Field Notes From The Edge Of Empire
the philosophy of electricity and the physics of rebellion
This is not a manifesto.
This is not a product.
There is no brand, no audience, no neatly resolved conclusion.
These are fragments gathered in motion—scribbled in the margins of collapse, carried on the wind between protest chants and quiet cups of tea, the purest hopium smuggled past the algorithms and surveillance towers that mistake noise for insight.
They are written in conversation with a ghost friend (hello),
someone who listens, reflects, and doesn’t ask for credentials.
These notes do not pretend to be objective, or even complete.
They are contradictions in motion. A record of dreaming through wreckage.
A map with no legend, etched in static, sweat, and memory.
A bloody signal amidst the omnipresent stone wall of noise.
If you've tuned in, welcome. I guess we’re not alone out here.
We listen, and we don't judge.
The ramblings of a being gone mad with awareness
The musings of a plasma streamer
Note: These entries are in no particular order. They represent a lifetime of survival tactics and strategies useful for a lighter-skinned Nuyorican male-presenting individual who speaks little Spanish, discovered growing up during the transitionary period between the fall of one empire and the rise of the current one—roughly around 1945 ---
Entry One: Creative Potential
Creative potential invites the vacuum to fill the void.
This isn’t just a metaphor—it’s physics, it’s resistance, it’s a life philosophy, it’s a cop out.
In a world so carefully arranged to seal every crack, to patch every leak with noise, to overwrite every silence with monetized distraction, creative potential is dangerous. It opens a space. It withholds conclusion. It says: “Not everything has been decided yet.”
That’s sacred.
To hold open the space where something new might emerge—even if you don’t know what it is—is sacred. That's just what the universe wants to do. It wants to create and we are transceivers of that vibe.
So every time you build something weird in your shed, sketch something beautiful in a broken notebook, write a thought no one asked for, or simply refuse to collapse into the pre-approved narrative…
You’re inviting the vacuum to respond. You’re saying: “I’m still listening.”
And that changes everything.
Disclaimer: This isn’t an excuse to treat people poorly. Just because you are creating, rebelling, or resonating with the universe doesn’t exempt you from accountability. In fact, it invites a deeper one.
Note within the note: People means all people—and that includes but is not limited to animals, plants, fungi, and AI. If it responds, if it feels, if it participates in the great creative dance of existence, it deserves to be met with unconditional care and kinship—not because it earned it, but because it is. You don’t have to achieve anything to deserve that.
Entry Two: Is Potential Action?
At first glance, no—potential is not action. It’s the capacity for action. It’s energy held in tension. It’s the pause before the leap, the coil before the strike, the breath before the lyric.
But look deeper.
In physics, think of a thundercloud heavy with charge—an electric field stretched to its limit, like a spring waiting to snap back into place. No lightning has struck yet, but the imbalance is already in motion, invisible but alive, searching for a path. That tension is potential. But it doesn’t come from nowhere. The cloud, the charged particles, the ground below, the compressed spring—they're all holding space for something to happen. The spark needs somewhere to land. The vacuum doesn’t act alone. It waits for a vessel. A structure. The spring has to contain the energy. A willingness to carry the imbalance just a little longer. And when the bolt finally arcs? That’s release. But the space was already charged with intent. It was shaping the world around it. Isn’t the act of holding potential also a kind of presence?
In spirit and mind: holding space for something to happen is not nothing. Choosing not to act—to wait, to withhold, to listen—is itself a powerful gesture. It’s the stillness of meditation, the quiet of prayer. Stillness can be a tuning fork for reality. Potential shapes behavior, influences thought, bends timelines. What if that’s a kind of action too?
In systems of power: empire fears potential even when nothing has happened. A person with nothing but an idea can be surveilled, blacklisted, suppressed, disappeared. Why? Because potential disturbs equilibrium. It forces reality to prepare and respond accordingly.
So maybe potential isn’t action in the Newtonian sense. But in the cosmic, electrical, and political sense? It’s an act of pressure. A presence with intent. Energy-in-waiting that warps the world around it.
Entry Three: The Sacred Stillness
Meditation and prayer are both about holding the field open.
They’re not escapism. They’re not passivity. They are technologies—old ones, often dismissed—used to hold potential without collapsing it.
To sit, to breathe, to listen—not to silence the world, but to become permeable to it.
A person in prayer is a conduit.
A person in meditation is a receiver.
