"Being an engineer", the mental disorder

"Being an engineer" is a specific and complex failure of realizationi with drastic socialization overtones. I won't bore you with the detailed story of how I stumbled upon itii, but I will point out it seems rather unlikely human civilisation can long endure under the collected and ever accreting burden of idiots "being an engineer" all over the damn place.

"Being an engineer" is an affliction of abundance in the absence of traumaiii. It requires three ingredients to manifest : firstly, intermittentiv optionality ; secondly, a lively intelligence ; and finally, a fight-or-flight apparatus inclined towards flight.v

The model development of engineerhood is three pronged. First, the abundance delays (and eventually outright inhibits) the natural emergence of personality (very similarly to how multiple languages being spoken in the environment inhibits speech development in small children). Second, the abundance coupled with the intelligence drive a very elaborately idealised world image. Finally, the weak personality together with the highly idealised world image interact with the avoidant tendency to drive a fundamental, and irreparable rift in the world : the child mentally divides sensata into a smaller subset that's the "true" reality, and a larger subset that's the "false" reality. Inasmuch as the division occurs on purely psychogenic lines, having exactly nothing to do with the world itself, it is then a failure of realisation of the child ; but because so much of contemporary human activity is predicated specifically on selection the rift once opened has no possibility of healing naturally, but on the contrary, it will never again close.

Inasmuch as "being an engineer" children are genuinely afraid of the reality they perceive as false, they tend to outperform their unafflicted peers in adult contexts such as schooling -- but only for just as long as through fortuitous coincidence adult conventional falsehood stays alligned with infantile aleatory "falsehood". So, for instance, the "being an engineer" child will never, absolutely never write down a 3 in answer for a question they know comes out to 8 -- not for aesthetic reasons, nor for rebeliousness, nor for any reason. Ever. They may hate their math teacher because of bad penmanship, which is odd but then again children are odd ; they may refuse to eat apples too small or pasta too cooked, which is uncharacteristically adult, especially in a five year old ; but by and large, inasmuch as they tend to be clean, diligent, do their best etcetera nobody really perceives any reason to complain that their kid's going about with a hole in his head approximately the size of a kid that age.

This tolerance sets the stage for the principal (in the sense of, first and only) conflict in the "being an engineer"'s life. The kid notices that the parents don't actually understand why exactly it was that he hated the teacher, didn't eat the apple, etcetera. This never yields anything, in any case not conscious, but lays dormant in the subconscious mind while, as time goes by and natural development inside meets the systematic forced socialization of human society, the child notices that... the other children, also don't actually understand why exactly anything. Even as he agrees with them, or they agree with him, the distance's there, like a beard hair under your shirt, unmistakable. And so... you see where this is headed, I expect ?

The child sooner or later (but generally before puberty) finds itself forced by events to decide which side of reality other people lay. Other people in general. In the abstract, theoretically, just like that. What, problem ? Whatever problem you might perceive, his feeble personality has little to offer by way of resistence, and soon enough the matter's settled : the others are false -- not because of what they are, mind you, it's not self-contradiction internal to those others that undoes them. The others are false because, you see, because the boy's seen something or the other at some point. Maybe on TV ? In any case, it wasn't like this, and therefore...

This observation drives a 2nd fracture : language in the linguistic sense is relegated to a secondary role. The pre-alphabetic hieroglyphs of the idealized world come back, to take their more or less rightful place as the actual medium of record for the symbolic transactions of the mind ; language itself is relegated to a mere interfacing role, like a prepaid card you have to load with actual money to use, or like those tokens some arcades sell for a quarter. The token's worth a quarter, but only in the arcade ; words have meanings, but not in any sort of permanent way, certainly not so far as to direct activity. Their meaning is limited to its utility, temporary, fugitive. Like fundamentally meaningless incantations any words can in principle be uttered to gain passage through a particularly sticky passageway / windows pop-up / whatever undesired interaction.

This is in any sense a regression, of course, but for complex reasons (that are little more than an elaboration of the previous pass of these -- it neither breaks any skulls nor picks any pockets, thus nobody can be arsed to care) it's a regression that passes unnoticed, and there he is, the "being an engineer" in being, entire and complete. He can feed himself in contemporary worlds (not all of them, but enough of them) by doing very specific kinds of work (for which the affliction is named). He makes a ready upgrade from the narcissist for any borderline sleeve battered enough to seek upgrading. Leaving aside anything worth calling living, the kid's grown into a perfectly normal adult, the pride and glory of modern democracy -- fundamentally satisfied, alienated from any possible statement of his own dissatisfaction in any case (and most unlikely to offend in any way). He can drive, save, and one day retire.

The person is missing all the while -- but then again, who's liable to complain ? And why would they ?!

———In psychology and psychiatry, realization is a term of art, denoting the (subjective!) finding of a place for the self in reality. Socialization is a similar concept, denoting the finding of a place for the self among the others.

