A very interesting short video on the current progress of A.I.

Does Anyone Else Feel Like Everything Has Changed?




If you watched the above vid, he referenced Ray Dalio. You'll definitely like this excellent history presentation in a nut shell on how the world order really works...

Principles for Dealing with the Changing World Order by Ray Dalio



Vid has ~26 million views & ~31,000 comments.

Quote:I believe the world is changing in big ways that haven’t happened before in our lifetimes but have many times in history, so I knew I needed to study past changes to understand what is happening now and help me to anticipate what is likely to happen.

I shared what I learned in my book, Principles for Dealing with the Changing World Order, and my hope is that this animation gives people an easy way to understand the key ideas from the book in a simple and entertaining way. In the first 18 minutes, you’ll get the gist of what drives the “Big Cycle” of rise and decline of nations through time and where we now are in that cycle. If you give me 20 minutes more to watch the whole thing, and I will show you how the big cycle worked across the last 500 years of history—and what the current world leading power, the United States, needs to do to remain strong.

Key Sections:
1:33 - How I Learned to Anticipate the Future by Studying the Past
8:00 - Changing Orders
11:38 - The Big Cycle
18:26 - 500 Years of Big Cycles
18:45 - The Rise
26:16 - The Top
32:01- The Decline
39:39 - The Future

The overnight snow seemed to have been reluctant to visit this part of the forest and standing here beside the mythical
place where my ancestors were supposed to have originated from, I mockingly wondered if all the weird supplements
of my grandfather's annual story had some merit. Zipping my waterproof jacket up fully, I would have to admit that a
coldness had -at least, made an effort to give the overgrown dell a feel of maleficent ambience.

I reckon I'd been ten years-old when I first heard the tale of old Hetty, an alleged soothsayer who foretold the success
of a small boy and how his future would benefit mankind. A great yarn, full of scary moments and a creepy woman who
lived in a well. A classic -some would say, that my Grandfather would deliver such a mouth-watering folktale with relish
at a time of year where the old meets the new. For myself, it was obvious -even back then, that the old man had carved
the uncanny narrative to hint that such service could be connected to my destiny too, if I embraced its meaning.

Surveying the the tangles of blackberry bushes, twisting bellbinds and moss-covered boulders, my mind creeps back to
those Christmas afternoons before the big feast when the toothless father-of-my-father would render his version of how
we came to be. I can remember him now and the scene of of his telling is so formulaic that it sometimes makes me
wonder if I have performed the same act as that long-dead man had and contorted reality to make my memory more
conducive to a listener, I too would be viewed as an off-the-wall character.
Not that I've ever gave the legend any utterance to anyone until now.

There he'd hold sway, hunched over in his armchair beside a blazing fire, the ninety-year-old would stare balefully at
the little lad at his feet and administering dollops of wide-eyed boggle of transcendent magic and boorish intimation
of organised-powers that exist beyond some mysterious veil.

As the faint sonance of clattering pots and pans performed in the busy kitchen and my parents chirped small worries
about gravy density to each other, a grizzled old man who could fart with the best of them would whisper idioms of
astoundment to his grandchild and a with hope that a special kind of baton would be passed across time once more.

The bones of the family lore had been simple as all tales should be. A coarse-speaking crone had visited one of my
predecessors and for the price of a meal, forecast his future before disappearing into a hole in the ground. Now at
that very location, I must confess that it was a grand supernumerary of dark innuendo that all good yarns need when
told to a child swimming in make-believe and certainly matched the disorderly herbage of where I currently stood.

I'm getting towards half-a-century old now and maybe this is that imaginary crossroad where I cry out for my time
back and mourn the years of my youth or just trudge onwards to more thinning of my pate and accepting the alarm
bells in my joints. Midlife crisis...? If standing alone amongst punky-smelling verdure and snaking vines that wish to
snag an invader of their suppressed haven is an indicator, then yes... that would rationally explain why I'm here.

