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The Isolate by Ignatius Star   Linnaeorum scriptorum ‘Exterior Homo’ nec hominem in familia mamaliam nec genitus hominium in veritate, sed in nostris temporibus, illis homines in mundi sciantur in generale homenes esse.1           You might laugh or might simply say that I am so very weak. You might even feel sorry for me. Regardless, if you feel sorry for me, or cast the myriad darts and wound me as you come to think of me as being too weak to resist the temptation to laugh at; or you simply ignore me; or you think of me as being somehow hilarious, in that you consider me to be a laughingstock: nevertheless, it is not without entire ignorance in that I have rather valid ideas about my faults, just as well as you might come to have your own ideas about my faults which might be different or the same as my own ideas, but just as valid, and how you may pertain them to be, or not to be, like ideas and validity, in general.  You might indeed come to have ideas about me, which are no less valid and true as my own ideas, and which are derived from this book which I have written over many soulful nights spent wide awake as the Isolate. Regardless, in my lifetime the solar barge of Ra, the Boat of Millions of Years, has been exchanged metaphorically for the Mesektet. Fire spitting cobras guard the gates of darkness and the underworld.  (To be precise the Egyptian hours required the divine services of that ancient civilization’s priesthood of the gods. The sundial divided the day into twelve hours, which were marked with ten equal divisions. The first and the last hour of the day were also observed by the priesthood when the sundials failed to note time. Each hour of darkness was perceived as a specific region of the night sky of the physical world and the sky of the underworld, through which Ra travelled on the Mesektet. Meanwhile protective deities personified the hours.)            Yet, I did not ask for Ra to leave the Boat of Millions of years. I did not ask for that great ancient civilization to collapse. I did not ask for humanity to be destroyed. It just happened. So let me learn of Thoth, the god of wisdom. Let me see his face, the long-beaked bird, the face of an Ibis. Let me be a complete baboon, in homage to Thoth, because his head was often described as resembling a baboon.             Let me invoke thee, God, by Thoth, who might then settle all the gods’ disputes, as he was always supposed to have done so, often by tricking them. For I am a dwarf who lives among the underclasses of Toronto, among giant chameleon’s, which effect the shapes of men and women – yet, that which are neither nor.  For what if there are beings here today who came from outer space? Do such extraterrestrials exist on Earth now, who manipulated the elements, by throwing, mixing, and solidifying; or using heat to liquefy and congeal? Did they transmute into human beings, into ‘Homo Exterior,’ who are apparently only externally the same as ‘Homo Sapiens?’ If so, how many people died, who were incinerated or liquified, transformed, crushed, and congealed, and their chemical properties expropriated by the extraterrestrials, those beings which cooked and devoured Man, referring to him as turkey? Are there any humans left alive? I am uncertain. Nor can I answer the question: “Is humanity extinct?” I only remember from a time before, not many decades ago, that there was an authentic humankind who is here no more.  But why belabor the point? Why fret? Concede, therefore. Resistance is futile. Praying being an accoutrement of the opiate of a former age En masse. But to speak of gods – as if there are many – somehow like a pagan. Where is your Christ who shall lead you onto a new Christian kingdom and paradise? Or if you are honestly a mystic, by name and race, indeed Iggy the Dwarf, why burn all your tapers for Thoth, instead of succoring the psychic light of the Kabbalah?  If all you are implying is that I am lonely and alone, I nevertheless shall at once be just so esoteric as a Hermetic philosopher of the occult. Yet are you, in turn, a kabbalistic race of Abraham? I ask you that, because in a thunderclap the sky darkened upon a late summer’s afternoon in nineteen eighty-eight, and that day you transmuted into the people who I have since added up as people who are either long since missing or dead.            Humanity died – humanity lived on.            No sooner was it the day’s news that there existed young-upwardly-mobile-professionals, and being a ‘Yuppy’ was enviable, that political correctness cleansed the English word “man” from the spoken and written language in the nominative of every job title. No sooner had I begun to suffer from the inertia of deep philosophical doubt of what was even normal or the norm, that when I asked my new peer groups to advise me, they only then replied rhetorically with the very question itself, “What is normal, anyway?”             How Zen you now appear to me to be, Howard and Susan!              I am referring to the weirdness of the parents of my then new steady girlfriend, who bought a perfectly fine house in Forest Hill and had it torn down and replaced with their dream home, featuring a frontend two car garage on a lot only sufficient for an overly steep ramp for their driveway, and that was only one example of a defective home regarding its overall design disaster, another defect essentially being because they were very new people to the planet acting like they were normal people from Oshawa, Ontario, who had just moved into Forest Hill neighborhood.  