Shattered SelfImage: Abundance Year Episode 1965 (audio: noxsoma.su...

Full Metal Ox Day 1900
Wednesday 13, May 2026
Abundance Year Episode 1965
Noxsoma Life Camp:

Shattered Self Image
Salvation
Cosmic Fibonacci
Advancing the herd. Investing your soul, in tech that steals your soul.

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THE LAST CALM

How Astrology, Apocalypses, Magical Math & Survivor Skills.

The science of the Universe is not “real” because real would be too complicated.

You think you know what time it is.

You glance at your wrist. 5:22 PM. Happy hour. That’s fine. That’s useful. That won’t save your life. Unless you’re dying for a cocktail special.

There’s another clock. The big one. The one carved into every stone circle, painted in every cave, and whispered in every flood myth from Mesopotamia to the Mississippi. It doesn’t tick in seconds. It ticks in ages. Each age is exactly 2,160 years. Each age reduces to the number 9. Everything reduces to 9. And that’s what makes it fake. Everything reducing to a single base number? C’mon man!

You were born in the Age of Pisces. The fish. The age of faith, of redemption, of two roads that never meet. Let’s say it started around the year 1 CE, give or take a murdered carpenter. The latest Sun Deity. Then it ends in 2160 CE. No one really knows. So let’s pretend.

That gives us about 135 years of the ichthys. That’s Greek for fish. That the word you see in the Jesus Fish metals on the trunks of cars.

Relax. That’s the good news.

The bad news is that you don’t know what an “age” actually is. You think it’s a vibe. A personality quiz. “Oh, I’m such a Pisces, I’m so creative.”

Nope. That was fine for newspapers back in the day, or a barstool ice breaker. But here’s the etymology, if you will.

An astrological age is a postcataclysm survival manual. And so is the zodiac. But we’ve forgotten how to read it. Most of us anyway.

Festivals should be called, “Feastivals.”

Let’s start with the word you actually need: Feastival.

Not festival. Feastival. Because every single holiday on the calendar is about one thing: food at the right time.

Easter isn’t about bunnies. It’s about the first fresh meat after a winter of starvation. The lamb. The egg. The spring equinox, when you stop huddling and start planting.
Thanksgiving isn’t about pilgrims. It’s about the autumnal equinox, when you slaughter the surplus because you can’t feed them until spring.
Christmas isn’t about a savior. It’s about the winter solstice, the darkest day, when you kill the fatted calf and have one last orgy before the famine.

The stars told you when. Sirius rising over the Nile? Plant. Orion standing vertical? Harvest. The Pleiades setting at dusk? Run.

That’s astrology. Not psychology. Logistics.

We’ve degraded it into a parlor game because we’ve never actually been hungry. A mudslide in Spain is a “climate catastrophe” to us. A pillar of fire to a Younger Dryas survivor was Tuesday.

The 100 Generations of Hell

Speaking of the Younger Dryas.

That was a 1,200 year period of constant calamity. It started with a comet impact (or something very mean) and ended with temperatures rising 10°C in a few decades. In between? Mud. Flood. Ash. Fire in the sky. Over and over.

That’s not an event. That’s 100 generations of fighting for the survival of the species. No wonder humans are so psychotic.

Think about that. Your greatgreatgreatgreat (add 95 more) grandmother was born under an ash-choked sky. She died under an ash-choked sky. Her grandchildren’s grandchildren never saw a clear horizon.

To those people, calamity wasn’t a “crisis.” It was eternity. They built stone calendars not because they were curious about the cosmos, but because the sky was the only thing that didn’t lie. The river lied. The game lied. The ground lied (especially when it shook).

But the stars? The stars marched in perfect, indifferent time.

So they carved the rules into stone. When the sun enters Pisces, the rains come. Feastival. When the sun enters Virgo, the grain is dry. Feastival. When the sun enters Capricorn, the days stop shrinking. You made it. Feastival.

These weren’t “holidays.” They were launch checklists for survival. Maybe those days were more “whole” than “holy.”

And then the climate calmed down. The Holocene arrived. And we forgot why we wrote anything down in the first place. Those stone calendars became locations for ritual sacrifice. What a difference an age makes.

When the Language Dies.

“Who needs a book when you have a PDF?”

Answer: The person who survives the collapse.

A PDF requires a charged battery and a working screen. A book requires a literate reader. But a book written in a language no one speaks? That’s not a book anymore. That’s a brick. Or an amulet. Or a holy text. Eli had such a book. (The Book of Eli.)

