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How to Relax Completely in 10 Seconds

Constantly feeling anxiety is a major part of the every day life for millions of individuals.  The prognosis for anxiety disorders is among...

Cog, an abnormal Alphabet-CSE

Preliminary report of closed, on-site polling







Poll #1

Duration: + / - 3 months

Sample size: A surprising amount. To be expanded as results showed promise.


Preliminary disclosure:

Users that scored elevated Scale 7 [Psychasthenia] on the MMPI-2 AND were in possession of standard blood test reported overwhelmingly to having higher white blood cell counts than red blood cell counts. With regards to if one or both of these numbers were in the abnormal range, the results were mixed, with the sample size proving insufficiently large to achieve the statistical significance necessary to back any correlation or, inversely, back the null hypothesis against any specific combination.

A follow-up poll will open, staying open over a longer period, and those numbers will be combined with those already obtained. MMPI-2 test takers that meet the criteria stated above are strongly encouraged to participate because it is likely that enough data will be collected to offer strong support with regards to a key skewed dynamic in the human psychoneuroimmunological system, which has been recently found to exhibit bidirectional communication between neurons and cells in the immunological system.




Poll #2


Duration + / - 10 months

Sample size: 500+ users


Results:

Users reviewed our on-site search engine, Cog, a custom Google search engine modified to filter out most of the noise on the Internet with the purpose of landing users directly on useful results or on the primary sources corresponding to their query. Cog received over 75% favorable reviews, with less than 20% of users reporting that they either weren't able to find the primary sources being sought out or having experienced any sort of processing or coding bug upon using the on-site CSE. To obtain positive percentages so high is extremely rare in anonymous, on-line attitude polling. Needless to say, I am very happy that I was able to provide you all with a useful tool that is becoming increasingly important as the Google search algorithms get hacked to the point that reliable information is no longer readily accessible. Since voters largely approved the design of the tool, I will be expanding and tweaking it over the medium-term.





Tienes alma; acéptalo y deja de joder






Tienes alma; sí estás viva.
Si estás viva, tienes alma.
Dá lo mismo cómo.
¿De dónde sacas que te fue entregada
de quien mereces un perdón de un perdonable
nunca presente, y siempre viva?
Morirás.  Es lo que ocurre.
¿Y?

Si estás viva, tienes alma.
Estás viva.
Dá lo mismo cómo.
Morirás.   Es lo que ocurre.
¿Y?

Recuerda que es una relación condicional.
No resucitarás ni me resucitarás,
ni serás eterna por ser tiempo la suma tus posesiones,
y dá lo mismo si temporalidad es tu único hacer;
es lo que hace; o sea, tienes alma.
Yo también tengo una.

¡La mía hace lo mismo
y nada más!
Estoy vivo; morir es de ambos.
¿Y?
Es lo que ocurre. Estás viva
porque morirás; es la definición.  Eres alma
porque estás viva porque morirás;
dá lo mismo si no saborearás la muerte
- o si la saboreas. Son detallismos.  Morirás;
eres alma.
                 Deja de joder.
Todo cuanto sabe tanto;
es obvio. Acéptalo,

y deja de joder;

nos tienes a todos hartos
con tu orgasmia fantasmagórica.



Song Of Myself, XXXIII, by Walt Whitman






Walt Whitman cannot hide his character
Being wise cannot be hidden
the same as being simpleminded.






Space and Time! now I see it is true, what I guess’d at,
What I guess’d when I loaf’d on the grass,
What I guess’d while I lay alone in my bed,
And again as I walk’d the beach under the paling stars of the morning.

My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps,
I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents,
I am afoot with my vision.