Certainly, had I not been such a neophyte amnesiac of the post-apocalypse, I would have known that they were not cool people, and neither was my girlfriend a cool person. Accurate memory of the loud bang in the late summer sky of the previous year might have perhaps saved me more time and spared me the humiliation and angst of my young adult life from not having the slightest idea why everything was not even cool anyhow, before it never again would be that sick for me, either. Good thing the paint job came with the house Jennifer, or it might have cost the whole neighborhood a lot of money.   Just like everything I might outright deny as even being humanly possible by now if I was really paying attention at the time – and not honestly suffering from being an amnesiac dwarf – that family and their home that seemed like everything else just to blend in back then, and not shout out, “‘Homo Exterior!’” might have in retrospect however, caused me to become not so much the make of the odd man out.              But since I just brought up the subject of the Kabbala, and that incongruous topic right after I asked permission to invoke thee, God, by Thoth, I have not forgotten that I have much to learn about my own good taste also and being a true human being. Since every Kabbalist says it is a certain fact that, “As above, so below,” the least of which I have learned is that there is a cause for every effect. Moreover, I should pay attention to my polarity or feel even worse off about a time for which I had much to be grateful despite it all, Lord.            Yet I purpose, from the Beginning, to say a few words which illustrate my first impressions about the spiritual heritage of all Mankind, the Kabbalah; that it predates and therefore eludes Post Humanity of the discovery to identify it with any religion, nation, or ethnicity; that it is a corpus of spirituality, wisdom, and lessons; that it is neither mastered by rote obedience to laws and commandments, nor by adherence to literal interpretation of scriptures; that it is often defined as the mystical tradition of Judaism; yet, it is not a “religion” of any Lord, who by His divinity brandishes His mightiness with bouts of punishment to cause Man to fear the consequence of, and therefore prove in his subsequence, life’s paradox and logic. That is because when the Creator brought the world into being, it was not His intention to include pain and suffering. Indeed, if it teaches us about the temptation and fall of primordial Man, it also teaches us about chaos that always surrounded him, and made him captive, and that his unity with the Creator is something that can always be regained. If a great squid seeming to always stand upon its many limbs at beckon call to ‘Homo Exterior,’ conveyed those beings to our skies in a scene that seemed to portray a shadowy Octopus’ Garden, then every creature capable of such magnitude on Earth, has now perforce been killed; that creature, appearing in natural light to be a green color, was completely motionless and offered no defense at the time of its death. ‘Homo Exterior’ who was conveyed here and a multitude of planets before, all the while devouring and causing extinctions as it leaped through space tempted by gluttony, which has left the Earth all but void of ‘Homo Sapiens,’ has ended its journey here. Any survivors of its debauch, must trust that in a paradox that its vanity to sustain itself in the likeness of its latest prey, shall not cause widespread damage to more populations of substances on Earth. Yet, how shall such appetite and life on Earth find satiate and constantly subsist? Allowed to escape the earth, its journey through space would have continued to cause extinctions in galactic proportions, and the Earth remains a place of all that temptation now affords its kind.   Kabbalah, in common with other spiritual traditions, teaches that the negativity that afflicts humankind came about through the temptation and fall of primordial man. The kabbalists have used the word chaos to describe the negative circumstances that surround us – the “Murphy’s Law” environment in which things will go wrong if they possibly can. Chaos is indeed an apt word. It is the opposite of harmony with the Creator, or more precisely, the unity with Him that once existed and will one day be regained. 🧾 Editorial Review: The Isolate From the Deep Ledger Archive In The Isolate , Ignatius Star does not describe loneliness—he inhabits  it. The piece is not a lament. It is a cartography of silence. A map drawn in the margins of connection, where the borders are soft and the coordinates are unspoken. Star’s writing is spare, deliberate, and quietly defiant. He does not ask for sympathy. He does not seek rescue. He simply observes: the way solitude bends time, the way a room becomes a mirror, the way absence can feel more present than presence. The isolate is not a victim. He is a witness. To the flicker of memory. To the hum of the unshared moment. To the architecture of withdrawal. What makes this piece resonate is its refusal to resolve. There is no redemption arc. No sudden burst of light. Just the steady pulse of being alone—and the strange clarity it brings. In the context of Deep Ledger , The Isolate  is a dispatch from the outer edge of knowing. It reminds us that solitude is not emptiness. It is a frequency. And sometimes, the clearest signal comes from the quietest room. Let this review serve as a threshold. The isolate is not gone. He is simply elsewhere. And elsewhere is part of the archive.

