Sister Trolling

Medium keeps its contributors informed about page views, and I suppose, because I was posting off the cuff, my comment on the Ask Ethan post about black hole theory correction picked up over a hundred views. I took some physics at Temple University and nearly flunked out, but this doesn't mean I despise the study of space. Most of it is counter intuitive even for the mathematical minds which grasp it, but what I meant, without entirely understanding extraordinary mass condensation, is: If we presuppose universes repeat themselves due to impaction, consciousness doesn't seem to repeat with it. I do not feel loss of identity when my cellular waste builds in my colon and discharges. We do not remember the squeal of pigs being electrocuted for their succulent flesh once we ingest pork, so information is in fact lost on a biological level. Information is lost on a cultural level as well, and we'll never learn as much as we need to to defeat destructive capacities of entropy. We're apes. Smart apes, the most dangerous species yet encountered, but apes, slightly better engineered, and while the equations may have been proven through induction, language itself imposes its own limitations.

Whatever the viability of theories on black holes and strings, motion and matter does not think about itself in those terms. Holes, strings. Simple implements of mammal amusements. Are physicists going to argue that energy is a living element? Stars are a chemical process, partial oxidation, partial hydrogen bomb. They aren't conscious, they aren't minds with directional intent. We'll never comprehend why particles and waves exist, why they create chemicals, nor why chemicals under the right conditions ingest themselves and reproduce, nor even define thinking. Thoughts have no mass. They evolved with the basic plankton brain, but do not exist. The only evidence we have for thought are the images of brain activity, but brain activity is not itself evidence of directional imperative. For that we have DVD teleplays.

Beneath opens with an interesting premise, seems to have a touch of after.life to it, which I admire intellectually, and then decelerates into a creature elimination film whose denouement shrivels on the vine. What is mildly intriguing about the script is survival guilt conjoined to the moral lesson of medical model brutality, not something burn victims with chronic irritation need to view when they feel their life slipping away, toying with the fact that familial bonds are the best humans can do, but with denial being necessary. Beneath the surface, sisters hate each other, whatever tender moments between them. My sister and I have a multitude of stakes within our defense mechanisms: shared abuse, a sister who should never have lived.

The disabled community makes excuses for those with minimal awareness, but I am going to be cruel. People like my sister Michelle should be put down. She lived 22 years in hell, even if she did not know it. Toward the end she struggled with constant lung fluid, and my parents did the right thing, but were wrong to let her live at all, and I'm making this assertion with my mother's sister free to read my link. I love my aunt, mind, but Disability In Arts is in part a last will and testament by a woman in a precarious position who allowed her life to be destroyed by intensely disappointed emotional investments in people and indoctrinations, a woman more than likely to be defeated by the metastasis of dubious African American competency, which has infested Western standards beyond repair, although it is true the citizens of Rome waited Hannibal out, and whatever the tactics of the general on his elephant, went on to rule the world. The European Union should fly the Syrian refugees to Russia.

If Putin is supporting Alawite ruthlessness with material, then let the leader of the Russian Federation handle the consequences.