Tuesday, June 28, 2016

This could get Trump Votes

 Trump Compares TPP Trade Deal to Rape 

This hits the Clintoncrats were they live.

Life or Death

36 Killed Istanbul


Cobyn Out

U.K. Labour’s Corbyn Loses Confidence Vote of Party Lawmakers

Again this is what the Tories want. Corbyn staying... he knows the vote is non-binding.

Brexit a scam

The brexit vote was a scam. Do not take my for it, take the Conservative parties word for it.

First, the PM - before the vote - wanted to resign. This was not in question.

Second, when did a non-binding vote ever cause this much consternation, in both the UK and on the Continent? Normally, they would repackage this vote and try again if they wanted a different result. So why have not they? The obvious answer, is that this is the vote that the Conservative party wanted. But there were additional things that they wanted.

If they had wanted PM to resign in the normal way, Scotland would still be part of the union – and people would be questioning the next choice of PM. This way, Scotland will be removed – by its own choice – and there is no question as to whether the PM has two go. Of course that means that the one thing that the continent wants – a swift and certain divorce – will happen, rather than what the elites of the UK want – a rather legibly divorce, sleeping in the same room so to speak. The labour party is dysfunctional, and in the interim, will get a rather more Blairish leader – which is again what the Tory party wants.

What is more important however, is that when a conservative party is in charge, this is why it does not want lots of money in circulation. Allow me to explain.

When one looks at the difference between conservative and liberal parties, one sees that liberal parties want money – while conservative parties do not. This is usually framed as a difference that favors the liberal party. But think of it in another way – money is not what the conservative party, either high up or low down, wants. They would rather have a scarcity of money, that the conservative party controls. Liberals want more money, because at the bottom, that is what their contingency wants – money to spend. But conservatives do not want money to spend, because that will mean that the poor do not think about money with every second – which is the way that the conservatives want them to think, they want them to think about money every possible second.

Thus liberal parties want money, and conservative parties want scarcity of money. Liberal parties want more,  the conservative parties want less -  and it is under their control. It does not matter whether, in the conservative view, the rich are richer in terms of money – instead it matters if the poor are short of money. Because after all, the money that they lost on a two-week bender is really not that important, what is important is the ratio between the money they have and the money you have. A ratio means that it does not matter how much money they have, but can they wait out your spending money faster than they spend money. And losing money happens to work out for the Tory point of view.

 In conclusion, they get what they want – as is seen by them not taking a vote when they could – they get rid of Scotland – which is so bad if you think about it, because the Scots are anti-Tory – and the poor lose – and if your Tory, what is bad about that?

 Discussion on Ian Welsh's blog.

The Silent Sphere - 15


Niccolo abandoned ship, alone. He knew that there was nothing he could do, and to stand and die on deck was not his desire, or worse, to be dismembered and drift in pieces to the shadowlands. Part of him castigated his doing so, but it had been the plan for him to jump if it came to that. To get word out required someone to do it, and he was the only pilot. The discussion on this point had gone round in circles, but finally, if anyone was going to take the leap into the void, it would have to be him. Still as he drifted downwards, swinging back and forth like a pendulum under the octagonal canopy of silk, it felt as if he had spent a chunk of his spiritual wealth to do what he just did, and he owed the gods that looked over his soul some great geste or deeds as payment for their forbearance.

For hours he drifted down, his muscles straining by the straps, and then burning. He thought he saw black brackish water, and tried to steer a course. While hanging there he came to the realization that the courage he had been displaying, while a magnification of his usual ferociousness, had been augmented in some way by Morwethe's god and his fuming smoke. Now fear roiled up and down his intestine, and he reflected on what madness this plan had been. But no matter, it was done.

With each tick tock swing down, he felt gentle winds carry him, and rapidly the details of the land below grew more discernible to his eye. Everything was black, but there were shades of black, and highlights of sparkling white. There were rolls where the frail sun streaked, and those that were abyssal from the blocking shadowlands. He tried to memorize a map of what was below, seeing at least a few signs of human inhabitation, including a bone white city far to his east, a sea that he remembered fed into the great cataract that fell into the center of Korana, and what seemed to be a black circle with roads running into it, whose details never resolved in to his vision.

