Discordian Calendars for 03186 (2020)

Is this the last of us? Everywhere a fearing of the end. Of what? Whom? Narcissistic self-indulgent ideations! Are we so important? Are we the only ones? The first? The last? What is this the end of? Taking to sides, howling mad-dogs chomping at the air in desperation, longing to bite the bones of imagined bounties. Have we ever not feared death? Have we ever not seen it so real in front of us? The ancient heaps of stone, rubble that they are, stand in testament — to what shall never be remembered, but to us? to our stubborn refusal in the face of unrelenting time? We forgot ourselves, inventing gods and aliens and others, or the dull pseudo-science of the copper chisel. Anywhere an apocalypse looms, we shudder and lash out. Anywhere a cataclysm happens, we join together and carry on. Is this the last of us? Nay, soon it shall be the best of us, the worst of us, the continuation of us. Already the heaps of stone stand waiting for Ozymandias to despair.

When the night has come and the land is dark and the moon is the only light we’ll see. If the sky that we look upon should tumble and fall or the mountains should crumble to the sea. Whenever you’re in trouble, fnord by me.

About the Holydays


Discordian Calendars for 03185 (2019)

The League of Question, the latest album from the The Crypt-Kicker Five. A new old soundtrack for a new old age. Thirteen dead drummers dangling from morbid marionette machinery. Infinite infernal instruments, cackling a cacophonous calypso of cannibalistic cuisine. A private whispering of words never spoken in a language never known. Running blind, screaming deaf, scalding numb, balancing vertigo, nauseating hunger. The bleeding resurrection of rock and roll from the regression to rebellion that refuses to reside in repeats and replays. For the jam session on the road to Mars travelled only by the agreed-upon owners of socially-constructed currencies. Failure by fiat. Frigid by function. Follower by fashion. Filled by futility. Fucked by the future.

A holyday not found on any calendar. A calendar not found on any planet. A planet not found in any universe. A universe not found in any imagination. An imagination not found.

About the Holydays


A Spurious Essay — 13 Feb 2018

by Joseph Raschack

Meditation is a lie. Modern spirituality bears no resemblance to the ancient Living Resurrection. We replace the trance-hypnosis of television with the trance-hypnosis of staring at a candle, or the imagining of staring at a candle. We become fixated on this trance state because it is familiar, and replacing it with the same but quieter feels more “organic”, “natural”, and other empty words. Pick your words and find your spirituality — cyber, virtual, vintage, authentic, exciting, sexy, manly, patriotic, holy, thrilling — our quest for meaning subsumed by a transitory feeling borne of safe experience.

Spirituality used to be real, severe, life-threatening. The whole point was to destroy your life, your self. Today, the closest we come to the — to the what? do we even remember what it was called? — is a campfire weekend, dancing naked while beating a drum and tripping on some chemical; a cheap, watered-down pseudo-bonding that induces a temporary euphoria in an otherwise dull life. This is like listening to someone who has never rode a rollercoaster talk about riding a rollercoaster — not like riding it, not like watching it, nor hearing it; only someone spewing enthusiastic ignorance tailored to fit politically useful ideas of what rollercoasters might or should be like.

To claim that drug-of-the-year is a gateway to mystical experience is a fucking joke. The highest possible cognitive behavior of the brain — if it even happens in the brain — is nothing like the delusional chaotic gibberish of the random slippery misfiring of some drug trip. The feeling of profound insight may happen, but nothing spiritual is connected to it, only some intellectual masturbation about morality or half-understood scientific theories.

The Living Resurrection requires more than a faint modern attempt. Where we would use the disturbance of drugs, it demands the terror of mortality and hunger. When we chatter our mantras and try to distract-o-focus our thoughts, it demands the clear presence in the room, the here-and-now, the objective reality, our environment and all that scampers within it. When we seek union and identity with the universe and all life, it demands our death and return to rotting biomass. Not some arm-chair anarchist idea of ego-death, not some comfortable metaphor that allows a smug sense of superiority over imagined achievements. Actual, physical, fuck-me-up death. To properly escape a prison, the prison must be destroyed. You can sit and imagine yourself free through a stubborn adherence to idealistic bliss-mongering, but that’s all it will be — a fairy tale told by a fool to entertain only its author.