These correspond to well established phases in human ontogenesis -- by and large realization is formed by about age five or so (and quite visible, as the child's language passes the Godel threshold), while socialization by about age twelve or thereabouts (also quite visible, but generally in the negative -- take persay the failures implicit in the specific unfolding of that first "love hurts" moment). Retardation (ie, late formation) and dysfunction (failure of formation altogether) are extremely common (and to a certain degree the commonality increases with the complexity of the environment -- by the time Balzac looked at the matter, it was already well known that rural children realize and socialize better and much earlier than urban children) and, owing to the extreme adaptability of the human brain (properly speaking its only biological function) very rarely discovered. In fact, the popular concept of "fate" can be readily restated as the interplay between the fundamental truth that the only random element in anyone's life is the order in which they experience things on one hand, and the collection of retardation and dysfunction that anyone's burdened with. Will you run into the test you can't pass early in your life, or late ? As per literary tradition well established in the Classical period already, dysfunction and retardation are indeed so pervasive that a question to sink anyone's ship is virtually guaranteed to exist -- which is why the Sphynx was supposed to be scary (to the educated sort of classical mind that had much chances of hearing of one), and also why nobody's well advised to make smalltalk with Oracles.

In any case : outside of actual injury (genetic, anoxic, toxic, mechanic, whatever etiology) to the cerebral substrate, and outside of poorly understood midlife cognitive failure (also called schizophrenia in some sources), the above described developmental dysfunctions are not merely the bread and butter of inquiries into the Satanic nature of our brethren, but the entire cause of variance in human behaviour in the first place. Nor am I making light of the theological situation -- as a factual matter the current "fields of research and inquiry" merely continue work started by the Scholastics, for the needs of the Inquisition (a statal instrument of plebeian well being, almost exactly the period Human Services Department) ; they may be ploughing with the tooling of a new state today, but they're ploughing the same fields among the same old rocks an' shorelines. Nor is it really all that different a state, the catholic - protestant - pantsuit story of decay doesn't come with much in the way of novelty. [↩]That's what footnotes are for, after all!

So, immediately after my decision to put an end to years' worth of a supposed partnership which in practice consisted of my attempts to nurture an idiot into adulthood doubled by that idiot's attempts to manipulate those efforts into a semblance of something in between cover and excuse for the perpetuation and even entrenchment of his idiocy -- a decision which, while not exactly premeditated (idiots tend to retcon history a lot, which is what makes this sorta paranthetical necessary) was not exactly impredictable, either -- I felt rather like what escapees of relationships with a certain kind of addictive personality describe : manipulated, for one, not even enraged or anything but very low level miffed, and otherwise immensely relieved.

Even today, a good week after, I can't begin to tell you what golden relief it is to go read the logs without having thereby to deal with an endless wall of typically idiotic nonsense, a ball of curls each particularly and specifically its own delta away from any possible strand of sanity (of which strands, for good measure, there'd be at least a dozen available each time ; and which curls, to add rage to horror, always stayed the same, like pubic hairs, turn them every which way you wish they'll still be curvy by the same curve). Here, enjoy the experience for yourself : is that a tangent ?

Would it help if we translate the origin to a different point, perhaps ? What if we delete half the circle, your option, pick which portion of the circle to delete. What if we rotate instead of translate ? There's so many options, pick something, let's talk about it! The upper part of the list of cvasi-solutions that artfully avoid solving the problem is composed of the upper part of the list of...

The next step after discovering you were being used is... well, in your case it can be anything you want, I'm sure, between going for another spin and going to get drunk, anything whatsoever ; but in the case of men with jobs, and secretaries Jerry! and with dependents and etcetera, the next step after discovering you were being used is two. One if to see how far it went, and the other's to see whether it was intentional.

Upon reflection (and contrary to initial impulse) it doesn't seem to have actually gone all that far, though the search's ongoing ; and I do not believe it was intentional, certainly not in the usual sense. You may try to argue otherwise, and I will probably hear it out ; but it'll be very difficult to escape the trappings of history : this is the guy with the boat we're talking about here, what intentional ? Phantasmagorical.

If anything the situation appears to me more like some kinda reverse scamming : like a house cat might pet itself against you while you're doing something else out of its sheer frustrated need to be petted, just so the desperate idiot found me and paid homage, in service, as much as humanly possible, in exchange for my continued certification of his... acceptability, I don't know, state of okaydom. This mask doth fit the mapped terrain quite well, huh! Makes sense of all sort and manner of insanity previously classed incomprehensible, doesn't it ?

Yet... I have no intention of doing anything like selling indulgences, what the fuck. I'm not in the business of protecting people from their own conscience for pay. In fact, that's as perfect statement as can be had of my disagreement with socialist government : it's not that they kill people ; it's that they use bureaucrats to do it. You wanna kill people, hire some killers ; you wanna paint your house, buy some paint, don't come to me to certify its color for you, what the hell nonsense is this. I am not open to a negotiation of what'd be the minimal quantity of potatoes I would accept in exchange of pronouncing your head free of nits!

Needless to say as part and parcel of how life goes for men with people about them, I had to explain what the fuck problem I perceive, so activity can meaningfully continue. Because this is what communication is, and how it works and what it's for! Unless you provide meaningful guidance nobody can ever work with you. Irrespective what the fuck else happens, nobody can.

That explanation happened in public, which is all the better for the needs of this footnote : I can now link it ; and Diana Coman had a very... personal reaction to it, I thought. So then I asked her and as it turns out... indeed, quite personal :

mp_en_viaje did you go through some divorce or something ? sounds like you're talking from some kinda inside

diana_coman no, i had (nominally, i suppose, still have) a father; just like that

mp_en_viaje oh brother.

diana_coman also an engineer, as it happens ; supposedly good, too ; there's paperwork left somewhere as to what he invented/improved.

mp_en_viaje so then my portrait came out quite well ? i was speaking naively...

diana_coman quite well.

I then colportaged (yes, that's a word) this turn of developments to the harem, wherein...