But quickly on the heels of this ascetic reflection, I mentally stumble on by reminding myself that my current bearing
stems simply from my Grandfather's story and whether the cold afternoon finds me staring down into the darkness of
a borehole and realising that the past should just remain there and the future is more important, then maybe I can hold
a branding-iron to sear the truth onto my Grandfather's words or cauterise the mark he'd made and move on.

Now standing before the decaying watering-hole where Wicked Hetty supposedly departed from the boy of the story,
a more-melodramatic person than myself may pose I was awaiting such a verdict.
..........................................

"Yer' shouldn't be buggerin' about here me-lad, it's a dangerous place..." the woman said as she adjusted a bundle
of sticks beneath her arm. "...Ah've heard some say it's a haunted address too" she added and pulled the hood of her
coat down to allow a full examination. Resisting the need to choke on my alarm, I gathered myself as I surveyed the
middle-aged stranger and kindling-gathering interloper of my Parzival-like pilgrimage.

"Er... yes, yes-indeed. I was just interested in the old well here" I mumbled without any real cerebration of logic. I was
still dealing with being startled from my poetic reflection of my past and being dragged back into reality can certainly
knock any wool-gatherer from his beam.

"It certainly looks perilous" I suggested and glanced back to the stygian ruined abode of one of my memories. As the
chilly Christmas morning treacled on, the quietness of the woods joined me in noticing the woman seemed more
interested in her burden than myself and so I timidly began to scan her poise and face as I waited by the well.

I'd guess she was in her late-forties, but I've never been one for decent hunches when it comes to a woman's age.
All men are aware of this minefield regardless of any possible amour or edible fare on the table, it's merely some
unspoken advice handed down from the days of living in caves.

The stranger's hair was charcoal and thankfully free of the dyes to keep it that way commonly found these days.
Via my fleeting and abashed gander, I saw that she carried a face not unappealing and I would wager from the
set of her mouth, the lady could tarry in a jape and take full advantage of such badinage for her own merriment.
Maybe the very warning she'd offered was such a prank, but I couldn't be sure.

Of course, her proletarian accent was not of my social-standing and I'm embarrassed to say this. My family were
wealthy enough to send me for a high-quality education where comportment of one's speech and pronunciation
are paramount in getting on in life. One hopes a listener doesn't misunderstand my words, I'm merely expressing
that a good schooling coaches a better crusade for self-prosperity in all walks of life.

But now beneath a winter sky and surrounded by dreary boscage, this fairly-handsome stick-collector seemed to
speak in the manner that my Grandfather would appreciate, the common tongue of the benighted, the enunciate
of the vulgar and a pairing I would never have guessed at.

"Yer not frum' 'round here..." the woman offered as her focus left the gathered faggot and returned to newly-found
catechumen amongst the weeds. "...Tis' an odd day te' be rootin' 'round in such an impotent place and nay muddle
fur' sure. Bad place this, some say... full 'a things best left unearthed, others tell" she muttered and I believe her last
remark was to herself more than me.

During her cryptic opinion-venting, I delegated my viewing to eyeing the forlorn shrubbery that waited either side of
this miserable magistrate of my visit and raven-haired trespasser of my reminiscing introspection. Yet, it seemed
my outsider position needed more dubiousness dumped onto it.

"Ah' would a' thought a fella, a gent like yer'sell would be home under a tree and enjoyin' the livery of today? Ah hear
it telled' that some give gifts to discharge their jubilation for the day" she added and suddenly gazed squarely towards
me like an unsure predator coming to an accord with their needs.

However, with the need to counter her overt plebeian power-grab, I confidently responded that I was here because of
personal reasons and that I should really be on my way during this time of festive celebration. I believed -at the time,
my tone of cavalier articulation was commanding enough that my own type of cautioning struck home. I would also
propose that insults -no matter how poorly veiled, are becoming far-too common these days.
Although, I never told her this.

It was at this moment, the atmosphere that bound us in this strange encounter took on an air that -once more, the
old man who's seed was my father, would have cackled at and shown his lack of dentures. I'm not one for reading
fiction and even though my present predicament would equal anything Poe or Lovecraft could've dredged from their
dark innards, I attempted to cling onto the reality I knew to be trusted... the one that now spurned me in my hour of
of need. The hour of Hetty the Hag.
..........................................

