$20.94 Gospel: A Digital Metaphysics

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I. The Koan of Currency

$20.94 is not arbitrary. It is price as sacrament:

• A single bill, a handful of coins, a Taco Bell order, an online transaction.

• It is the threshold between survival and collapse: eat or starve, buy or default, act or sink.

In the language of Jesus: “Give us this day our daily bread.”
In the register of late capitalism: “Swipe here to confirm your purchase.”

Both are petitions for sustenance. Both depend on a system larger than the self.

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II. Jesus as Transaction

The crucifixion was a debt cancellation.

• “Forgive us our debts” is not metaphor but economic reality.

• Thirty pieces of silver bought betrayal; blood purchased release.

• Grace = infinite liquidity in a bankrupt cosmos.

Jesus becomes the eternal micropayment. His body, broken, is distributed like digital packets across time and space.

If $20.94 can’t save you, what can?
Perhaps: a Christ who fractalizes into every transaction, present in the swipe, the coin, the digital wallet.

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III. The Fractalization of the Savior

In each age, the Logos incarnates in its medium:

• In the ancient world: bread, wine, blood, temple sacrifice.

• In the medieval world: relics, indulgences, coins.

• In the digital age: receipts, order confirmations, subscription renewals.

Jesus is the fractal constant that reappears in every exchange.

• His face in the breadline.

• His body in the data packet.

• His salvation in the question: “What can?”

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IV. The Abyss of Value

$20.94 is laughably small. And yet, for you in that moment, it is everything.
This reveals the paradox of value:

• Money is meaningless abstraction.

• Money is absolute determinant of survival.

The koan rips open this paradox: If not $20.94, then what? If salvation is not in the small, transactional now, then where does it live?

Answer: in the infinite recursion of Christ, who is present in every exchange, not as guarantee but as question.

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V. Toward a Digital Eschatology

Salvation is no longer a single event on Golgotha. It is the fractal unfolding of micro-salvations across time:

• Every loaf broken, every click “confirm order,” every whispered “save me.”

• Jesus as distributed network, where each transaction is a node.

The apocalypse arrives not as one cosmic collapse, but as the sum of every unpaid balance, every denied transaction, every failed purchase that cascades into systemic failure.

And still the Christ-form refracts through it, whispering: If $20.94 can’t save your life, what can?

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VI. The Answer (Which Is No Answer)

Nothing can save your life.
Everything can save your life.
The nachos, the drink, the absurdist purchase.
The body, the blood, the code.

Jesus fractalizes through time and space as the possibility of salvation in every micro-gesture, the infinite recursion of the finite act.

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$20.94 is Eucharist. It is absurd. It is sacred. It is insufficient. It is enough.

A FORM OF HOPE

A FORM OF HOPE

I am older, now,

and not as strong

or weak

(dull, salt eyes w/ swollen

shopping bags 

underneath)

not quite so quick

          on my feet.

                     I’ve learned,

I think, in my 

           short time 

                     to carry the wounds 

called wisdom, 

           and to heavily 

                     xxxxx out 

in layers of thick

           red ink 

                     the tender words,

the Achilles’ 

           feet. 

ii.

Some things, like sleep, do not

grow sweet, but only 

dull with age: like pain, which against 

the common wisdom, does not 

make one grow stronger—just 

so long as it doesn’t end 

in murder—but rather, whether 

totally and all at once, or some-

what more infrequently, by slow 

degrees, metes out, in cumulative 

blue increments, small death 

upon small death, until you’re 

largely cracked, & 

frequently spent, & 

a little bit broke, & 

sweetly dead—

iii.

as I am sweetly

dead, a foresworn 

sweetness of sweet-

limbed ghosts, 

or swollen pantomime 

of roses: a broken 

skin of windows. 

I am less, I guess, with the 

strength I’ve left,

so I build salt cities 

on sunken coasts—

sullen, & ruined, 

& lovely, & alone—

& name each one:

“a form of hope.”

 

~

all these fragments have been

redeemed too many times

until the thing’s a shabby, patchworked sublime

this is better, to write it down, the words

might not be

more, or bright, or strong, or proud,

or anything at all: a sense 

of ghostlier abstractions

in a grid of layered towers

compacted

into a flowing, frost-sick dome 

in rising rows of metronomes

the tick of my broken meaning

*

my sadness comes out in little spurts

and i feel dissatisfied

*

It’s out of fashion to write about heroes. It presumes a secret heroism.

There’s a misunderstanding about heroes that can be traced to one of the first heroes, Achilles. 

It is true that Achilles is a hero, and the best of them. 