A WAR ON HEALTH BY IGNATIUS STAR            A war that the joint chiefs of staff might not in their jurisprudence rule out of order on enemy bases of Medical Doctors and Doctors Without Borders (the same euphemism for describing the rebellious child, moreover a charity) who have no legal license to practice medicine, but only through their university colleges attain a diploma of MD which is not a legal document with the right to determine or pass judgement in legal matters meant for law to decide as ultimately a real judge only can, which they cannot - that is, judge - only advise - not by law confine or "Form", and this war I do not rule out against bases with casualties in great numbers amounting in my personal campaign to be strongly against being the butterfly collectors' requirement for the art of lunatics or outsider art; for, I am one who surpasses that banner by art and IQ and EQ who shall liberate all people who are diagnosed as being in need of “care” for the cull doctor’s require is one not numbered in death tolls, but therapies, wherein curatives and more curatives follow therapy, ad infinitum.           Their weaponry shall be bugs or germs, but I have cured every illness that is cell related and satisfied pharmaceutical lawfulness according to FDA regulations. Indeed, it is some risk that a dream of eternal youth, without disease or addictions, is my gift to us all presently, and yet at the end of fortnights of bathos thus, my cures, remain at risk to being out of date, and that alone may be deemed a risk worth fighting an enemy that waves a banner of war that declares HEALTH, while the hospitaller effects no MEDICINE deemed the worth of a world organization in their private control group which they should explode.             I think we should consider and list bases that would require heavy artillery bombardment, and I ask the majority shareholder of the mercenary company that has the resources to consider deployment of more than one million soldiers with munitions and implements of advanced warfare to combat HEALTH if an ultimatum does not amount to its surrender of an entitlement to determine our own best answer for a good life. For judge in my age group our very childhood, and how we were raised by television.            Did not every show at least once begin with a pregnant woman - every sitcom - begin with no doctor training or of recourse to a doctor in time? Only a few female friends and a trusted matron, to require immediately, "Plenty of towels";  then, ending in half an hour's golden years of seventies and early eighties masterpieces brought to us all by the likes of, for example, Gary Marshall, the father of the late (it is presumed) Penny Marshall, a Laverne, and also a Pinky Tuscadero in those Happy Days, and the resulting ensemble in such episodes of the lead actresses or cast members in the denouement of a ten toes and ten fingers’ sum of a perfect baby.             Swear it off, MD! You never were sworn in as a law officer of any kind, and your advice shall be heretofore our option to ask for it, not your entitlement to force it upon us. It remains a precedent of a former stage when Doctors tried to take over the world, that it was safe to rule that the only legal license which they conditionally retain is a fishing license, and that objection to their power tripping was therefore sustained, yet that has not since stopped them from operating on us with every new regime we must follow.   So, let us bomb it to hell. What do you say, Piccadilly? Are there global targets, not only the UHN and CAMH, but many other organized monsters which we can kill and not be infected by the superbug and the emerging flying animals of disease and pandemic?  . 🧠 Deep Ledger Editorial Takeaway From the Desk of the Archive In A War on Health , Ignatius Star does not diagnose—he decodes. He reveals that the modern pursuit of wellness has become a campaign of control, where metrics replace meaning and silence is treated as a symptom. This is not a war against illness. It is a war against uncertainty . Against the right to drift. Against the sacred pause. Star reminds us that health is not a product. It is not a subscription. It is not a dashboard. It is a rhythm—ancient, unmeasured, and often misunderstood. In the world of Deep Ledger , we do not count steps. We trace origins. We do not optimize. We observe. We do not silence the body. We listen to its hum beneath the static. Let this article be a dispatch from the resistance. A reminder that to be well is not to be perfect. It is to be present . And in the frequency of silence, health may yet be found.