The old Witch chuckled as the aromatic herbage around me began to writhe and shrivel, the sombre light of this cold
end of December changed and some might suggest, became a time before pollution. The poor weather was gone and
now a bright sun shone down into the small clearing where a grinning raggedy scarecrow watched as the small boy in
an oversized windcheater ogled at the magical world he'd been dragged down into.

I cannot swear to it, but the background sounds that I was accustomed to in my life altered too, the familiar low murmur
of modern-day living seemed to fall away to a fresher -less busy accent. The air felt sweeter on my lips and the aromas
told of wild flowers feeling the breeze of a Summer's day and nodding in confidence that time would never be the Judas
we all know it to be.

All this from a devolved terror-stricken adult grasping at the oversized pants he'd darkened in fear. I had passed through
that supposedly-translucent curtain that my elder had spoken of and now in child-form, had become part of an epilogue
to the folklore of rural Underhill.

"Yer' took yer' bloody time te' come back te' me, me-lad..." the skinny harridan scolded "...the defrayal fur' yer good times
didn't include forgettin' ol' Hetty, thee knows". My terrified mind raced across the account from my Grandfather and for a
moment, a smeared plate of hardened cheese swam past my lens of anamnesis. Oh, it was so long ago... was I correct?

Hetty's un-toothed maw widened and prompted me that I may be accurate. But the abhorrent mare's words confirmed it
-even though it took me a second to translate her shabby version. "Aye, old rat... a begrudged repast fur' a grand payment
that would bring pelotage te' a young fella's future" she growled as her red-rimmed eyes scanned the man who'd now been
reduced down to a frightened boy again. I had misplaced the knowledge that she could read minds.

"There'll be looking for me..." I blurted "...I am a man of means and importance, you're going to get into troub..." but my
admonishment was curtailed when the rawboned crone stepped forwards and grabbed the artificial fabric of my too-big
coat. "Divna' threaten me wiv' yer piss-poor dither, if thee kens the bargain, then thee kens the contract in its absolute"
Hetty hissed into my blanched face.

Every word stank of expired care and poisonous menace, the damaged woman in rags hinted at something beyond an
old man's dispensing of a lightweight fairy-tale told in round, pear shaped tones. It smacked of lost imperative particulars.
What deal had been made in that long-ago farmyard and what unwanted details had been dropped from the legend?

With my collar released, I felt her bundle of claws pretentiously pat the top of my head and I'd swear I felt scurrying lice
exploring a new home. The Hag stood erect and with the rays of the sun threatening to shine through her bedraggled
attire, I mentally prayed that the redeemer born on this day would release me from this nightmare.

Allowing her anger to leave her craggy features, the scrawny horror before me planted her hands on her bulimic hips
and confidently cooed the words that assured my stained jeans would fall foul to a more-substantial blemishing.
"It's time me-lad, yer've grown up and the pact must now be bound... it's time yer' took me as yer wife".


The End?

The aircraft has an extremely valuable mission for any Navy or aircraft that are airborne as it is designed to detect all threats within (classified) distances. Regardless the price of this stuff is beyond belief IMO.

Greenland Ice core shows up to 15 degrees swings in temperatures around 11000 to 15000 years ago; some of those temp swings happened in two years or less.

I know, I know. 

It's no longer politically correct to say "Merry Christmas" and it should be "Happy Holidays"....

BUT

Where I'm from, it's "Merry Christmas", it's always been "Merry Christmas" and it will remain "Merry Christmas".

I mean no offence to anyone but if "Merry Christmas" offends you, you should skip this post.

It irks me that Christmas trees are no longer tolerated in certain malls where I live because it offends certain ethnicities.

They say it's a culture thing but it's not. It's a non-inclusive thing.

Because you cannot tolerate a different culture than yours. Period.

I respect your culture, your holidays, your ways of dressing up, your God and your religions. I may not like it but I respect it.