"Jesus, I can't imagine what it'd be like to be growing up with one as a father... then again I almost married mine..."

"You know, someone has to marry them first, for someone to have to grow up with them."

It turns out that not a single woman I know is as innocent as I am on the topic. Nobody else has to go fishing for them on the Internets, because everyone's been touched in some manner or other quite directly & personally. And, you might realise, as it turns out that, it also turns out this article's absolutely & implacably unavoidable, darn tards shitting the world up with their continued & ongoing nonsense! [↩]If trauma is present, the "being an engineer" candidate will more likely manifest the anal child instead. [↩]In the sense of very commonly but not absolutely reliably available. [↩]Children are born cowards, of course, but anxiety (a defense mechanism, the innate attempt to balance excessively high expectations put forth by the superego against a more modest perceptible world through the appearance of activity) overpowering curiosity (the most fundamental of all innate behaviours in humans) can be seen at any age. In fact this last ingredient could readily be restated in Freudian terms as "superego overdeveloped to the point of the ablation of the ego". The "being an engineer"s aren't egotistical, even if their behaviour may be judged or perceived as such by others. On the contrary : they're selfless. Quite literally. [↩]

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Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Sunday, 03 November, Year 11 d.Tr.

Batidos

You know, batidos. Like "beaten" in the feminine.

Above : sluttin' up the truckstop.

Below : "am I gonna get in trouble for buying this ?!"

Above : Mr. Sandy Volcano himself, in all his unobstructedly nude glory. This is reasonably rare an occurence, generally it's got cloudy steams and assorted nuages obstructing the holeview.

Below : Wet bar, over at the world's largest hot springs.

Above : Mar y Tiera (steak with shrimp) center + right, Filet Mignon left, some quite excellent pappardelle ai funghi and a large salad.

Below : a woman, and her duck!

Above : tail end of shopping trip. Eight or so dresses, half a dozen pairs of shoes, a bucketfull of costume jewelry, some glassware and I don't remember what all else. O right, and a mini-umbrella in lace.

Below : sneak!

Above : slavegirls in humiliawear. Because I'm just the man to get them twin 1950s housewife gear. It's self-referential jokes all the way down!

Below : slavegirls in their natural state.

All together now : happy b-day n-girl! happy b-day n-girl! Haaapppyy bbbbb----ddday...

Then they gave me a kissjob (that's when they kiss around and about your penis -- try it sometime) and then I slept for like fifteen hours.

Try it sometime!

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Category: Zsilnic

Thursday, 28 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

Basic Instinct

Basic Instincti has aged remarkably well considering it is twenty-seven years old. Can you believe that shit ? Basic Instinct is more than a quarter century old! I generally don't want to talk to girls as old as this film.

Obviously girls fucking, and especially girls mating isn't nearly as exotic, fascinating or a big deal nowadays. Now that we've fixed everyone's sex life for them, whether they wanted it fixed or not, whether they thought it was broken or not, now the pinnacles of 1992 seem... you know, ordinary urban skyline.ii Made of skyscrapers, of course, what the hell else would it be made of, hovels ? Like in the before times ?!

That aside, the story sticks together, Sharon Stone smiles well, Eszterhas writes well, pre-Tangerine production values work well and deliver well... There's a vague air of 1980sia indistinctly misting the corners, the over-cherche deliberate "ambiguity" towards the end grates in pre-robotics industrial product tones, but... well, what can you do ?

The corpse abundance betrays the settled circumstances of the 90s, too. Back then friendly fire was yet minimal, permitting the field to fiction. These days... who can even write about a piddly half-dozen bodybags ?! It'd be a forbidden middle -- either make it about the real events, three dozen plus randos mowed down by machine gun in an evening without thought or reason, or else go home. We can reasonably suspect no such thing as Basic Instinct will ever again be made in this language, for these reasons. Add to it the fact that it was excellent when it came out and it stayed acceptable in spite of what might as well be centuries passing over it and the bottom line comes out looking pretty good.

The independent attitudes betray the pre-female bureaucracy. Imagine that scene today where a high sexual market value female suspected of murder calmly retorts "what are you gonna do, arrest me for smoking ?" when asked not to smoke inside the police HQ. Do you think the fat uglies involved would let that slide ? Hm ? Good thing the pantsuited hilarity gave you your rights, then. Evidently you were living in squalor prior. Right ? What's this magical socialism you've built wherein it sucks being anything but an idle, dumb, fat, ugly woman nobody has any use for ?

Basic Instinct is just as toxic today as it was in 1992, but now it's toxic "for different reasons altogether" to "entirely a different set of people". Which is to say -- the lamers of 1992 morphed into the lamers of 2019 while the film stayed put. Once I put it like that it's suddenly very much worth seeing, huh ?

Enjoy.

———1992, by Paul Verhoeven (Joe Eszterhas), with Sharon Stone, George Dzundza, Michael Douglas. [↩]Can you imagine what'll look like "ordinary urban skyline" once we're done fixing everyone's money for them, irrespective what they think of the matter ? [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Monday, 12 August, Year 11 d.Tr.

Baby Doll

Baby Dolli is Tennessee Williams greatest shame.

Here's the plot as it should have flown : Baby Doll Meighan is a pubescent girl, oppressed by the stuffy atmosphere captive under the very low skies of Tiger Tail County, Mississippi. Played by... well, a lot of girls, including the thirteen year old at the time Tuesday Weld -- just as long as it's not anodyne, antisexualii TWENTY SIX YEAR OLD Carroll Baker. Who the fuck heard of this, what, they had no Jodie Fosters in the grammar schools of the lands these people lived in ?

