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Why the Druid Wears a Hoodie Finn and the Fine Art of
Knowing Too Much So, it turns out that the modern “druid” isn’t actually into oak trees, mistletoe, or chanting in the
rain. He’s into Procedure Monism — which, believe me, is less about
sacrificing goats and more about sacrificing illusions. The name druid, Finn claims, means “the one who
knows firmly.” (Apparently the oak tree was just an early metaphor for
bandwidth.) In ancient times, the druids were the Iron Age equivalent of
Google: they stored data, interpreted law, ran the calendar, and occasionally
told kings what not to do — a habit that, then as now, rarely ended well. Finn has resurrected the brand, but with an upgrade.
His “sacred grove” is a field of quanta. His “ritual” is the procedure by
which ignorance is composted into knowledge. He doesn’t sacrifice animals —
just bad ideas. The twist? He deliberately hides behind the archaic
epithet druid. Why? Because “modern druid” sounds safely mad. It lets
you dismiss him before he ruins your metaphysics. “Systems engineer of
existence” would sound threatening; “druid in a cloak” sounds like a selfie
opportunity. It’s camouflage — epistemic camouflage. He’s the
cognitive equivalent of a nuclear reactor disguised as a mossy stone. You can
walk past him, nod politely, and still keep your
dualist worldview intact. Perfectly safe. And yet, should you linger too long, he might whisper: “Everyone is God in their space.” At which point your survival software will immediately
reboot, throw an error, and blame the cloak. So next time you meet a hooded man in Roundwood
muttering about procedures, don’t worry. He’s not recruiting. He’s debugging. And if you ask him what he’s doing, he’ll probably
smile and say, “Ignorance elimination — a local service since the Iron
Age.” |