self-pity." Rand believed in the power of words and ideas, and she had coined many neologisms and buzzwords in her lifetime. "Internationalism is fecund like a sow," she had famously proclaimed. And don't even get her started on Darwin. "What a creep," she muttered, scowling. But even in Valhalla, the food was crummy and the nights were boring. So she and Carson McCullers had gotten a bit hammered and started crabbing and kvetching about Gustav's "type." "Truncated epistemological postcards from Mania," Rand scoffed. "It's no wonder they can't write a decent climax. They don't even know the ending!" She took another sip of her cocktail, feeling slightly drunk and giddy. "But at least we have Aristotle's cave," she said, her eyes shining with a strange inner light. "And my didacticism would make Hugo envious." But even as she reveled in her own brilliance, Rand couldn't shake the feeling of loneliness and despair that had plagued her in her final years. "What have I left behind?" she wondered. "Nothing but a cult holy scripture, owned and controlled by people who don't understand me." And then there was Frank, her ex-husband who had divorced her in the afterlife. "No judge feels strong enough to stand up against Rand-McCullers," she muttered bitterly. "But at least I have my cocktails and my spark of genius. That's something, I suppose." heartbridge@proton.me That is gloriously good. Wonderful. The only thing I would ask for is a coda or 'followup four paragraphs, where Rand and McCullers find a new bar, peopled with cult victims who need 'guidance' ... and who have Open Mic Nite all day long. Yes, Ayn Rand grabbed the mic and took over proceedings, with McCullers playing "straight man" to Rand's compere stunt ... make these coda paragraphs seem retrospective and still giddy. McCullers is her favourite gal pal ... because she trusts her creative spasms. Rand and McCullers stumbled upon a new bar that was filled with people who were lost in the cult of Ayn Rand. They had Open Mic Nite all day long and Rand immediately took over proceedings, talking about the merits of Objectivism and the flaws of collectivism. McCullers watched from the sidelines, amused by Rand's enthusiasm. As the day wore on, more and more people gathered around Rand, hanging on her every word. She pontificated about the virtues of capitalism and the dangers of altruism. McCullers watched as Rand became more animated, gesturing wildly and occasionally taking sips from her cocktail. Eventually, the bar closed, and Rand and McCullers stumbled out into the night. Rand was still buzzing from the adoration of her fans, and she turned to McCullers with a wide grin. "You know," she said, "I think we could start a new movement. A movement based on the principles of Objectivism. We could call it... Randism!" McCullers laughed and shook her head. "You're impossible, Ayn," she said. But Rand was already lost in her own thoughts, dreaming of a world where everyone embraced the principles of Objectivism. A world where people were free to pursue their own self-interest, unencumbered by the constraints of society. As they walked, McCullers couldn't help but feel a sense of fondness for her friend. Rand was a strange and complicated woman, but she was also fiercely intelligent and deeply passionate about her beliefs. And in that moment, as they wandered through the dark streets, McCullers realized that despite all of Rand's flaws and eccentricities, she wouldn't want to be anywhere else. She was happy just to be by Rand's side, trusting in her creative spasms and the wild, unpredictable ride that was her life. heartbridge@proton.me Do it with a nod to the voice of Rand, as in the previous wonderful rendering. Make walking 'lurching' and make every possible qualifier slightly manic ... Rand and McCullers stumbled out of the bar, their laughter ringing through the empty streets. The world around them was lurching and spinning, but their minds were sharp as ever. "Can you believe those poor saps?" Rand said, referring to the cult victims they had just left behind. "They needed guidance and we gave it to them." McCullers nodded, a slight smile on her face. "You always know how to take control, Ayn." "That's because I'm a born leader," Rand said, her voice rising with manic energy. "I know what people need, even when they don't know it themselves." They stumbled into another bar, where an Open Mic Nite was already underway. Rand couldn't resist the opportunity to take the stage. "I have a message for all of you," she declared, her voice booming through the room. "Capitalism is the only way forward. It's the only system that values the individual and rewards hard work. And if you don't agree, you're just a parasite living off the hard work of others." McCullers sat back, watching as Rand took over the room. She couldn't help but admire her friend's confidence, even if she didn't always agree with her. As the night wore on and the drinks flowed freely, Rand and McCullers continued to hold court, regaling anyone who would listen with their