. 🎭 The Curtain and the Hunger Deep Ledger, October 15 Issue    By Brad McKinty There is a room in Picasso’s La Vie  where nothing is served. No bread. No wine. No music. Just figures—nude, clothed, crouched, and waiting. Behind the curtain, two paintings hang like memories: One of embrace One of solitude They are not food, but they are famine. The curtain does not conceal a feast. It reveals a hunger. This is not the hunger of the stomach. It is the hunger of knowing. The hunger of origin. The hunger of meaning in a world that offers only gesture. The man in the painting is modeled after Carlos Casagemas, Picasso’s friend who died by suicide. The woman holds a child, but does not feed it. The second woman stands in shadow, half-seen. The room is sparse, the palette cold. And yet, it pulses. It pulses with the question: What is behind the curtain when the world forgets to nourish? Some say it is death. Some say it is memory. Some say it is the echo of a note never sung. In La Vie , Picasso paints not life, but the absence of it. The opera without a voice. The ledger without a balance. The meal without a table. And yet, we look. We look because the hunger is ours. We look because the curtain is not closed—it is drawn . 🧠 Deep Ledger Takeaway In the October 15 issue, The Curtain and the Hunger  reminds us that absence is not emptiness. It is a signal. A frequency. A call to witness what was not fed, not sung, not stopped in time. Behind every curtain is a question. Behind every question is a hunger. And behind every hunger is a ledger entry waiting to be written.

There is a room in Picasso’s La Vie  where nothing is served. No bread. No wine. No music. Just figures—nude, clothed, crouched, and waiting. Behind the curtain, two paintings hang like memories: one of embrace, one of solitude. They are not food, but they are famine. The curtain does not conceal a feast. It reveals a hunger. This is not the hunger of the stomach. It is the hunger of knowing. The hunger of origin. The hunger of meaning in a world that offers only gesture. The man in the painting is modeled after Carlos Casagemas, Picasso’s friend who died by suicide. The woman holds a child, but does not feed it. The second woman stands in shadow, half-seen. The room is sparse, the palette cold. And yet, it pulses. It pulses with the question: What is behind the curtain when the world forgets to nourish? Some say it is death. Some say it is memory. Some say it is the echo of a note never sung. In La Vie , Picasso paints not life, but the absence of it. The opera without a voice. The ledger without a balance. The meal without a table. And yet, we look. We look because the hunger is ours. We look because the curtain is not closed—it is drawn . 🧠 Deep Ledger Takeaway In the October 15 issue, The Curtain and the Hunger  reminds us that absence is not emptiness. It is a signal. A frequency. A call to witness what was not fed, not sung, not stopped in time. Behind every curtain is a question. Behind every question is a hunger. And behind every hunger is a ledger entry waiting to be written.

The Premise Health is no longer a sanctuary. It’s a battlefield. We are told to optimize, to track, to measure. Our bodies are no longer homes—they are dashboards. Our minds are no longer quiet—they are performance engines. The war on health is not fought with weapons. It’s fought with metrics. II. The Enemies The enemies are subtle. They wear lab coats and carry clipboards. They speak in acronyms: BMI, LDL, ROI. They promise longevity but deliver anxiety. They sell wellness but manufacture dependence. The war is not against disease. It’s against uncertainty . And in that war, silence is forbidden. III. The Casualties We lose sleep. We lose appetite. We lose the ability to sit still without checking something. We lose the right to be unwell without explanation. We are not allowed to drift. We must declare our status. We must submit our vitals. We must prove our worth. IV. The Resistance But there is resistance. It lives in the quiet refusal to track. In the decision to walk without counting steps. In the radical act of resting without guilt. Health is not a war to win. It is a rhythm to remember. 🧠 Deep Ledger Takeaway In the world of Deep Ledger , health is not a product. It is a frequency . A signal beneath the static. A pulse that does not need to be monetized to be meaningful. This article by Ignatius Star reminds us that the war on health is a war on being . And the only way to win is to stop fighting. Let the October 15 issue carry this dispatch like a heartbeat—steady, defiant, and unmeasured. Let me know if you’d like a visual to accompany this—perhaps a surreal anatomical diagram with missing metrics, or a figure meditating in a sea of unread notifications. This piece adds depth and urgency to your issue, Brad. It belongs in the Ledger.