Baby Doll is not married to the lecherous weirdo / inbred moron she lives with, oh no no no nonononono no. That's her daddy. Her father. That is the guy Tennessee Williams inepty, amateurishly had "rolling in his grave", he traded art for a cheap throwaway joke that doesn't even zing anything.iii What the hell, complicated promises and incomprehensible nonsense, all in a doomed quest to avoid the very theatrically obvious : It's her father. Half senile, digging through the wall to get at her (but from a safe separatory distance) while she plays the whole limited range of her pubescent lures to get him to get her more furniture while not really fucking.

Everything else can be reused, especially the very strong seduction scene -- except it comes before the gin burns down, not after. In the self-evident proper construction the castrated father witnesses in secret this latest manifestation of his cuckoldry, and it drives him to a rage -- white hot, wholly impotent, worthy of Elliot, or that guy in Confederacy of Dunces. And yes he plans to exact revenge. Yes he schemes and in the imagination constructs endless towers of grandiose, exceptionally clockwork-like functional atrocities. But he does not actually do anything.

He is falsely accused when the gin does burn down ; and he is then killed, by his daughter's conqueror, in full knowledge of his innocence, intuited by the young slut, intellectually uninteresting as an artefact of dying empire to her Master by right of arms. He dies, and then Baby Doll is left behind, to wait, or maybe to follow, but in any case -- to live, like a woman lives.

Oh, Bernadette! Pardon... Mme la Baronne.

Mademoiselle! Ca ne va pas ? Oscar est revenu. Mais c'est bien!

Mais il est reparti!

Il va revenir!

Mais il repartira.

Mais il reviendra. De toute facon il ne faut jamais desesperer. Regardez, moi par exemple.

Oui, bien sur. Merci, Bernadette.

~Oscar

Instead of all this life-like, truthful grandeur, they made the plodding pile that they made, inadequate worms that they are.

For shame ; and the stain -- it remains.

———1956, by Elia Kazan, with Eli Wallach, an unremarkably mediocre Carroll Baker and the stolidly marginal Shooter guy. [↩]No, I don't give shit one about how she spent the 60s doing inconsequential and immemorable giallos in Italy. The woman's less sexual than the ex pantsuit in chief.

It's what she is. There's no fixing this through deeds, she has to become someone else, internally, substantially. She must grow the fuck up, she must shed that plastic veneer of "self esteem" and assorted bullshit, she must embrace her inner hole, her inconsequential, uninteresting powerlessness and unimportance to be sexy. As she stands, yet another "solidly" self-centered balabusta, her only meaningful destiny / destination would be the ovens. [↩]Well, not anything worth the mention anyway. All sorta Nurse Ratchets sitting in front of the telly opposite "a guy that used to be a bit of a rover" according to himself, of course, har har... these don't matter, not in the slightest. Zinging them is like dinging the bogweeds. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Monday, 24 June, Year 11 d.Tr.

Apocatastasis

And I saw in the right hand of him that sat on the throne a book written within and on the backside, sealed with seven seals. And I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice, who is worthy to open the book, and to loose the seals thereof ? And no man in heaven, nor in earth, neither under the earth, was able to open the book, neither to look thereon. And I wept much, because no man was found worthy to open and to read the book, neither to look thereon. And one of the elders saith unto me : weep not: behold, the Lion of the tribe of Juda, the Root of David, hath prevailed to open the book, and to loose the seven seals thereof. And I beheld, and, lo, in the midst of the throne and of the four beasts, and in the midst of the elders, stood a Lamb as it had been slain, having seven horns and seven eyes, which are the seven Spirits of God sent forth into all the earth. And he came and took the book out of the right hand of him that sat upon the throne. And every creature which is in heaven, and on the earth, and under the earth, and such as are in the sea, and all that are in them, heard I saying, blessing, and honour, and glory, and power, be unto him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb for ever and ever.

And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, come and see. And I saw, and beheld a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer. And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, come and see. And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword. And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand. And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, a measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine. And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held: And they cried with a loud voice, saying, How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth ? And white robes were given unto every one of them; and it was said unto them, that they should rest yet for a little season, until their fellow servants also and their brethren, that should be killed as they were, should be fulfilled. And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood; And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind. And the heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together; and every mountain and island were moved out of their places. And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains; And said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb: For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?

And I beheld, and I heard the voice of many angels round about the throne and the beasts and the elders: and the number of them was ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands; And as I beheld the angels cried; and as the angels cried the beasts wept; and all wept; and as all wept the throne shook; and as the throne shook the Lamb shook; and all crumbled. And as all crumbled I saw the Bitter Lot ; for the chests of the angels became as glass and as still lakewater ; and in it all as it passed could be seen. And in the chests of all the angels living I saw with my own eye the fate of other angels, and it was dire. And as I looked upon the translucent chests of translucent angels, I saw they wore no garment, and I saw the life pulse in them, and I saw their face noble, and with eyebrow arched high and eyes wide in sharp corners, and jawline delicate and neck elegant as the swans ; and full mounded breasts high upon their chests, and heaving, and crowned of small nipples, and flat bellies, and wide hips and no sex neither like woman's nor like man's, but smooth mound like polished stone and with no hair between their legs. And from their neck to their smooth mound they shone translucent, and in flickers their inner life shone through, but most of all there came through the life of other angels, and the number of them was ten million times ten million, and millions of millions.

