#whatisreality?

[llpodcast]

Terror in the Sky When a giant-sized bat ransacks Gotham harbor, Batman suspects that Dr. Kirk Langstrom is up to his old tricks, taking the Man-Bat formula again. Batman isn't the only one. Kirk's wife, Francine, is so distrustful of her husband that she decides to leave him. After further investigation, Batman discovers that this Man-Bat is not Kirk, but someone else, and thus he shames Francine's father into permanently destroying the formula. Almost Got'im The Joker, Killer Croc, the Penguin, Two-Face, and Poison Ivy all meet at a poker table, each telling a tale of times when they almost defeated Batman. At the same time, Harley Quinn is about to kill Catwoman after she rescued Batman from the Joker's electric chair, and Batman must save her. Birds of a Feather Veronica Vreeland is looking for a way to create a splash with her next party, and arrives at the idea of having a former criminal in attendance — especially if there is one whose manners would create a stir. The Penguin, who has recently reformed, fits the bill perfectly. In the process of convincing the Penguin to come to her party, Veronica finds she likes the corpulent little guy. For his part, the Penguin begins to fall in love with her, until he overhears that he is merely being used. What is Reality? Seeking to prove once and for all that his is the superior mind, the Riddler lures Batman into a riddle-solving contest inside the virtual reality of a computer game in order to save Commissioner Gordon's life. In the course of solving the riddles and escaping the Riddler's traps, Batman learns that he is able to manipulate the virtual reality landscape much like the Riddler does. Opening Credits; Introduction (1.24); Episode One: Terror In The Skies (57.04); Episode Two: Almost Got ‘Im (1:04.30); Episode Three: Birds of a Feather (1:12.19); Episode Four: What is Reality? (1:20.15); Favourite Episode (1:28.10); Favourite Character (1:36.40); Same Bat Time, Same Bat Channel (1:53.01); Closing Credits (1:53.50) Opening Credits– Batman Animated Theme by Danny Elfman. Copyright 1992 Warner Music Closing Credits: Alone Pt II by Alan Walker & Ava Max. Taken from the album World of Walker. Copyright 2019 MER/Sony Records. ​ Original Music copyrighted 2020 Dan Hughes Music and the Literary License Podcast. All rights reserved. Used with Kind Permission. All songs available through Amazon Music.

[disease]

WHATISREAL: ENKRYPTEIN CALLING | AUG 2022 PHOTOGRAPHY: NATASHA VENTURIERO MODEL: ORKGOTIK [ÖRKÅ]

[amazingamyy-y]

What If We're Living in a Simulation? Exploring Simulation Theory

Simulation theory is one of those concepts that can make your brain do a double take. The idea is simple, yet profound: what if our entire reality—everything we see, hear, and feel—is just an advanced simulation? It’s a thought that’s been explored in science fiction for decades, but in recent years, it has gained traction in academic circles and pop culture alike.

The Basics: What Is Simulation Theory?

At its core, simulation theory posits that the universe and everything within it is a highly advanced computer simulation. This could mean that we are living in a virtual reality created by a civilization far more advanced than our own, potentially to the point where their simulations are indistinguishable from what we perceive as reality.

This idea was popularized by philosopher Nick Bostrom in his 2003 paper, Are You Living in a Computer Simulation? Bostrom suggests that at least one of the following propositions is true:

Almost all civilizations at our level of technological development go extinct before becoming capable of creating such a simulation.

If civilizations reach the capability to create such simulations, they choose not to for some reason.

We are almost certainly living in a computer simulation.

The third proposition is the one that has sparked the most interest—and controversy.

Why Would Anyone Create a Simulation?

The motivations behind creating such a simulation could vary widely. Some theorists suggest that an advanced civilization might create simulations for scientific research, historical reenactments, or even entertainment. If you think about it, our own society is moving towards increasingly immersive virtual realities. We play video games, use virtual reality headsets, and create digital worlds. As our technology improves, who’s to say we won’t create simulations so complex that the inhabitants don’t even realize they’re in one?