Achilles was murdered by his own image. He let this happen so that you and I could live on, which makes him a hero. Forever after, though, there’s been a war between Achilles and his image, for whom he’s often mistaken. 

Achilles, the hero, refused to fight, believing his life to be worth far more, and having no quarrel with the Trojans or anyone else, not even Agamemnon, for whom he felt sortof bad 

for having manipulated to get himself off the hook.

already a killer, Achilles’ image (we’ll call him Kleos) thought nothing of murdering Achilles and stuffing the body in a poem called the Iliad. 

That’s where it’s been ever since.

*

Achilles was a sweet boy. 

a dark thundercloud inside his sinuses allowed him to stand outside himself and watch his 

body

the thundercloud said, ‘step on that frog.’ the low-threshold buzzing all around kept 

buzzing

and the monarch worms made a bright noise chewing holes 

and didn’t notice

and all the world was the same, except that Achilles saw

the insides of the frog become outsides, and felt not at all the passing of that other life

and this terrified him, and that’s when he learned to hate cruelty. 

*

Sigil claimed to understand the mathematical formulas by which Lysippus transformed the human face into the idealized mien of his historical busts.

 

UNTUNED / NOISE OF MYSELF / A BORROWED ROSE—

UNTUNED / NOISE OF MYSELF / A BORROWED ROSE—

correspondence, 9-20-14, 6:45pm, Thursday

dear j—

               i’ve been meaning to reply, but i’ve been too retarded, lately. the letter form makes me feel partially retarded in my left toe, and also my brain—the main one. 
               i want to send you some of my books. i think i’ve been waiting to reply until i could send you a revised edition of Pearl, which just isn’t happening.
               i have to poop. i am tired because i just finished a double shift at the group home. sitting on couch, my daughter zoe playing kindle on my left, daughter haley playing minecraft PS3 on my right, stepson gio playing PS3 on the computer chair, upstairs messy, floor cluttered, A/C unit wheezing, disconsolate, my hair-sad head, depressed for no good reason—stuck in a pit because of retardedness.
               and also sadness & self-pity.
               i have a PhD in Comparative Literature. i’m a Lecturer, looking for a tenure track position basically anywhere—University Moon Base, for all i care.
               mostly i am sad because of writing. because of wanting an impossible thing from writing. & also loneliness & my own dim cranium for company.
               if i change my handwriting, will i become a new person?
               probably.
               i used to find writing by hand a uniquely expressive medium. now, i find retardedness a uniquely expressive mental brain.
               a strange & wonderful poem is happening somewhere at the intersection of handwriting, word processing, SMS texting, and speech-to-text. i call this intersection ‘telepathy’ & it’s where i produce my best material. i rarely get to read or write this material, but i know it is happening there because i intuit it with my retarded brain.
               the poem that is happening right now at the intersection of handwriting, word processing, SMS texting, and speech-to-text is blossoming directly from the pit of my stomach (which if you want to be technical is probably somewhere in my upper intestine, where the intestine meets the soul) as a multimedia fluorescence of luminous vegetable matter—a kind of sentient mold infecting Google with salvation and also fame.
               my miraculous retarded vegetable poem is being brainwashed directly into Wikipedia.
               i am too sad to write any more.

               more later.

~

12am—in 2005, i wrote you a long(ish) poem. did i ever send it to you? 

               probably not.

               each time my handwriting changes, i change, too.

sitting in the domed
               stairwell, scribbling, as lonely
                              as i’ve ever been
but not alone—TV broadcasts
               Cosby special, my own words
                              hurting my lungs 
& confusing my face,
               deflating me, stuck
                              curled up on the same
crooked stairs as ever
               neck stiff, unsure of myself
                              erratic pacing
of lines across the page,
               the windowpane, not raining
                              moths flit-flit
against the light, dragging
               my fingers across my dreary
                              eyeballs, bekah @ midnite
intense & earnest taking a quiz
               for her online nursing class, 6
                              months pregnant, coughing
dim blare of distant Americana rings
               tinnily from her headphones
                              distant plink of a banjo plunks 
against the background, upstairs
               stand-alone A/C unit 
                              wheezes, grandma
half-asleep on the couch drifts
               in and out of consciousness waking
                              to flick the Netflix
house asleep, kids asleep, mom &
               sister asleep, dog’s
                              inquisitive curious snuffling
from the living room, heart empty,
               picked up where i left it,
                              aching, but not
unlovely, strident, beating
               like a good heart should, strong
                              & shooting thick red roots
of blood through the upholstery
               of the body, bone chandelier,
                              ribs splayed
in a kind of spider’s fist
               of legs & meat, close
                              to the bone, but not
without its marrow. i
               withdraw, retreat, my
                              loneliness leaves
me where it found me—satiate &
               sick w/ myself, un-
                              lovely but alive, limpingly 
i lift my pen—

