Remilia Quarterly

☆ RQ 1 — DIGI-ESSAY 2 ☆ ☆ LET'S ALL LOVE REMILIA: NOTES ON NETWORK SPIRITUALITY ☆ In our second digital essay, bonkle k. (@bonkleman_ ) shares his frantic meditations on acceleration as it pertains to contemporary net art, the cute, the beautiful, and the violent.

TURNING YOUR ROOM INTO A FARADAY CAGE, or, ESCAPING THE INTERNET FOREVER. A THREAD—

it's never too late to achieve things for yourself. don't let your brain choose comfort over curiosity and exploration

Networked based communal expression through post authorship and egoless tribe memetics is freeing statues from stones imperceivable entirely by agents operating psychologically based on today’s Platonic civilizational standards; Tomorrow’s Golden Dawn of energy abundance will grant allowance for materialization of omnidirectional bridges within the confines of the third dimension, reflecting extraterrestrial information through every rotation of quarks as quantum based galvanometer scanners, imploding advantages of the accelerated Lemurian time wars and bypassing globalism into the cultural rebirth in the form of global consciousness communist love-paralysis deshackling only the agents bathed in light vibrating at holy frequencies from the grievous confines of thermodynamic ensnarements.

the @RemiQuarterly issue no. 1 details (4k)

我要做我最想做的事，我最想做的每一件事，无论它是否其实眼高于顶、虚浮不实际，就是要做，这是我对我自己奉送的诚实之一，这种心情。

When you have no moral or spiritual foundations, you are vulnerable to being psyopped by toxic memeplexes—provided by state media, manifested from algorithms, or internally from pathologizing insecurity or trauma. These are demons, and they do possess people. Virtue is immunity.

I savor everything, maybe too much. Eyes grow wide when I explain I don't have a vehicle, I can't cook, I can't clean. It all happened so fast. But one day I will look back on when a man drove me everywhere, and my reflective gas station sunglasses were Prada, and I was always planning my next trip back to LA. And I will have been there, so there, for this transition. Nothing to rush or prove. Just watching myself morph as different songs pull me into opposite coasts and every email arrives from a timezone whose sun will always set before mine. And in the end, I'll be able to say, It was certain. It was out of my hands. A big accident. It was certain.

The intent of my digital planar offense was never to be personable. Each jab was articulated in a way to induce self-hate and surliness, to identify cracks in the armor of each person’s avarice. Personability inevitably became that way because the fourth wall of social media-isms has been smashed through, revealing my own personal wings of virtuosity that have been dressed in gold leaf by the blessed olive branch of Heaven. With each moment between PvP holding the sanctification of self-reflection and meditation, in true cherubim fashion. In the field of combat, sport is how and when you fill your own synapses’ void, and violence is how you choose to fill others’. The greatest lie the Devil ever told was that rhetoric is a civil skill, when bloodlines can be coagulated and extinguished through the persuasion of despair alone. It’s no mystery that the mesmerization of my mythos is to obliterate obsolete obsessions of the invirtuous, to protect the throne of decency while destroying dynasties. I love you. qt op unrelated

My words in your virtual vision

This morning I went on a walk with Dog. "I recently read that if you wait for complete knowledge of something before acting you will never take action. What do you think of that?" I asked. "Nothing," replied Dog. "I am opposed to thinking in general."

It is the act of establishing the eternal, that is, to speak the words that will still be spoken in a thousand years. In these moments it seems like the wind 'picks up' to cradle us, as though what is victorious at the end of time is reaching backwards to nurture its own.

what hurts more than the unfathomable pain of gaining wings; sprouting bones, and rupturing feathers? Except then, after an accumulation of vapor, the ever fading memory of your feet on the ground. and when the memory of grave traversal slowly disappears thru the firmament and over the horizon, you would find your lungs burning up. One motion remains; to cut off your own wings. crashing to the ground. soul limping towards the Earth, yearning to complete the cycle again

