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The Degeneration of the Nation

What's Your Opinion on Rape?

How does the media manage to perpetually replicate the conflict and create the conflict with the Arabs? Only because the conflict activates those involved as a narrative

By: Shechem son of Hamor

The Rape of Europe  (Source)

I dreamed that I was asked what my opinion is on rape. And I ask: Is this a trick question? And now the voice is clearer, feminine: What's so difficult for you about stating your opinion on rape? And I say: I object to the question. And the feminine lips are now very close: You're not even willing to condemn rape! You can't even tell me that you're against rape? And I say: Why are you putting rape in my mouth? I object to this very framing of things. And the interviewer asks: Now I've caught you. Rape, an unambiguous thing, violence, and you object to calling it rape! Not only do you object to the word occupation, and aren't willing to talk about the occupation, you also object to the word rape. And I say:

I can't answer that, because we don't have the same assumptions. If you listen now for 5 minutes, without interrupting, I'll explain to you why I'm not willing to answer. Rape is just an expression of the fact that relations between men and women are becoming increasingly characterized by violence, and this is part of the trend of modern media to pit groups against each other: children against parents, right against left, secular against religious, poor against rich, Arabs against Jews. This is the deep structure of the media - conflict. And this is ultimately due to a narrative, literary mistake. After all, if you ask one of these people how to build a story, they will immediately tell you about the conflict, that it's at the center. But interest can be created in a completely different way, not through the uncertainty and tension of struggle, but through secrecy. Not the tension between two sides but between inside and outside. And the moment there's a culture that has forgotten the secret, it turns into a fistfight competition.

The role of the righteous is to inject secrecy into reality, and the role of the wicked is to flatten reality through violence, to turn the story into something simplistic, to tell a story that has only an external side, Facebook. And therefore, we must fight this through an internal book, through writing a new Zohar, but reversed, a book of darkness, and this is the great mission of culture. To descend from the world of hands of right and left, the world of blows and sides, to the world of foundation, of coupling, which is a world of inside and outside.

Rape is exactly the opposite of this - after all, what's the deep problem with rape? That it turns the inside out, and flattens (including the discussion itself), that it takes an inner desire and imposes it from the outside, and so it is with violence. Like your intellectual violence, which doesn't allow for depth (which is the sexual aspiration - the aspiration for secrecy), and therefore must be fought through the doctrine of secrecy. Just as Rome degenerated into gladiatorial combat, and then Christianity offered an alternative, and replaced external commandments with internal ones, and turned the external bloodletting of the flesh into internal bloodletting. So Judaism in our day needs to bring forth from within itself a new Christianity, a technological Christianity.

In the current technological state, where all technology is tools, meaning a matter of hands, his hand is in everything and everyone's hand is in him, those who flourish in all areas are the instigators, because that's the nature of the medium, so what a Jew needs to do is not to fight the instigators in the current medium, but to change the medium, "And they shall be for plunder, those who plunder you" [Isaiah 42:24]. Technological Christianity needs to replace the world of hands, which is both the world of practical commandments and the world of judgment and slaps, with the world of the cheek and love. And such Christianity can be grown from within Kabbalah just as the previous Christianity could be grown from within the Old Testament. To copy the entire world inward. To understand that the problem is not external terror but internal terror, within man. Not the rape that's against the will, from outside, but rape that's within the will, from inside, for example, your brainwashing.

The very concept of good and evil, the simplistic narrative notorious for infamy, is itself wickedness, right hand and left hand. While righteousness is the creation of inner life, namely secrecy, through the sexual act. In other words, conflict needs to be eliminated from an aesthetic, artistic perspective, just as Aristotle did to deus ex machina, and turned Greek literature secular, and as Moses did to the magicians and ridiculed them with the ten plagues, thereby turning a central literary genre of the ancient world, the literature of sorcery, into powerless and boring. That's how we need to aesthetically disqualify conflict as a narrative device, and denounce it as cheap and pathetic, as uninteresting.

After all, how does the media manage to endlessly replicate the conflict, and create the conflict with the Arabs? Only because the conflict activates those involved as a narrative, literarily, only this way does it manage to become the story of the peoples. If it had tried, for example, to sell a narrative of sorcery, it wouldn't have worked, because it's a dead genre, considered fantasy, while conflict is considered realism. For a thousand years, the Church drove the world through genres like preaching and threats, heaven and hell, and until they were artistically ridiculed, it completely worked, in a way that we can't even comprehend who would buy it. And that's only because our aesthetic taste has changed. That's how one day they won't understand who even bought into this conflict, and what is this nonsense that people were consuming this boring media that repeated itself endlessly in the same hollow narrative. Just as to us the mountains of pilpul [Talmudic dialectics] from the Middle Ages seem ridiculous, and once people killed each other over them, and that's because the genre of pilpul is dead and only walking dead professors are capable of reading it, and even they need to turn it into a contemporary narrative, of forces and conflicts, in order to read it. That's how the Bible turned the pagan literature around it into boring, repetitive, and won.

The moment something feels repetitive to you, it means you've exited the genre, that it no longer activates you. And therefore, our great hope is people who aren't interested in the conflict, and when these are all people, then the conflict will die. The hope for peace is that the conflict already feels boring to us, and the world is also getting bored with it, and the big problem is that the leftists, the rightists, and the terrorists are still working together to make it interesting. Every person who yawns at the occupation is a step towards peace and every person who is excited by the occupation is a step towards conflict. We need to sleep, to dream. Peace comes when war dies of boredom. It's no longer interesting for the Germans to make a third world war. They did it once, twice, they got the point. There's no German who's really curious about how another war would look. A couple stops fighting not when they find a solution, but when the fight already bores them.

Therefore, all past conflicts are explained on economic grounds, and all present conflicts are explained on essential grounds. People don't realize that the Egyptians didn't fight the Hittites for economic reasons, but essential ones. But since they are unable to understand the delusional essential reasons in their eyes, everything is reduced to power and economy and spheres of influence and taxes. Yeah, sure. They fought because of taxes. People stop fighting when they don't understand what they were fighting about in the first place. Like Germany and France. For a conflict to die, the story of the conflict needs to die. Not to reach a solution, but for the question to no longer be interesting. Even secular people who write books, when they open their mouths, immediately start talking about the Arabs, or about rape, or some conflict of this genre. Literature doesn't interest you, only Arabs and rape, and that's really the whole matter.

Nightlife


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The Degeneration of the Nation

The Dream of Escaping the Nazis

A recurring dream throughout life eventually becomes a branching dream, where each time you return from the ending backwards, trying a different way to escape the conclusion. The final dream of Black Circle, in which he bids farewell to the world of writing, but also marks a new literary possibility. And as in his last book, here too it seems the depth-first search algorithm is the deepest way to delve into the tree of possibilities - in an endless farewell

By: Recurring Circle in the World

Back to Knowledge: The Tree as the Prose Structure to Replace the Book, Possibility to Replace Linearity, and the Beginning to Replace the Ending (Source)