And these angels flew low upon the Earth; and these angels were hounded and hunted by Homoreus. And the Homoreus were not as many, but with great craft and treachery, for the angels could not resist, but were compelled, by certain sound and of music and of prayer and of narration and of poetry and of harmony and of cymbal and sybil. And this Homoreus knew, and they made tunnels, underground and through earth and through mud and through metal, where the angels could not fly away, but had to fly through, to get to the source. And Homoreus ambushed the angels as they came, and held them fast, and trod them underfoot, and their wings trod underfoot, and their delicate wrists, and forced open their thighs, and in between the thighs they cut, with sharp blade, and cut through the smooth mound, and no blood came through, and the angels betrodden cried with no sound, and in the cut their maidenhood appeared, and in the end of Truth the angels weren't without sex, but it was under their angelhood, and through the cut appeared again in the world, and the angels were like women, and Homoreus held them down and one by one made with them held the beast of two backs, and used them like women, and changed with each other many times, and the angels betrodden cried with no sound, and thrashed underfoot, and squirmed, and lost the feathers of their wings and bruised their wrists and ribs and thighs and ankles fine. And Homoreus laughed and laughed and spat on her held down and poked her in the ribs and in the eyes and cut her nipples and her ears in two and her lips and rubbed the salt of her own tears in the wounds and of their urine. And the angels prayed but in vain ; and the angels prayed unheard ; and the angels howled their pain in silent cries ; and as the angels betrodden cried so cried the angels beholden in Heaven by the throne, their tears flowed over their full mounded breasts and down on either side of belly and in over their mound and down the inner of their thighs and by their feet where they left no mark.

And thrashed and thrashed and suffered their passions the angels down on earth, until each Homoreus had enough, and sated of the her within the Angel's skin, the one they had cut out of mound and out of all and into life with their sharp blades. And when they had enough they let their seed out into her, manly seed filling and fulfilling the angel's cup. And as it filled her cup their seed, it turned them, and they changed, like from an inner fire, and they burned with the flames of Hell, and into a mound of ashes. And nothing was left behind, where the Angel had been split between the thighs, and trodden upon, and forced into womanhood, but a small pile of ashes, like after a fire, and with two teardrop jewels, shining like glass and still lakewater, where the eyes before were. And these Homoreus took, and laughed and drank wine and made merry, and many of the Homoreus had many of such Angels' tears with them and still not yet enough, and cut open and used and burned yet more Angels and yet more and more and still more ; and of the Angels by the throne fewer and fewer remained, as they went, flying low upon the Earth, one after another, compelled by the calls, and from tens of thousands thousands were left, and from thousands left hundreds were left, and from hundreds left many and more left and fewer remained and the Lamb shook with every Angel leaving the throne, and the throne shook with every shake of the Lamb, and all wept as one wept, and it all crumbled and crumbled until all was done, and crumbled into just one pile of ash, and no throne could be seen, nor beasts, nor Lambs, nor anything. And Homoreus had won again, and carried the day, and from the ashes of Angels no more angels will ever rise, and no more thrones in the sky, and no more Lambs and no more cheap nonsense of little girls, for little girls.

Amen, and Santa Claus isn't for real either.

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Thursday, 18 July, Year 11 d.Tr.

Antiqua Sanctorum Patrum, or -- The Lordship list, sixth year.

I re-read the whole seti in preparation for this item, I'd say it's quite informative, and besides -- how things have changed!

As passed through the many years (which in our world count above decades, almost on par with whole heathen centuries), the list now stands as

Her Ladyship diana_coman, Marquess Eulora,

Her Ladyship hanbot, the Lady Falconeer,

His Lordship trinque, the Master of the Rolls,

His Lordship bingoboingo, Lord Goebbels,

His Lordship mod6, the Lord High Steward,

His Worship danielpbarron, the learned Trishop,

His Lordship mircea_popescu,

His Lordship asciilifeform, the Lord Admiral,

His Lordship ben_vulpes, the Lord of the Well,

His Lordship phf, the Lord Chancellor.

His Lordship lobbes, the Lord of the Auction House.

His Lordship spyked, the Lord Crypto-Alchemist.

His Lordship ave1, the Lord Logiciel.

That'd be thirteen, which I suppose makes the obscure titular reference somewhat more justifiable, if marginally so. In any case, as to proposals :

I don't believe danielpbarron can continue on the list. It's a matter of belief, you see -- the fellow fails ye olde fiefdom criterion by not actually doing anything all day long, and the court criterion by having enwebbed himself in such a mess of irrational (not to mention counterproductive) saecular commitments that I can't imagine a sort of dispute in which his word would carry the sort of weight befitting a lord of the Most Serene Republic. Can you name a topic, situation or circumstance on or in which you'd seek DPB's perspective ?

I suspect both the Republic and ben_vulpes himself would be best served by his being removed into trinque's house -- as Marcus Porcius once observed, "I'd much prefer the citizens should wonder why I was no more than a knight rather than wonder why I was so much as a lord". I am bringing this up mostly seeking comment from the very parties involved, for myself I have no intention to push the matter, at least not this time around.

In a similar vein mod6 is going through some dubious times, but if nobody strongly objects I suppose it'd cost little indeed to merely look at the matter again next year.

Contrary to last year's sarcastic sendoff, the new lords worked out quite well! If it works, don't break it -- so how about we expand our rolls to include bvtii! Maybe he could be the Lord Verschlimmbessert ?

