Identity

Reminded of a bunch of important issues by this post, I made an excellent, witty, and summarised reply to it in a comment, and then accidentally hit "back" and lost it. I made a crappy comment instead, so don't read it.

Now the reason I started this blog, initially, was to post as a bunch of alter egos, to spice up the content more than just blathering on about my own boring existence. I don't think I quite succeeded, but it doesn't matter because sort of my point and message was that one stable identity is, to me, impossible. I mentioned this in the very first post, and I'll try to revisit the concept again, because I think it is important enough to this blog, and to my message.

I act a whole lot different when I am with different people. This isn't an act, it's my true self that actually changes. I don't know if I'm a lot more impulsive than other people, but I genuinely *feel* like a different person when I speak to, say, Iceye, than I do to Adam, Kristin, my father, or myself, for that matter. Hence the name of this blog - man of many masks. This isn't very peculiar - we all do it. What befuddles me is that I can't seem to find a stable core inside this chaotic mess. It's like I find layer upon layer of masks until I've digged through the whole heap and come out on the other side. A rough metaphor for how "I" feels to me is kind of like a cloud when you fly through it with an airplane - it's very tangibly there, it's all around you and it constitutes the entirety of the landscape. It's got discrete shapes and a creamy white colour and you get the feeling that you could touch it and it'd stick to your hands in great lumps. But actually, it's just very intangible water droplets that are impossible to touch, and the plane just flies straight through.

Now imagine the airplane is also made of cloud, and you've got a good idea about how I picture the self. It's not there, yet it's very obvious, tangible, visible, and it also somehow makes you fly.

This is why I don't do much introspection nowadays - I just keep lying to myself, or using concepts I've imported from other sources - reflecting my own cloud in those of other people. For instance, when contemplating religion, I think about what Jesus and Buddha and Immanuel Kant and my friends have said, but I don't think there's any stable core to it - I mostly gather what bits of religion that seem to make sense, and then puzzle them together and see how they interact with my own ideas - but it's not really me anymore than my current mood, it just happens to last a bit longer. When I'm happy, I'm happy. Who knows if I stop being happy tomorrow? So, how could I possibly know if I stop being religious tomorrow? If I stop liking philosophical waxing? Heck, how could I know I won't suddenly start identifying myself as a woman?

What's strangest of all, is that it's all these little puzzle pieces that come together and form me. Meaning that "I" is but a series of processes, sensible processes of course, but still, temporary processes. Not news for anyone who's read philosophy of course, but my point is not that the self changes, but that integrity is (kind of) an illusion. I can make my own choices, sure, but I can't make them independently of my surroundings. Is identity a function of the masks we wear? Of what others see us as? I don't mean to say we're slaves to our environment, I'm meaning to say that what we don't show, doesn't exist. What complicates the matter is that we must see the "I" as an observer as well, but not as the only observer, not as an independent observer. It's kind of like a series of processes that can be part of ourselves only, but also processes that are part other people, and these concepts blur together.

Ironically, of course, many of these thoughts are taken from Douglas Hofstaedter. I thought them, though. I mean, I think I thought them. Therefore, I think I am a thought?

Tänk Om

Tänk om jag är en poet?
...
Vad har man en sån till?

Past and Presents

First, I liked being given presents. This is natural, being that I was once very small. Then, I liked giving presents, which makes sense, it's heartwarming and all. Then, I got bloody tired of presents.

Seriously. It's fun to give people stuff they'll appreciate, but it takes forever to find something, especially when your family insists that you buy things for every. Single. Family. Member.
And this is just the bare essentials. This means I'll have to buy at least something like 12-13 useless trinkets, just not to get ostracized by my family.

Hence - sorry people, but I won't probably be giving you any presents. My economy can't take it, and I will start getting bored at around 10 meaningless items.

Winter is upon us.

"The winter light is pale and bright
And so the serpent basks,
The Beast is bowed beneath the plow,
The djinn rest in their flasks,
The craftsman's made to fit his trade,
The workers match their tasks,
On snowy floor, we waltz the score,
We masquers are our masks."

--White Wolf's Winter Masques.

For being from a game - as far as I can find, the White Wolf people wrote it themselves - this is a surprisingly evocative poem. Don't you think?