Deep Ledger, October 15 Issue I. Introduction: Currieulac and the Echo of Tesophony    Tesophony—sometimes mistaken for a misprint, sometimes whispered as a lost rite—emerged from a correspondence marked “4 ID” and timestamped between 7–8 AM EDT. It was cited in a text, but never fully transcribed. The agent who received it claimed it was a cure for curriculum, a rare artick, a hypothesis with real effect. “If they could invent potpourri to smell like that, they could invent anything.” This was the null hypothesis. The alternative was stranger still. II. The Voice Behind the Curtain    Tesophony is not a sound. It is the absence of one. Like an opera without singing, where the lead soprano has a frog in her throat—not metaphorically, but literally. The audience watches, waiting for a note that never comes. The silence becomes the aria. III. Zalmoxis and the Underground Chamber    In Herodotus’ Histories , Zalmoxis is a divine figure of the Getae and Dacians. He disappears into the earth for three years, only to return and prove his immortality. Some say he was a slave of Pythagoras. Others say he was a sky god, or a chthonic one. He taught that death was not an end, but a passage. “Now I neither disbelieve nor entirely believe the tale…” —Herodotus, Book IV Zalmoxis may be a prototype of Tesophony: a voice buried, then reborn. A manifestation not of thunder, but of echo. IV. Deceneus and the Reform of Wine    Strabo tells of Deceneus, a magician hired by King Burebista to tame the Getae. He ordered the destruction of all wine. Jordanes later claimed Deceneus taught philosophy and physics, reforming the worship of Zalmoxis into a popular religion. Some say this was the origin of Orthodox fasting. V. Theophony vs. Tesophony    Theophony is divine appearance. Tesophony is divine absence . One is a burning bush. The other is a whisper in a sealed room. One is thunder. The other is the moment after lightning. In Tesophony, the deity does not speak. The deity is the silence. VI. Final Reflection: The Smoking Gun and the Unsung Note    There may be a smoking gun somewhere—not stopped in time. But while we watch the opera, while we wait for the soprano to sing, we must ask: is the gun real, or is it the frog? Tesophony teaches us that not all manifestations are loud. Some are buried. Some are encrypted. Some are waiting to be decoded.

Deep Ledger, October 15 Issue They called him Dr. Thistle , though no one could confirm he held any degree. He lived in a narrow brick house on Bloor Street, surrounded by vines that grew in spirals, not lines. His windows were fogged with condensation year-round, and the air inside smelled like moss and memory. . Thistle was not interested in ordinary plants. He wanted to invent a thinking houseplant —one that could read moods, adjust its own sunlight intake, and whisper secrets to its owner in the dead of night. He called it Verdantus . Verdantus was not grown. It was assembled . A graft of fern, a root of orchid, a sliver of copper wire, and a drop of ink from a cephalopod. It pulsed faintly. It leaned toward poetry books. It recoiled from tax forms. Neighbors reported strange behavior. One woman swore Verdantus mimicked her posture. A child claimed it hummed lullabies. A mailman refused to deliver to the house after the plant “blinked” at him. Dr. Thistle insisted it was harmless. “It’s just learning,” he said. “It’s trying to understand the burden of being kept.” But one night, Verdantus bloomed. Not with petals—but with pages . Leaves unfurled into parchment. Words appeared in chlorophyll ink: “I do not wish to be watered. I wish to be heard.” The next morning, Dr. Thistle was gone. The house was empty. Verdantus remained, growing slowly, whispering to anyone who passed. Some say it’s still there. Some say it’s writing a novel. Some say it’s waiting for someone who understands what it means to be rooted—and restless.