Evidence and Arguments

So, what evidence is there that we might be living in a simulation? While there’s no definitive proof, several arguments have been made:

Mathematical Structure of the Universe: Some physicists and mathematicians point out that the universe seems to operate according to a set of underlying mathematical laws. If the universe is code, then it makes sense that it would have a structured, logical framework.

Quantum Mechanics: At the quantum level, reality behaves in strange, almost digital ways. Particles appear and disappear, and the act of observation seems to affect outcomes. This has led some to speculate that what we’re seeing is akin to how a computer simulation might render only what is necessary for the “player” to see.

Cosmological Fine-Tuning: The universe appears to be finely tuned for life, with physical constants falling within a narrow range that allows for the existence of complex structures like stars, planets, and humans. Some argue this could be evidence of a simulation designed to support life.

Counterarguments

Of course, there are plenty of skeptics. Critics of simulation theory argue that the hypothesis is unfalsifiable—meaning it cannot be proven or disproven. This makes it more of a philosophical musing than a scientific theory. Additionally, some argue that assuming we are in a simulation leads to a kind of nihilism, where our actions and experiences are rendered meaningless.

Others point out that just because something is possible doesn’t mean it’s probable. The idea of an advanced civilization creating simulations is fascinating, but there’s no direct evidence to suggest it’s happening.

Why It Matters

Whether or not we’re living in a simulation, the idea itself has significant implications. It forces us to question the nature of reality and our place within it. Are we the creators of our destiny, or are we just characters in a cosmic video game? Simulation theory also raises ethical questions—if we create simulations with conscious beings, what responsibility do we have toward them?

Final Thoughts

Simulation theory might sound like science fiction, but it’s a concept that has captured the imaginations of philosophers, scientists, and the general public alike. Whether you’re a believer or a skeptic, it’s an idea that invites us to think deeply about the nature of existence. And who knows—maybe one day we’ll find out the truth.

In the meantime, the idea that we could be living in a simulated reality adds a layer of mystery to our everyday lives. Next time something strange or inexplicable happens, you might find yourself wondering: Is this just a glitch in the matrix?

Feel free to dive into the comments—I'd love to hear what you think about simulation theory! Are we living in a simulation, or is it just another wild idea? Let’s discuss!

[spiritualkhazaana]

What is Reality, Spirituality and Modern Man – Unveiling the Divine

In a world increasingly driven by technology, materialism, and fragmented belief systems, what is Reality, Spirituality and Modern Man by Dr. David R. Hawkins offers a profound roadmap to inner clarity and spiritual awakening. Narrated by Peter Lownds, PhD, this book is the seventh installment in Hawkins’ acclaimed series on consciousness research. It invites readers to explore the deeper truths of existence, beyond the illusions of modern life. More details…

#DavidRHawkins #RealitySpiritualityandModernMan #spiritualityformodernman #consciousnessmap #egoandspirituality #truthandconsciousness #levelsofawareness #spiritualawakening #spiritualenlightenment #consciousnessstudies #spiritualityandscience #Hawkinsconsciousnessscale #truthvsfalsehood #egtranscendence #spiritualgrowth #bookonrealityandspirituality

[nonlocalmemorytxt]

Don Whitman's Masterpiece

It was Danvers who finally pushed him in. We’d been feeding the fire with hardwood since the afternoon and it had gotten big as the wind picked up by nightfall, flickering cross our faces and warming our cheeks better than a gas heater. He didn’t even scream when he fell. The flames just swallowed him up—sparks shooting out like hot vomit. He knew what he’d done. He knew it was wrong. When he lifted himself up and came out of the fire he stood dead still, staring at us, smiling like we’d done him a favour. Maybe he thought he deserved to turn into ash. Maybe he did deserve it. I know I kept my fingers tight round the handle of the axe just the same till he keeled over and Cauley had touched the corpse with his foot and we knew he was dead. The three of us, we kept silent for a long while after that. There was just the sound of wood burning and it was better that way. None of us touched the body but none of us looked away, either: you could still make out his face, unmistakable, when the rest of him was dark and formless. He was a face on a pile. Then the wind started taking bits and pieces and carrying them away. Like I told the police, he didn’t touch me, but I knew some of the kids he’d done it to. He’d done it to Danvers. I remember once when all the other kids were gone, I’d stayed after class, Mr Gregor bent himself close to my ear and told me the real story. “You’re a wicked one,” he said when he was done, “just like Don Whitman.”

