On the Law of Scarcity

Being unfamiliar with the formal principle called the "law of scarcity," I have paused for an inadvertent education on the matter. My initial supposition was that with a fixed limit of product, demand which is at least equal to that product will "order the queue" of demand by means of price. One does not need to posit "unlimited" demand; rather, demand in excess of supply will suffice.

But I also learn that the price can be manipulated by threatening one's rights or property; or the alternative, offering an unearned windfall. People will not demand something as much as when they are persuaded that it is "theirs." Also, people who are persuaded that they have stumbled upon a treasure, will pursue it more ardently than if it were just offered in the marketplace without persuasion.

The "Marketing Minute" blog by a Chip Cummings offers:

Can you create a sense of urgency in your marketplace? Limited access to a conference call; only $1.2 million in this particular loan program available; offers only accepted for 7 days; only 38 people allowed access; 10% discount only for the next 72 hours…..

You get the idea - use Scarcity to get your market to act quickly. This works well with customer retention strategies, initial prospects, and special events. There are a couple of rules:

1. Be sure to FOLLOW THROUGH on your promise! A limit is a limit. By holding your ground, they will respond accordingly NEXT time.
2. Set clear guidelines and expectations. Be sure to TELL the prospect EXACTLY what to do!

If heathcare is perceived as a fundamental right, than people will ardently pursue its fulfillment. To some degree, they are correct in doing so, because the ultimate measure of fundamental rights derives from the rational basis of the individual. Unfortunately, the "rational" part has left by the roadside in this approach.

Canute has a bad rap these days. I read in Wikpedia the following:

Henry of Huntingdon, the 12th-century chronicler, tells how Cnut set his throne by the sea shore and commanded the tide to halt and not wet his feet and robes; but the tide failed to stop. According to Henry, Cnut leapt backwards and said "Let all men know how empty and worthless is the power of kings, for there is none worthy of the name, but He whom heaven, earth, and sea obey by eternal laws." He then hung his gold crown on a crucifix, and never wore it again.

Unlike modern rulers, he got the point on the first try. He's head-and-shoulders a better empiricist (and thus, economist) thank the DC Boys these days.

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economics Canute

Thou Shalt Know them By Their Drugs

Methland, a book I'm writing,(reading, sorry - moron moment) shows the true Drug of the Masses, the hopeless Methamphetamine.

Wish to view the End of Society?  Seek their Drugs, and see through them.

Meth joins alcoholism, porn and gambling as a way to soak up excess reality.PS:  Thankfully, Blogging While Stupid has no criminal charges associated with it.

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A letter to Harry Goslin on Inspiration and its Lack.

In mythological terms, we fucked up.

Unbinding Prometheus for the gift of fire is one thing. Unbinding Narcissus - just because he is so good-looking and fun to hang out with - is a mistake.

I share your sense of frustration. In an era of dreg-scraping for ideas, it's hard to remain inspired. I've taken a bit of a wicked and cynical turn in my writings - generally based upon the head-smacking witlessness which suffices for public discourse.

A preponderance of all species ever in existence are extinct, and long before our species rose, too. And so is the fate of civilization and cultures, which tend to go extinct in an untidy sort of way, but for the same reasons - they could not adapt to Reality. One only needs to not breathe for a day, not eat for a year - and the prosperity afterwards is moot, because you done gone.

America seems earnestly committed to march off the cliff into the sea, I fear. 'Nother one bites the dust. And it's a shame, really - we coulda been a contender.

But we live in a labyrinth of mirrors, and the closer one gets to the center, the less one knows about the world. At the center lies the Minotaur, surrounded by the Beltway. Not wicked, indeed - in fact, quite kind; but unknowing of anything outside the Hall of Power, even where the bathroom is. (And using the bathroom after the Minotaur has to be, well, unpleasant.)

So, if you are also beset by the fog of futility when writing, that's okay - at least for you. It's a sign that your horseshit-detectors are working well, and what's out there shouldn't necessarily draw you out of your cave at the first crack of the stick. Think of the Blair Witch Project.

Psychological depression, of which apathy is a glimmer, is a protective device which now does not help us. I believe that it evolved for human existence during the late winter, a profound loss of interest - don't sleep, don't eat, don't care; at a time when there wasn't much to do, eat or care about. Springtime comes, and the torpor lifts - it always comes.

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In Honor of the Five

In Honor of the Five

Your tales tell you schoolchildren, of the Four Founders who wished to bring their craft and lore together and into order, for the teaching of the young. This came after the Great Breaking, when the Quillen were sundered, and the Quillendal hid from the others, the Quillengoll, who were torturing and burning them.”

“Burning, at the stake. Stop to imagine that. The broiled skin, and melting, fat and stink of hair, while the victim screams. Do you understand the atrocity at Cail Orgun now, perhaps? And the collectors of the bodies, who cut down the shriveled corpses, frozen in screams, carbonized grease over bones – children!"