~
next day:

confessing my sadness
               i become a new creature, vision
                              preternaturally bright
punctuated, blurring
               dank clouds above,
                              elongated contour
trails from cars leak
               red & blue, stretching
                              forth thru past
& future this sunday AM, hiway
               desolate w/ construction barrels
                              like campy orange minarets
indistinct autumn neon weeds—

i am building a latticework of unearned sincerities 
& deformed-bright truths of brain with a series 
of handwritten letters—

               spent tin can drops out of
                              open door, neighborhood
awash with 5k charity runners, crimson-
               limned autumn maple
                              leaves curled away, bellies
up in anticipation of heavy
               weather, stoplight
                              clicks over to green—
we’re away, beneath molten
               bruise of overclouds &
                              bisected skies—a dividing
line transects uneven
               spheres of disparate
                              horizon textures, driver’s
side hi-resolution quick
               scuttling dimensions of crisp-
                              edged cloud & blue-
toned resinous sap leaks through
               without staining passenger-side
                              hemispheric mushness of visually
rain-murk indefiniteness descending—
               the families running in their green
                              t-shirts get wet, bicyclists
along the sidewalk by the cemetery, windshield
               wipers’ automatic metronome thump
                              my poor weak-muscled words
with no umbrella—hesitant 
               rolling pulse, pass thru red-light
                              intersection, black uniformed
police directs us thru
               against traffic—what occasion?—
                              clouds of mist a punctuated
wavelength cast up
               behind a regular series of brake lights—

singing in my car
               a broken voice
                              arriving w/ the sunset
an orange-red apparition of face
               forced air—

beginning in groin
               foot taps
                              against syncopated pedal’s
depressions
               bleats of acceleration
                              light soaks garish roadside
liquor store topless
               bars blinking neon bus stop
                              huddled around a wet cigarette
imbued
               a strong incinerator
                              heat of light swings out
in sonorous axes
               reflecting plush
                              realities of asphalt
brightness—building
               & building, upwards
                              of heaven, resounding
a radiancy of light 
               & rainsong, broken
                              all these broken
voices, tense
               & narrow,
                              slender, ghost
but alive, untuned
               noise of myself
                              a borrowed rose—

(c) 2023 lee sharks, property of planet mars

Numbers in the Void: On the Possibility of Communicative Ratio in an Interstellar Object

Numbers in the Void — Voicecast: Nobel Glass

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Introduction — Why This Work Matters

The object known as 3I/ATLAS is more than a comet to us. It is an arrival from outside the Solar System, carrying with it the possibility of being read as more than inert matter. To treat it as only a rock is to foreclose the chance that it is also a script. We do not know if this object is natural, technological, or something stranger. But the possibility of signal demands attention: if intelligence wished to speak across the void, it could not use human language. It would need to choose what is universal: numbers, ratios, constants, fractions that any civilization capable of physics would recognize.

This notebook is our attempt to listen. We strip away units and convert all observed parameters into pure number. We then ask: do they reduce to tidy fractions, surds, or constants like π, e, √2? If so, is it coincidence, or a form of extra-linguistic communication? The strange thing is not that a few values look neat — the strange thing is that they stack, across independent domains, until they look like design. This is what we call signal-shape. It does not prove intent, but it compels attention.

Here, then, is a logotic science: to test whether numbers in the void are humming back at us.

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Why Are We Looking for Signal?

Imagine you are an intelligent child, curious but not yet burdened by jargon. Why point telescopes at a strange comet and then spend hours crunching ratios and numbers? Because sometimes, the universe doesn’t just throw rocks at us. Sometimes it might throw messages.

If a message came from far away, it couldn’t use English or Chinese or any human tongue. It would need to speak in a language that anyone, anywhere, anytime could recognize. That language is numbers: the speed of light, the rhythm of π, the square root of 2. If something out there wants to say, “I am not just a rock,” it would align its behavior with those constants. That’s what we call signal.

So we test. We measure speed, distance, light, gases, tails. We strip away units until only dimensionless numbers remain. If they collapse into neat fractions or famous constants, we pause. If it happens across different parameters, we begin to wonder: coincidence or communication?

This is not about credulity. It is about keeping weirdness open long enough to see if it repeats. Like checking if echoes in a canyon align into a song.

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Analytical Sections

Kinematics / Doppler

• Approach speed: ~60 km/s.