Finally he landed easily, not far from what seemed to be some kind of pool or pond, or oasis. He recalled the dream that Morwethe had sent, or inspired, in him, and wondered if it were touched by foreknowledge of what was here. He decided to hold the thought, but not let it overtake his expectations, since who knew which order dreams and waking came in.

Once on the ground he crouched, but did not let himself rest for long. His legs were like jelly, but he forced himself to methodically fold up the parachute, and then hide behind a large outcropping of rock that was not far from where he had landed, Fortune had been kind in depositing him on some particularly soft sand, but not too kind, as he found himself half stuck in it, and in places nearly slogging through it. He remembered tails of travelers sucked into sands, or creatures that waited in ambush in the desert. However, first to find a place sheltered from the sun, where he could catch some rest before dark, when the dangers would be many times multiplied.

For the rest of the day, he slept, and was awoken by a rumbling, he had only just enough time to unfold the silk twice and cover himself, before the black sand covered him, and its weight piled up over head. It piled on and on, and then even as he felt the wind and sand pass by, he felt more pour from the top of the rock on to him, and he realized he was sinking into the sand beneath. He wedged himself with one boot, and the weight of the obsidian powder weighed down on him. He pulled out a dirk, and rammed it into the soft rock behind him, giving him an arm and a leg, and grasped with his other hand on a bit of outcropping. He probed down with one leg, stretching it out, and finally it hit what seemed a small ledge in the rock.

This allowed him some stability, but he knew he did not have much air. The memory in his mind was that the rock itself was black as coal, and therefore, likely to be recent. This was, as he now reflected, a mistake. However, he was stable, and now slowly inched himself up through the sand, using the leverage of the rock. After some struggles, he managed to turn himself around, and began working his way up more quickly. Rigging had taught him all there was to know about grasping, levering, and pulling, even under the weight of the sand. At last he broke through, his breath hot from being held, but not yet suffocating. The winter's air was bracing and dry, but a cleansing dry after the fetid build up of moisture.

He breathed the clean air, and scoured the horizon. Still retreating in the distance was a vast wave of black sand, born on some kind of wave. That, he could feel, had to be from the impact of the ship, so there, he knew, he must go. He took his bearings, took the navigation quadrant from his belt, took measurements, and mentally counted the time. He would make fast movement for half the day, and then slower movement in the night, then, he would sleep the dog watch, where it was safest.

Then off over the sand at a run he went, he was heedless to being seen, deciding that time, and not stealth, was best, because anything of any importance would be focused on the ship, and not on some small man tracking his way through the northern black desert. It was not the surest concept, he knew, but his guilt was behind him, and is fear in front of him, and this lent what seemed to be wings to his feet.

Into the twilight he went, feeling the cold bands of dark grow in length until the wrapped all around him. The blackness was almost total, even though the sun was not far from the horizon. He could hear moving water, and it had to be close. His feet told him that he was moving from loose sand to more solid soil, even though it still seemed very black. He wondered if the soil of Korana was becoming like the shadowlands, but he could hear the buzzing of insects, the splashing of fish, the rustle of reeds, and all of the other normal sounds of life near water. He retreated some distance away, not wanting to be too closed to the animals that live in the water, or the hunters that come in the night. 

Once again, opting of expediency over inconspicuousness, he lit a fire, and used dried reeds and grasses to keep it going. The smoke trailed off of it, and reached high up into the night sky, he allowed himself to cat nap in the light of the fire, waking to fuel it periodically. However, at midnight he threw a last batch, and assembled his belongings, leaving the fire burning in his wake, in at least an attempt to create a distraction from his movement. He saw figures and shapes at the edge of his view, but they all moved like animals, and they all had stayed well away from the fire. He wished for a torch, but reflected that would be foolhardy, not efficient.