This is the lifecycle of every technology.

Utility: You carve a calendar because you will die if you plant too late.
Convenience: You print the calendar because paper is easier.
Obsolescence: You put the calendar on your phone because you’re not a peasant.
Collapse: The power grid fails. The phone is a pretty black mirror.
Mystification: Your grandchildren find the carved stone. They can’t read the symbols. But they look important. Magical, even. Someone claims to understand them. That someone now has power.

Congratulations. You’ve just invented religion.

That’s not cynicism. That’s archeology. The Egyptian hieroglyphs were inventory lists (“300 jars of oil, 50 chariots”) until no one could read them. Then they became sacred magic. The Greek Linear B was accounting until it became a mystical puzzle. The Hebrew Bible was tribal boundary law until it became the unerring word of God. Tens of thousands of Sumerian cuneiform clay tabled of shopping lists, receipts and honeydew lists. (Honey, do this. Honey, do that.)

When the original purpose fades, we project meaning into the void.

We’re doing it right now with astrology. We think it’s about “personalities” because we’ve never had to ask the stars when to plant or die.

The Math of 9.

Here’s something we noticed. Something the astrologers don’t like to admit.

All the numbers of precession reduce to 9.

The Great Year: 25,920 years. 2+5+9+2+0 = 18. 1+8 = 9.
One age: 2,160 years. 2+1+6+0 = 9.
Degrees in a circle: 360. 3+6+0 = 9.
Precession rate: 72 years per degree. 7+2 = 9.

Only the 30 degrees of each zodiac sign breaks the pattern. (30 reduces to 3, which is just 9 waiting to happen.)

Here’s the secret they don’t tell you: They fit the stars to the math, not the math to the stars.

The actual precession of the equinoxes is 25,772 years. A messy, irregular number. But you can’t build a religion on 25,772. You can’t build a calendar. You can’t teach it to survivors standing around a fire, shivering, watching the sky for any sign that the world isn’t over.

So they rounded it. They made it perfect. They made it sacred.

The universe isn’t perfect. The universe is a chaotic, wet, indifferent machine. But we are patternmakers. We see 9 in everything because we put it there.

That’s not a flaw. That’s the only reason we’re still here.

The Calm.

Here’s the part nobody wants to hear.

We are living in the most stable climate in 100,000 years. The Holocene. 11,700 years of mild temperatures, predictable seasons, and sea levels that mostly stayed put.

It’s an anomaly. A geological fluke. But maybe, it has to do with a population of humans on the planet. Maybe we should call this, “human caused global stability.”

The Younger Dryas survivors couldn’t imagine calm. They assumed fire and flood were eternal. We assume calm is eternal. We’re both wrong.

The difference is that they built monuments to remember how to survive. We built spreadsheets to forget.

A mudslide in Italy is global news.
A flood in Spain is a catastrophe.
A heat wave in Canada is unprecedented.

To a Younger Dryas human, these would be quiet afternoons.

They saw pillars of fire (volcanoes). They saw skies that stayed dark for years (comet dust). They saw deluge after deluge (meltwater pulses). And they looked up at the stars—the only reliable thing left—and they carved the rules into stone.

We look up and check the weather app.

Happy Hour Bar Talk.

So here you are. Sitting at a bar. Someone says, “I’m so a Pisces.”

Me, being a smart-ass having recently co-composed this article for my Substack, “Actually, the Age of Pisces ends in 2160. It’s a 2,160 year postal code for survival. The fish meant flood. The fish meant faith. The fish meant two paths: plant or die. Every festival on your calendar is a feastival, and every feastival is a memory of a famine.”

They will stare at you.

Then order another round. (If they don’t throw it in your face, it’s a good sign.)

Because that’s what we do now. We drink to forget that we ever knew how to read the sky. We outsource our memory to PDFs, and chat-bots, and we assume the power will never go out.

But the stones are still there. Göbekli Tepe. Stonehenge. The pyramids. Every flood myth. Every harvest holiday. Every time you eat a hot cross bun on Good Friday or turkey on the fourth Thursday of November.

You are executing ancient code. Survival firmware. Written in a language you no longer speak.

The sky is not a personality quiz.

The sky is the oldest clock we have. And it’s still ticking.

135 years left on the current age.

That’s not a threat.

That’s an invitation to remember.

For the survivor who keeps a stone in their pocket and a PDF on their phone. One of them will outlast the other. You know which.

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SLIDE: G R A H D E M

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