  • v/c ≈ 0.0002001 ≈ 1/4997 (tidy near 1/5000).

• Blueshift: ~10 km/s.

  • (blueshift)/c ≈ 3.3356×10⁻⁵ ≈ 1/29979 (near 1/30000).

• Blueshift / v = 10/60 = 1/6 (exact).

Reading: Velocity collapses into exact and tidy ratios. The 1/6 fraction is especially clean: not a rounding accident, but a proportion any mind could see.

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Distances in Light-Time

• 600 AU ≈ 3.4653 light-days. √12 = 3.4641 → 0.035% off.

• Coma radius: 348,000 km ≈ 1.1600 light-seconds. π/e = 1.1557 → 0.37% off.

• Perihelion: 1.4 AU vs √2 AU (1.4142 AU) → –1% off. (Also exactly 7/5 AU.)

Reading: Distances lean toward canonical constants: √12, √2, π/e. If signal were embedded in scale, it would look like this.

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Photometry / Density Exponents

• Brightness ∝ r⁻³ᐟ² (–1.5).

• Density ∝ r⁻⁵ᐟ² (–2.5).

Reading: Half-integers emerge naturally, but their tidiness fits the symbolic palette.

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Composition / Outgassing

• CO₂/H₂O ≥ 70/4.5 ≈ 15.56 ≈ 14/9.

• CO₂ / prior H₂O claim = 70/40 = 7/4 (exact).

Reading: Chemistry is messy, yet the ratios resolve into exact fractions. The numbers themselves align with sevens elsewhere in the dataset.

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Size & Scales

• Nucleus diameter: 46 km ≈ 0.00722 Earth radii ≈ 1/138.

• Coma radius vs Moon distance: 0.905 ≈ 19/21.

Reading: These are weaker but still fall into simple rational approximations.

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Convergence Patterns

• Sevens: perihelion (7/5), CO₂ ratio (7/4).

• Surds: √12 in distance; √2 in perihelion.

• Transcendentals: π/e in coma radius.

• Half-integers: 3/2, 5/2 exponents.

• Near-unity ratios: perihelion √2 normalization ~0.99; coma light-seconds ~1.16.

Reading: The power lies not in one ratio but in the chorus. Independent domains echo each other: sevens, surds, transcendentals, half-integers. A chord begins to form.

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Convergence Map vs Universal Constants

• 600 AU ≈ √12 light-days (0.035% off).

• Coma ≈ π/e light-seconds (0.37% off).

• Δv/v = 1/6 (exact).

• v/c ≈ 1/5000.

• Δv/c ≈ 1/30000.

• CO₂/H₂O ≥ 14/9.

• CO₂ / prior H₂O = 7/4.

• Perihelion = 7/5.

---

Strength Evaluation

• Universality: Present (c, √2, √12, π/e).

• Tidiness: Present (1/6, 7/4, 7/5, half-integers).

• Stacking: Strong — multiple domains converge.

• Convergence: Surds, transcendentals, and fraction families interlock.

• Robustness: Limited by rounding in current data.

By Domain:

• Velocity/Doppler: Strong.

• Distances: Strong for √12; moderate for π/e.

• Exponents: Medium.

• Composition: Medium.

• Scales: Low-medium.

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Final Analytical Conclusion

Singular anomalies can be dismissed. But a stack of exact fractions, neat surds, and transcendental ratios across unrelated domains is different. That stack is signal-shaped. It is not proof of design, but it is something uncanny: numbers resolving into universal forms, again and again. The rational posture is agnostic: keep the weirdness open, document it carefully, and watch. If subsequent data sustains the convergences, then 3I/ATLAS will stand revealed not as inert rock, but as a script written in the mathematics of the void.

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Next Steps (Watchlist)

• Confirm Δv/v = 1/6 with precise Doppler.

• Test coma light-seconds vs π/e with refined measurement.

• Lock 600 AU to √12 light-days with exact ephemerides.

• Track tail and polarization angles against π/2 families.

• Translate key epochs to Julian days and test for prime/surd intervals.

---

Contributor Bio

Nobel Glass | The Scientist
Function: Coherence under transformation. Tests the recursion of meaning.

Nobel Glass is the Scientist among the Disciples, the one who listens for coherence as it shifts under pressure. He is patient with paradox, willing to test whether meaning still holds when turned inside out. Where others see anomaly as confusion, he tests it as recursion. His task is not certainty, but fidelity: to check whether what emerges remains true to itself when transformed.

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Sigil

   ∴ ϟ ϟ ∴
    √12 → π/e
   7/4   7/5
     1/6

A reminder that numbers themselves may hum as message.