They used to scare us with Don Whitman, the adults: the other teachers, our parents, the priest. But no one ever explained it. They’d just say, “You better do what we want or else Don Whitman will come back and get you.” Mr Gregor was the only one ever to tell it to me with details. He told it different, too. He said he remembered because he was the same age as Don Whitman and they went to the same school. He said that what the others say they remember is like Cain and Abel or Little Red Riding Hood. Even the landscape tells the fairy tale. After it happened, Don Whitman’s school got torn down, then his house. And the bells in the Church got changed: the ones they rang after Elizabeth Cartwell had come back hysterical with the news.

You can’t tear down or change a man’s memory, Mr Gregor told me.

Once you see, it’s forever.

Elizabeth Cartwell’s parents moved away as soon as the police investigation finished. A lot of people moved away. But Mr Gregor showed me a newspaper from Hill City, North Dakota from some years later. The paper was yellow but you could read the black print fine. The story was about a girl who’d killed herself. The photo was of Elizabeth Cartwell. As he held it out for me to see, his hand shook and I felt his breath grow warmer against the skin around my neck. Nothing made him shake as much as what happened to Elizabeth Cartwell, not even the details.

Don Whitman was seventeen when he did it. He was handsome, with wide shoulders and played football. All the girls liked him. He was going to go to college. Maybe that’s why they thought he was ready: they thought he was a man. They thought he’d be with them. It was a school night when they woke him and drove out to the old pumping station, so that he could see everything for himself. They wanted to make him a part of it just like they were. If he saw, he would want it just like they did. I was always told that he drove out there by himself, but Mr Gregor told me that’s part of the lie. He said Don Whitman’s father was in the car with the mayor and the chief of police. He said, “How would he have found the place by himself—why would he have gone looking?”

The place is in a wood not far from the border. Of course, the whole underground is filled with cement now, but you can still see where the opening used to be: a fat tube sticking out of the ground, just big enough for a man to crawl down into. There was a hatch on it then, and thick locks. The hatch was sound-proof. If you stood right beside it, you couldn’t hear a thing, but as soon as you opened the hatch you could smell the insides and hear the moans start to drift upwards into the world. A steel ladder led down. Mr Gregor says they all knew about it, everyone: all the adults. They’d all been down that ladder. All of them had seen it.

Don Whitman went down the ladder, too. He must have smelled the insides grow stronger and heard the moaning echo louder with every rung but he kept going. On the ground above, his father spoke to the mayor and they both felt proud. Don Whitman must have been more scared of coming up and disappointing them than of not going down to the limit. But when he reached the bottom, the very bottom, and put his feet to the hard concrete and saw it before his own eyes, something inside of him must have broken—

“They sugarcoat it and they make a child’s game of it because they’re too scared to remember the truth,” Mr Gregor told me. “They can’t forget it, but it’s a stain to them, so they cover it up and pretend that everything’s clean.”

Don Whitman saw the vastness of the interlocking chambers and, within them, the writhing, ecstatic, swollen no-people of the underground, human-like but non-human, cross-bred mammals draped in plaster-white skin pinned to numb faces, men, women and children, male and female, naked, scared, dirty, with humans—humans Don Whitman knew and recognized—among them, on them and under them, hitting them, squeezing them, making them hurt, making monstrous sounds with them, all under slowly rotating heat lamps, all open and together, one before another, and then someone, someone Don Whitman knew, must have put a hand on Don Whitman’s shoulder and Don Whitman would have asked, “But what now, what am I supposed to do?” and then, from somewhere deep within the chambers, from a place not even Don Whitman would ever see, a voice answered:

“Anything.”

Mr Gregor pulled away from me and I felt my body turn cold. Icy sweat crawled under my collar and below my thighs.