Why can't you respect mine? Especially in my own country, where I was born, where my ancestors were born.

It irks me that we are trying to cancel Merry Christmas. Derived from Christ. This is who we believe in, who my ancestors believed in, who, however, the next generations will slowly forget.

Again, why not respect who I believe in? That's not a culture thing. It's a "I'm holding the truth and not you" thing.

But why?

I find it ironic that the ones that yell to racism the most are the most racist ones. Always.

So, Merry Christmas!!

Christmas is supposed to be the happiest time of the year. It used to be. 

Now, we'll settle for Happy Holidays.

Sure.

Just let me wish Merry Christmas if I want to.

And I want to.

Merry Christmas!!!!

Sol.

"Etidorhpa (Aphrodite spelled backwards) or The End of Earth: the strange history of a mysterious being and the account of a remarkable journey, is the title of a novel published in 1895. Ideas presented in Etidorhpa include practical alchemy, secret societies and Hermetic orders, the Hollow Earth theory, and the concept of transcending the physical realm."

Short version





The longer version - Book is in public domain: ETIDORHPA OR THE END OF EARTH. THE STRANGE HISTORY OF A MYSTERIOUS BEING

Some years ago, BIAD and I were involved in a collaborative writing project, a Space Opera, at TOS. One Christmas, I think it was around 2012 or 2013 - but I could be misremembering that - the story took a turn towards Christmas at around Christmas time. What follows is a rescention of that segment of the story.

This version is a re-working of the original by BIAD, and a further re-working (purely for formatting) by myself.

====================================================================


Part the First:


'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; that's how Clement Clark Moore's poem begins. But have any of you ever pondered on what really happened on that unique evening before the advent of the Christ?

Throughout the ages, theologians and scholars have attempted to piece together the logistics of how the scene we call 'The Nativity' came about and what forces were available to create such a singular circumstance.

Here on Rogue Nation, we not only have the answers, we actually have the characters who witnessed the delivery and those attended a small incident that changed the world forever.

But I think you'll need a little background information to explain how these people ended-up spectating the birth and may I add, creatures did stir and it was a dilapidated barn, not a house.

Boy In A Dress told me most of it and any gaps were kindly filled-in by Ninurta. This was convenient considering both are the main characters in this story. Someone called 'Tibbs' is also referenced and from what I could understand, he was the brains-of-the-outfit. Not such a lofty position in view of the company considering Ninurta's fondness for violence and Boy In A Dress' weakness to wander from 'on-the-ground' reality.

Tibbs is a small humanoid who -dressed in a hooded robe and sporting thick-lens spectacles, travelled the many universes with an agenda based on jurisdiction and an agreed historical timeline. Apparently, certain civilisations were supposed to do this and other worlds were supposed to do that, I'd suppose one would wager all this would be written down somewhere.

Multiple variables are taken into consideration and I was given the impression that particular futures were mapped out by… well someone, to make sure a plan for a cosmos arrived at a specific point in time that was universally beneficial to all involved. Whatever that means!

Tibbs' tasks were to keep order and drive development for the betterment of these complex and ever-changing macrocosms. Which may explain why -when Ninurta and the Man-Girl first met the almost-three-foot tall, always-serious control-freak, the little male had just finished constructing a weapon to shoot God!

But I'm getting off track and I've just remembered something else that may be important. Tibbs is also known as a 'Vithian' and after many hours on the internet, I'm still at a loss to relate more on what that means. Maybe he comes from the planet Vith...? I dunno.

But what I do know -after some research, is that the three of them were in a craft traversing space and this was where Tibbs' scrutiny of some device caused the trio to slip back in time. Oh... there was a ship cat too, but that green-furred animal remained on the vessel called 'The Sprint'.

I think that's it for now... so let's get on with the tale. This story means no offence to anyone with a religious bent and should be taken in a entertaining aspect with its only goal to lighten one's day. Thank you to Ninurta who helped in creating the account and I suppose, thank you to the lunatic we call 'BIAD'.

...........................................

The First Christmas.