He hewed close to the water's edge, and over time it became clear that a cliff was rising up to his right, and the water level was descending, the beach was perhaps a hundred paces or so long, before rising up to stoney layered red rock. He noted this, because it was the first outcropping or surface detail that was both natural, and not blackened. In the distance along the water's edge, he saw a small skiff, or other kind of sailboat moored on the beach. It looked to be a craft for no more than two or three men, perhaps it was a fishing vessel, or was used in small trade. its sails hung in a kind of strange limp fashion, and he wondered what kind of sailor would leave the rigging in such a state, unless it were either urgent to come to shore to do something, or perhaps running a very short errand before returning to the water. The planks of the hull were weathered, and the little boat had seen both better days, and many of them. It was in a gaff rig: a small triangular sail fore, and a large trapezoid sail aft.

In another few minutes of pacing towards it, however, he began to have a different sense of the scene, with the ship rocking back and forth, making it seem, to his eye, that something had to be terrible wrong. A skipper might leave the sails up if in a hurry, but he would not have left the boat so easily to drift off into the water. He was coming around a great slow curve in the beach, and gradually the full side of the boat came into view: and any illusion of a peaceful sea pastorale scene, was shattered. There on the peak halyard of the gaff rig, was a man hung by a length of thick rope, and the boat was swinging back and forth, because the body was still swinging back and forth.

He walked closer and could see more. It was clear the man had been hung for some time, as the face was somewhat mottled, and the tongue was hanging out. He was dressed in the long beige robes common of men on Korana, a style that they called a “bisht” – it was of a soft wool that hung in loose folds over his plain tunic that they often called the “tawb, ” though little different from tunics in any land, other than the bleached whiteness. On his feet were a set of light shoes, these were a dull brown. Nothing bespoke of anything but hardy common stock, without any particular adornment. His feet pointed down slightly.

“Poor bastard.”

He heard a gurgling noise come from the man's mouth, and there was motion. This was out-of-place, the man should clearly have been dead. In fact, reason dictated that he was dead, and was thus of the unquiet dead.

There was another gurgling noise, and Niccolo realized he had been gaping. Niccolo decided that the least one man of the sea could do for another, was cut him down off the mast and give him some send off to the void. Even if that meant killing him a second time. The second death was no worse than the first.

However, he halted just after climbing on board. At this point, the hanging corpse spoke: “Don't cut me down.”

Niccolo looked up.

“And why not man? Do you want to hang there?”

“If you do I will kill you!”

“And why's that?”

“The dead hate the living, ” It tiled its eyes down upon him in a glare, “hate them. I would not be able to help myself.”

“How did you end up dead then, I had assumed that you had been hung.”

“Oh no, I was killed and kept a corpse, I hung myself after I had killed a woman and ate her, her bones are back in far cave.”

“So you hung yourself.”


“So you don't wish to be among the unquiet dead, or in a body.”

“Oh no, of course not. It was some doing to hang myself, since if it had been obvious I would never have been allowed to do it.”

“Who has power over you, Death?”

“Oh no. Death is the invader, it is a dark spirit of this world that raises an army of the undead against him.”

“And do you not want to defend your sphere, your home, the goddess that gives you life?”

“She is mad, mad I tell you, she raises a shroud over us, and blots out the light of any sun and all the stars. She is mad, and none I know see why.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Have me exorcised if you have the wit or the power.”

“We don't have such powerful rights. I can chase away a haunting or so, but not send it beyond.”

“I warn you, all that fall now remain here, at best haunting the sphere, at worst, like me, they will. KILL THE LIVING.” With that shout the corpse, with an inhuman disregard for its neck, twisted its head full around and dropped down, slipping out of the knot.