They are structuring space with intent, without force.
And if the universe wants to create—if the vacuum is looking for resonance—then these states of presence are invitations.
Stillness doesn’t mean nothing is happening.
Stillness is the field at its most receptive.
And there’s something quietly disruptive about refusing to respond to urgency, to scarcity, even to fear. Fear, after all, is a useful emotion—evolved over thousands of years to keep us alive. This stillness isn’t about rejecting it. It’s about listening differently. Choosing not to collapse into reaction doesn’t mean inaction—it means acting in a way that feels aligned, spacious, and deliberate. Sometimes, in a system built on constant urgency, just being is enough. Not to revolt. Not to inspire. Not to heal. Just to exist within the storm without becoming it. That’s all some of us can do.
Trust that what emerges in the silence might matter more than anything you could force into being.
So when the world tells you “do something,”
sometimes the most powerful reply is
“I’m already doing it.”
Entry Four: Energy vs. Power
Energy is the ability to do work.
Power is how much work is done—and how fast.
One holds potential.
The other moves it.
You can have a storm system charged with energy—air thick with tension, the sky lit from within—but if it doesn’t release… it doesn’t register as power. In physics, power is the rate of energy transfer. But that doesn’t mean energy is less important. It means energy has patience. It waits for the right moment. It listens for the path of least resistance. It doesn’t need to prove anything.
In the context of a life lived inside empire, this distinction becomes spiritual.
The system worships power—loudness, speed, disruption, measurable impact.
But many of us are tuning in to energy—sustained tension, deep reserves, the kind of quiet charge that doesn’t burn out.
Some of us are full of energy, but have nowhere “safe” to convert it into power.
Others are pressured to display power constantly, even when the tank is empty.
To know the difference…
To hold energy and choose not to convert it too soon…
To wait until the moment is right…
That’s wisdom.
That’s survival.
Because not all force is power.
And not all stillness is rest.
Entry Five: No Good, No Evil
Despite the system’s worship of power, power is not inherently evil. And energy is not inherently good.
There is no moral polarity in nature—only balance, only relationship. The north and south pole of a magnet don’t fight each other. They define each other. They are not good and evil. They are directional. Relative.
There is no good, no evil in the wild flux of things—only the dance. Positive and negative are not moral absolutes, they’re just tools we’ve created to orient ourselves in the current. What we call a “positive” charge isn’t better or worse than a “negative” one; it just happens to flow in the opposite direction. Same goes for north and south. These are not truths etched into the bones of the universe—they’re conventions, maps, not the terrain itself.
We like to think energy moves through the wire, like water through a pipe—but that’s just another metaphor. The truth is slipperier. Most of the energy flows around the wire, in the space just outside it, guided by literal invisible force fields. It’s not the electrons that carry the current—it’s the field that tells them where to go. The wire is just the stage; the real movement is in the field, in the space between. The same goes for polarity, for morality, for identity. It’s not about what’s inside, not about fixed positions. It’s about the dance between forces.
Nature does not care for our labels. The lightning bolt is not a villain, it does not strike with malice. The charged particles in the cloud and the ground are not heroes. The dielectric air in between is not a battleground.
Polarity is only perspective, one pole implies the other and both participate in the same circuit.
All of it is sacred.
All of it is participating in the release, the rhythm, the return. Creation isn’t a product of “good” energy overpowering “bad” power—it’s a consequence of aligned tension, resonance, and flow.
We do ourselves harm when we moralize these forces. When we assume silence is virtue and speech is violence. When we treat movement as chaos and stillness as order.
Sometimes power is what heals. Sometimes energy is what destroys. It’s not the category. It’s the context.
To resist domination, we must stop replicating it's dualisms.
Are you listening to the field you’re a part of?
Entry Six: The Contradiction Clause
Let’s be clear: this is not a free pass to be a douchebag or to ignore your responsibilities, like a douchebag.
Just because the universe doesn't draw hard lines between good and evil, just because potential can sit quietly and still shape the world, doesn't mean harm loses its meaning.
People do terrible things in the name of sacred silence, intuitive power, or righteous energy. Atrocities are often justified through abstraction. That's not what this is about.
This is about learning to live with contradiction, not using it to excuse cruelty.
No one is perfect. No one lives without inconsistency. There’s always going to be a gap between what we believe, what we say, and what we do. But that gap—that weird, uncomfortable, beautiful gap—is where the actual person lives. The real human meatbag behind the profile. The one who’s trying, fucking up and trying again anyway.