By the city’s quadrangular houses—in log huts, camping with lumbermen,
Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet bed,
Weeding my onion-patch or hoeing rows of carrots and parsnips, crossing savannas, trailing in forests,
Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees of a new purchase,
Scorch’d ankle-deep by the hot sand, hauling my boat down the shallow river,
Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb overhead, where the buck turns furiously at the hunter,
Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock, where the otter is feeding on fish,
Where the alligator in his tough pimples sleeps by the bayou,
Where the black bear is searching for roots or honey, where the beaver pats the mud with his paddle-shaped tail;
Over the growing sugar, over the yellow-flower’d cotton plant, over the rice in its low moist field,
Over the sharp-peak’d farm house, with its scallop’d scum and slender shoots from the gutters,
Over the western persimmon, over the long-leav’d corn, over the delicate blue-flower flax,
Over the white and brown buckwheat, a hummer and buzzer there with the rest,
Over the dusky green of the rye as it ripples and shades in the breeze;
Scaling mountains, pulling myself cautiously up, holding on by low scragged limbs,
Walking the path worn in the grass and beat through the leaves of the brush,
Where the quail is whistling betwixt the woods and the wheat-lot,
Where the bat flies in the Seventh-month eve, where the great gold-bug drops through the dark,
Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and flows to the meadow,
Where cattle stand and shake away flies with the tremulous shuddering of their hides,
Where the cheese-cloth hangs in the kitchen, where andirons straddle the hearth-slab, where cobwebs fall in festoons from the rafters;
Where trip-hammers crash, where the press is whirling its cylinders,
Wherever the human heart beats with terrible throes under its ribs,
Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft, (floating in it myself and looking composedly down,)
Where the life-car is drawn on the slip-noose, where the heat hatches pale-green eggs in the dented sand,
Where the she-whale swims with her calf and never forsakes it,
Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long pennant of smoke,
Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out of the water,
Where the half-burn’d brig is riding on unknown currents,
Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the dead are corrupting below;
Where the dense-starr’d flag is borne at the head of the regiments,
Approaching Manhattan up by the long-stretching island,
Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my countenance,
Upon a door-step, upon the horse-block of hard wood outside,
Upon the race-course, or enjoying picnics or jigs or a good game of base-ball,
At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license, bull-dances, drinking, laughter,
At the cider-mill tasting the sweets of the brown mash, sucking the juice through a straw,
At apple-peelings wanting kisses for all the red fruit I find,
At musters, beach-parties, friendly bees, huskings, house-raisings;
Where the mocking-bird sounds his delicious gurgles, cackles, screams, weeps,
Where the hay-rick stands in the barn-yard, where the dry-stalks are scatter’d, where the brood-cow waits in the hovel,
Where the bull advances to do his masculine work, where the stud to the mare, where the cock is treading the hen,
Where the heifers browse, where geese nip their food with short jerks,
Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limitless and lonesome prairie,
Where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square miles far and near,
Where the humming-bird shimmers, where the neck of the long-lived swan is curving and winding,
Where the laughing-gull scoots by the shore, where she laughs her near-human laugh,
Where bee-hives range on a gray bench in the garden half hid by the high weeds,
Where band-neck’d partridges roost in a ring on the ground with their heads out,
Where burial coaches enter the arch’d gates of a cemetery,
Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and icicled trees,
Where the yellow-crown’d heron comes to the edge of the marsh at night and feeds upon small crabs,
Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm noon,
Where the katy-did works her chromatic reed on the walnut-tree over the well,
Through patches of citrons and cucumbers with silver-wired leaves,
Through the salt-lick or orange glade, or under conical firs,
Through the gymnasium, through the curtain’d saloon, through the office or public hall;
Pleas’d with the native and pleas’d with the foreign, pleas’d with the new and old,
Pleas’d with the homely woman as well as the handsome,
Pleas’d with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet and talks melodiously,
Pleas’d with the tune of the choir of the whitewash’d church,
Pleas’d with the earnest words of the sweating Methodist preacher, impress’d seriously at the camp-meeting;
Looking in at the shop-windows of Broadway the whole forenoon, flatting the flesh of my nose on the thick plate glass,
Wandering the same afternoon with my face turn’d up to the clouds, or down a lane or along the beach,
My right and left arms round the sides of two friends, and I in the middle;
Coming home with the silent and dark-cheek’d bush-boy, (behind me he rides at the drape of the day,)
Far from the settlements studying the print of animals’ feet, or the moccasin print,
By the cot in the hospital reaching lemonade to a feverish patient,
Nigh the coffin’d corpse when all is still, examining with a candle;
Voyaging to every port to dicker and adventure,
Hurrying with the modern crowd as eager and fickle as any,
Hot toward one I hate, ready in my madness to knife him,
Solitary at midnight in my back yard, my thoughts gone from me a long while,
Walking the old hills of Judæa with the beautiful gentle God by my side,
Speeding through space, speeding through heaven and the stars,
Speeding amid the seven satellites and the broad ring, and the diameter of eighty thousand miles,
Speeding with tail’d meteors, throwing fire-balls like the rest,
Carrying the crescent child that carries its own full mother in its belly,
Storming, enjoying, planning, loving, cautioning,
Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing,
I tread day and night such roads.

I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product,
And look at quintillions ripen’d and look at quintillions green.

I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul,
My course runs below the soundings of plummets.

I help myself to material and immaterial,
No guard can shut me off, no law prevent me.

I anchor my ship for a little while only,
My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns to me.

I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue.

I ascend to the foretruck,
I take my place late at night in the crow’s-nest,
We sail the arctic sea, it is plenty light enough,
Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the wonderful beauty,
The enormous masses of ice pass me and I pass them, the scenery is plain in all directions,
The white-topt mountains show in the distance, I fling out my fancies toward them,
We are approaching some great battle-field in which we are soon to be engaged,
We pass the colossal outposts of the encampment, we pass with still feet and caution,
Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruin’d city,
The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living cities of the globe.







I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading watchfires,
I turn the bridegroom out of bed and stay with the bride myself,
I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips.

My voice is the wife’s voice, the screech by the rail of the stairs,
They fetch my man’s body up dripping and drown’d.