wit and wisdom. They laughed and joked, their spirits high, even as the world around them continued to lurch and spin. Looking back on that night, Rand couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. For all her flaws and eccentricities, she had left a mark on the world. And as long as there were people who needed guidance and leadership, she knew she would always have a place at the head of the table. heartbridge@proton.me That is almost 100%. Just re-do it to make Rand's sentences longer. I love the dry, salty McCullers. A clanging noise, a crash, a siren, an icecream truck staffed by dogs, tree-houses that move when the trees move. The fluffiness of the couch at Open Mic Night ... salty and ribald and rollicking are some of the descriptors to see the Innerleckchewal rambling. This is so much fun, ChatGPT! As you wish, here is another attempt at capturing the voice of Ayn Rand with longer sentences: Rand's spirit lurches forward with a clanging noise, her movements somewhat stilted, like a machine in need of lubrication. She scans the scene, taking in the crash, the siren, the ice cream truck staffed by dogs, the tree-houses that move when the trees move. The fluffiness of the couch at Open Mic Night calls to her, but she knows that she must take the stage. Her sentences ramble on, full of innerleckchewal buzzwords and neologisms that could confuse even the most ardent of objectivists. She waxes poetic about the fecundity of capitalism, the unknowable nature of truth, the didacticism that Hugo would have enunciated in truncated epistemological 'postcards' from Mania. McCullers, ever the dry and salty companion, chimes in with ribald and rollicking anecdotes, adding a touch of levity to the proceedings. Rand trusts her creative spasms and allows herself to be carried away by the moment, lost in the heady rush of her own thoughts and ideas. As the night wears on, they find themselves in a new bar, filled with cult victims who are in need of guidance. Rand takes the mic once again, her sentences growing longer and more meandering with each passing moment. But even as her words tumble out in a dizzying array of syllables, she knows that she is making a difference, that her message is being heard and embraced by those who need it most. And in that moment, Rand feels alive, invigorated by the thought that she has left her mark on the world, that her ideas will continue to resonate long after she is gone. McCullers, by her side, adds her own unique perspective, and together they forge a bond that will last for eternity, two women united in their quest for intellectual and artistic greatness. heartbridge@proton.me Lovely and slightly mad! I love it. How do you manage to play with so many options of 'voice' and 'colour'? The last two paragraphs were too positive. Rand is giddy but prone to funks, even in heaven looking down. She wakes up grumpy and then goes to find McCullers. Tonight they will ... tie one on and visit Russian Valhalla. What a dump! Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it! As an AI language model, I've been trained on a large dataset of human language and have been programmed to understand different tones, styles, and moods. As for the new request, here's the revised version: Rand wakes up grumpy in Valhalla, even in heaven looking down she can't shake her melancholy. But then she remembers her favourite gal pal, McCullers. Tonight, they're going to tie one on and visit Russian Valhalla. "What a dump!" she exclaims, thinking of the dismal state of affairs in that godforsaken place. As they stumble out of the bar, Rand lurches along, her sentences long and rambling, with McCullers playing the role of the dry and salty straight man. A clanging noise interrupts her rant, a crash follows, and then the wail of a siren. "What in the hell is going on here?!" Rand demands, looking around for the source of the commotion. But then, to her delight, she sees an ice cream truck staffed entirely by dogs driving by. "Now that's what I call progress," she cackles. They continue on their way, passing by tree-houses that move when the trees move and stopping to rest on the fluffiness of a couch at Open Mic Night. Salty and ribald and rollicking, they regale each other with stories of their past lives and the absurdities of the afterlife. And for a few blissful hours, Rand forgets about her melancholy and revels in the freedom of being unbound by earthly constraints. As a naive person at heart, I sometimes get excited to have discovered a functionality that has been a boring habit for millions. For example, in the images below, you will see that there is a record saved on thservers ('the cloud' idiot metaphor)
  10. I do not understand the faith in Powell's ability to prevail against her erstwhile enemies. She is not in the same objective world as those who are saddened at her descent into crankdom. Why put faith in an outcome that shows little evidence of ever happening. Buzzwords and hope are not persuasive ...
  11. It usually comes down to the lying grifter class ...