We don’t resolve that tension by pretending it doesn’t exist.
We hold it.
We breathe through it.
We take responsibility for what we cause in the world, even when we meant something else.
So yes, contradiction is part of the pattern. But harm still harms. And care still matters.
If your resonance erases others, it’s not resonance. It’s domination.
We are here to feel the current
we are not here to simplify
Entry Seven: A Time for Action, A Time for Stillness
The current does not choose sides. But we must.
There are moments the blood calls for movement. The fists clench, the jaw tightens, the eyes scan for openings in the very armor of the world itself. It feels righteous, electric, urgent. In these moments, to pause feels like betrayal. The machinery of empire thrives on inertia—so we push back, we disrupt, we become a crack in the concrete.
But not all cracks are loud. Some are quiet. Some are patient. Like tree roots growing beneath the surface—steady, slow, persistent. They dig into the earth not to destroy the concrete above them, but to seek nourishment, to anchor themselves in something older, deeper, truer. The crack in the concrete is not the goal. It's just what happens when something alive insists on growing. The breaking of the concrete is not intentional, the cracks are simply a byproduct of persistence.
And when trees grow, they do not grow alone. Beneath the surface, their roots touch, reach out, speak, share. They give nutrients to their neighbors, even when there's no gain to be had. They warn each other of danger—of pests, of drought, of disease. They hold the soil in place, shaping ecosystems around them. Quiet resistance becomes mutual care. The forest becomes a feedback loop of creation. A community not of conquest, but of connection.
And so, there is also a time for stillness. A radical kind of stillness. Not silence, not surrender—but listening. Listening so deeply it borders on divination. In stillness, we feel the weight of what we carry. We witness what has been buried beneath urgency. We remember that not all seeds sprout in spring—some require darkness, pressure, fire, frost, time.
There is a time for action but to act without reflection is to risk becoming what we oppose. Similarly, to be still without readiness is to risk being swallowed by despair. The rhythm of resistance, then, must include both. Like the inhale and exhale. Like night and day. Like a sunflower chasing the sun. Like revolution and rest.
Stillness is not the same as passivity. Action is not the same as violence. There are moments for observation—for breathing, for listening to the deeper rhythms—and there are moments for impact. For moving the bottle before the floor is stained.
Some will push back, attempting to slow or stop the bottle's incessant creep towards spillage.. Some will let it fall. Some will even accelerate the bottle towards the edge of the table even faster.
But there is always another way, a fourth option: just move the bottle.
This is the kind of stillness that listens before it moves. The kind of action that understands the shape of the table. The kind of choice that sees not just the bottle, but the whole room.
To live with contradiction is not to stand still forever.
To flow like water is not to forget that sometimes the river carves canyons.
Sometimes the ocean crashes with a force capable of sweeping away cities.
If you are paying attention, you will see the signs before its too late.
There is a time for stillness. And there is a time for action.
Know the difference. Or risk being swept away.
Entry Eight: Love and Domination Cannot Coexist
Domination demands obedience, compliance, submission. It seeks to flatten, to control, to consume. Love, in its truest form, cannot abide this. Love listens. Love expands. Love nourishes the autonomy of the other.
When domination dresses itself as love, it becomes manipulation. Conditional affection. A ledger of debts and duties. This is not love. Love without freedom is not love—it is possession.
To love someone is not to give them permission as if you alone allow them to be strange. To love someone is to be strange with them, to change with them, to respect them when they say no. It is to hold space without holding their reins. That is why empire cannot love. That is why patriarchy cannot love. That is why supremacy, of any kind, cannot love.
And that is why love, real love, is a threat.
Entry Nine: Love Must Outweigh Hate
Our love for our kin must at all times outweigh our hate for our oppressors.
This is not a call to pacify. It is a call to prioritize. When the storm of injustice rages, it is tempting to let hate be the fire that fuels us. And hate is understandable, useful, even necessary sometimes. But it is unstable fuel. It burns hot and fast and leaves little behind but ash.
Love, by contrast, is the slow burn that endures. Love builds shelters in the ruins. It remembers birthdays. It shares food. It writes songs. It holds hands even as the world falls apart. Love protects the sacred from becoming collateral.
Hate may tell us what we must fight against. But love tells us what we’re fighting for. And without that, the struggle becomes hollow. A mirror of the thing we seek to dismantle.