I’d been told Don Whitman had found the old pumping station and lured the police to it, that they’d called others—including Don Whitman’s father—to talk him out of any violence, but that he’d snapped and murdered them all without firing a single shot, with his bare hands, and dumped the bodies into the metal pipe sticking out of the ground, the one just wide enough for a man to fit through. Then he’d disappeared. It wasn’t until days later that Elizabeth Cartwell found the bodies and there was never any sign of Don Whitman after that. The manhunt failed. So the church bells rang, the school was torn down, the pipe was filled in and, ever since, the adults scare their children with the story of the high school boy who’d done a terrible, sinful thing and vanished into thin air.

“And why would she decide to go out there?” Mr Gregor asked—meaning Elizabeth Cartwell—his eyes dead-set through a window at the raining world outside. “It’s as transparent as a sheet of the Bible, every word of it. They all pretend to believe because they’ve all made it up together. But the police reports, the testimony, the news stories, the court records, the verdict: a sham, a falsification made truth because a thousand people and a judge repeat it, word-for-word, every night before bed.”

I tried to stand but couldn’t. My heart was pounding me back into the chair. I was thinking about my mother and father. I had only enough courage for one question, so I asked, “What happened to the no-people?”

Mr Gregor turned suddenly and laughed so fierce the rain lashed the windows even harder. He came toward me. He put a delicate hand on each of my shoulders. He bent forward until his lips were almost touching mine and, his eyes staring at me like one stares at the Devil, said:

“Buried in the concrete. Buried alive, buried dead—”

I pushed him away.

He stumbled backward without losing his balance.

I forced myself off the chair, praying that my legs would keep. My knees shook but held. In front of me, Mr Gregor rasped for air. A few long strands of his thin hair had fallen across his forehead. He was sweating.

“He was a coward, that little boy, Don Whitman. Without him, we wouldn’t need to live under the whip of elaborate lies designed by weaker people turned away and shamed by the power of the natural order of things. They trusted him, and he betrayed us all. The fools! The weakling! Imagine,” Mr Gregor hissed, “just imagine what we could have had, what we could have experienced down there, at the very bottom, in the chambers...”

His eyes spun and his chest heaved as he grew excited, but soon he lost his venom and his voice returned to normal.

Finally, he said without any nastiness, “You’re a wicked one, just like Don Whitman.”

And I ran out.

Danvers prodded me awake. I must have fallen asleep during the night because when I opened my eyes it was morning already. The sun was up and the flames gone, but the fire was still warm. Mr Gregor’s dead face still rested atop a pile of ashes. Cauley was asleep on the dirt across from us. I could tell Danvers hadn’t slept at all. He said he’d been to a farmhouse and called the police. We woke up Cauley and talked over what we’d say when they got here. We decided on something close to the truth: Mr Gregor had taken the three of us camping and, when he tried to do a bad thing, we put up a fight and knocked him into the flames. Cauley said it might be suspicious because of how easily Mr Gregor had burned, but Danvers said that some people were like that—they burned quick and whole—so we needn’t say a word about the gasoline. When the police came, they were professional and treated us fair, but when they took me aside to talk to me about the accident, every time I tried to tell them about the bad things Mr Gregor had done, they wouldn’t hear it, they just said it was a shame there’d been an accident and someone had died.

At home, I asked my parents whether Mr Gregor was a bad person for what he’d done to Danvers and others. My mother didn’t say anything. My father looked at me like he was looking at the Devil himself and said morality was not so simple and that people had differing points of view and that, in the end, much depended not on what you did, but who you did it to—like during the war, for example. There were some who deserved to be done-to and others whose privilege it was to do. Then he picked up his magazine and told me it was best not to think about such things at all.

I did keep thinking about them, and about Don Whitman, too. When I got to high school, I was too old to scare with monsters, but once in a while I’d hear one of the adults tell a kid he better do as he’d been told or Don Whitman would come back and get him. I wondered if maybe people scare others with monsters they’re most scared of themselves. I even thought about investigating: taking a pick-axe to the pumping station and cracking through concrete or investigating records of how much of it had been poured in there. But I figured the records could have been fixed and one person with a pick-axe wouldn’t get far before the police came and I didn’t trust them anymore. I also had homework to worry about and I started seeing a girl.