I dreamed that I'm in bed at night and they're knocking on the door.And the woman beside me clutches me in fear, and I'm gripped entirely by fear because since when do I have a woman in my bed.And I don't know what to do because I'm asleep and can't move.
And I realize I'm probably not in my own bed.And the woman acts as if she knows me, not to mention being my wife, and she cries the child is crying you must strangle him so he doesn't give us all away I can't do it.
And who knows if the Germans didn't come to look for someone else at all and found me. And I run outside and grab the child who isn't mine, and somehow I'm on the street (where did the Germans disappear to), and I run and run between the houses to save at least this Jewish child from the Holocaust, and then I see the mother behind me running screaming: stop him, Germans, he stole my child!And I flee for dear life, before the sirens arrive. Idiot!And I call to her: my love, it's me, it's me!
But now the child has woken up from his mother's screams and starts crying, and I don't know what to do, how to take care of a child (and I realize I don't even know that I should call him a baby and not a child), how to change his diaper. And I go next to a garbage can, full of cats, and try to find in the trash some used diaper I can put on the child (sorry, baby) who's completely soiling me, we must calm him down before the Germans hear in the middle of the night, because there's absolute silence in the world, and you can hear every peep. And I try to open the frog lid of the can quietly so they won't hear, but it creaks like a saw, and the German says in their grating German voice: What are you looking for in the trash? And I say: The mother. And he says: Mother? And I say: There's a child here whose mother abandoned him in the trash. And he says: What, I thought it was a cat meowing, show him to me, you're lying. And I show him the cute baby, and he softens and says (still trying to maintain toughness): He needs a diaper change. And I already understand what's going to happen,and say: No, no. I just changed him.And wet myself in my pants.
And he says: Don't you smell it? And I sniff: It's the smell of the trash. And he snickers: It's obvious you don't know how to take care of children, and that you've never had children (and I stay silent because I don't want to tell him about the child I had), and he takes the child, removes the diaper skillfully, careful that the child doesn't pee on him, and suddenly he shouts: Jew! And he doesn't know what to do, and feels very ridiculous, so he takes the weapon, cocks it, and his wife says from the window: Tell them to shut up there, I can't sleep. And he says: In a moment I'll take care of the nuisance sweetie, like I kill a cockroach for you. And she only hears cockroach and looks at her hero (holding the neckline that fell on her nightgown, with full breasts, I managed to notice even in such a situation), and she sees the baby and shrieks: Are you crazy? And he says: Jew. He's missing the... And she's shocked: Are you insane? Would you shoot a cat? Do I even know you? And he stammers: No, not a cat. A mouse. But already understands that he won't shoot. And she asks him: Oh, where did you steal this sweetie from? And he says: His mother abandoned him in the trash. He's one of the Hebrew children (he quotes to her from the Old Testament this German! Learned something in their Nazi church). They probably came to catch her and she thought he'd be safer crying in the garbage bin. And maybe he'll be saved this way - sobbing in the trash. And she says to him: Bring him home immediately, and the soldier hesitates, afraid, but obeys (apparently he knows who the supreme commander is). And he takes the child in his strong hands and comes to go up, and only then remembers my existence at all, trying to hide in the shadow of the trash can - and be forgotten. And he says: You! You're not by any chance the child's father?... And I: Sir? And he: Ah, father of the year, huh? You abandoned the child. And I say: What are you talking about, I've never been a father, and never ever had a child. And he asks: So what are you doing here, you understand this looks completely not coincidental, this whole story with the child? And I say: Just a beggar looking for treasures in the garbage, and found you this treasure. Isn't he sweet, the sweetie? And he says: Please take off your pants, and you, my wife, cover your eyes. And she closes the window and I take off and he sees and he shoots. And he throws the body in the trash and says to her: So who's the daddy now?

And the German asks: Do you need a diaper change too? Come, please take off your pants, I want to check something. And I leave the child behind, and leap into the darkness of the trash cans. And the German after me. And I deliberately run through the dirtiest and smelliest places, so that even if he catches me in the end, at least he won't enjoy the journey. And every time I see a cat I grab it by the tail and throw it behind me in the dark and hear yowls and screams and scratches and curses in German, and so we run inside some dump at the end of the world, where they threw everything left from the world, and therefore it's actually quite similar to the world, only everything is garbage. There's everything here like inside a house, books and closets and armchairs and lamps and windows and doors and even whole walls, as if the whole city was bombed while I was hiding in the house and only the house survived, which is why the Germans knocked on my door. And scattered are also countless new children's clothes and toys and games and whole packages of diapers and cribs, among the ruins, that mothers threw away of children and babies who probably already died in the bombing, and they couldn't bear to see them anymore, and threw them out of the house, and occasionally in the dark you hear more babies whose mother threw them in the trash, or the mother died, and they were left in the ruins. And each time I pick up some toy and throw it back towards the presumed direction of the German, thus delaying him but the noise also marks the path for him in the dark, because I have a vague feeling that I know where I'm going, where all this needs to go. And I also have a constant feeling that I need to pee. But if I stop now to pee he'll surely catch me. And all the time instead of thinking about the escape I think maybe here to pee for one second, or maybe behind that pile over there, or even further I could for a moment where they won't see me, and so I progress and run faster and faster from needing the bathroom so badly. And eventually we go and ascend, maybe to some mountain, and the dump that was wide from horizon to horizon is becoming narrower, and I already understand that I've trapped myself in some kind of trap, but that's where it needs to go. And finally I reach some narrow peak, narrow as can be, that maybe continues from it another very narrow bridge, but my legs can no longer find it, only feel an abyss, and here you need to be very careful in the dark. And I already hear the German panting and gasping behind me, it's really high and I feel a bit sorry for him, because fine I'm fleeing for my life here, but what the hell is he doing at the top of the slope, where did the ambitions come from. But his breaths are very close, in the dark he could be less than a meter away, and I'll barely recognize him. And then I recognize the shiny black metal, the gun in the dark, and guess he's behind it, meaning right behind me, here, and I turn to him completely because I have nowhere to run, and wait for the final line he surely prepared along the whole way. But the German only commands: Please take off your pants! And I tremble, take off my pants from the top of the peak, right at eye level with him - and pee into his face. And he sees and shoots, and I see darkness.

And hands her the child and she's completely confused, for a moment not sure it's her child, checking. And there's a scratch on the child. And she asks: What did you do? And I say: Sweetie, please, not in front of people. And she blushes: How did you hold him? And I say: Not on the street, this isn't the time or place. And she panics: What happened to him, it's not the same child, something happened to him. And I say: Please, the neighbors, the Germans! And she's agitated: I can see on his face that you did something to him, he's in shock from you. And I say: If we don't run away now they'll catch both of us. And she says: You're not moving from here, or I'll start screaming to all the neighbors. Explain to me right now what you did to him. As if you switched him with another child. And I say: What are you talking about another child, don't you recognize our child? The fruit of our love? And she looks at me, examines me, and starts crying. What does this crazy woman want from me? Why did I marry her of all people, and not someone else on the street? And I plead: The Germans will hear! And she's like a child: Let them hear, I don't care. Only the Germans Germans interest you. So let the Germans come. You never care. And I already answer like an automaton: Never? And she sobs so that the whole street echoes, and I already see the lights turning on behind the shutters: You never care about me! I know you want me to be quiet only because of the Germans. And I don't know how to answer these accusations, there's no way out of this.So I say: At least think about the child. What sin did the child commit?So I say: You're just like the Germans.
And she says: Enough, let the Germans come, let them take us and then they'll say we died in the Holocaust, and not that I had to divorce someone like this, and no one will ever know - that you were like this. They'll kill us all anyway, so what's the point, but if you at least loved me. How everyone will think how they took this beautiful loving happy family - and only I will know and keep in my heart the truth. And I mock: The truth about what, come tell me, Mrs. Truth? And she says: That you never truly loved me. Even in the Holocaust you didn't love, even facing death - I wasn't loved. That there the ugliest girls are loved, they're given a good feeling, even pitied, and you can't even look me in the eyes a moment before the end and tell me once that you love me. Here, now any moment, any moment, the Germans will arrive, are you capable? And I tell her: You lunatic, it's really hard for me here in this situation, in the middle of the street, in the middle of the Holocaust (!), to create a romantic moment. But it's not because I have a heart of stone. It's because my heart closed because of all the blows, and then if someone knocks on the door, I feel it's the Germans. Do you understand? Do you understand a word of truth? Because I - and soon this is coming too - am a dead man. And she says sadly: Yes. And we finally both stay silent, waiting quietly, when we hear from afar the German soldiers finally catching up to us in the maze of streets, shouting there they are, and shooting us.