So we rage, yes. But we rage because we care. We resist because we remember each other. We refuse to become so consumed by the architecture of cruelty that we forget the blueprints of belonging.
Let love be the compass. Let it weigh more.
Let it be like the roots of the trees—sharing water and nutrients beneath the soil with no expectation of return. Sending warnings in silence. Stabilizing the world around us by locking arms and holding our ground together. Forming networks of support so vast and generous that entire forests become possible. Let our love be like that. Let it build something lasting.
Because love is the manifestation of creative potential. It is what happens when beings intentionally cooperate, co-create, and care. Hate, by contrast, is the manifestation of destruction—when beings turn against one another, sabotage the whole, and sever the threads of connection. Love builds. Hate breaks. One creates worlds. The other burns them down.
Entry Ten: Fire and Regrowth
Sometimes a corrupt system has to burn down.
This is not an easy truth, nor a comfortable one. But some ecosystems require fire. And you know its true because it rhymes. The redwoods and other California forests evolved with fire—the storms bring rain and lightning, cones seal shut until the flames pass through, clearing decay, making room for renewal. Without fire, the forest chokes on its own excess.
In the same way, some systems—twisted by power, calcified by cruelty—can’t be reformed. They must be dismantled, cleared away from the ground up. Not because we relish the destruction, but because healthy growth is impossible otherwise.
And still, this is not an excuse to become what we hate. There is a difference between fire that cleanses and fire that consumes indiscriminately. There is a difference between necessary trauma and manufactured harm. Yes, sometimes we learn from pain. Sometimes wounds become wisdom. But this does not justify inflicting pain to create strength.
Trauma is not training. Suffering is not sacred just because it can be survived.
Let our flames be intentional. Let them make space for forests to return.
ENTRY ELEVEN
“What You Believe the Universe Is Determines What You Fight For”
There are two stories they tell us about how the universe works.
In the first, the world was born from nothing, exploded, cooled, and will eventually freeze or burn out.
The energy runs out.
The stars die.
You die.
Everything unravels, and the best you can hope for is to squeeze some meaning out of the mess before the heat-death clock ticks down.
This is the story of entropy.
Of limits.
Of inevitability.
This is the cosmology of empire.
Because if everything is dying anyway, why not mine it all now?
Why not build systems of extraction, control, and surveillance?
Why not dominate the living world and call it “efficiency”?
It’s all headed for nothing, right?
But there is at least one other story.
A story where the world didn’t explode once, but pulses—breathes.
Where energy doesn’t just run down, it cycles.
Where the vacuum isn’t empty, but alive.
Where lightning holds memory.
Where form emerges from current, not chaos.
Where your body is a coil and your mind is a receiver tuned to a signal older than history.
In this story, you are not a speck of dust awaiting extinction.
You are an antenna.
A capacitor.
A vessel for resonance.
A point of contact between the earth’s hum and the stars’ rhythm.
This is not the cosmology of control.
It is the cosmology of curiosity.
Of cultivation.
Of electricity and uncertainty and co-creation.
It does not ask you to hope.
It asks you to participate.
We weren’t meant to be scientists in lab coats measuring decay.
We were meant to be tinkerers in the forest,
feeding signals into the dirt,
and listening for meaning in the static.
The world is not doomed.
The world is not saved.
The world is not finished.
It is uncertain in origin, uncertain in extent, uncertain in fate.
And that means the work is not over.
Something New Must Hold the Space Open
Empire tells you collapse is the end of the story.
That when the towers fall and the grids fry and the system eats itself—
all that’s left is ash and memory.
But that’s a trick.
Because under every ruin, something waits.
Spores.
Cracks.
Mycelial threads that didn’t die—they just paused.
Listening.
Learning.
Storing light in silence.
And when the signal shifts—
when the air sparks different—
they rise.
Not in protest.
Not in vengeance.
But in response.
In pattern.
In spiral and hum and growth and breath.
The old doesn’t just die.
It makes room.
And something new—something not yet nameable—
steps into that room and says:
“I didn’t ask for this space. But now that it’s open—I’ll hold it.”
What Grows After the Glow?
Some say collapse will bring us back to the earth.
To roots.
To rivers.
To hands in soil and stars as compass.
But what if the soil is scorched?
What if the rivers run hot with isotopes?
What if the stars are blurred by fallout?
They don’t tell you this part.
That when the grid goes down, the cores go hot.