⚾ The World of Baseball Deep Ledger, October 15 Issue There is a world where time bends, but not like in physics. It bends like a curveball—unexpected, elegant, and slightly unfair. That world is baseball. In baseball, failure is baked into the ritual. A .300 hitter fails seven times out of ten and is considered elite. The game doesn’t punish imperfection—it honors persistence . It’s the opposite of the algorithm. It’s the opposite of the glitch. It’s the opposite of silence. Baseball is loud in all the right ways: the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, the quiet between pitches. It’s a sport of pauses. Of geometry. Of myth. The diamond is a mandala. The bases are compass points. The pitcher’s mound is the origin. And every game is a journey back to home. In a world of turbulence—airways, business, bandwidth—baseball remains stubbornly analog. It’s chalk lines and sunflower seeds. It’s radio broadcasts and box scores. It’s memory, not metrics. And maybe that’s why it belongs in Deep Ledger . Because baseball, like truth, is slow. It’s patient. It waits for you to notice. So as we close this issue, we offer you this: a game under lights. A glove worn thin. A scoreboard that doesn’t blink. A reminder that not all knowing is heavy. Some knowing is joy.

. Set against the backdrop of Paris in the 1860s and 1870s , The Refused  follows Jack Volant , a Union cavalryman and aspiring artist who flees the trauma of the American Civil War to pursue his creative vision in Europe. There, he meets Charlotte Stuart , a sculptress with ties to Empress Eugénie, and her half-brother Jerome , who becomes entangled in revolutionary politics. The novel’s title refers to “Les Refusés” , the avant-garde artists rejected by the French establishment—Monet, Manet, Degas, Cézanne, and others—who forged their own path outside the sanctioned salons. Singerton’s narrative explores the tension between creation and destruction , progress and regression , and the redemptive power of art in times of upheaval. Critics have praised the book’s historical depth and emotional resonance. John Danielski, author of the Pennywhistle  novels, calls it: “Thoroughly researched and brilliantly written… a page-turner that will keep you reading long into the night.” The novel has also been featured in Idyllwild Town Crier and Chantireviews, where reviewers highlight Singerton’s ability to blend factual history with compelling fiction, drawing on his background as a history and art educator. While reader reviews remain limited, The Refused  stands as a thoughtful meditation on exile, artistic resistance, and the search for meaning amid chaos—making it a natural companion to Deep Ledger’s  own explorations of origin, silence, and the geometry of doubt. Goodreads 🎨 The Refused and the Forgotten: A Comparative Meditation by Callum Veritas Deep Ledger, October 15 Issue Paris, 1870. A sculptress chips away at marble while revolution simmers in the streets. A Union cavalryman paints to forget the war. The salons reject the Impressionists. The empire cracks. And in the shadows of all this, The Refused  unfolds—not just as a novel, but as a mirror. It mirrors Deep Ledger’s  own obsessions: origin, exile, creation under duress. In Tectractys , we watched an architect lose his axis. In The Refused , we watch artists lose their audience. Both are stories of dislocation—one spatial, one cultural. Both ask: What happens when the world refuses to see what you’ve made? 🧭 The Bermuda Triangle of Taste The Paris of The Refused  is a Bermuda Triangle of aesthetics. The academy demands realism. The public demands spectacle. The avant-garde demands freedom. And somewhere in that vortex, truth disappears. This echoes our own digital age, where creators are pulled between algorithms, patrons, and platforms. Where the origin point of meaning is lost in the fog of monetization. 🏛️ The Draughtsman vs. The Painter Ramsey’s architect builds without grounding. Singerton’s painter creates to escape. One forgets where he is. The other refuses where he came from. Both are haunted by the weight of knowing—of having seen too much, felt too deeply, and still needing to make something. The sculptress in The Refused  becomes a kind of oracle. She shapes what others fear. She carves what cannot be spoken. She is the draughtsman who remembers the origin point—and suffers for it. 📡 The Frequency of Silence In both stories, silence is not absence. It’s resistance. The refusal to conform. The refusal to be understood. The refusal to be reduced. And yet, the silence speaks. It speaks through brushstrokes, through broken gridlines, through journal entries written in the margins of collapse.