Remove all of the gunk from the brain. Fasting until the edge of hunger becomes the blade of awareness. Resting until the inefficiencies of stress become the scars of experience. Celebrating until the company of boredom becomes the joy of the mundane. Probably not in that order, but in no order, every order. Seek an end to the distractions that plague us and chain us down — the thoughts that we try to focus within, replaced with the disorientation of presence. Symbolisms are parlor games for the mud-brained walking dead. Maps are rags for the snot-nosed lost youths. Stories and myths and legends abound, mere words because talk is cheap. A quest for meaning can only end, for meaning is easy enough to create from snips and shreds. A search for self can never be found, for self is a life to be lived. A journey through the here-after goes nowhere, for there is no veil, no separated realm to journey to. The Living Resurrection is not an answer, a destination, a noun or idea of any form. Not even a transformation, or a rite. The Living Resurrection is only the beginning of life within life, a death-before-death to end death-before-death.

Average of an Array

I went looking for this but couldn’t seem to find it. Bad search terms, maybe? Anyway, have at it:

#include <math.h> /* 'div()' rounds toward zero */
int average(int n, const int * a)
  int val = 0;
  int rem = 0;
  for (int i = 0; i < n; ++i) {
    div_t d = div(a[i], n);
    val += d.quot;
    rem += d.rem;
  return val + div(rem, n).quot;

Works for positive and negative values. There’s a minimal chance of overflow here (rem is at most (n-1)*n). Can anybody do any better?

Discordian Calendars for 03184 (2018)

A fresh sense of urgency. A human chain of left-ward force. This loose affiliation of energized radicals has shown no qualms about using their fists.

Speech is a form of action: when it harms others, it is abuse and oppression.

Ideologies cannot be reasoned with and must be physically resisted. Is it more dangerous to do nothing and tolerate them, or should we confront them? Their existence itself is violent and dangerous, using force or violence to oppose them is not unethical.

The ascendant new is coming into your town with hate. The essence of their message is violence. They don’t care if you’re quiet, you’re peaceful. You need violence to protect nonviolence.

About the Holydays


Postscript Template Strings

I’m quite proud of this, even though the program I was writing it for ended up staying a shell script.

% realloc a string
/growstring {  % () -> ()
  dup length 2 mul string dup 0 4 3 roll putinterval
} bind def

% Just a simple template engine.
% Anything between curly braces is PS code which returns a
% single object that will be converted to string via cvs.
% The embedded code has full access to the environment and
% may invoke the template procedure recursively.
% To embed a literal brace, embed a literal string: { ({) }
/template {  % (txt { - -> any } txt) -> ()
  10 dict begin /src exch def
    /rv 256 string def
    /rvidx 0 def
    /template-append {
      /o exch def
      { /o load rv rvidx rv length rvidx sub getinterval
        { cvs } stopped
        { /rv rv growstring def }
        { length rvidx add /rvidx exch def exit } ifelse
      } loop
    } //bind def
      % find { or end, appending text
      src ({) search {
        template-append pop
        % search excludes '{', we need it for token
        length 1 add /n exch def
        src dup length n sub n getinterval /src exch def
      } { template-append exit } ifelse

      % (src) is now ({code}...)
      % eval the code and append any resulting objects
      src token {
        exch /src exch def
        % a closure to restore our hidden local scope
        [ exch /exec cvx currentdict /begin cvx ] cvx
        end exec template-append
      } if
    } loop
    rv 0 rvidx getinterval
} bind def

% tests
/bar (ggg) def
(foo) template ==
(foo{bar} foo) template ==
({bar}foo) template ==
(foo{bar}) template ==
(foo{({)}{bar}) template ==
/rvidx (uuu) def
(foo{rvidx}foo) template ==
55 44 33 (foo{1 index}foo) template == pop pop pop
(sss{ ({rvidx}) template }www) template ==

Discordian Calendars for 03183 (2017)

Still trying to negotiate its own identity, caught between the paradise of its ideals and the realities of its history still fresh on our tongues, wheezing noisily. Gathered around looking concerned and asking about our stereos, might not be loud enough. Bumped very lightly into a limp and fangless thing: government-subsidized poets, vague nonsense zombies who wrote verses and talked revolution, with an insatiable hunger for news.

About the Holydays