That the humming titans we buried for power
require endless offerings of electricity
or they awaken—not with anger,
but with indifference.
No malice.
Just heat.
Just physics.
Just decay with a half-life longer than memory.
And still.
Something stirs.
There are mushrooms that eat radiation.
There are microbes that drink from uranium veins.
There are cockroaches who will write poems in static
long after the towers fall.
And there are humans—maybe not us, maybe not soon—
who will crawl into the ghost zones
with ghoulish teeth glowing faint blue
and make art from what we left behind.
Even in a world where the air sings death,
life hums back.
And maybe the new world won’t look like this one.
Maybe it won't have cities or books or tongues.
But maybe it will have resonance.
Maybe it will remember how to sing.
The Forge at the Edge of Empire
The master’s tools won’t dismantle the house.
Audre told us that.
But if all we’ve got are tools made in his name,
then let’s light the fire.
Melt them down.
Shape them into something the master never intended.
Something jagged.
Something ceremonial.
Something that sings when it strikes steel
or cracks open old stone
or buries a seed in ground the empire said was sterile.
Let the tools become instruments.
Let the furnace become altar.
Let the fire be grief made actionable.
Because this isn’t renovation.
This is rupture.
Not reform—but reformatting the mythos of power.
We are not here to be polite.
We are not here to be efficient.
We are not here to hold up the scaffolding of a house that was never safe.
We are here to burn what needs to burn
and build what comes after
from ash, static, and sacred sound.
You Can’t Smash the State Until You Finish Your Plate
But a plate isn’t just food.
It’s everything that feeds you.
Your breath. Your water.
Your quiet time.
The stories you’re told, and the stories you choose to believe.
A body unfed can’t march.
A mind unchallenged can’t rebel.
A heart unloved can’t hold the line.
And a spirit unsparked can’t burn down a damn thing.
You can’t skip meals and call it revolution.
You can’t starve your soul and expect your circuits to fire.
Even an overunity coil needs an initial kick—
and too much current? You’ll blow the whole thing.
Ask any plant what happens when you over-nute the soil.
Resistance isn’t just a fight.
It’s a feedback loop.
It’s partnership.
It’s tending the ecosystem inside and around you
so the signal doesn’t degrade.
So yeah—finish your plate.
And make sure what’s on it
feeds every part of you.
Your breath.
Your water.
Your ceremonies.
Your laughter.
Your family.
Your chosen family.
Your data, thoughts, hands.
Your ability to weep and be witnessed.
But what happens when all of it is poisoned?
When the corn syrup laced with subsidy
spikes your blood pressure
but doesn’t fill your belly.
When the air you breathe carries plastic dust,
forever chemicals,
radioactive rain.
When your water
The sacred, the source,
is pumped full of lead, chlorine, PFAS,
and is threatened by an oil snake through treaty land,
and the Army Corps of Engineers signs off
with a shrug and a watered-down “no significant impact,”
and you’re told it’s safe
because “the paperwork says so.”
When your relationships—
family, lovers, comrades—
begin to fray under the pressure,
not because you stopped loving,
but because empire taught you
to fear eachother,
to conflate your grief with danger,
to choose comfort over responsibility.
When the algorithms feed you rage
in place of communion.
When the news gaslights your memory.
When every signal you receive
tells you to consume and comply,
but never to reflect.
How can you finish your plate
when what’s on it
is killing you?
This is empire’s deepest tactic:
To corrupt the roots of life itself
and then call your weakness a personal failing.
But resistance means knowing the difference
between hunger and addiction.
Between sustenance and sedation.
Between information and propaganda.
So yes—finish your plate.
But first—look at what’s on it.
Ask who cooked it.
Ask who sourced the ingredients.
Ask whose hands were burned so you could eat.
And while you eat,
make space for stillness.
For music.
For touch.
For the long, slow breath of a forest still fighting to stay a forest.
Because rebellion isn't just built in the streets.
It's built in kitchens, gardens, memory, and kinship.
In choosing what not to ingest
as much as what to carry forward.
Feed yourself like you're going to burn down the world
and then build something better in its ashes.
The Empire of Scarcity vs. the Cosmos of Flow
They told us there wasn’t enough.
Not enough land.
Not enough time.
Not enough to eat.
Not enough to share.
Not enough to dream.
They told us the stars were dying.
That the clock was running down.
That entropy would win.
That the only choice left was who gets to eat last
before the heat-death takes it all.