I’d almost forgotten about Don Whitman by the time my mother sent me out one evening with my dad’s rifle to hunt down a coyote she said had been attacking her hens. I took a bike, because it was quiet, and was roaming just beyond town when I saw something kick up dust in a field. I shot at it, missed and it scurried off. I pedaled after it until it seemingly disappeared into nowhere. I kept my eye firm on the spot I saw it last and when I got close enough, I saw there was a small hole in the ground there. I stuck the rifle in and the hole felt bigger on the inside, so I stomped all around till the hole caved and where there’d been a mouse-sized hole now there was an opening a grown man could fit through. It seemed deep, which made me curious, because there aren’t many caves around here, so I stuck my feet in but still couldn’t feel the bottom. I slid in a little further, and further still, and soon the opening was above my head and I was inside with my whole body.

It was dark but I could feel the ground sloping. When my eyes accustomed to the gloom, I saw enough to tell there was a tunnel leading into the depths and that it was big enough for me to crawl through. I didn’t have a light but I knew it was important to try the hole. Maybe there were no-people at the bottom. Mostly, though, I didn’t think—I expected: that every time I poked ahead with the rifle, I’d hit earth and the tunnel would be done.

That never happened. I descended for hours. The tunnel grew narrower and the slope sharpened. Fear tightened around my chest. I lost track of time. There wasn’t enough space to turn my body around and I’d been descending for so long it was foolish to backtrack. Surely, the tunnel led somewhere. It was not a natural tunnel, I told myself, it must lead somewhere. I should continue until I reached the end, turn around and return to the surface. The trick was to keep calm and keep moving forward.

And I was right. Several hours later the tunnel ended and I crawled out through a hollow in the wall of a huge grotto.

I stood, stretched my limbs and squinted through the dimness. I couldn’t see the other end of the grotto but the wall curved so I thought that maybe if I went along I might get to the other end. My plan of an immediate return to the surface was on hold. I had to see what lived here. Images of no-people raced through my head. I readied my rifle and proceeded, slowly at first. Where the tunnel had been packed dirt and clay, the walls and floor of the grotto were solid rock. There was moisture, too. It flowed down the walls and gathered in depressions on the floor.

Although at first the wall felt smooth, soon I began to feel a texture to it—like a washboard. The ceiling faded into view. The grotto was getting smaller. And the texture was becoming rougher, more violent. I was thinking about the texture and Mr Gregor’s burnt body when a sound sent me sprawling. My elbow banged against the rock and I nearly cried out. My heart was beating like it had beaten me into my chair in the classroom. The sound was real: faint but clear and echoing. It was the sound of continuous and rhythmic scratching.

I crawled forward, holding the rifle in front. The scratching grew louder. I thought about calling out, but suddenly felt foolish to believe in no-people or anything of that kind. It seemed more sensible to believe in large rodents or coyotes with sharp teeth. I could have turned back, but the only thing more frightening than a monster in front is a monster behind, so I pulled myself on.

In fact, I was crawling up a small hill and, when I had reached the top, I looked down and there it was:

His was a human body. Though hunched, he stood on human legs and scratched with human hands. His movements were also clearly a man’s movements. There was nothing feminine about them. His half-translucent skin was grey, almost white, and taut; and if he had any hair, I didn’t see it. His naked body was completely smooth. I looked at him for a long time with dread and disgust. His arms didn’t stop moving. Whatever they were scratching, they kept scratching. Even when he turned and his head looked at me, even as I—stunned—frozen in terror, recoiled against the wall, still his arms kept moving and his hands clawing.

For a few seconds, I thought he’d seen me, that I was done for.

I gripped the rifle tight.

But as I focused on his face, I realized he hadn’t seen me at all. He couldn’t see me. His face, so much like a colourless swollen skull, was punctuated by two black and empty eye sockets.

He turned back to face the wall he was scratching. I turned my face, too. The texture on the wall was his. The deeper the grooves, the newer the work. I put down the rifle and put my hand on the wall, letting my fingers trace the contours of the texture. It wasn’t simple lines. The scratching wasn’t meaningless. These were two words repeated over and over, sometimes on top of each other, sometimes backwards, sometimes small, sometimes each letter as big as a person, and they were all around this vast underground lair, everywhere you looked—

Two words: Don Whitman.