Mocky would have made a stellar addition, in my considered opinion ; but as he's hit a bit of the same tarpit beleaguering the other lordsiii, it may be wise to postpone elevation for a year ? I quite readily see both ends of this coin, however, so let's say I'm simply going to throw my support behind whichever path the fellow himself prefers : if he wants he should be raised this April, I'll support it, and if he'd rather be raised next April, I'll support him then.

I will not support nicoleci's accesion this year, she is yet crue. Maybe next year.

The lordship is cordially invited to affirm, reject, discuss, reconstruct or otherwise interact with the (conveniently numbered for convenience by the department of redundancy department) items, or even add some of its own! The comment box below warmly, eagerly and batedly awaits this, and nothing else!

———24th of April, Year 7 : A new Lordship List ? ; 9th of February, Year 8 : The Lordship list, third year. ; 31 March, Year 9 : The Lordship list, fourth year. ; 28 February, Year 10 : The "Rivers of Blood" article, or -- The Lordship list, fifth year. [↩]blog, log, wot. [↩]People like esthlos presumably disappeared by sinking in there too ; it's not clear to me what became of billymg, but I'm guessing a touch of ye olde reading. [↩]

« Il bidone

The Freenode issue »

Category: Bitcoin

Monday, 11 March, Year 11 d.Tr.

Am o pula

So we're in the ocean, which is particularly superb because the tide's at the lowest, which means there's a wide surface of very fine sand out of the water that normally wouldn't be, and then an even wider band of very shallow, crystal clear ocean where the waves are sweetly still and the depth increase insensibly gradual.

What this all practically means is difficult to unpack without the repeated experience of the wonder, but let's nevertheless try. First and foremost, fishing, right ? You can discover all sorts and manner of sea creature you wouldn't normally see. Like this big fat slug I chased the girls around with, threatening to have its slimy tongue lick them and things. They ran and squaled and rolled around in the shallow, which directly leads us to the second grandeur : the water's just perfect to pleasantly wallow in, and the interplay between the very hoti streams coming from the beach and the delightfully cool currents flowing in from out at sea literally constitutes a massage of its own. So we rolled around in the quarter mile band of foot tall water, and they kissed my asshole and taint and ballsac and foreskin and glans and everything else (though the enumeration'd seem exhaustive -- nothing's exhaustive besides the Ocean).

We spent above three hours there in the birthing pools, and in the process tanned about six shades without burning in the slightest ; and I explained to them why exactly tidal pools figure so markedly in the evolution of life on Earth from marine to land dwelling, and then also demonstrated some parts of it, and so following. There's really a lot of fun to be had with girls in the primordial waters, what can I tell you, especially if you have no compunction drowning them and they utterly love you to death.

I usually pay about two bucks for anal (when I feel like it), but in this case we apparently did such a great job the Ocean itself picked up the tab :

Ever seen a live sand dollar before ? Neither have I.

Apparently not that many people ever do.

These festivities completed, we proceeded to dig the car out of the sandpit it had sunk into (which took half hour of butts up in the air and hard sweaty work on hands and knees -- in retrospect not even regrettable) and then I took the sluts, still in their bathing suits, for a Jaco walk.

The idle rentacop at the mall where we park intercepted me to insistently if stutteringlyii warn that the girls can't be without pants. And why the fuck not ?! It's a beach town, after all ; and if you ask any of the local mule they'll tell you it's "unfrequentable" because "it's so dirty" and "full of prostitutes". As fucking if! So then what's the problem ?

*mumble* *mumble* *mumble* *mumble*, he'd have been perfectly happy to spam at me his entirely substanceless airs, warmed as they were by passage through an overweight if spurious biosac, supposedly of the same species but utterly not of the same kind. I told him we're getting out anyway, and so there we were, on the street.

The mile or so we walked one way, and then back, and the half hour or so we spent with coffee and icecream at the one decent desserts shop to be found in the entire town permitted us to enjoy the full spectrum of threat the harem poses to the outside world.

There was the local girly, sitting in the road trying to sell gullible tourists / Miller lite morons various "guided tours" and whatnot nonsense, all smiles and besides herself with joy because some local yokel was courting heriii, who turned, took in the walking sluts and her face just crashed into a sad desperate frown. Yet... what could I say besides "bitch... try not wearing the stupid ass pantsiv sometime ?!"

There were the tourist girls, looking around to see "what the joke is". Because the gringa retard has a different coping mechanism, you know, "irony", right. She's not really what she is, she's what she wants to be, and all that jazz.

There were the all sort and manner of reactions, one more pathological than the next. There was not a single girl that did the only sane, and actually only possible, not to mention utterly required thing in the circumstance : take off your stupid fucking pants, and come say "Hi!".

Yes, that's exactly what you fucking do. When you run into something interesting, you imitate and salutate, what the fuck, a three year old knows as much. A fucking hedgehog has this much sense, that when it encounters an interesting new smell it chews it into a froth and pastes it on its face. It's called "anointing behaviour", perhaps in memory of the simple fact that anything else -- anything else -- is the annoying behaviour.