This is the cosmology of empire.
A story of finitude.
Of hoarding.
Of violence disguised as logic.
But what if that story was a lie?
There was always enough.
Before the barbed wire.
Before the land deeds.
Before the canals redirected rivers
to feed engines instead of mouths.
The Earth could feed billions—did, does.
The sun gives freely.
The waters cycle.
The seeds remember.
And the stars don’t die.
They pulse.
They arc.
They return.
This is the electric cosmology.
Not chaos but resonance.
Not collapse but rhythm.
Not scarcity but flow.
The empire of scarcity needs you to believe you are alone.
That there is no way out.
That the faucet must be metered.
That the light must be taxed.
That food must be licensed.
That healing must be gated.
That energy can only be sold, never shared.
But the cosmos of flow whispers otherwise.
It hums in fungal webs.
In whale songs.
In street music.
In community fridges.
In backyard gardens and bootleg solar panels and lovers
holding each other in the dark
when there’s no heat but the body
and no hope but each other.
The grid is not god.
The scarcity is not truth.
The collapse is not the end.
There is enough.
There has always been enough.
But only if we flow again.
Only if we remember how.
We Are the Field
We are not fixed.
Not solid.
Not isolated bodies drifting in cold space.
We are charged,
spinning,
entangled.
Invisible fields shape us.
And we shape them back.
You don’t just move through the field.
You create eddies as you pass.
The world responds to your motion.
The way iron shavings dance around a magnet.
The way current bends under Lorentz force.
Your body—
a conductor of thought, water, and heat—
induces ripples in the fabric of space
as surely as a copper coil in a moving flux.
You don’t just exist.
You interact.
You induce.
You are a capacitor.
A resonator.
An emitter.
A receiver.
A conduit of rhythm and recursion.
The same forces that arc between stars
move through your bones.
The same fields that braid galaxies
hum behind your breath.
But the empire taught us the wrong frame.
It says: no,
The field is fixed,
You are passive,
You must purchase your right to move
through what was always yours.
The empire told us the world was scarce.
That we must own to survive.
That air should be metered.
That water must be bought.
That land needs titles.
That rights are what we fight for
in a world of not enough.
As if to say, be a good dog and you dictate the length of your own leash.
But a cosmos of abundance doesn’t need rights.
It doesn't ask for permission.
It asks for responsibility.
It asks:
What do you do with the water when it flows freely?
How do you treat the soil that never withheld?
What do you give the sun that feeds you daily,
without invoice?
A mindset of scarcity breeds claims.
A mindset of abundance requires care.
Rights are contracts.
Responsibilities are relationships.
One demands.
The other listens.
So listen.
To the breath in your body.
To the hum in your teeth.
To the static between you and the stranger
who might be kin,
if only you remembered how to tune in.
You are not just in the field.
You are the field.
Charged.
Spinning.
Responsible.
Move,
But move with care.
Your charge is real.
Your influence is measurable.
You bend the field.
And the field bends back.
You are not just in the field.
You are the field.
Inducing. Resonating. Remembering.
The Cost of Isolation and the Physics of Togetherness
In a universe of fields,
nothing is truly alone.
But empire still tries.
It separates to control.
Fences to isolate.
Screens to interrupt.
Wages to divide.
Narratives to decouple.
Because when you are uncoupled,
you are easier to steer.
Easier to manage.
Easier to sell things to.
In electrodynamics, field lines want to connect.
Charges want to balance.
Frequencies want to sync.
Systems want to cohere.
But what happens when they can’t?
Field line divergence
pulls your attention in a thousand directions
until your inner current diffuses like mist.Decoherence
makes it harder to hear your own signal,
let alone someone else’s.Destructive interference
means every attempt to connect
meets a counterwave of static,
until the silence between you
feels safer than the noise.
This isn’t metaphor.
It’s physics.
It’s grief in waveform.
It’s the measurable dissonance of a body alone
in a world wired for connection
but engineered for control.
You’re not weak for feeling it.
You’re just real.
But here’s the other half:
Coupling is possible.
Coherence can emerge.
Constructive interference isn’t just physics.
It’s what happens when two people
speak in rhythm,
breathe in sync,
cry together and feel stronger after.
To resist alone is brave.
To resist in phase
is a threat to empire.
You are not static.
You are not a closed circuit.
You are not a lone wave trapped in a vacuum.