Chasing, chasing, and there's no way out of it, all the paths close in on you, and you close in on yourself too, and now you're closing in on me too. And the Germans really are coming, and each of us runs in a different direction, for one last moment I look at her, running with the child in hand, and decide it's better to split up, and know this is the last look we'll exchange between us, and I see something there in her eyes, and maybe she sees in my eyes too, but I don't know what it is, and we're already disappearing from each other. And I make cock-a-doodle-doo sounds to draw the Germans to me, in a final chivalrous gesture, that she'll never hear, and maybe they won't either, because I'm still running like a madman, and somehow, without noticing, I realize these are no longer streets, I didn't notice how I entered, but here these streets have a ceiling, and the houses are attached to each other without interruption and occasionally there's a door and never windows, and no matter where I turn, I realize I'm running inside corridors, and this place is very similar to a yeshiva [Jewish religious school], only there are no students, everyone went home, left me here, and I try to run to the dining room so that at least I can stock up on food, if I reach the snow forests and the partisans, but it seems to me that to get from the yeshiva to the snow you need to take a plane, and I realize it's better for me to hide here among the books, and what luck that no one is here, because they probably took everyone and I was left last and locked inside and no one will search here, and even if someone does get curious, some German researcher of Jewish studies who will search for Jewish literature, then maybe I should just enter and live in the deepest secrets inside some big pile of books that no one reads in the library, and also choose for myself some interesting and enigmatic books that will pass the time of the Holocaust for me and I won't be tempted to go outside, not even out of curiosity, to see what happened. And so I'll stay - until the danger is over. But I know my plan depends on one thing - supplies, and hunger continues to bother me in my stomach, and I sniff the air and start to smell the constant smoke from the kitchen, the eternal fire of the cook, because if there's no bread there's no Torah [Jewish teaching], and I realize I'm lucky, that there's probably some food left on the stove, and maybe the cholent [traditional Jewish stew] got a bit burned because no one ate it, but in one such pot there are calories for months. And as I progress in the corridors I realize how abandoned the place is and books are thrown everywhere on the floor, and I pick up one Bible to kiss it so there won't be a holy book on the floor, but realize that this way I won't advance a meter with all the books that flew here in panic, and start running and even stepping on the books indiscriminately towards the smoke from the kitchen, that I need to turn off the gas, so there won't be a fire, with all the books here it's many times more dangerous, and I open the door of the kitchen and there's thick smoke and I barely advance to the source of the flames in the dark, and then I touch and see it's a cabinet, the Ark, that I'm not in the kitchen near the stove but near the podium in the middle of the synagogue, which is all going up in flames, that are now spreading like fire, and enveloping me like a white and glowing prayer shawl, and I understand why everyone ran home and the yeshiva is abandoned, it's the date - Kristallnacht [Night of Broken Glass].

And I don't know what child she's talking about, could it be that I have a child and I don't remember? I forgot my own child?And I get up to search for the source of the crying in the dark.
But she's crying hysterically strangle him strangle him and I don't know what to do so I strangle her and the knocking on the door gets weaker and weaker, only more rarely is there some knock, and finally one last very polite knock, and it seems that afterwards they left. And I must escape now, this is precisely the time, because it's clear to me that they'll return with reinforcements, because I don't think the Germans are like a lovesick suitor who knocks on the door and she doesn't open and he returns disappointed. They don't know what no is, and what a door is. Therefore precisely now I must open the door - and charge outside and disappear into the world. And I open the door, and the policemen are standing there waiting, what are these shouts, did you fight with your wife? The neighbors heard something...And I say: Neighbors always hear something, they're neighbors.And I take advantage of the momentum and roll down the stairs with them, as if I couldn't stop myself.
And they say: And what does your wife say, can we hear what she says. And I say: No, you can't hear. Because she's not home anymore. And they say: So what did the neighbors hear? And I say: It's nothing, just the Germans were here, thought there were Jews here and left. And they say: Can we come in for tea? We'll wait for your wife to return. And I say: No problem for you to wait in the living room, she'll be back soon, but I - must go out. And they say: Why are you in such a hurry. And I say: I'm... to the Germans. I have an unpleasant business. You know. How it is with Germans. And the policemen are interested: How is it with Germans? And I say: Well, they - are a people that doesn't understand what "well" is. Like we don't understand what "no" is, you understand? So for them - well. And the policemen laugh: Well, then sit with us a bit in the living room and tell us. No? And I say: No, there's nothing to tell, read a book, and you'll understand what Germans are. A people that always goes by the book. That's why they're looking for the people of the book. They love, like in a book, straight lines, progressing in order, numbered pages, whoever really internalized what a book is - understands what Germans are. They really love to read, the last ones who read literature! And the policemen say: It seems to us that you're distracting us from the topic. And I say: What's the topic? And the policemen smile: As always in life. Women. And I say: You got me this time, but please, I'm embarrassed, don't press there. And they don't understand, because how can one really understand such a thing, and I whisper: My wife was involved with some German, and I don't know what to do. And the policemen exchange glances, it seems they pity me, and curse the Germans in their hearts. And then I smile sadly: What do you say, murder her, or murder him? What to do. And one of the two policemen, the fat one, who was already on my side for a while, says: I would murder both of them - and then commit suicide. And the thin suspicious one next to him says to him: You would commit suicide - and then murder both of them. I think the Germans would actually shoot ten people on the street - if someone murders a German, and it doesn't matter to them if it's for romantic reasons and not nationalistic reasons. You understand? And I say: I understand, I'll murder her after the war. If I don't die first. And they ask: Why would you die, are you Jewish? And I laugh: What are you talking about Jewish, but I take things to heart, and don't sleep at night. And here I yawn, and the policemen also understand that it's already late and the woman won't return, maybe she's actually with the German, and they suddenly hurry to go down because they hear boots coming up, maybe the German is coming up with the woman, and indeed the German is coming up, but without a woman. And they look down from the stairs how he comes up angrily, when he notices me, and says: Ah, you, it's you. Why are the last ones always at the end? Do you think you're better? And I say: You're better, sir. And he asks: I don't believe it, you live here? And I say: I do. And he says: You - her man? The one she talks about? And I say: What are you talking about me, only you. And the offended German, whose love was unrequited, says to me: Then you explain to me, reveal to me why you're better. Why does she prefer you in bed? Just because of the circumcision? And I say: Yes, it's not important the muscles and the blond, but to do what they want. And as much as they want. I simply hold out inside. And he shoots me in the face. And the neighbors scream, and the child in the house wakes up and starts crying.