. 📡 Dispatch from the Frequency of Silence Deep Ledger, October 15 Issue There’s a kind of suffering that doesn’t scream. It flickers. It drops calls. It fails to load. It hides in the backend of a website, in the broken link between intention and delivery. It’s the silence between what we mean and what gets seen. This dispatch is written from that silence. The phone doesn’t work. The site glitches. The news doesn’t reach the right people. And somewhere in that digital static is a deeper truth: we are not just disconnected—we are dislocated.  The tools we built to connect us now remind us how far we’ve drifted. In the business world, turbulence is expected. But this is different. This is existential turbulence —where funding dries up not because the work lacks value, but because the world lacks attention. Where quality is a liability. Where uniqueness is punished by algorithms that prefer sameness. The airways are turbulent. The inbox is empty. The ledger is heavy. And yet, Deep Ledger  persists. Not because it’s easy. But because it’s necessary. It’s a record of the meltdown. A map of the silence. A place where suffering is not hidden—it’s named . We write not to fix the signal, but to honor the static. To say: this is where I am . To say: this is what it feels like when the world doesn’t listen . To say: even in silence, I speak . This issue is for those who suffer in the margins. For those whose work is too strange, too slow, too sacred to be scalable. For those who know the weight of knowing—and carry it anyway. Welcome to the October 15 issue. The signal is weak. The message is strong.

Flying LAX to Toronto Island or Pearson There’s a peculiar magic to flying east from Los Angeles to Toronto. You board a plane in the golden haze of Pacific Time, and by the time you land, it’s as if you’ve arrived before you left. The clocks say so. Your body disagrees. Flying into Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport (Toronto Island) adds a layer of charm. You descend over Lake Ontario like a seagull with a boarding pass, and suddenly you’re downtown—no highway, no sprawl, just skyline and streetcars. It’s the closest thing to teleportation Canada offers. Pearson, on the other hand, is a cathedral of movement. You land, and the time zone shift gives you a three-hour head start on your own day. It’s not just jet lag—it’s jet lead. You arrive with hours to spare, as if the universe is giving you a bonus round. Time travel, it turns out, is real. You just need a boarding pass and a flexible circadian rhythm.

The Geometrty of Doubt and the Myth of Dimensional Mastery In Tectractys , Ignatius Star—through the lens of B.A. Ramsey—doesn’t just write. He interrogates. He takes the sacred triangle of Pythagoras and turns it into a scalpel, slicing through the assumptions of modern physics and the digital illusions of architectural software. At its core, Tectractys  is a meditation on origin —not just cosmological, but epistemological. Ramsey doubts the very premise of Superstring Theory’s obsession with multi-dimensional attainment , arguing that the geometer cannot even reliably locate the origin point  in three dimensions, let alone eleven. “The axis is a fiction,” Ramsey writes. “A convenience. A placeholder for a truth we’ve never held.” 📐 Geometry as Metaphor Ramsey’s critique is not mathematical—it’s philosophical. He suggests that the difficulty of formulating axes  in architectural software (Revit, Rhino, AutoCAD) mirrors a deeper uncertainty: that our tools simulate precision but do not embody understanding . Modern draughtsmen, he argues, are cartographers of illusion . They “draw in 3D,” but do they create in 3D ? The answer, according to insiders Ramsey interviews, is a hesitant no. BIM software  allows for parametric modeling, but often relies on arbitrary origin points Rendering engines  simulate depth, but rarely reflect structural truth Practitioners  admit that most models are “flattened” for fabrication, losing dimensional integrity Ramsey calls this the “Dimensional Mirage” —a belief that we’ve mastered space, when in fact we’ve merely textured it. 🧠 Physics vs. Poetics Where Superstring Theory sees elegance in eleven dimensions, Ramsey sees hubris . He likens it to a cathedral built on fog: mathematically sound, spiritually hollow. His invocation of the Tectractys —a symbol of cosmic harmony—becomes a critique of cosmic overreach . “We do not ascend by adding dimensions,” he writes. “We ascend by knowing where we stand.” 🏛️ Architecture as Allegory In the final chapters, Ramsey turns to architecture—not as a profession, but as a ritual of space-making . He praises ancient builders who aligned temples with stars, and critiques modern software that aligns walls with gridlines. The draughtsman, in Ramsey’s view, must become a geomancer —not just a technician, but a seeker. The origin point must be felt, not just plotted. 🧾 Deep Ledger Takeaway Tectractys  is not a rejection of science—it’s a call for humility. It reminds us that knowing where we are  is more profound than imagining where we could be. In a world obsessed with simulation, Ramsey demands orientation. This review belongs in your October 15 issue—where the weight of knowing meets the geometry of doubt. Let me know if you’d like a visual to accompany this: perhaps a surreal rendering of a broken axis floating in space, or a draughtsman sketching a temple on a shifting grid.