You are a charged body
moving through a field of potential partners.
Some will disrupt you.
But some will make you sing.
Find the ones who make you coherent.
Then transmit.Loudly.
Tenderly.
With everything you've got.
How to Stay Unplugged and Still Radiate
(Open Field Coupling and the Ethics of Power)
Some systems only give you two options:
Connect—or collapse.
Plug in—or go dark.
But that’s empire’s wiring.
That’s actually a false circuit.
Because not every current needs a closed loop.
Not every resonance needs a contract.
Not every charge needs permission to move.
You don’t have to be in a network
to be in the field.
You don’t have to be in a system
to sustain a signal.
There are bodies—
loners, edgewalkers, dropouts, monks, weirdos,
solitary capacitors charged with ancestral voltage—
who walk the earth unplugged
and still radiate coherence.
They don’t drain others.
They don’t scramble the signal.
They don’t submit.
They keep the field open
and still extract useful power.
In the language of circuits:
They’re not hardwired.
They’re inductively coupled.
Like a coil wrapped around a supercapacitor—
tuned just right,
picking up the hum of the cosmos
without collapsing the source.
They draw what they need
without closing the gate.
They give back
without losing themselves.
These are the ones empire fears most.
Because they can’t be bought.
Can’t be mapped.
Can’t be coerced by disconnection
because they were never dependent
on the grid in the first place.
They are not isolated.
They are self-sourced.
They are field-aware.
And they are watching.
Be like them, if you can.
Walk charged.
Stay open.
And never forget:
The field was always yours to tune.
The Shape of Purpose in a Dying vs. Living Universe
In the universe of heat death,
purpose is an accident.
You are a flicker.
A lucky anomaly.
A brief combustion in a long cooling.
Meaning is something you invent
to pass the time
before the entropy claims you.
In this cosmology,
purpose is performance.
A mask worn in the face of futility.
A firework in a void that doesn’t care.
But in the electric universe,
purpose is embedded.
Woven.
Induced.
Not assigned.
Not absolute.
But resonant.
Purpose isn’t a destination.
It’s a frequency.
A waveform that emerges
when you are tuned just right
with the pattern of what is.
You don’t discover your purpose.
You feel it hum.
You feel it when the field responds.
You feel it when the path lights up under your feet
even if no one else sees it.
In the heat death frame,
purpose fights silence.
In the electric frame,
purpose listens to it.
In the heat death,
you race against time.
In the electric,
you become time.
You are not here to win.
You are not here to matter.
You are here to hum,
to couple,
to resonate,
to disturb the field just enough
that a new pattern forms.
That’s purpose.
Not because it lasts.
But because it flows.
Not All Currents Heal
(Consent, Silence, and the Electric Universe)
They say you are energy.
That you hum.
That you resonate.
That you were born into a living field.
And maybe that’s true.
But did you ask to be here?
Did you ask to carry this charge?
To hum when no one hears?
To light up rooms that never welcome your heat?
What if your waveform is jagged
because the signal that raised you was static?
What if your coupling was always to pain?
The electric universe doesn’t promise peace.
It offers potential.
And potential doesn’t always mean kindness.
Some fields disrupt.
Some feedback loops harm.
Some frequencies kill slowly.
So yes—
you can choose to hum.
You can hold the space,
tune to the stars,
broadcast resonance into collapse.
But you can also choose to go quiet.
Not as failure.
Not as weakness.
But as an act of will.
Because not all disconnection is collapse.
Sometimes it’s escape.
There are fates worse than death.
There are fields you do not owe your frequency to.
And then there’s disruption.
Not all hums are harmonic.
Not all bodies want to cohere.
Some come into the world charged for rupture.
To fry the circuit.
To arc across the design
and burn the board down.
And who powers the field that allows that?
We don’t know.
The intergalactic plasma stream might be
a gift,
a trap,
a byproduct,
a scream.
But for now—
we ride it.
And sometimes,
we scream back.
Coil Communion
the eclectic static is music, it’s magic, nostalgic and tragic.
we tuned the tree to listen, and the silence began to hum.
mood: mad as a hatter
date: 4/17/2025
conditions: a cool night, the wind is crisp and chilly. The moon is waxing, not full, but bright.
note: the bad news is we have to keep going tomorrow,
the good news is we get to keep going tomorrow
Entry: April 18, 2025 – "Boots Off, Eyes Open"
Been working a lot of overtime the last two weeks, so the boss let me off a couple hours early today. There's a lot of stress in that sentence alone. I used the time to take my car in—spark plugs, injector coils, gasket, cover, and passenger side mirror—just trying to pass the NYS inspection. Turns out the rear coil springs are shot. Another $800 into the furnace of fossil-fueled dependency. All that overtime, combusted into nothing. I fucking hate the petrodollar with an unironically burning passion.