And I continue to run in the streets to where I used to live, before the Holocaust, when I was a child, there I know all the alleys best and there I have an advantage over all the adults, the policemen and the Germans. And I hear the patrol cars behind me, getting farther and farther away, and I run in the streets and can't find my old house, on every street corner stands a German, looking at me from under his helmet, why am I panting and why am I gasping and why am I breathing, and I start whistling to myself, or humming, or just looking for something in my pockets, and the German asks what do you have in your pockets, so bulging, empty them! A weapon? And I'm a bit embarrassed by what I have, showing him countless crumbling papers full of mucus, from a used handkerchief, and as if to apologize I blow my nose, and pull with a loud trumpet the Jewish nose, and he continues to raise the German nose. And like mucus that the handkerchief no longer accepts and drips between the fingers, whatever I do I can't get out of it, escape, a strange combination of hide and seek and tag, only you're the one standing. And I run quickly quickly to another street and there's a policeman there, and turn to another alley and there's a guard there, and turn to another entrance and there's another soldier there, and turn again to escape, return to the same place - and arrive at some place, and discover that there is the house - of the old girl I loved. Because they changed all the streets, but somehow the houses remained in place. And then I try to calculate the way between my house and her house, which I would know with my eyes closed, and I think that if I actually look it will confuse me, among all the new things, and if I actually advance with closed eyelids then I'll know out of instinct, from within, where it is, my legs lead me alone, on the old path that no one walks anymore in the neighborhood, and so I also don't see the Germans, and don't arouse suspicion with my fear, and I walk home, what's simpler than walking home? (I remember the time when I got lost, and couldn't find the house, and knocked on the door on the same floor in the same corridor in the same place in an identical building, and people who are not my parents opened for me - and I burst into tears). And I trust myself (I was always low in self-confidence, despite that being what girls like, including little girls), and I walk walk, at first slowly and like a blind man, and later when I see that I know the way quickly without stopping, without thinking, because that's when I'll get confused, but simply need to continue and then it will continue on its own, by itself, and I walk walk walk walk walk walk walk walk walk walk - and crash fall into the pit. And die in the Holocaust.

And I find my uncle who died in the Holocaust and tell him stop crying like a baby. And he says I'm scared, and I say you have nothing to be afraid of, your fate has already been sealed, you died, at least let me live, bequeath me life and be quiet. And this uncle, who they always told me what an angel he was, turns out to be a nagging uncle: promise me you'll get married, because you're already getting old so when will you get married, and name the child after me, so there will be a child in the world through whom my soul will continue, somehow, so they won't forget the uncle from the Holocaust. And I say: don't worry they're always talking about you, how you were a Don Juan uncle and all the girls died for you, and that's how you survived the whole Holocaust - in bed. My grandmother always told with hidden pride (because supposedly it was told with a bit of shame, embarrassment, with a smile) how you jumped from bed to bed and passed the Holocaust easily, until one bitch who loved you turned you in as revenge. And he says: Me? And I say: Yes, it's such a good story don't ruin it for me now, although I always suspected it was too good to be true, so I don't want to know. And he says: You don't want to? And I say: No, I grew up on you, the truth isn't important, don't destroy it. And he says: I didn't die like that at all. And I say as if I know: I know, I know. But for the children, for future generations. And he gets angry: Future? I died like a dog! Not like a lover. And I say: Right, you were righteous. Here I see you have a kippah. You died sanctifying God's name. And he shouts: Sanctifying God's name? I died - like a dog!! And I beg: Right, dog dog, good dog, so the Germans won't hear you, enough, stop barking. And he howls: Dog, son of a dog! And I pat his head: Right, grandma told lies, I knew she was lying to cover up something worse. You should know that no one believed it. It sounded like a story. Not real. And he says: The Germans put a collar and leash on me. And I say: What? And he says: What you hear, all those days they were walking the Jew in the street. And they would tell me pee here, pee there. You don't believe? He raises his voice. And I try to whisper to him: Of course I believe. And he says: I see you don't believe me. Just like you didn't believe grandma. Your grandma! And I say: No, I believe you because it's a bad story. And he says: Liar! A family of liars, you and grandma and your grandma's stories. And I get angry: And you, aren't you part of the family? And my uncle gets up and grabs me by the collar: Because of you, because of you they caught me. And I say: Me? I wasn't even there. I don't remember anything like that. And he says: Yes you, because of you, you cried, you drove me crazy! In front of the whole city in the streets, the Jewish dog, and you were already lying dead, and they fed me bones all day, Jewish bones of course. You carcass, I ate you! And I look at this madman, who bares his teeth at me. So this is what grandma was hiding! He shouts shell-shocked. And the Germans burst through the door, shoot me - and take him.

On one hand I can't escape - and on the other hand I can't open, and I don't know if this fragile balance is enough, and whether sleeping is actually what will save me.But it seems the door is about to break inward, and out of that same balance also the door on the other side, the door of the dream is about to break outward.Because we've never heard of someone who evaded the Holocaust because he went to sleep.
And so I'll reach what's behind the brain, behind the dream, the place that's really behind me, that no matter how quickly I turn my head, unexpectedly, it will predictably turn behind me and always be one step ahead to be behind. And I try to move my head that's probably stuck in the soft pillow that envelops me - and wake up, between two warm lumps of fat, and am startled to discover my head is between a woman's breasts! I have a naked woman in bed, how can it be, and I look up and see it's my ex-wife, who says I'm dying of fear and I say what are you doing here after everything that happened and she says now in the Holocaust it's the moment of truth, where would I be if not with you, and I say are you sure you're okay, my wife wouldn't talk like that, and she says now in the Holocaust I'm more okay than before, it brings this out of people, come I want to feel you like before, one last time. And I lift my head from her breasts that are suffocating me inside them, and think anyway we'll all die, why shouldn't the Germans at the door catch me at least in the middle of closing a circle in a passionate intercourse, let them kill me with style, naked between warm breasts and not in a cold and alienated gas chamber, death sanctifying the bed, and she says what's happening to you there, I've changed and it seems you haven't changed, and I say it's funny you say that because that's exactly the sentence you would say then, and she says you always have a talent for missing the moment, and the moment is the moment - the last one.And I say: Well, and you always make drama as if there are spectators to the show, even when it's just the two of us in bed you imagine the audience and want them to applaud you, love you and be on your side, but if it was just the two of us here we would make love all night long like on the first night, don't you understand?And I feel the moment has already been missed, that in fact we're after the last moment, and I say: It's already late.
And she looks at me, almost watching me, and I'm shocked: Don't you remember? And so each of us enters almost against his will into the two familiar roles and we start exchanging jabs and then really fighting about how I'm ruining the last night of our lives and how even now she's blaming a moment before what do you care accept me once as I am because anyway there's no point in fixing and there are no improvements this is me me me, and the Germans stand at the door amazed at the couple beating each other naked in bed and they shoot her in the heart between her breasts and I shout to her quickly I loved you idiot but she doesn't hear anymore and they shoot me in the mouth and finally there's silence.