10 greatest Canadian songs

28-hour day STAB Rickrolling. Allrakäraste syster/Star Trek Voyager. Klingon, your body no longer excites her.

destruction and sadness

Saugus High School Scandinavia. Leonard Cohen, Rick Astley & River Tam. Hallelujah! (song) arkhangelsk. John Mason. John Mason. Basil John Mason. Gordon Lightfoot, Homestar Runner.

graph maker, stab you. time is an illusion, especially lunchtime. time is an illusion, lunch time doubly so. borneo monkey.

Hum Hallelujah, I hate myself and want to die never gonna give you up. Kola Peninsula, Kola Norwegians. Leonard Cohen. Leonard Cohen. Little Golden Books, Manga Marcie. Pennyroyal tea russenorsk. Leonard Cohen, paramount Chief of Fiji. Saugus High School.

Tetragrammaton, Yahweh.

borneo monkey.

Science!

I have proven that it's indeed possible to eat nothing but cookies for 24 hours!

I think I will has some noodls now.

In Defense of the Sanctified

There are many who would view the Christian faith as largely selfish. There are those who say, that a Christian acts not upon his own moral views, but upon a desire to "go to Heaven" after his death. In short, there are many who claim Christianity is deluded.

Not so. It is delusion to believe that immediate, earthly rewards are meaningful, just as it is delusion to believe one knows the nature of Heaven and God's grace. In short, rewards, whether heavenly or mundane, are meaningless, and it is delusion to believe otherwise. To be loved, to earn money, to create art, to gain fame and notoriety, or to enter Heaven - all these are but shadowy illusions we make for ourselves in order to motivate our nasty, brutish and short lives. This is not the object of religion, nor is it the object of life. Reward is not what the true Christian seeks.

The Lancea Sanctum tells us what all mortal religions do, but without the veil of ignorance, without the comfortable hope of solace, without the illusions. The Lancea Sanctum tells us God has a plan. That is all. That is all the Sanctified have to hope for, that is all in which the Sanctified invest their faith. There is no hope of redemption, no hope of reward, only the hope of purpose, of meaning in a meaningless existence. This is what all religions seek to teach, though they shroud it in promises of payment, forgiveness and love.

Christianity - Faith- Religion; all these are with us for the sake of having a purpose. If there is no God, what purpose is there to my good actions? If there is no God, why should I help my fellow man? In a world without God, we are all but mites of dust upon a mind-numbingly great, blank floor, to be swept away by the smallest gust of wind and lost forever. In a world without God, we have no meaning. Religion provides us with this. Religion provides us with a reason for why we help one another. Never mind what reward shall come for this help - the important thing is knowing we have made a difference. We have contributed to God's plan. We have done something which was not in vain.

Finding meaning is what drives us all. Religion shows you a way. Religion assures you that though you be damned, God has not forgotten you. Religion is trusting that my actions matter to a higher being - that there is a reason for me to rise every night, that there is a reason for the pain and pleasure we must suffer. This is what Christianity is - not the hunt for some meaningless pleasure in Heaven, but the hunt for some meaningful pain on Earth.

Numerologically Perfected Relationships

The lines in red mark relationships that must occur for Kristin's transcendental, pan-mathematic geometric model to become perfected. Go get started, people!

I miss men.

I was going to write something productive and creative and interesting to comment on the recent (and muchly happyful) development of a Fiery Fandango but alas, I couldn't think of anything more creative beyond "congratulations you guys" and "*raises an eyebrow like Spock and contemplates what this means*". Therefore, I'll leave the topic unspoken - I'm sorry folks, I really would like to elaborate - and instead talk on something I miss.

Men.

Seriously. Since I moved to Uppsala, the amount of men I have spoken with much - I mean really spoken, beyond casual "hellos" and "goodbyes" and "let's do some drama-games people!" - amounts to a total of, I think, two. These two men would be Sydow and Anton - you both have my thanks, very sincerely, but sometimes it isn't enough. I have been back home to meet with the old boys one or two weekends, but it just doesn't feel the same as getting some good old hanging out - I mean the improvised, "hey let's go hang out" kind of hang out, not the "Hey, let's plan in a Mage session two weeks from now!"

This is not meant as any offense to my numerous female friends (and less numerous girlfriend), nor as an offense to the wonderful Mage game (Heavens forbid!), I just kind of miss being an immature slob and taking on a more laid-back attitude. This is not because I want to look good for you girls, but because you punch me if I don't take care of myself. Men punch me less often. I like this quality.