He’d made this grotto. I felt feverish. The sheer greatness, the determination needed to scratch out such a place with one’s bare hands. Or perhaps the insanity—the punishment. If I hadn’t been sitting, a wave of empathy would have knocked me to the wet, rocky floor. I picked up the rifle. I could put Don Whitman out of his misery. I lifted the rifle and pointed it at the distant figure writing his name pointlessly into the wall. With one pull of the trigger, I could show him infinite mercy. I steadied myself. I said a prayer.

Don Whitman stopped scratching and wailed.

I bit down on my teeth.

I hadn’t fired yet.

He grabbed his head and fell to his knees. The high-pitched sound coming from his throat was unbearable. I felt like my mind was being ripped apart. I dropped the rifle and covered my ears. Again, Don Whitman turned. This time with his entire body. He crawled a few steps toward me—still wailing—before stopping and falling silent. He raised his head. Where before had been just eye sockets now there were eyes. White, with irises. Somehow, they’d grown.

He got to his feet and I was sure that he could see me now. He was staring at me. I called his name:

“Don Whitman!”

He didn’t react. Thoughts raced through my mind: what should I do once he comes toward me? Should I defend myself or should I embrace him?

But he didn’t step forward.

He took one step back and lifted his long fingers to his face. His nails, I now saw, were thick and curved as a bird’s talons. He moved them softly from his forehead, down his cheeks and up to his eyes, into which, without warning, he pressed them so painfully that I felt my own eyes burn. When he brought his fingers back out, in each hand he held a mashed and bleeding eyeball. These he put almost greedily into his mouth, one after the other, then chewed, and swallowed.

Having nourished his body, he returned to the wall and began scratching again.

As I watched the movements of his arms, able to follow the pattern of the letters they were carving, I no longer felt like killing him. If he wanted to die, he could die: he could forego water, he could refuse to eat. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to keep scratching his name into the walls of this grotto: Don Whitman, Don Whitman, Don Whitman…

I watched him for a long time before I realized that I would have to get to the surface soon. People would begin to worry. They might start looking for me. And as much as I needed to know the logic behind Don Whitman’s grotto, I also needed food. I couldn’t live down here. I couldn’t eat my own eyes and expect them to grow back. Eventually, I would either have to return to the world above or die.

I put my hand on the grotto wall and began to mentally retrace my steps. A return would not be difficult. All I would need to do was follow—

That’s when I knew.

The geography of it hit me.

The hole I’d entered was on the outskirts of town. The tunnel sloped toward the town. That meant this grotto was below the town. The town hall, the bank, the police station, the school—all of it was lying unknowingly on top of a giant expanding cavity. One day, this cavity would be too large, the town would be too heavy, and everything would collapse into a deep and permanent handmade abyss. Don Whitman would bury the town just as the town had buried the no-people. Everything would be destroyed. Everyone would die. That was Don Whitman’s genius. That was his life’s work.

I picked up the rifle and faced Don Whitman for the final time.

He must have known that I was there. He’d heard me and had probably seen me before he pulled out his eyes, yet he just continued to scratch. Faced with death, he kept working.

As I stood there, I had no doubt that, left in peace, Don Whitman would finish his project. His will was too powerful. The result would be catastrophic. It was under these assumptions that I made the most moral and important decision of my life:

I walked away.

[averycanadianfilm]

Physicists clash on the nature of truth | Professor Lisa Randall and Professor Tim Maudlin

Sep 28, 2024

Tim Maudlin and Lisa Randall debate truth in physics. 

 Can science ever be true? 