It dropped to the deck, but it was also clear that rot had begun to eat away at the body, as it stumbled badly as it lunged at him. It was not difficult to cut off the head on the first pass and duck side. The boat swayed, and the headless corpse, guided by some unerring force, began swinging its arms at him. The first swing was so powerful that it knocked Niccolo's heavy battle sword away, making him draw a rapier. This was less effective, and even as Niccolo pierced the corpse over and over again, this did little to the bodily integrity, the corpses arms swung wildly but hit hard. Niccolo rolled across the deck and brought his feet under him. He braced his right leg on the inside of the hull, waited for impact, and slid the rapier home. However this was not the point of the attack, he then threw the corpse overboard, sliding it off the rapier. Then after sheathing the steel, he picked up a fishing spar, and smashed the corpse to pieces with a series of blows that took several minutes to deliver. On the deck the head continued to roll around, gurgling all the while. Niccolo turned his attention to that, and battered it to pieces.

Once this was done, he found a sack, and speared remains for some time, finally filling the sack with limbs and guts. Grisly work, but he tied a rock around the shroud, and made ready to dump it in the water. Niccolo had made devotions to many godlings over the years, for many touch on the life of a sailor, but this time he knelt and clasped his hands, praying to the Ferryman to come. He felt a wrenching in the air, but then nothing. He shook his head, wondering what the cause of this sensation was.

He then went and found the gnawed bones of the woman, and buried them on land, again praying to the bearer of souls, and again, he felt a wrenching in the fabric of the air, and then nothing.
With this, he cleaned up the rigging on the skiff, and even though the day was late, he decided that it was safer on the water than close to land, polling a bit out, he dumped the sack in deep enough water, and then got under sail. He examined the ship closely, and found strange fresh markings on it, he carefully scratched these out, and set fresh wards down. He was far from an accomplished mage, but here and there, some protective binding or wording was useful to have. He had not seen these before, and being a merchant trader, meant he had seen most of the common, and no small selection of the uncommon.

From there, however, he set his mind to working his way out of the bay and towards his new destination. The wind was light, and he had to tack hard into it, but the magic of sail was that even a slow wind is faster than a hard run, and far less taxing. He began making his way out of the bay, with the cliff line growing shorter in his view, but spreading out longer as he began to appreciate that it was a large crescent, and, he reflected, quite likely the wall of a crater.

He slept aboard water, but did not use the net to haul up fish. Even fish have souls, and he did not want so many separated from their bodies under such odd circumstances. He had never thought to closely about what happened to such spirits, and he assumed that most of them, at most times, merely clung to where they had lived. But now, the idea of eating made him sick. Instead he scooped up jetsam of seaweed, and rummaged around to find vinegar to put it in. He chewed on this, and drank the water from the skin.

Before the dawn he awoke, munch a few marinated leaves, and used his quadrant to check the positions of the stars and spheres. It was difficult with the bands of darkness, but no worse than many a stormy day on many a world.

Soon he was at sail again, however, and began tacking towards where his reckoning told him that the ship, or what remained of it, had crashed. He remained becalmed for a time in the afternoon, and allowed himself to nap while waiting for winds. Out beyond land he could sense how the shrouds of the shadowlands were, indeed visibly growing and filing in the gaps. If it continued, in some weeks or months perhaps, the sky would be blotted out by black, and this would be an inner skin, but without one with either access to an outer sun, or the inner manifestation of the goddess of the sphere, which appeared as a sun to those inside of her.

Strangely, or not, the weather was otherwise faire, with the white rising gyre seeming no more than a slender cloud that snaked down from the sky far away, and certainly not threatening, and few other clouds that ran across from horizon to horizon rather quickly. He slept again, moored in four fathoms of water, this time more soundly.

On the morning of the next day, he saw another circular bay cut out of this small sea, but one that was freshly cut. It had two great arms that circled out into the water, leaving a wide gate like entrance into it, he spent hours tacking towards it, as the winds remained against him, but handling such a small sail was not hard, and even was relaxing. He entered through the narrows between the two crab like arms, which ran like a sharp curved ridged spin of black sand. Already the wind was eroding them down.

He was through the narrows, and looked straight at the center of the crater.