"Oops" said Tibbs and attempted to quickly crank the amulet's outer edging clock-wise. But it was too late. Ninurta had time to turn his head and BIAD looked up from picking at his dress hem as the device sounded it's singular click. The ship's cat managed to get under the pilot's seat just as the white-blue flash occurred.

They were gone.

The Sprint continued it's programmed course, but now without any human occupants. Sasquatch's green fur rippled from under the seat with a confused fear at the sudden disappearance and as the craft's mechanisms ticked and flashed their coloured bulbs, the eyes of the feline named after a legendary Earth-ape, gave nothing away of what it was thinking.
...........................................


"It's snowing" chirped Boy In A Dress and looked around in the cold darkness, Ninurta panned the barrel of his pistol around and during the scanning of the surrounding gloom, his hand grabbed Tibbs's shoulder and jerked him close.

"Okay little man, what did you do?" the grizzled Gunslinger hissed and lifted the Vithian up onto his tip-toes, the gunman's eyes flitting from right to left. The bare-legged hermaphrodite who announced the state of the weather moved to cover his compadre's rear and the unusual group stood in a survey position of a North-South-East posture, they were ready for whatever was going to happen.

Tibbs struggled with the robe's collar digging into his throat, so it was only a choking rasp that answered Ninurta. "Amulet... damaged tracer... time-slip" Tibbs coughed out and theorizing that the little man's cheeks above the snow-flecked beard were turning bright scarlet due to his stranglehold, Ninurta unceremoniously dumped Tibbs into the foot-deep whiteness. The Gunman's attention went back to the blackness of the situation and what crazy shit they were involved with this time.

BIAD shook his head dog-like to cause a sprinkle of snow to add to the half-hearted flurry that loomed from the night sky. Accepting his fate in his usual manner, the Man-Girl also stuck his tongue out to catch an icy flake. If he was wondering what to do next -just like the verdant cat back on The Sprint, there was no indication.

The prone Tibbs swept snow from his robes and tried to do it with some dignity, Ninurta's appetite for rough discourse was something he'd been warned about long ago and something he'd learned to endure. The irony of having the power to assist civilization and fail miserably when it came to the six-foot-tall man of the woods wasn't lost on him as he wiped his spectacles clean.

Peering up towards the subject of his musings, the Vithian realised something had caught Ninurta's attention and so, followed the pistol-pointing Gunman's gaze to a faint glow that winked from far off.

"It was an anomaly with the Tracer Ring..." Tibbs snipped and moaned softly as he got to his feet. "... the bauble must have taken some damage during one of your destructive treks". Tibbs fished about in his pocket and brought the shiny object out into the frosty air.

Ignoring the small man's sarcastic comments and the revealed-instrument of their current dilemma, the creature with the flimsy red attire and matching footwear leaned slightly forward as he also noticed the faint light. As Tibbs explained how the band of three odd people had probably passed through something he named a 'time-mesh', BIAD whispered to Ninurta "You think it's a torch?"

The hunter-eyes of the tall man slitted against the wind-driven flurry of snow and his lips became thin lines as he responded with "a lantern... maybe".

The small bearded man -realising his elucidation was being wasted to the blizzard and his less-academic partners, sighed and squinted down at the amulet. Producing a small object from his other pocket, Tibbs shone a tight beam of light onto the face of the broach and pondered where he and his friends were in time. It took only a minute.

"You can put the gun away -Mr. Ninurta... you have nothing to fear tonight" Tibbs offered with confidence. Putting the jewelry away, he suddenly turned to shuffle off towards the blinking light. BIAD looked up at his taller friend and tilted his head to show his confusion.
Ninurta offered a toothy grin and shrugged his shoulders. "Come on Boy, let's see what craziness lies ahead" he whispered with the nearest the Gunslinger could muster as enthusiasm.

Three sets of tracks showed their passage, a small shoe with a dragging coat, a large footprint with a long stride and odd-looking high-heel mark that occasionally indicated that the owner was hopping and possibly being silly in the snow.

...........................................
(To Be Continued)