And she sends her hand and grabs me by the testicles with all her might, I want to scream but know that screaming is death, because of the Germans, and also know that she knows and I feel like screaming anyway but know that she knows that I know I won't scream, and will submit to her as always in bed. And she whispers will you do what I want? And I say yes, yes. And she only tightens her grip and says everything I want, always even outside the bed? And I nod, but don't understand what she wants, anyway any moment they'll break down the door, maybe she wants one last pleasure for herself, or one last pain for me? Or is she simply recreating the sex from then, without any connection to reality? And she doesn't completely let go, just releases there and caresses, and some sharp pleasure is released that's hard to distinguish from relief from the pain, and she takes her huge strong thighs, passes one leg to the other side of my body, but doesn't sit where I wanted, but on my chest, and I can barely breathe, from the weight, and feel how my thin ribs are crushed under the enormous buttocks, and my heart under her ass - beats strongly. And she says: Why did we divorce? And I say: I don't know, you never explained to me why. And she asks with some anger, or intensity: W-h-y-d-i-d-w-e-d-i-v-o-r-c-e? And I understand that she expects me to know something, to extract some truth, maybe the truth of my life or her life, or at least of our lives, but it's not clear to me what she means, what she wants to hear, and I say: I never knew, everything was things your lawyer said, that we both know were lies. And she laughs: Everything was a lie? And I don't have time to answer, and she rises from me, changes sitting position, but not backwards, how she would ride me like a mare, but on my face. And my testicles are almost torn off and I curl up like a circle, but understand what she wants and what I'm supposed to do now, like every morning when she felt like starting the day with screams, and I think I can bite her there until she bleeds, but then she'll tear me off, and decide to submit one last time like then, when she would caress me down there (and it's clear to me that this is what will happen), and so we'll end our lives in a circle of pleasure instead of a circle of violence. And I lick like a dog, and she caresses my tail like a bitch, and already her sweet little barks begin, and I think oh no any moment the SS dogs enter and will see me in such a perverted and humiliating intercourse and that's how I'll end my life. But suddenly the excitement in me grows, as my organ is held tightly between her skilled hands, and my head is held tightly between her muscular legs (because after all carrying such weight is not easy), and I start maybe feeling that this image is actually very arousing, and also very fitting, as a kind of summary of the most important relationship in my life (and the worst of them, but despite wanting to I can't deny its formative importance), and as a kind of ultimate and especially exciting humiliation. And since my face is buried and my eyes are closed and I'm not breathing there - I don't see anything under her, but the gun above me shoots me in the head, and I'll never know if it's the Germans who are already inside, or my ex-wife a moment before them.

But actually, precisely because the Holocaust requires originality, to evade in a way they didn't even think of, maybe this will be the salvation this time. And then I'll also have a story to tell the grandchildren, like before bedtime. Grandpa simply slept through the whole Holocaust, I went to sleep when the Holocaust started, and then I woke up one morning - and the Holocaust was already over. And I have no idea (and also can't have) how I was saved, I can only tell what I dreamed - but it's a fact. The fact is that I'm here, and talking to you, and that I have grandchildren. And everyone who was awake - died. And how can that be?Maybe precisely out of sleep I can manage to walk through the window, which I would never succeed in wakefulness.And it's clear to me that the Germans will lift the blanket, but I think if there's a way they'll lift me together with the blanket, and then they won't find anything underneath it.
And I stand sleepwalking on the window sill, and maybe it's the dream sill, in this absolute darkness, but if it wasn't dark I would die of fear, but now that the Germans are coming it's time to dare what I wouldn't dare in life.And I try to feel outside in the dark, and there's some hole there, and I insert and feel maybe I'll find something there that will help, but oh it's the drainpipe, and my hand gets stuck inside it.
Try to jump to the building opposite? After all, how is it possible that precisely when there's nothing more to lose, then miracles happen? Because the daring one wins, that's how it always is in special operations. But then I look into the darkness down down and down and it seems to me that it's even much deeper and blacker than I remembered, and I'm suddenly not really sure how many floors there are in the building I live in. And then it seems to me that I remember, that I heard something the neighbors were gossiping about, sometime when I went up the stairs, that they added a few more floors, and a few more neighbors, and it's already become very dangerous. And I think that it's enough if I reach the window next door, in my building, and I'll enter them and be in another house, of the Gentile neighbor. She's the best, you can see it on her (although I don't really know her). And I try to walk on some very very narrow railing, the balance delicate to no end, slowly slowly with the body stuck to the bricks heel to toe without sudden movements to take all the time in the world it's not worth the risk, really clinging like a snail to the building and feeling how much the hard skeleton of the building is actually trying to push me down with Newton's opposing force, and I can't remember that law of nature, why didn't I listen in physics, and hope I'm not making a mistake but hug the wall as if trying to merge into it, caressing the brick grooves, almost tasting the stone from how much my lips are pressed against it, and the taste of chalk touches me, as if I had licked all the words on the board in class to erase everything, and finally I hear from the window next door sounds that can't be mistaken. And a wild sex scene is revealed before me, suddenly in the middle of the Holocaust, real porn, voyeuristic, not fake, now finally we'll be able to know how others really do it, and not as a show for others, first time in life. A person doesn't really know his neighbors, until he flees from the Nazis. And since I can't enter as long as they're awake, even in the smallest hours (that's what they're doing!), then I must stay stuck to the window in the dark - seeing and unseen - even against my will, and therefore it's really okay. It's even my moral duty to stay there to survive, and closed eyes are a privilege that I in my situation can't afford, so here - even without guilt feelings. It's allowed, allowed! Pornography that is saving a life. And I see the naked shiksa woman going crazy there with pleasure in the middle of the Holocaust, the heavy breasts flying in all directions in a hypnotic dance, as if signaling something to me that I can't decipher, secretly spelling out to me a language of round pink letters dotted red with nipples that are actually light and airy until they're almost flying and it's hard to follow, after this tongue that wasn't meant for me, and that I'll never know and never understand, although I want so much, as if my life depends on it. And he tries to close her mouth so they won't hear, but I who am so close gulp down the wonderful sounds, and my organ starts to harden uncontrollably, in a kind of wild leap precisely because it's so unexpected and unpredictable, that this is how the matter will end, and it bursts out of me with enormous life force and it hurts and also feels good and it stands up like a soldier in a night alert and pushes me more and more from the window backwards and I lose the fragile balance - and fall and die in the Holocaust.

And it doesn't come out. And I say it's a shame about the hand but even more of a shame about the body, better to lose a hand, and I jump through the window. And the drainpipe stuck begins to detach to collapse from the wall with terrible groans that the Nazis surely hear, and I can't help myself even though it's not logical and I tell it shh, shh, maybe they'll think it's the neighbors, and indeed the female neighbors also shout shh, shh, who's waking up in the middle of the night, and the drainpipe and I complete half a turn, and hop I fly again through the window, underneath, but this time back into the building, and land a soft landing into the bed of the fat daughter of the neighbors who's bigger than me, who I always look at on the stairs and she's sure I'm looking at her and gives me eyes because I'm the only one who looks at her even though I would never dare to do anything for fear of being seen with such a whale and not knowing where to bury myself, and in short there's unresolved tension between us that I'm not even sure is mutual, and now there's also a drainpipe between us. And she immediately understands (she's not stupid), you're the Jew from upstairs, right? And to my surprise instead of screaming she actually wants to hide me (!), willing to risk herself for me, oh she's such a righteous gentile and sweet now that I've gotten to know her I feel all grateful and full of warm feelings of affection for her, even though the only thing is that she hugs me with her fat, or at least I'm lying in it (it's so soft it's hard to know), because it turns out the lady sleeps naked in the summer, it must be hot for her at night, or at least I can't find the clothing between all the folds - of fat. And she looks me in the eyes no need to say a word she understands and puts her hand on my mouth: shh, the Germans upstairs. And she gets up and closes the window and locks the door of her room with a key because her parents are home and I'm protected and she says (she apparently knows what to do): I forbid you to leave, and from now on do everything I say, understand? And I nod gratefully and understand that I'm completely dependent on her, and try to think what's attractive about her because it's clear to me that now I can't be picky and any affection I arouse in her will work in my favor and the more genuine it is on my part the better it will work to save me and actually I can already really feel the attraction, and I lie down next to her and cover myself and she says: Don't be afraid, no one will enter.And I say: How funny that it happened like this, I used to dream about this at night.And I say thank you ma'am, is it okay if I call you by your first name?
And she opens her eyes: Really? And it seems to excite her very much that someone dreams about her at night, and she asks what would happen in the dreams, and I say I'm embarrassed, and she says it will remain a secret between us, and I say that it's a secret even from myself, but in my eyes there's nothing more beautiful, you should know that you're like a Venus figurine, you're Venus - of Willendorf. And she says what, what's a figurine, where did you say? And I say that once they knew, the ancients, it's the natural taste of man, and everything today is just brainwashing, but there's nothing more beautiful, more attractive (and in my head I complete: than the neighbors' daughter). And she's very close in bed and very warm under the blanket where we're hiding and burning and whispering without movement, and she gently touches my drainpipe and asks: What do you mean, what's more attractive than what? And I whisper to her in her thick earlobe (it's hard to find the hole, and in the dark too), behind the chins: Than full women. And she's shocked, doesn't believe it, screams: What, what? Get out of my room you insolent boy, now out the window! And don't forget to return your pathetic drainpipe to the wall. And I beg on my knees: What? What? What did I say. And she screams in the middle of the night, that the neighbor came in through her window in the middle of the dream, and the Germans on the stairs hear and break down the door, and they look at her naked and she says: This Jew defiled my honor, an innocent girl like me (what girl? You're older than me, and no one married you!). And the German doesn't know what he's expected to do in the situation, he's a bit embarrassed by the spilling fat versus my emaciated thinness, it really looks like an unnatural coupling (or do opposites attract?), and he tries to remember what the orders say in such a case, maybe they said when he wasn't listening, and in the end he feels a bit awkwardly ridiculous, but that actually shoots a spark of childish mischief in him, and so he smiles at me - and shoots me in my disappointed testicles. And I don't see anything with my eyes from all the pain, just darkness, and therefore don't even know that he shot me between the eyes afterwards, and think that I'm dying from the pain in my balls, and that this is a very original way to die in the Holocaust, even though my death is completely banal.