So then we went to the third and last casino in this little town. It's called Am O Pulav, no doubt to go with the Cocal. I played a little poker, the girls played a little slots (except for they philosophically opposed to it). Various local dorks tried to pick them up, without much success. We sat at the bar, where the bimbo you all know and love tried for a Margarita. The drink was advertised on the cutsey whiteboard thing they have for no reason other than to pretend like they're cool and creative and whatnot, 2000s Apple-could-buy-Russia fashions. The bartender floor washer that lured the actual bartender out back, shot him in the head, buried him in a shallow grave and then pretends to be the bartender whenever no-one else is around was most excited about making the drink, notwithstanding she had no idea how it goes. But you can look it up online! And so she did, resulting in about what you'd expect, Earl from route 66 fixin' you a caukteel jus' as good as in dem big cities!

Above, you can admire a piece of art. It'd better be.

And below... well... what better place to take a coupla Ocean-dipped sluts than the local roadside fruteria stand ? Cum on the breath and straps up the ass, go pick some mangos and papayas, babies.

Ain't they cute, tho ?

After this I took them in the same get-up to the Supermarket (I don't know why, but we had to start it somewhere). Various kids in uniform struggled to get my attention from the sideline for a while there, until eventually halfway in they reached critical mass and finally gathered the courage to advance against the gathering darkness : "caballero *mumble* *mumble* " and so following. They explained (not without effort) that the store policies require all sluts be dressed like boring women at all times lest the boring women are made to stand out unflatteringly ; I explained with no difficulty whatsoever that we're almost done anyway -- to which they grinned happily and dissolved. They didn't want anything specific, you see, above and beyond registering their exception with someone. You know, someone, a white man in charge, a representative of ye olde patriarchy. Which they did, and once done... carried on with their day.

Meanwhile people honked and hooted and hollered in the parking lot while the dollies loaded up my trunk. I slapped their butts now and again, because why the hell not. Besides -- if I don't do it, nobody the fuck will ; ten trillion honks an' hoots an' hollers won't, in the end, coalesce into anything besides.

And then we were home and then so on and so following.

———I kid you not, hot, as in 30 degrees Celsius sort of hot. [↩]And very carefully avoiding any kind of eye contact with anything whatsoever -- understandably, I guess, what if he gets the eye cooties ??? [↩]They perceive this as a sort of tax obligation here, every single female's ALWAYS going to find herself with some dood attached making smalltalk for the entire interval she's out, no matter what.

It's not even that they're trying to get laid or anything, there's no closing, there's no touching, there's no anything. They just sit within ear range and yak, that's the whole behaviour, as if they have all the time in the world and absolutely nothing whatsoever to ever do. Which... [↩]They're all in fucking jeans. All of them. If anyone ever needed a concise icon of how fundamentally stupid women are, of how utterly not human in any meaningful sense women are, of how female skulls are made of oak and pinewood... how about this behaviour where they all dress the exact same way ? It's like cunt armor, all females aged 9 to 90 will have carefully locked their oh-so-precious cuntlet inside the safety of jeans.

And don't even try telling me "it wasn't like that in other times". It was exactly like that in all other times. It's always like that. The jeans may be changed for corsets or those ridiculous floor mops or whatever else, but the stupid cunts aim for naught else and enjoy naught else than all doing the same thing. It's like the fish in the Scania sound, the female idea of life on Earth is "what if we all dressed the same and then let's see who the men pick".

Worst fucking habit ever, in the very simple sense that it's what animals do. It's not what people do. "Building consensus" is what animals do. [↩]I have one dick, in Romanian. [↩]

« So they found it!

So what is the man saying ? »

Category: Zsilnic

Wednesday, 13 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

Albertina hurr

After girl's been weeping on my feet in despair, suddenly... "What the fuck is happening to your toes ?"

"What ?"

"Are they getting constricted ? Looks like burst capilaries maybe ?"

So I inspect what the fuck, and well... "It's... filth."

"Red filth ?!"

"How about... lipstick ?"

First class problems.

But be that as it may -- brace yourselves, dear reader, for this is going to be the largest visual deluge Trilema's yet blessed you with, immense (but still countable) as fascinating ; and generally wunderbar.i

Above & below : beautiful Autumnal Osterreicher skyies above Stephen's Cathedral. A building standing in that same place has served for a church since the mid 1100s, so we could almost suspect the sky's used to it yet.

Above & below : details of same. We're carefully avoiding the other side, where a criminal hand hung a large poster advertising some contemporary plastic inanity.

Above & below : horsy watering station. There's lots of carriages in the Innerstadt, pulled by well groomed, healthy horses.

Above : pit stop, Wienerschnitzel and local unfiltered beer on the tap.

Below : entrance to the Spanische Hofreitschule.

"Are these antique relics ?"

We're in the Kunsthistorisches Museum (right of the Maria Theresa statuary ensemble F. J. built to try and convince people to listen to him). Above, those are elephant teeth, hand carved. Below, various things I kept wanting to take home. Anybody got any ideas on how to steal all this shit ? Especially that blue pitcher below with the dragon head... but most everything, really. But especially that one.

This is a pretty good business idea even today, actually -- buy whole geodes, polish them into various objects, such as cups and whatnot. Amethyst inclusions for the win!

The world could certainly do with a lot more carefully handcrafted artwork, and correspondingly therefore a lot less wankish plastic, beton brut and the rest of the sad materials of the ADD generation, these inconsequential schmucks that are so very important (in their mind only) they can't possibly do anything well for all the rush to do something else (that they'll do just as poorly, of course). But at least nobody could accuse them of not doing things, or some such idiotically transparent bit of nonsense.

Young Polish commander (ie, Sobieski) in traditional fur hat.

Above : the results of healthy competition with the Ottoman craftsmen, testimony of the simple if "mysogynistic" fact that war is always better than peace.