I'm not very much of a beer and pretzels kind of guy, nor a football and boobies kind of guy, so I don't know exactly how this hanging-out looks. I'm guessing some interesting philosophical discussions, some retarded in-jokes, and some good old geek-crunching. The latter is abstract and intangible, but I think it's best described with examples; something like having Kenneth (man, I miss you, Kenneth) coming over to read RPG books together and discussing interesting, brief little points and anecdotes once every 20 minutes or so. It's a relaxed, no-nonsense kind of hanging out which I think is really good for the soul.

I used to do all this on a daily basis. I just don't remember it very well, because it was all so insubstantial and ridiculously pointless. Makes me realize, though, why the British used to have all those "men only" pubs.

Women, please don't hate me - too much of a good thing can be too much, that's all. Sydow and Anton, you guys rock. All the other men I miss, well, I miss you. I miss you, and the good old intellectual stupidity that comes with you.

Rock on.

Further abbreviation of Kristin's story summary. Large parts of the content are utterly slaughtered here, but this should sum up the gist of the story anyway (I hope). For those who've read Kristin's version, or who frankly don't give a damn, just ignore this



------

Lennox: We're looking for Pierre
Riklurt: It takes some time to register for the two guys that you were at all addressing them, it seems. One of them, the cornrow guy, eventually turns back with a nonchalant "Huh?"
Lennox: We are here to talk to Pierre, do you know where we can find him?
Riklurt: Pierre? You here to talk to *Pierre*?
Riklurt: He looks back to his friend with a brief smile. "So who I say hi from then?"
* Hudson leans over and flashes his badge
Hudson: Tell him the FBI wants to see him, and that he'd be very wise to comply to our wishes
Riklurt: He chuckles a little bit to himself. "Oh, Pierre got some *fine* visitors over."
Riklurt: Well I guess we can't say no t' that, can we?
Riklurt: He steps out of his car, alongside his friend - a bald, bigger man, also with a big white shirt.
Riklurt: Might I ask what's the deal, hm?
Lennox: We just want to talk a bit
Riklurt: You notice three more people coming out of the station, all dressed similarly. The guy at the pump takes a few steps back and joins them.
Riklurt: Talk a bit? A'ight, sounds reasonable. Officers, meet Pierre.
Riklurt: He makes a brief gesture to his bigger friend, whose height is slightly intimidating and whose black goatee makes you think of a movie villain.

Riklurt: Please roll Wits+Composure, both of you
Hudson: Roll 5#d10 Hudson rolled --> 8, 7, 1, 10, 2
Lennox: roll 4#d10 Lennox rolled --> 10, 2, 6, 9
Hudson: roll d10 Hudson rolled --> 5
Lennox: roll 1d10 Lennox rolled --> 9
Riklurt: Right. You both notice that the four men gathered around Pierre and his buddy are wearing large white hoodies, except one of them - what's more alarming is that they've got varying funny-shaped items inside their front pockets.
Riklurt: Additionally, it's probable you'd notice most of them are keeping their hands in said pockets.

Hudson: Might we speak to you somewhere more private, Mr Pierre?
Pierre: Private? These are my brothers y'all seein', ain't nothin' I keep secret from them.
Pierre: You got a problem with that?
Lennox: As you wish
Pierre: So, what's the problem?
Lennox: We want to ask you a few questions about your business with James O'Malley
---
Pierre: I ain't done no business with O'Malley in a while, why?
Lennox: Ok. But you have been dealing with Trevian Williams, correct?
Riklurt: There's a sudden unsettling among the other people present, and you hear one of the guys at the back go "Aaaaw damn."
Pierre: Yeah. Yeah, I have. What you got to do with Third, hm?
---
Pierre: Right. What fo? What he done?
Lennox: Nothing, as far as we know. We just need to clear a few things up in connection to the murder of Mr. O'Malley
* Pierre smiles a little nervously.
Pierre: You think he done it?
Lennox: Right now we don't *think* anything
Pierre: Third's a mean little brother, I think he could have.
Lennox: Really? What makes you think that?
Pierre: Third a *mean* motherfucker, and O'Malley was screwin' him over more than even he deserved, lil bastard.
* Pierre laughs. "Stupid motherfucker though you get somethin' for free outta the Westies."
Pierre: Course, we're brothers, helped him as much as I could, didn' I? Third owes me more than one.
* Pierre raises his voice, a lot. "AIN'T I RIGHT, HUH?"
* Pierre casts a quick glance to the other gangsters. This time, they don't nod.
Lennox: Well, we would like to talk to mr. Williams...
Pierre: Hah! Ya would?
Pierre: Gonna be hard for ya, damn Vipers popped a cap in him.