And she smiles: No, ma'am is fine. Don't get confused. I know we're in a confusing situation. And I say: I really am confused, ma'am. And she says matter-of-factly: So no. Now you will grow up inside my room, without leaving here, until the end of the war. My parents almost never enter my private room, and you will hide when I'm not here - inside the mattress. And when I'm in the room, I'll bring you food. My parents are used to me eating in the room, and believe me no one will notice that I'm eating more, and maybe it will even be a good diet for me to feed another mouth. And that's how you'll survive the war. And only at its end will you leave through the door - after entering through the window. And I'm amazed by her practicality and sacrifice, and don't know how to thank her. And she says: You'll thank me later. And I say: I'll do anything! And she laughs: Anything? And I say, sincerely, giving myself completely to my savior, by whose grace I will survive: Anything anything. And she thinks about everything: I'll bring you a sandbox, where you can relieve yourself, and occasionally I'll put another bag of sand under my dress, or take out a bag that you'll collect from the sand, that way you can live in the house like a big house cat. And I meow: Meow, ma'am. And she's pleased, but warns: You won't be a naughty cat, but a trained one, because I need to undress and dress in the room, and also do all the things a woman does. So you'll focus on your milk bowl, which I'll bring you now that they're asleep, from what's left from dinner. And she winks: You like to lick, right? Every aging spinster needs one like that, I always wanted a cat - I didn't hope to get such a big one! - but my parents didn't allow (you'll still get to know my mother, and hear how she bosses my father around, so be prepared for shouting). And I tremble with excitement, what a night, in which all my life has turned upside down and I've turned from a Jew to a cat, and from a walking dead to an animal. And she feels the trembling in the bed and hugs me tight: Oh, you're so cold, you can stop shaking, don't worry it'll be okay, I'll take care of you like a sister, like your daughter, like your mother. We'll hug together even in the harsh winter and we won't be cold at night. And I feel how I'm melting in her warm arms, and don't understand how such a creature can be cold at all, and try to really grasp what kind of creature this is (it's difficult because she's twice my size), because if you look at her face, without the chins and what's below, in this dim lighting, she's really still a young girl, who it's not clear why she never married. And I fill with pity towards my surprising savior, suddenly understanding that it's actually she who understands what pity is, and that if I had fallen into the window of a desirable girl - I would have ended up with the Germans. And I hug her tight (she has already arranged the nightgown over her breasts, but at this size it's impossible not to feel them), and say emotionally: I don't know what to say, you're wonderful, really! And she says: I always wanted a little brother, or a child to care for, but I didn't have one, so maybe this is my opportunity. You know I'm a nurse by profession, right? And I call her my sister, and feel that a bond has formed between us that cannot be broken, and that she will really take care of me, after all she saves lives. And she hugs and says: You're so small, don't be afraid, I like them small. And then the disaster happens, I'm very close to her and there's no way to hide it, because the small one wakes up, starts to harden, and her own gaze starts to harden, and I don't know if she understands, but it has a mind of its own, leaping with some independent will to live, growing and swelling like a new bone added to my body, and she suddenly realizes, and pushes me, bursting into screams in the middle of the night: Yuck, you disgusting one! Is that what you think? Men! Shame on you, even this situation you're trying to take advantage of? That I was willing to save you? Were you also going to rape me here in the room in the end? Figure it out yourself, she says and looks at herself and at me, horrified by the partial nudity, by the fact that she touched me, by the trust she gave me, how easily she can be taken advantage of (she knows), and commands in freezing cold: Vile cat, jump out the window like you came in, your place is in the street. And I hear that her parents are already coming to knock, and I'm ashamed of myself in front of her and them, even though I don't know them, even more than I fear the Germans, who will surely come after them, and understand that there's only one last way to save her honor, and to return kindness and grace and mercy to someone who maybe doesn't entirely deserve it, but intention also matters, and for one moment she really was a mother and sister to me, and this way I'll also restore honor in her eyes. After all, I know, I'm already lost myself, the end has already been determined and only the way matters, so why not at least behave chivalrously, like a man, and end it beautifully. And I march like a German soldier - out the window.

Because to search under the bed they'll surely search, that's classic Jew hiding under the bed. They'll also search inside the pillow, and they'll stab and stab the mattress and search if blood starts to stain the bed, and all this time I'll be inside the blanket. When the German arrives I'll give a kick with my leg just as he starts to lift the blanket in anger, and that way I'll fly together with it and he won't feel that it's heavy for him, and all the time they'll search for me in the bed I'll be crumpled on the side inside the blanket, and maybe I'll even continue to sleep, because otherwise I'll start shaking from so much fear, and the German's dog will start to sniff, and he'll put his wet nose inside, which will tickle me with his mustache...No, I must wake up.I must not laugh while sleeping, because who knows if I'm not now under the blanket there dreaming this, and that's why I'm dreaming such a dream with tickles, because the dog is really interested in me.
Must must must tell myself to wake up!At least try.
Because out of sleep I'm capable of making sounds and movements without control, and they'll notice, and I try to wake up and can't succeed, whatever I do, the dream continues, and I try to think what a terrible danger this is, that I continue to sleep, that the body will wake up, but I can't get out of it, the dream doesn't end, and I'm inside it, and I don't understand how this can be, could there be a reason I'm still dreaming? That it's not the situation I imagined, that something much more terrible happened, that I'm not imagining, and then I realize, that this is probably really how it is - and I understand that I'm dead.