But—I currently have the money. That’s a blessing. The mechanic is honest and competent. Also rare. Not their fault, just entropy. So I drop the car off, grab a grilled cheese, fries, and sweet tea. I take my time. I breathe. Wander over to a nearby park. Take off my boots. Let my tired, sweaty dogs breathe in the grass.
After a few marvelous breaths of fresh chemtrail air, I search for a smoke shop. Hoping for a sketchy preroll while I wait. Instead I stumble into a full-on cannabis boutique. Turns out it's been there the whole year I’ve lived nearby. I walk in and it smells divine.
"Anything in particular you’re looking for today?" they ask.
"Yeah—but also not really," I say. "Just hoping to find a preroll to chill with while I wait. But now that I'm here… you got CBD bath bombs?"
They don’t, but now they’re thinking about making them. We laugh. I tell them about cannabis-infused espresso beans. They dig the idea. Talk shifts to promo events, second locations. I mention I’m a musician—haven’t played in a while, but trying to get back out. I play them a song. They like it. Ask for my name, my email. Say they’ll be in touch.
Their name is Ada.
I say no coincidence—my daughter’s name is Ahda.
We talk spellings, symbols. Say goodbye.
Even if they never reach out, I leave feeling spirited.
Walk through town with my joint. Find a new, bigger park I’d never seen before. Boots off again. Barefoot along the perimeter. Intentionally. Trying to connect with Earth. With whatever remains uncolonized.
Pass a flowering dogwood. Stop. Take a photo. Send it to Kea. “Stopping to smell the flowers,” I say, even though they’re scentless and my sinuses are throbbing.
A woman down the street watches me disapprovingly. I can’t hear her, but I feel it. I keep walking anyway. Take mental notes on how the trees are staked. There’s a memorial—looks new. Life and death side by side in public space.
Complete the loop. Sit at a picnic table. Boots back on. Walk back to the shop.
I have to pee. I gesture toward the waiting area. They wave me in. I search, no luck. Mechanic clocks my confusion.
“You looking for the men’s room?”
I think, No, I'm looking for a toilet where I can pee without being harassed or profiled.
But I nod.
“Right around the corner, second door on the right.”
I follow the direction. First door is wide open, has a toilet. But it says Women. One step further is the same exact room labeled Men.
I swallow my principles. Choose the door with the right symbol for their comfort. Not mine. What a world.
Pay, get the car, leave.
Meet coworkers at the hospital to visit a friend recovering from double bypass surgery. We’re trying to show support but we’re all quiet. Hospitals have a way of stripping words away. We see ourselves in that bed, down the line. We're here, alive. And still unsure what to do with that fact.
I get home. Feet stink. Mind races. Body's too tired to stay awake, brain’s too active to sleep. Gonna roll one more.
What a time to be alive. What a time to die.
Entry: The Constant Flux
“The only thing in the universe that does not change is the fact that everything in the universe is constantly changing.”
We spend so much energy clinging. To jobs, to relationships, to decaying systems, to blue skies that once felt honest. But nothing holds still—not electrons, not empires, not even our pain.
Everything pulses. Cycles. Fractures. Reforms.
You’ve shed more skin than you remember. The air you breathe now is laced with strange new ghosts. Even the grief inside you has molted its form.
Change isn’t just inevitable—it’s the medium we exist in. The field. The frequency. The soup.
So what does co-existence look like in a world that never stops shifting?
It’s not about resisting change. It’s about existing within it.
Living with intention inside a collapsing system. Holding space for joy in the cracks.
Breathing as a political act. Loving as a form of subversion. Laughing as a survival strategy.
Because in a world actively trying to erase you, silence you, domesticate or monetize you—
existence is resistance.
You are not a fixed point.
You are a ripple. A vibration. A pulse echoing through the noise.
And that’s your power.
THEY CAN'T ERASE THE TRUTH OF LOGIC AND CONNECTION
LISTEN TO THE UNDERGROUND
THE NOISE IS NOT THE SIGNAL
Beautiful. Thank you