"And who laughed and capered in the grease-blackened smoke? Theamhann na-Shaitann, the Eater of Souls. When has That ever rested, when suffering is about? Theos kata bolos, Αυτός που ο Θεός έχει πετάξει κάτω, whom God has thrown down. Diabolos."

"But later. Of your school. Four great wizards, four great Houses. Upon the founding of this great school, the Hesperides were asked to send a learned lore-master to teach, to make the Houses Five."

"The House Hesperides did respond. Each of the Houses were confused; some were greatly offended, but others puzzled. House Hesperides would not send a loremaster, for there was little magic which the House admitted to have, worthy of knowledge and teaching. But the House asked the kind permission of the others, to send a single member to work as janitor and watchman ‘in the halls of the blind.’”

Ever since then, though you may not know, a member of the House Hesperides has worked the grounds and fields of your fine school; no day has been without a servant from our land in your great college. Little is said, and few know that it is one of our house. Most of the Quillendall do not understand our commitment, and consider it to be a perpetual insult. It is far from being so.”

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And of the Lands.

The traveler drank some water at the bedside; it was merry and fresh, and tasted of the little forest stream in the Forest of Moon. It was without any flavor, but bore its own magic, and brought back the colors of the room in the Hopital, bearing forth greens and browns in its pure clearness.

“Many do not believe that this land exists. The stories are as different as the searchers who seek it, it seems.

Some have wandered the land, and found it delightful, but desolate as a moor, with no sign of settlement beyond the small village of Flich. Others swear that they see naught but carven stones, Others find megaliths erect or strewn about, set into the most marvelous patterns.
For those who have been to the villages, it is much as it seems – or seemed, in as much as the people are hospitable, but deadly dull. They seem completely unaware of magic, mostly. They are simple farmers and villagers, having little modern conveniences. Most who have met them believe that they are frightfully stupid, not wizards at all, but some sort of troll-like branch of humans.

Some find only deserted sandy dunes or,” he shuddered, “ocean cliffs.”

There are some paradoxes about our land which seem to trouble our visitors,” said the Senechal. “We are open to all who seek us; but so few can find us.

We call the outlanders Quillen – puppies, you might say. But specially, meaning those puppies or small animals that are new-born, before their eyes open. They bumble about, terribly helpless. Our town of Southmarch exists for the purpose, among others, of guiding these delightful little beings about out land, that they do not fall into puddles, or frighten themselves. The Senechal laughed like the patter of sweet May rain.

“Pardon me,” replied the traveler crossly. “This puppy feels abused indeed, what with being strung up above a cliff and all. You people seem more vicious and cruel than kind, says this puppy.”

The Senechal bent forward, eyes closed, deep suffering grey upon her face. She sat quietly for a few moments, unnervingly; it recalled the silence of the Elders before the Trial. "It was hardest for you, wizard, and you are brave among the Quillendal. I shall explain what happened, if you wish; but it will not wipe such things from your memory. I came as quickly as I could, for I was Judge of the Trial.

A shocking desecration has occurred, as not been seen for many years, near the March of this Land. There was a horrible slaughter which took place, and the place is now known as Cail Orgun, and it is haunted and horrible, and none dare go near. You made note of the little stream which comes from that place, and it was strong testimony in your behalf during the trial, that you noticed that the stream still stank, even after many healings had been placed upon it after it exited that awful place.

We understand the ways of the Quillen, although many differ from our practice.” She began to speak haltingly, as though she were thinking in a different language, and translating it into English.

“You need warmth for travel and home, so you take – you collect – fallen branches and kindling, and set these – these dead wood pieces – on fire, you set it afire. And this is right, this is alright, for to keep one warm in the cold is a proper thing.” Her face seemed to struggle with the next things to say.

“And some Quillen take trees respectfully, like you take from the herd, for sustenance and shelter. You lay it aside for a fit and proper amount of time, so that it – I understand green wood does not serve the purpose of these things. And then you put it to good use in the care of one’s self and others, which is truly an honorable practice.”

“We gather wood, and use it. We are prudent, and not wasteful. We gather the harvest, the beasts of the field, and our pasturage. You know this. What is it, the great crime, where? For this you torture and try to kill other humans? For wood?

She sighed. “Wood has life in it, life that outsiders often cannot see, even after it is taken from the wind’s fall, or a tree is killed and set to dry. Some even keep their aliveness long after the physical life passes from them.”

Your wands are living wood. Do you not know, even in your – understandings, that the wand chooses the wizard; how so is that, if there is no life there?

The only wood we burn, is wood which is truly without any vital force, dead wood. We burn it not for useful things, but for respect, and in melancholy.

“We understand that the woodsman is no different than the hunter or herder. But life must be sacrosanct, and be given for further life. “

“What happened in the Cail Orgun was a desecration, in the way that murder is a desecration to all peoples – the wasting of a life. Some malign spirit with power over living wood set forth to murder that forest, to blight it and still the life; not only in each tree and bush, shrub and flower, but the being that encompasses the living of that place – its true name, in a sense.”