Bringing some light reading with me to the warehouse tonight @RemiQuarterly

Several times in my life friends who could draw have asked me to write stories for them to draw only for them to not follow through on the drawing part. I don't really blame them as it's hard to direct oneself at anything in particular in this life especially a thing which has no clear rewards waiting upon its completion. One story that I crafted I am particularly sad never really got started. The story is to be told in manga like format. The lead character is a bit of a nerdy loser who despite being bad at nearly every other aspect of life is unbelievably good at a sword dance game in a local arcade. The game he plays features a cutesy anime heroine sword fighter and it is played in a way similar to dance dance revolution or guitar hero wherein the game feeds the player scrolling instructions and success is based upon the timing of the player following along in the order instructed. Because of our protagonist's tremendous skill level at this game he is worshiped by the grandson of the gruff cigarette smoking grandma who owns the arcade. Whenever our protagonist comes to the arcade the grandson is elated and hypnotized by our protagonist's ability. Through accidental happenstance in the arcade our protagonist spills a drink on a local thug who then in anger attacks our protagonist. The grandson then shouts a command "duck" which our protagonist obeys immediately. Surprised the grandson then shouts several other commands which are again followed instinctively and the protagonist successfully defeats the local thug. From this encounter we learn that our protagonist's skills at the game translates to real life but still he must be issued external instructions having no ability to apply them correctly. Eventually, this leads to the construction of a VR headset by the gruff techy grandma that the protagonist wears so that the grandson may feed the protagonist movement instructions via a gamepad. And thus we arrive at our strange hero, an otherwise pathetic man turned into a hero by the commands of a child. It's very likely I will never get to make this story into anything but I still think about it from time to time. I think it would be a fun one.

Never apologize for being obsessed. Work all day. Read all night. Train for hours. Forget time exists. Be everywhere, but be a ghost. Turn off the world and create your own. Let craft consume you. Let hunger drive you. Let mission become religion. Turn down friends. Work out twice. Make 1000 cold calls. Go further. Go faster. Go to places no one thinks to go. Positive obsession is a gift, disguised as a curse. It might not be healthy. It might not be rational. But for some, insanity is the only option for sanity. You have to push yourself to live with yourself. It's that simple. Obsession is a superpower, and not something to be suppressed. Go all the way. Go alone. Go mad. Go in circles. Go in faith. It's the only option we've ever had. And the only one we ever will.

NEET temporality in general is distinct from "regular" time, there are in general no events that make each day distinct, nor are there any deadlines or milestones by which to measure things, discrete temporal units of measurement break down into a boundless, homogeneous ocean.

suffering is self-induced. you can be in pain and decide not to suffer whenever u feel like it. choosing to suffer is contemptible, childish behaviour. make your decision from a place of love rather than fear, express gratitude no matter the cost, and you will never suffer again.

everything around you screams dark forest hypothesis and you're walking through the night. once again, you flip the switch that you found years ago within, leave all concepts behind and blur with everything, submerging yourself in the omnipresent miracle. it's ironic that the moment you leave the rational realm to just be, everything just is—and so there's no need for an explanation anymore. maybe the closest you'll ever come to what is called "truth." the peak of mount stupidity and the valley of despair on your journey through the dunning-kruger curve are long behind you, yet the good old "i know that i know nothing" realization just becomes stronger the deeper you dive. somewhere in the metaphysical, you've found a place that you call home. you can't invite anyone there, and that's just the way it is, but everything you share with others is your subconscious trying to have the first guest in this place that was never seen by anyone but you. your core lives on a map that does not exist. you walk deeper into the forest, hearing an echo of your deepest pain, but you let go and continue because, oddly enough, with every step you take, you come closer to something that you can only describe as the source. it's a beautiful walk—perhaps the most beautiful one can take—but the longer you walk, the less likely it becomes to ever make it out of that forest again. and even if you do, will the rest of the world ever feel like home again?

AFFIRM: The More I Surrender To Momentum The More God Trusts Me With Complex Geometries