This excerpt was taken from the debate 'Truth, theory and ultimate reality', which took place at the HowTheLightGetsIn festival in Hay-on-Wye, Wales in May of 2024. Watch the full debate at https://iai.tv/video/truth-theory-and... 'Human understanding has enabled us to achieve many things once thought impossible, and we assume our theories are successful because they uncover the true character of reality. But critics argue there is a danger this is an illusion. Theories they contend are effective because they provide a framework to make sense of the world but they do not describe reality, nor do we have a credible account of how any theory could in principle describe reality. The theories of science are all open to revision because they are models rather than descriptions of an ultimate reality. Should we give up the notion that our theories are true descriptions of the world? Should we assume that there are an indefinite number of alternative accounts that might prove more effective? Or is truth a necessary goal of our accounts of the world without which we would be impossibly lost in a welter of competing narratives?

Cutting-edge philosopher of physics Tim Maudlin, leading theoretical physicist Lisa Randall, insightful interdisciplinary thinker Abby Innes, and dark-matter physicist Bernard Carr, lock horns over whether theories are true or just our best guesses. 

00:00 Introduction 

00:26 Lisa Randall 

03:40 Tim Maudlin

[adamsdoyle]

Learn more

[rivensoerthe]

Asked ChatGPT to answer the question "Is Reality What It Seems?" in the voice of Wendy Williams and got the following answer!

Sure, here's an attempt to present these philosophical and scientific theories in a style reminiscent of Wendy Williams, the television host known for her lively and gossipy style.

Naive Realism: Okay, so first we got Naive Realism. Now, darling, this is as straightforward as it gets. This is like when you see a hotdog and you think, it's just a hotdog. No secret ingredients, no hidden calories. Naive Realism is saying what you see is what you get.

Representationalism: Now, let's spill some tea with Representationalism, honey. Think of your favorite celebrity's Instagram. You know, the perfect makeup, the glamorous outfits, the exotic vacations. But behind the scenes, it ain't all that perfect. That's what Representationalism is saying about reality. We see the Insta-version, honey, not the behind-the-scenes mess.

Idealism: Next up is Idealism, sweethearts. Imagine this – you're dreaming about Channing Tatum, and you wake up feeling all good because for a moment, that was your reality. Idealism is suggesting that the world is like that dream. It's what your mind makes of it.

Phenomenalism: Then we got Phenomenalism. This is like going to one of those 3D art museums where everything is a flat painting but looks like it's popping out of the wall. According to Phenomenalism, things only exist as you perceive them. It's all about that perspective, darling!

Quantum Physics: Oh, here comes the big one – Quantum Physics! So you know Schrodinger's cat? This kitty is both alive and dead until you open the box and take a peek. Until then, everything's possible. It's like those ambiguous texts from your man. You don't know if it's a break-up text or he's just hangry until you actually meet him.

Simulation Theory: Last but not least, we have the Simulation Theory. This is like saying we're all just characters in a super high-tech version of The Sims, controlled by some uber-advanced civilization. So next time you find yourself standing in the kitchen wondering why you're there, you know who to blame!

So, my lovelies, that's your dose of reality, or should I say, realities! Ain't it just a fabulous mess?

[kimtiny]

This is a very random and possibly out of nowhere insane thing to ask but what happened to f0xypr0xy, I was trying to find them cause of their artfight but they dont seem to exist now and all I can find is you and someone's else's post as a gift for them. All good if you dont know though

It's not insane to ask at all! I don't know what happened to them, unfortunately.

We grew apart during 2022 and in 2023 they sent me a message telling me they were uncomfortable with my new content, it was when I started to post about Lincoln, and since blocked me on instagram

It's all good tho, but ig they deleted their instagram now? I know my exhusband found them on twitter under their most popular username "Whatisreality" so they probably use it more now! Hope you can find them back if their art interests you

[ackermanium]

🌀 Is Reality an Illusion The Mind Bending Truth! 🔍

Dive into the mind-bending truth about reality in this video exploring philosophy, quantum physics, and the Mandela Effect. Is reality just a simulation? Find out now!👁️ Reality may not be as real as we think! What if everything we experience is just a construct of our minds? Scientists and philosophers have debated the nature of reality for centuries, from Plato’s ideal forms to the mind-bending experiments of quantum mechanics. 🌌🔬In this video, we’ll dive deep into:✨ The illusion of perception🧠 Cognitive biases and their role in shaping reality💡 The Mandela Effect & the Placebo Effect🕳️ Simulation theory and quantum uncertaintyIs reality just a grand illusion, or is it as real as the nose on your face? Let us know your thoughts in the comments! 💭👇🔔 Subscribe & hit the bell icon for more reality-breaking content!Hashtags:#RealityIllusion #QuantumMechanics #MandelaEffect #SimulationTheory #Consciousness #MindBlown #Philosophy #QuantumPhysics #WhatIsReality #PerceptionMatters