[*]

Riklurt: You both notice that Pierre's words seem to cause a lot of unrest among his friends, his friend in the car none the least, who looks absolutely puzzled.
Lennox: Did they, now
Lennox: What a shame
Pierre: Yeah, yeah. Third was a good brotha, crazy as hell, but a good brotha.
Hudson: Now, from what I've been given to understand, you people seem to have an awful lot of eyes watching each other, and an awful dislike for each other to go with it, so I suppose you won't mind telling us who it was that killed Mr Williams?
Pierre: Who killed him? Sure, foo, we keep track of that.
Pierre: Bitches Andre and RJ. Go get 'em jailed like good cops.

---
Hudson: I suggest we find a more suitable location to discuss this, before someone here does something stupid
* Lennox gets into the car
* Hudson gets into the car and starts driving off
Riklurt: Just as you're about to leave, one of them raises his voice and asks you a question: "Yo, wait! Wait! How'd O'Malley die?"
* Lennox looks at Hudson
* Hudson walks over to the car
Hudson: Did you know him?
Riklurt: No, no man. I'm just curious, is all.
Hudson: I see. Do you believe Mr Williams killed him?
Riklurt: The gangster falls silent. The others around him look at him hesitantly, waiting for an answer.
Hudson: Do you believe Mr Williams killed Mr O'Malley?
Riklurt: The first gangster seems to gather his confidence again.
Riklurt: No. No, I don', I'm just curious.
Hudson: So who do you think killed him?
Riklurt: Aw, I don't know!
Hudson: Take a wild guess
Riklurt: One of the other kids speaks up. "Yo, you don' go pushin' a brother around like that! He don' know nothin' man!"
Hudson: That makes four of us, I'm terribly curious to find out who did this.
Riklurt: So who you think done it, huh?
* Lennox steps out of the car and walks up slowly
Hudson: However, if you have no more information to give me, I see no reason to tell you anything more than I already have
Riklurt: Hey, prick! Don'tchoo think yo' badge is gonna make a difference if yo' full of metal, man!
Riklurt: One of the kids, a young and, presumably stupid, kid at the back draws out a gun. It's a cheap automatic pistol - but still a weapon.
Riklurt: How'd the irish motherfucker die, huh? Can you tell me that?

[*]

Hudson: All right, all right
Hudson: Mr O'Malley was in his bathroom on the twentieth floor, the door to which was locked from the inside. In this room, which was guarded by two men, he was torn to shreds, partly devoured, splattered across the walls and ceiling, and the final bits and pieces ended up on the roof of another building, no less than ten yards away.
Riklurt: Awww man? You serious?
Riklurt: Shieet...
Hudson: Is your curiosity satisfied now? Your lust for blood fulfilled?
Riklurt: The gangsters look at each other with meaningful looks in their eyes. They seem to have come to a common understanding.

[Various things happen. Hudson and Lennox find out where to find Trevian “Third” Williams, the suspected killer, where he lives with his girlfriend Suzette]

* Hudson knocks on the door
Riklurt: After a short while, there's a voice from inside, muffled through the door. "Who is it?"
Hudson: Special Agent Jack Hudson, FBI.
Suzette: What's it about?
Hudson: Open the door.

Lennox: always so diplomatic
Hudson: Yep
* Hudson holds up his badge
[*]
Hudson: Yes, we believe Mr Williams to be very dangerous
Suzette: Why so?
* Suzette leans forward to grab a cigarette, and you catch a glimpse of a beautiful, elaborate silver necklace around her neck. Looks a bit too expensive for someone who lives in a district like this.
Hudson: We have been lead to believe he is responsible for several accounts of murder recently, among others the ones of Rodriguez Julio and Andre Fields
Suzette: Trevian been in trouble all right, but why a Federal agent investigate this, hm?
Hudson: Because of the unique way the murders were committed
Suzette: Unique?
* Hudson briefly shows her a picture of Mr O'Malley, post murder
Suzette: You believe that's him?
Suzette: Ridiculous! How would e do that?
Hudson: That is what I am most interested in figuring out
Suzette: Interested? I wonder, Agent 'Udson, 'ow much zis interest is worth to you, hm?
* Trevian opens the door.
Trevian: Honey! I'm home!
Riklurt: End of session.

Riklurt: There we are.
Hudson: O_O
Hudson: You can't do that! O_O
Lennox: !!!!!
Riklurt: Cliffhanger :P
Hudson: Curse you, villain!