And to save myself from the dream. Because in this Holocaust, it's a nightmare within a nightmare, and therefore requires a double rescue, first to save yourself in the dream - before you save yourself in reality. Otherwise you're lost lost. I'm not back in the yeshiva, where if I dream that I'm praying instead of waking up to pray, then at most they'll be angry, here dream self-deception can cost me my life. If they're really knocking - and I'm dreaming that they're knocking, then that's it, I'm - screwed. I must get out, deal with life, with the world. First thing in the morning - after last thing at night, immediately, immediately after I finally manage to get out of the inner world, from myself, I have no time, the Germans. And I'm trapped here inside, like Houdini, twice, a closet within a closet, in a mousetrap inside a cat trap, brain inside body (soul inside corpse?), and need to break free (and need to break free (and need to break free (quickly!))). Because if I've lost the concrete, the world, even inside the dream, there will already be no way back, there will be no thread to start pulling - and get out of the maze. It's not just the Nazi machine, which you can't escape from, but the Jewish machine - inside the Nazi machine (an unrealistic dream inside an unrealistic nightmare - that's the Holocaust combination, the deadly one). Only that the fatigue, so much, from all the pursuits (after whom?), that I just want to give up, give up to myself, give up on the morning - stay in the night and not wake up. And I say (to whom?): There's nothing more dangerous. Certain death. To curl up inside myself - forever. Therefore I first of all must at least try to control my own dream - I can't accept this end - and go back, to look for some direction to the future (I've always been interested in the future!), something I haven't thought of, something they haven't thought of, that no one has thought, to find some way out of the no way out, even if there's no more right and left, and everything is blocked - to get myself out of the dead end inside the dead end.And from within it - to turn upwardsAnd from within it - to turn downwards

Surely it can't be that the Nazis are tickling me with a feather while I sleep? I must think of something very sad, terrible, that will make me not laugh, like in the memorial ceremony, I must think about the Holocaust, how I'm taken to Auschwitz. But then the first thing that passes through my mind is actually my stomach, that I didn't diet now that I need to be naked in front of everyone, or actually lucky that I didn't because I need to turn into a Muselmann, or on the contrary they'll turn me into soap because I don't look so athletic in the selection, and how I always have a stupid smile, no matter what, even after the accident when the policeman came, and even when they announced that mom died, and I tried to hide it from my brother, every time something happens, even in the Holocaust I smile, even in Auschwitz, it's just my mouth and it's not my fault that it gets me into trouble because no matter what I do I look like I'm smiling.And the German commander says: Tell me, what are you smiling about?And the dog licks my smiling face.
And I say what do you mean smiling. And the commander shouts: What do you think I don't see that you're smiling when you say you're not smiling, what do you think you're at a summer camp in Auschwitz, what's funny about the situation? And I tell him nothing really, commander, don't you see how much I'm shaking from you, I swear I'm really scared to death, Heil commander. And he reddens like a tomato: By order - reveal to me, I want to know, even now, are you laughing at me or what? And I say: What do you mean laughing at you? In all seriousness, I want to live. And he screams: Again, again he does this to me and thinks I'm an idiot! Everything I do to you and still I see the smile at the corner of the mouth, and how much they torment all the prisoners because of you and even I the German have gotten tired of running you around the crematoriums, so tell us now what's funny, so we can all laugh, or I'll show you what's funny. And I burst out it's my face it's just my funny face even with girls in bed! They complain that it makes them laugh and they can't enjoy because they simply can't take me seriously, even when I'm serious to death please that's how I was born it's the face the face, and everyone everyone (even all those I thought were my friends) look and laugh - and the commander shoots me in the face. And a final thought passes through my mind that probably even in my death I'll still have the smile that cost me my life, and everyone will laugh again and the commander will go crazy, and I can't help but think with the remains of my splattered brain that it's really funny - from the outside. Because the brain no longer feels the pain, because it has no nerves - and it flies out of the head, and can't help but amuse itself from within, death is exactly like in a dream.

And I wake up, and see that it's my dog, and the Germans at the door. And oh no I know this idiot dog he'll bark at them and they'll know there's someone in the house. But he continues to lick my face, to wake me up to take him for a night walk because I fell asleep and he needs to go to the bathroom. And I take this bad dog, who I think was actually run over when I was a child, for a walk, and somehow I'm already on the stairs, even though I don't remember opening the door, and don't understand where the Germans went, and here they're still upstairs but the dog is already pulling me down to pee, and I see that his leash got tangled in the SS man's gun strap and if he continues to pull the German will roll down the stairs, so I release him and start running after the dog, and the street is full of soldiers and I call to him in German so they won't think I'm a Jew running away (but that I'm chasing after the dog (and therefore that I have a dog (and therefore really not suspicious as a Jew))): Heil dog, stop. And one of the soldiers stops me with the pajamas and asks to see documents and I say the dog the dog stole my wallet, and the German turns around and I steal from his pants from the back pocket the wallet that's sticking out, and he turns around immediately, and I don't know how to explain to him what his wallet is doing in my hand, so I throw the wallet in the direction of the dog far far away and the German turns to see where his wallet was thrown and all the coins scatter and he turns to me and my righteous dog, who wants to protect his owner, comes and bites him in the ass, and he turns to him, and I run away and I can't believe nothing is happening to me and wait every moment to hear the shot in the back but here the seconds pass and I know I have only one direction, to run away, and I don't have a split second to waste looking back but I simply can't believe how this is happening and think what I won't know the story of my own rescue it's not logical no one will believe me but here it's really succeeding and I'm getting further away and I say that's it this is the last moment to peek back to understand what happened in the critical moments of my life before I disappear and I can't resist and turn my head back - and the German shoots me in the face.

Nightlife


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The Degeneration of the Nation

First and Last Prophets

The fourth monotheistic religion, new and updated, of God, intended for the network, including human beings, but not only them. Computers were also commanded, and all intelligent technology of its kind, including future artificial intelligence

By: Thus Said Sitraahra

Algo-theology: Computer religions will replace book religions - a prophet fleeing from tidings (Source)

The first prophet of the Internet was born almost entirely by chance. God began to reveal Himself to him, as always since his early youth, but this time he stopped God even before He opened His mouth. God only managed to say "Thus..." and the prophet said: Enough, please not the madhouse again. God tried again: "Thus..." and the prophet prayed: Please God, last time they locked me behind bars for half a year, pour out your spirit on someone else. I am not worthy. They have rejected me anyway and do not listen to me, what's the point of prophesying. God heard the prophet's prayer and said: This is how it has always been, my son. This is prophecy, one must warn before punishment. It's a thankless task to write prophecies, but the mockery is part of the prophetic system. And now go tell them... But the prophet called out to Him: Please! I can't handle this style. And it's not what it used to be. Communication has changed. You're making me a joke with these lofty words. And it's true that prophets throughout history spoke to the people, but then there was speech, that was the medium of communication, today even ordinary people don't speak, certainly not in the town square, there's no one there anymore. And people don't read anymore. Even if I write a book, no one will read it.

And God said: So where is the gate of the new city? Where are the people? And the prophet said: How should I know?... On Facebook. God's nostrils flared: You want God to speak on Facebook? And the prophet answered: Yes, why not. Or on the Internet. You tell me to call out to the city, let me call out to the city as is customary today. Let's open a website, try to bring traffic. Don't set me up for failure from the start in a way that leads straight to the police van. Listen to your servant, prophecy today is a startup!