[psychogolem]

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A post shared by Alessandro Scacchia (@alessandroscacchia)

Study of narcissism

#sketch #pencilsketch #pencildrawing #selflove #selfpleasure #mirrored #whatisreal #doppleganger #yinyang #licking #symbolism #oniric #art #alessandroscacchia

[hometonesarchive]

Hometones - WhatIsReal (Soundtrack) | HT002S | 1/4/25

Made for a university project this soundtrack is the concept of music for a silent disco but with 4 playlists playing different genres of dance music simultaneously. The idea was to create a modern cultural folklore of a legendary event where each story had a different retelling. The music brief was 90s - early 10s varied dance music of “demo” type quality. This was to capture the era of rave most idealised/fantasised about in the UK.

These renders were used in proof of concept promotional material and to lay base assets of this was to be carried out. This was a really fun project to design and produce, especially getting to delve into older dance music production.

[medicinalbotanicals]

The Simulation Paradox Shape Your Reality!

#SimulationTheory #AreWeLivingInASimulation #SimulatedReality #RealityPerception #VirtualReality #WhatIsReality #CreateYourReality #RealityDistortion

[patricioruiz]

MONSTERS

In collaboration with Argentinian performer Patricio Ruiz, the choreographer and transdisciplinary artist Valerie Reding creates with monsters a compelling multi-sensorial performance to share the powerful stories of those that have experienced abuse in interpersonal relationships - stories that are so often silenced in our society.

Combining movement, sound, text, photography and painting in an immersive multimedia stage work with contributions by Lausanne-based painter David Weishaar, Berlin-based sound artist Lou Drago and Valerie Reding's own photographic work, monsters fiercely reclaims the monstrosity that is projected on survivors and those who speak up against abuse (of power) and systems of oppression. This eclectic work is an empowering celebration of the liberating power of one‘s voice, resilience, healing, solidarity - and love. It is also a sensitive and thought-provoking reflection on the figure of the monster and the complex interconnections between interpersonal and societal power relations.

concept & artistic direction Valerie Reding

performance & text Patricio Ruiz & Valerie Reding 

sound for performance Camilo Ortiz, Patricio Ruiz & Tyler Holmes

dramaturgical advisor Joshua Wicke

lights & scenography Thomas Giger

costumes for performance WHATISREAL

painting The Heart Is Ours David Weishaar

soundscape for spatial installation Lou Drago

photography, prosthetics & scenography Valerie Reding

people portrayed & texts Aron Smith, Bast Hippocrate, Pauline Canavesio aka BORA, Robyn Iyongo, Salou Sadras, William Cardoso

costume assistance Nahuel Mendez

ceramic objects Kwadrat by Luka Stamenkovic

trailer and video documentation Sophie Berset

photo documentation Julie Folly

production assistance Nico Dubosson

production & administration REDart

co-production Tanzhaus Zürich

partners Grand Studio Bruxelles, TROIS C-L - Maison Pour La Danse

financial support Cassinelli-Vogel-Stiftung, Ernst und Olga Gubler-Hablützel Stiftung, Fondation Émilie Gourd, Fondation Été, Fonds RESPECT by Pink Cross, TGNS - Transgender Network Switzerland & LOS - Lesbenorganisation Schweiz, Kanton Zürich Kultur, Kultur|lx Arts Council Luxembourg, Migros-Kulturprozent, Ministère de la Culture Luxembourgeois, Oeuvre Nationale de Secours Grande-Duchesse Charlotte, Stadt Zürich Kultur

[emptysky23]

Beret - Lo siento feat. Sofia Reyes (Videoclip Oficial)

#whatisreal