I understand the large hearts of heroes,
The courage of present times and all times,
How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steam-ship, and Death chasing it up and down the storm,
How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was faithful of days and faithful of nights,
And chalk’d in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, we will not desert you;
How he follow’d with them and tack’d with them three days and would not give it up,
How he saved the drifting company at last,
How the lank loose-gown’d women look’d when boated from the side of their prepared graves,
How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the sharp-lipp’d unshaved men;
All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine,
I am the man, I suffer’d, I was there.

The disdain and calmness of martyrs,
The mother of old, condemn’d for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her children gazing on,
The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blowing, cover’d with sweat,
The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous buckshot and the bullets,
All these I feel or am.

I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs,
Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen,
I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn’d with the ooze of my skin,
I fall on the weeds and stones,
The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close,
Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with whip-stocks.

Agonies are one of my changes of garments,
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person,
My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.

I am the mash’d fireman with breast-bone broken,
Tumbling walls buried me in their debris,
Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades,
I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels,
They have clear’d the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.

I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my sake,
Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy,
White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared of their fire-caps,
The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.

Distant and dead resuscitate,
They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock myself.

I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort’s bombardment,
I am there again.

Again the long roll of the drummers,
Again the attacking cannon, mortars,
Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive.

I take part, I see and hear the whole,
The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aim’d shots,
The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip,
Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable repairs,
The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped explosion,
The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air.

Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general, he furiously waves with his hand,
He gasps through the clot Mind not me—mind—the entrenchments.



Mr. Nicky on Ancient Egypt and Egyptian Mythology: Funny musical parodies (informative!)









For those of you for whom the embedded video does not load, usually mobile users, click here to go directly to YouTube.
"Egyptian Mythology" comes out on top both as an overview of key aspects of that polytheistic ontology and as a parody of a music track that deserves to be mercilessly ridiculed, "Despasito (Remix)" by Luis Fonsi and Daddy Yankee, ft. Justin Bieber.  Regarding the first objective, our current cultural context renders a clarification more important than it ought to be.  New age spiritualists nowadays overwhelmingly assert that ancient Egyptian mythology plays the role of first religion, that is, of first source or foundation, to present day religions worldwide.  This is false.  All contemporary theisms and deisms are rooted in a single occult ontology, and that system is the Zodiac, the birthplace of which is Mesopotamia.  Newspapers everywhere waste a page on a daily basis to con people with coy fortunetelling that nonetheless ends up having some effect by conditioning people into certain directions by virtue of repetition and co-occurrence alone.  The endless conditioning is the reason why leaders around the world still seek out "occult" sources of knowledge as these may provide means to move people without the people being moved knowing why they do whatever it is that they end up doing.

Mr. Nicky had already done a video back in 2016 called "Ancient Egypt" (embedded below), a   The title of the video follows the naming script that Mr. Nicky has chosen from the very beginning, I had not previously shared it because it is not historically on par with his other videos.  Like his other videos, it narrows down what would otherwise be potentially endless sets of history lessons concerning the main aspects of a civilization by focusing on one or two of its central - or representative - figures.  However, in the particular case of the video embedded below, the figure chosen is of little overall importance to the history of the society that is the subject matter.  Thus, I share it with you all now only because he mostly overcame this shortcoming by making the second video "Egyptian Mythology".  Still pretty funny though...





For whom the video does not load embedded just click here to go directly to YouTube.
"Ancient Egypt" is set to the tune of "Moves like Jagger" by Maroon 5, making a depiction of something that no longer moves all the more hilarious.  Enjoy!




Egyptian Social Hierarchy
In Ancient Egypt's pyramidal structured society, the Pharaoh
deemed, treated, and revered as an incarnated deity,
 was at the top whilst farmers and slaves made up the bottom.




If you enjoyed that as much as I do, feel free to move on to other musical remakes / history primers by Mr. Nicky by clicking below:

Ancient Mesopotamia

Ancient Greece

Ancient Rome




----------------
If you have a taste for musing on history, the links below will take you to all the posts related to the subject that have appeared on Cognitive Dynamics.  Some of these posts are more serious than others.  Most, but not all, include informative animated synopsis of important historical events. if not whole documentaries on the matter.  All in all, you may find that browsing through these is not a bad way to spend an afternoon.








I Know, You Walk--




by Hermann Hesse

Doesn't Hermann Hesse look pretty?  Straw was in fashion back in 19
Born in the German Empire, when the Germans 
had no empire, Hesse didn't win the 1946 
Nobel Prize in Literature for his fashion sense.  
Looks good though!


I walk so often, late, along the streets,
Lower my gaze, and hurry, full of dread,
Suddenly, silently, you still might rise
And I would have to gaze on all your grief
With my own eyes,
While you demand your happiness, that's dead.

I know, you walk beyond me, every night,
With a coy footfall, in a wretched dress
And walk for money, looking miserable!
Your shoes gather God knows what ugly mess,
The wind plays in your hair with lewd delight---
You walk, and walk, and find no home at all.