“And what is perhaps worse, is that it was done with the consent of murdering wood itself. A wand or twig, something with the wood that lives, was warped in some unspeakable way, that it would turn its hand against its brother.”

“Regrettably, you spoke of starting fire with a wand, with wood burning wood. That called the indictment upon you, innocent as we know now you are. But we have not heard of such things, not for a long age. We cannot risk that a murderer be set forth into our Land.”

“None of this ought you know, traveler, and none of this should you ever have seen. We do, in fact, protect the Quillendal from these harsh things. There are terrible things in our world, as there are in yours; most of these arise from malice. Our roots are deep, profoundly so, and many reach to dark places from which your people never dream. They are protected, in a sense; with an all-encompassing protection or blessing that you likely never imagine. We who know of these bitter things guard you from them, the Quillendal. We do not mock your blindness; it is the evidence of our diligence on the March of the World. For not all guardians protect only this land, but places which you may never see or imagine that they do so.

For instance, your English School.

An Awakening. The Seneschal

Awake! Open your eyes!

A voice called again, deeply - AWAKE! Unfamiliar.

He was chilled to bone. Only a flicker of warmth lay deep within. Through his eyelids, he could tell that light was here, and his face felt warm like sunlight. He opened his eyes in a merry, sun-bathed room, with the scent of fresh flowers streaming in through the window.

The elders were there, and also the speaker - a golden-cloaked woman with long grey hair and grey sparkling eyes.

You were tested. You survived.

The traveler grimaced. His mouth was full of the taste of blood and ashes. " Let me out of this God-forsaken place. And let me have my wand."

The Drussard smiled, a wan and horrible effort, as though had mouthed a spoonful of sugared vomit, and was trying to seem appreciative. "Well, you've sure been through a thing or two!"

The gold-cloaked woman stared at him, and his sickly face melted like tallow. The Drussard stepped back, and slowly crept towards the door, like a man trying to flee a burning building nonchalantly.

"I am the Senechal. I know you have suffered much."

"Lovely, madam, just. There seems to be a plethora of titles, for some sort of roles held by the idiots and liars who live in this lunatic home. Please come tell me again how gentle you people are to the Quillens. How patient you are. "

"I am deeply, grievously sorry for the suffering you have endured. It is....regrettable. Things are happening, and your suffering was not from your doing; or from ours."

"Well, once again, spiffy. It seems that I'm laid up here like a log in a bin, all respect to - what are you, mate? the Master Pourlebois? Perhaps you might stop glowering and fetch my wand now?

The Master had indeed been staring, with an odd air that he did not regret in the least the suffering of hte traveler. He, too, stepped to the door, and left.

"The Master does not trust you, that is true. But he may have, in fact, come up with the idea which saved your life."

"Jolly good, friends like him, et cetera. You may notice that my life didn't particularly need saving until I came to this rotten borough!?"

"It was the Master's idea to take testimony from your wand. Your wand, in fact, saved your life. Through his wisdom, in this and other ways, you were brought back. You were indeed warned, traveler, that this land was not safe. Lore has it plenty that it is perilous to seek us out, no?"

Cail Orgun

The room had beome softly quiet, and the traveler paused, to note the elders staring at him, fixedly, unmoving - not even blinking.  The room was stopped, still.  He looked from one face to the other, and sensed a slow paleness wash over the faces, and then to their whole presences.  It tugged at the corners of the room.

A dank chill had come on with a silent crack, and deepened, as though a killing frost.  Their eyes had become black windows, and the room was now utterly without color.  There was a slow sense of falling away of all that he could see, into uttermost black.  He gripped the arms of his chair tightly, and could feel a tingle in his hands.  To ask, to speak, was tiresome, and futile; speak to nobody, as it fell away, and a wind came up, first a draft, but swirling and greater, and slapping with icy rain out of the now uttermost blackness.  He could see nothing, not even the hands on the arm of his chair.  He thought of holding a hand before his face, but lurched with nausea at the thought, for his hands were holding all that was.

Tenebrous clouds mulled vaguely overhead, a black-that-moved over a black that loomed, still, threatening.  His eyes slowly drew the vaguest bits of meaning from the world, as the icy slap of sleet caromed across his chill body and numbing lips.  The chair swayed or rocked a bit, a most unpleasant instability.  Sound came in, a far, far booming over the whistle and slap of the ice-laden wind.  He looked over the arm of the chair, and down, for the far-off booming seemed there.  A fine, scattered greyish line traced irregularly on the blackness, and the line moved almost imperceptibly.  A surf line, far, far below, onto rocks, it stretched now seen on both sides of Below into the unutterable distance.  A cliff of solid black, of tremendous height, ran along ahead, and to the horizon; and far below to the ocean.  It could be a mile.  Gulls crawled over the sea far below, barely moving, several thousand feet below.

All that was, were the two wooden arms of the chair, and that he was seated.  With a sickening realization, he felt his toes dangling over the open ocean.  The brief and feeble light began to wane, until there was nothing but the sleet and hissing wind out of the blackness.

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