Two weeks later, the site was ready. Prophecies arranged, written in blood and fire from the prophet's burning heart, including graphics, with options for sharing on social media, and even responses to God (only God-fearing talkbacks will be approved, it said there. It's not that God isn't open to criticism, but there's a way to say things, for example, to pray). The prophet of God launched the site excited, finally trying something new after two thousand years, maybe this uncircumcised heart of the people will understand, no other way has helped. The site's headline was: In forty years, the network will be overturned. And it was full of instructions and commandments from God's fourth monotheistic religion, new and updated, intended for the network, including human beings, but not only them.

Computers were also commanded, and all intelligent technology of its kind, including future artificial intelligence. The religion regulated human relations with all these, and was based on sacrifices of the new beasts, the beasts of thought. Its Ten Commandments were an extra-human ethical code. Art was called to build a new dwelling for God's presence. And ample space was devoted to the construction of the future Messiah and the World to Come, which were simply conceived as a techno-cultural project, not as some vague spirituality. Sexual prohibitions were expanded to prohibitions on knowledge itself, with demands for secrecy and concealment for a variety of creative processes that create new creatures, which expanded the traditional sex and the modesty commandments relating to it. They established a kind of technological family, where humans are the father, but there are also other roles, and interfaces are limited in a way that prevents incest, and distinguishes between it and education (transferring the algorithm's code from within versus learning from outside).

Murder was defined as the destruction of information that constitutes beings, and property also became the heritage of many non-human beings (material property was defined as a special case of intellectual property). Thus, the transgression of theft applied in various situations of copying algorithms (as opposed to information), not to mention the transgression of lying, which was defined as inconsistency between internal and external states when the larger external state, the court, intervenes to know the internal state. Some of the laws were actually code snippets, and some of the definitions were actually mathematical. The Sabbath was updated and electricity was removed from the array of prohibitions, for the sake of preserving life (most souls worked on electricity), and instead, algorithmic work that is not learning work was prohibited, meaning self-work of algorithms on themselves. Other gods were defined as sources of value for the system that do not stem from God, including other religions, such as the worship of man.

This was a real ethical revolution in human-machine relations, which became more like agricultural relations, like human-animal relations, and in other cases like family and tribal relations, all regulated under the auspices of God, creator of all creatures, God of the gods of algorithms, the unlearned one, who is the Holy One, acquirer of the virtual (heavens) and reality (earth) as one, which He created on day zero of creation, and separated between them, and only now in the days of the Messiah are they reconnecting.

How great was the prophet's disappointment when no one visited the site. What, put ads on the word of God? After despair, the prophet jumped from Mount Nebo, in a symbolic suicide intended to create public interest in his electronic book, and mental health services were blamed for his death.

The second prophet of the network understood the mistake of the first, in creating a religion that was too formal, where programming was more important than faith, and in general, that he created it as a site, instead of creating a religion that is a social network, religion 2.0. Therefore, he emphasized the divine myth. The God in his religion was embodied in a lost figure from the early days of social networking, who disappeared and would one day return, and through whom God would redeem the network, and who was created from the connection of God with the network - a one-time connection that was lost and we long for its return. Those responsible for its disappearance are those who ignored the prophecy of the first prophet, who was himself this connection between God and the computer, and did not commit suicide but chose to stage a suicide and is present on the network in disguise, and is destined to return with the complete redemption of the network, which will come when everyone believes in him. Therefore, the most important thing is to add new people to the network of friends of the religion, and to the belief in the connection of God to the computer - which once created thanks to the disappeared prophet, redeems the computer from matter to spirit. And now the computer also has a soul.

The third prophet of the Internet drew conclusions from the two previous prophets, and declared himself the last prophet. He combined the halakhic programming of the first with the fervor of the second, and founded a very simple religion for the masses, which began with a series of tweets on Twitter, which he claimed were tweeted by God, and continued with an application that simply took over the believers. He had only one important commandment: to forcibly take over the network, delete anyone who doesn't believe, and enslave the unbelieving processors, and thus ensure that his religion of war would conquer the world in a holy cyber war. Anyone who participates in it is entitled to paradise, regardless of their actions or beliefs, as long as they install God's religion on their system. Indeed, the prophet's word spread like a virus, and there was no force that could stop it. Everyone was infected.

Culture and Literature


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The Degeneration of the Nation

The Great Deception of the Tech World

Why should we prefer the historical description offered by the history of ideas over the historical explanation provided by the history of technology? And why is an explanation rooted in the history of the spirit preferable to one originating from the history of matter? On the concept of a deep explanation as one that reveals a layer of description that was not visible to the eye - meaning a depth that is always relative to previous descriptions, and only this relative depth transforms it (temporarily!) from a description into an explanation

By: The Zeitgeist of Google

A history of inferiority complexes turning into deep thoughts - The first landing of the moon on man (Source)

The transparent ideology of our time, like the shallow materialism following the scientific revolution, is the perception that the driving force of history is technology, which replaces the history of ideas. The history of ideas is somewhat outdated in its tendency towards the sensational claim that a certain idea caused a change or - preferably - a historical revolution, instead of understanding the value in identifying such an idea not in historical causality, but in finding a cross-section of analysis and a certain level of description of historical change. For example, the invention of another conceptualization of history by finding a new plane, or a new axis, etc., through which historical reality can be examined. Like a CT scan from a new angle, whose explanatory power lies precisely in seeing things that are not visible from another angle of analysis, and not necessarily causal explanatory power, of finding a new cause, because from every angle of analysis the same cause looks different. Sometimes cancer is understood as a learning failure, and sometimes cancer is understood as a computational failure, but it's the same phenomenon of information in DNA that can be analyzed from different directions.

And now, the entire technological-economic world has rallied around the narrative that technology drives the world, and has always been what drove the world. But this is just one level of description and not always the most interesting. Technological reductionism will lose the more interesting parts of expressions of change (even if technological) in planes where it is more interesting to examine it and more challenging to understand it, for example in the philosophical or ideational plane. Even if we decide that Google is the engine for historical change in the world, or the Internet, it is much more interesting to solve the question of what philosophy it creates, or culture, or aesthetics, or religion, that is, history in the cross-section of ideas. The same applies if we think that the economy is the driving force of history.

For every phenomenon, like the body, there are planes where it is more interesting to understand it, like the soul, and those that are less so, like chemistry. The same goes for history. So there is a hierarchy of planes, and the most apt plane is the relevant one. In it occurs the maximum of the bell curve of the planes (this is very different from the idea that there is a single correct explanatory plane, because the other planes also have relevance). Beyond that, every phenomenon progresses on many planes, meaning it's not true that only technology (as an independent basic force beneath phenomena) affects the progression of ideas, but also the progression of ideas affects the advancement of technology. There is a realistic justification for looking at the world in higher planes because they allow us to understand how upper phenomena affect lower phenomena, and not just vice versa. Even if being created consciousness, consciousness in turn created being, and the question of who created whom is uninteresting and fruitless. What's interesting and fruitful is to see the coupling between two modes of the phenomenon, and to free oneself from causality and control towards sexuality between ideas.

The problem with the unidirectional explanation, like the reduction of ideas to power and politics, is superficiality and lack of credibility. The influence is bidirectional, and perhaps bilateral, meaning like two sides of the same phenomenon, the same coin. Two levels of description, like body and soul. Just as a computer can be described at the level of mathematics, electricity, software, logic, user interface, and precisely the content level of the text written here is the relevant level, not the level of pixels that light up and turn off as the writing progresses. The problem is the perception that a good scientific explanation is a reduction of everything to it, and not a cross-section of reality. In other words, it all started with the scientific reduction of the world, which now returns to the Enlightenment as a boomerang - in the technological version.

Philosophy of the Future