“But what is this essential difference between man and the brute? The most simple, general, and also the most popular answer to this question is—consciousness:—but consciousness in the strict sense; for the consciousness implied in the feeling of self as an individual, in discrimination by the senses, in the perception and even judgment of outward things according to definite sensible signs, cannot be denied to the brutes. Consciousness in the strictest sense is present only in a being to whom his species, his essential nature, is an object of thought. The brute is indeed conscious of himself as an individual—and he has accordingly the feeling of self as the common centre of successive sensations—but not as a species…”
—The Essence of Christianity, Ludwig Feuerbach

Dancing when tired it’s easy to feel like what being a black person could feel like. Tired but not tired in the way we whites experience it; tired but always tired, and therefore not tired but calmly drawing from some infinity even when moving from slow swaying to some quick pirrouette. One can bet that white and brown people will make their kids more and more like black ones as far as athletics and dance and inexhaustability go while making sure to maintain and increase their white intelligence and health— you can surely bet the first and thousandth user of genomic editing/selection aren’t black.

I’ve never heard anyone suggest that armed militias or vigilantes or death squads should (painlessly) kill all of the new generically altered or hand-picked IVF babies, but I am surprised I have not... Unless you are a full on transhumanist or at least okay with others going this route without a means of distinction— distinction itself being a laughable solution more drastic and impossible than segregation— execution seem the only way not to die yourself, or more generally, to have humanity’s speciation as we know it die: a death ultimately identical to the death of the individual. All this because, if “knowing itself as a species” and the inabillity to sexually reproduce with outsiders are the only definitions and differentiators of our species— and therefore of consciousness itself—, then the human form is the exclusive realization of contemplation. Maybe even by definition the final one.

The first step of any being’s survial is to believe itself perfect. Perfect due to both historically temporal and divinely imaginitive reasons. And once realizing this, consciously or unconsciously, to evolve— by living out this perfection, without contriving. Which is to say, when humanity finally became conscious of itself, life reached an abyss. Now what cannot help but be tempted is the very un-magiking of the evolutionary process that led to that very freedomful perfection which would tempt it. Evolution, as surely as we can know it so far, in the sense that we have faith in it while living, is made perfect and directed perfectly by only one thing— Fucking. Fucking over millenia, over universes of time, fucking long and longly intermittant.

It has been said and bears repeating, that the only thing God grants infinite time towards (how terrible a realization this is for everything else), is man fucking his wife. His only unaccursed share. Bearing witness to this, let us remember one of God’s most forgotten, and to us to whom it is so distant, most foreign, legal mandates: that a newly married man is to be completely free from the burden of work for an entire year after his marriage to his wife— what a waste of time! And now, against the current of such mandated blessings, we want to stop and to compose ourselves, not realizing that fucking is our only escape from time, the algorithm of all that is frenetic.

We do not have do this. We do not have to compose ourselves in any ways we already have not, regressions aside. But firstly, we must know, intuitively more than anything that this current way stinks… stinks to the point of suffocuating us all. Our only hope in this current midst, being that these now superbabies, grown into superhumans, suck at life to the point of extinction, whether reproductively or suicidally. Otherwise, if they truly are superior and “the science was right”, we have entered a new age: where perfection and evolution have become unentwined. The human species no longer conscious, the human species no longer “a species hearing the voice of the species”.

Money already makes us transhuman, but it is a transhumanism we can trust. It is culture— the seeds of mating. Which means we must get futher, for now, just by fucking until we can come up with something worth our trust, or more likely, be given something that smells… right; or not, and even though we have been told the angels are neither married nor given in marriage, we can voyage with the stars by intercouse alone.

“But what is this essential difference between man and the brute? The most simple, general, and also the most popular answer to this question is—consciousness:—but consciousness in the strict sense; for the consciousness implied in the feeling of self as an individual, in discrimination by the senses, in the perception and even judgment of outward things according to definite sensible signs, cannot be denied to the brutes. Consciousness in the strictest sense is present only in a being to whom his species, his essential nature, is an object of thought. The brute is indeed conscious of himself as an individual—and he has accordingly the feeling of self as the common centre of successive sensations—but not as a species…”
—The Essence of Christianity, Ludwig Feuerbach

Dancing when tired it’s easy to feel like what being a black person could feel like. Tired but not tired in the way we whites experience it; tired but always tired, and therefore not tired but calmly drawing from some infinity even when moving from slow swaying to some quick pirrouette. One can bet that white and brown people will make their kids more and more like black ones as far as athletics and dance and inexhaustability go while making sure to maintain and increase their white intelligence and health— you can surely bet the first and thousandth user of genomic editing/selection aren’t black.

I’ve never heard anyone suggest that armed militias or vigilantes or death squads should (painlessly) kill all of the new generically altered or hand-picked IVF babies, but I am surprised I have not... Unless you are a full on transhumanist or at least okay with others going this route without a means of distinction— distinction itself being a laughable solution more drastic and impossible than segregation— execution seem the only way not to die yourself, or more generally, to have humanity’s speciation as we know it die: a death ultimately identical to the death of the individual. All this because, if “knowing itself as a species” and the inabillity to sexually reproduce with outsiders are the only definitions and differentiators of our species— and therefore of consciousness itself—, then the human form is the exclusive realization of contemplation. Maybe even by definition the final one.

The first step of any being’s survial is to believe itself perfect. Perfect due to both historically temporal and divinely imaginitive reasons. And once realizing this, consciously or unconsciously, to evolve— by living out this perfection, without contriving. Which is to say, when humanity finally became conscious of itself, life reached an abyss. Now what cannot help but be tempted is the very un-magiking of the evolutionary process that led to that very freedomful perfection which would tempt it. Evolution, as surely as we can know it so far, in the sense that we have faith in it while living, is made perfect and directed perfectly by only one thing— Fucking. Fucking over millenia, over universes of time, fucking long and longly intermittant.

It has been said and bears repeating, that the only thing God grants infinite time towards (how terrible a realization this is for everything else), is man fucking his wife. His only unaccursed share. Bearing witness to this, let us remember one of God’s most forgotten, and to us to whom it is so distant, most foreign, legal mandates: that a newly married man is to be completely free from the burden of work for an entire year after his marriage to his wife— what a waste of time! And now, against the current of such mandated blessings, we want to stop and to compose ourselves, not realizing that fucking is our only escape from time, the algorithm of all that is frenetic.

We do not have do this. We do not have to compose ourselves in any ways we already have not, regressions aside. But firstly, we must know, intuitively more than anything that this current way stinks… stinks to the point of suffocuating us all. Our only hope in this current midst, being that these now superbabies, grown into superhumans, suck at life to the point of extinction, whether reproductively or suicidally. Otherwise, if they truly are superior and “the science was right”, we have entered a new age: where perfection and evolution have become unentwined. The human species no longer conscious, the human species no longer “a species hearing the voice of the species”.

Money already makes us transhuman, but it is a transhumanism we can trust. It is culture— the seeds of mating. Which means we must get futher, for now, just by fucking until we can come up with something worth our trust, or more likely, be given something that smells… right; or not, and even though we have been told the angels are neither married nor given in marriage, we can voyage with the stars by intercouse alone.