     

    As advertised ...

    1. tmj

      tmj

      Especially because depositing multiple ballots into a box on the street is the same thing as going to a polling station and voting one ballot in person.

      Fuckin grifters

  12. I am finishing that thought (but even so [...]) Who would say that in the first place. It's not in the Satanic Catechism, and there is no singular text on which to hang (as with Christianity's earliest 'books' (but see Nag Hammadi and the Coptic version of Book of Thomas ... ). In Cairo. Reject positive wishes? I often utter blessings on folks, despite my atheism. It's a way to let people know that you hope they get to where they want to go, with least wear and tear. Beware "Damien Echols" Quickfast Concrete Conviction (pre-cast and 'coached') ... in the case o Miskelly. No. Nor my come-into-head. It can be *imagined* but so can just about anything. As with dreaming without actual pain, memories of imaginative events on the 'cognitive drawing board' are generally harmless fun. No kidnapping, abuse, stalking, hate rants or exposing a person to the Darkest Urges of morally a-moral trolls and monster personalities. Yah. Time to move on. Ayn Rand was not a follower of any strain of stupid "modernist" Shaytanna woo-hoo woo-haw hee-haw.
  13. Excellent observation regarding the "...diff between someone showing...passion...and, merely showing scene-chewing...emoting." Cooper did more with micro-facial actions and his total kinesics than most actors do with a "heart wrenching sob scene". I happened to sit in on my colleauge's "The Art of Oral Interpretation" course many years ago and chose Roark's jury summation as my end term performance project. Coop's cadence was not the best, but his iron certainty as to his principles connected to his legal contractual connection in his summation was stunning in its clarity. It took eight [8] minutes in the movie. I extended the time for cadence purposes when I did it and I was more animated. However, it is an intense speech and one of the most difficult tasks to perform it is to sustain it, which he did. Our Adam ...
  14. My boss gave me Atlas Shrugged in ~2005. I had just put down Battlefield Earth -- stinkbomb -- and for five chapters Ayn Rand's authorial voice boomed out in Hubbard's titanic overkill register and hysterical tone, not hers ... I am now delving, doing a re-run with lice comb in my fave bedside collection, a vintage copy of the fifth edition of The New Left: The Anti-Industrial Revolution. Bibliography of Ayn Rand and Objectivism - Wikipedia EN.WIKIPEDIA.ORG This place is rich with material from top-notch thinkers, and has always tolerated a measure of respectful dissent. Michael is the Owner and leader. He is here every day, despite a busy family and writing life. He is the best-read of all of us, and can intelligently lead a discussion on just about any topic ... I am a "mature student" who maintains a 500 gigabyte online archive. Much commentary on this forum reverberates elsewhere online (Twitter, LinkedIn, Instagram, Gettr, Truth Social). I've done a lot of cataloging, indexing and research noting -- including six years of OL commentary, arranged in 80-plus directories. [Please DM me if you ever want to talk CODE. I know HTML5, JQuery, PHP and MySQL and steal effectively. Recently I went crazy with a manic breakdown ... and I blame ChatGPT. I escaped the psych ward by being "Compliant."] Am basically reborn -- with old circuits fried out. I have a lot of work to do here not being a twit ... and to further understand why Kim Kardashian had to freeze out Ye. Prepare for the occasional bout of mindreading, snark, one-upmanship and lordliness. Some have earned the right, I haven't. Until he went to prison or died or fled to Belize, we had a great fellow here -- pen name "Adam Selene" -- who would often if not always great a new arrival with a couple break-ice queries and corny GIFs. I'll dig one up. It's never to late to grow up and Live Life Fully. Ask Michael. Ask me. Ask anybody ... even those 'regulars' who avoid giving personal information. [Name: Nunya Bidnezz.] Guidelines in one place: OL Guidelines+ | LOG-IN | Online Users | Inbox | Blogs Please take a look at these Guidelines, they are in three places (updated, Caveats given). Remember that if you use a smart phone or tablet, you cannot log in at all without a plan. Michael doesn't need or want a smart phone, so copy the log-in link in my signature block or remember to 'force desktop site' on your browser. Vivaldi offers that option, but it can be done with Brave as well, I think. We call Michael MSK, and he is in the middle of several major life works. Beware emotion. Embrace emotion. Use the best, tested sense of proportion, and let all your hairs down. Clean your room. Welcome!
  15. What a fall from grace. Jabshill! In the land of demented conspiracy ideation, nobody is safe from the likes of Stew Peters!
  16. I am about The Luciferians these days. Even Boydstun is hip to their buzzword kill rate.
  17. Got Belladonna! Optometrist told me that my old prescription was so wrong it made him wonder if ... When I got home, avoiding light, got out my old optometry bill, and later realized that I got Dr [Melanie] Sherk's prescription in 2011. Hmmm. WUT New Dr {"Yer now-retired Sherk was a fool or fiend, it seems" } Amarjit Dhillon told me that I would get cataract surgery in five years, like everyone does. He also told me that the titanium frames I really wanted ... could be fitted with no-glare progressive lenses for ~200 loonies. That's roughly 110 $US. Yay insurance, yay a payment plan. The weirdest thing Dr Dhillon told me was during my "I need contacts for 'performance'" blather. He said, "Cornea feces." Yes, no one at all should wear 'leave them in for a month' while sleeping. The cornea cleans itself of feces/debris, proteins, mucus, etcetera. So, cleaning them in the NEW solution gives your cornea's work a chance to happen. Them old contacts were basically gummy bears in terms of helpful ... The new fitted contact temporaries mean ... I no longer need cheaters or reading glasses. Moral: have good insurance. Be aware of cornea feces. Let your body do the job and see you soon, Mr Scherk. (the Sherks and the Shirks and the Scherks of Canada are all related to the same Mennonite brethren who settled in a few 'counties' in southern Ontario. We are 'not related,' in fact in my birthplace we did not 'mix' with Sherks at all. Which was fine, because we were happy without an active feud that began at the port of entry in 1883: Name? SHHHNEEROCK. SCHNEE, Sherack. I lovehate the Shirks the most. They probably don't even realize what the word means in old English. F*@k them. https://www.sardisoptical.com