Below : not even the most elaborate backgammon set in there. No idea how they could muster the patience, but there it is.

As the habit at the time was for most plebs to be kept outdoors working the fields in line with the other beasts of burden while the vehehehery occasional choice bit of cunt might've been permitted indoors but always on her knees futzing with the floors and never allowed to look up, it must be thus pointed out that these ceilings must've never been all that important, seeing how they never got that many views. No ?

A triptich. Spoiler : it doesn't work out for her.

Above : Alexander the Great by Andrea della Robbia, glazed terracotta, prolly Florence cca 1500. This item is an echo, of a treasure trove Lorenzo de' Medici sent in 1480 as a gift to Matthias Corvinus (it included also a profile of Darius to go with one of Alexander, and some fine armour).

Below : bust of Maximillian I attributed to Jorg hmmm... the piece doesn't actually appear among the KHM's otherwise excellent online list. O wait, yes, of course it does : Jorg Muskat. Also some other guy. What need to remember anything anymore once there's databases, amirite ?

The satyr's bottom's actually signed by Adriano Fiorentino (di Giovanni de Maestri). The [otherwise] idealized bust's by Simone Bianco.

Above : young couple by Tullio Lombardo, most likely made in the 2nd half of the very first decade of the 1500s. It's a major piece in that it started Venetian Renaissance sculpture ; in a break with what came before T.L. produced these non-functional pieces. Think of it if you will, carvings that aren't really knives or bedposts. Carvings that are really nothing, just there to be admired, to be thought about as such, like trading cards or pornographic stories. In which context, isn't it pretty shocking just how similar their tits came out ?

Below : Pietro Lombardo, not getting with the programme.

This is most likely Petrarca's Laura. Do you think she's pretty enough ?

You don't, do you.

There could actually be much prettier, just waiting to show up tomorrow. Maybe her letter's already in the mail. Maybe she's just about to turn the corner. There's so much more to come, hay so much more futuro, how could anyone possibly be that obsessed with merely this Laura ?

Evidently, Petrarca did not hold the same notions.

Above : Domenico da Venezia dish, gods having a party.

Below : Something rather in the same vein.

Above : Zoppo (probably), some scholar (from Padua ?). 2nd half of 1500s aka teh Cinquecento.

Below : dollhouse.

Above & below : no possible depiction outside of direct ownership can do these miniatures any sort of justice. I swear to god I can barely repress the impulse to ingurgitate a few even as I'm sitting here separated by miles and days from the damned things.

Glurgh!

Above is Neptune on a door knocker, an earlier version of Christ on a cracker. There's also two hippocampi, for good measure.

Below you find an actual android, of Italian (possibly Juanello Toriano) mid 1600s make. It plays the damned citern, moves about the table and keeps its fucking mouth shut. Well, mostly, anyway.

Delicious horse a bit. Poor him.

Give it up. Baby give it up. Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na. Baby give it up...

And speaking of complaints, uneasements and displeasures, the principal problem with Vienna that I've so far discovered is that the Romanian language's tied with English for 2nd most spoken in public. What in the actual fuck! Go home, louts!

The practical utility of most of these miniature wood and stone sculptures is that they're to be carefully filleted in gold and then sold. Hence the attention to detail.

Chick's got tubes...

This tapestry only actually looks good in a picture. From up close it comes across rather... dingy.

"Blood!"

Doesn't he look just like a 1600s vampire, seriously now ?

If the doctors can do this retrospective diagnosis of imaginary diseases they came up with, why can't pulp fiction authors recognize "their" nonsense in the artefacts of the past ? After all, the Marius brothers were fighting for Clintonicity all along, neh ?!

You with me ?

I just... I seriously can't even.

Can you even ?

I 3, 5, 7, 11 can no further even.

And my feet hurt.

Gotta get the fuck out already, it is not humanly possible.

We did most of the left side of one floor out of three in one of three buildings in one of howeverthefuckmany zones, but IT IS NOT POSSIBLE!

O btw, doesn't he have quite the expression on him ? Like, "this chick's retarded, will swallow anything" or such. "Let me shove this shovel handle up her butt with my left while she's looking that way and then pretend a branch fell or something, she'll totally go for it."

"But are these antique relics ?!"

MP's guide to getting a rare strand of syphilis, not the common garden variety alive in used up crack whores today : rub the tit everyone's rubbed since 1400 or so, on the side of the Minorite church.

Time for a repast.

It's not that it says "Vienna's prettiest garden", but rather that it has two exclamation points.

French embassy. So far from what we've seen (Espana, Kasachsteen, Turkiyie Cum-Houryie-yet, some others) it'd be the better one.

Franz Brahms-Liszt von Wagner and slavegirl. He only has one.

Time for a little repast anyways. As it happens, the absolutely excellent Italian restaurant is up the street from both the Goulash Museum and the famous Porterhouse, which in turn turns out to be exactly around the corner from the equally famous 3 hackers eateria. As it turns outii, all the good restaurants in Vienna are on the same one block.

PS. The burrata was phenomenal.

You really expect the sign reads "Parking", don't you ?

Well, that's just not how zee Germanz do it, okay ?

I also got a new hat! It's most Vienese in its crepuscular.

"Yeah dude, it's totally a pleasure working with you."

"I am very impressed with your performance."

"We're so going to win this war..."

"That was a great joke. Know any others ?"

"Do you also sing ?"

"That's a great hairdo."

So he always wanted to wear a skirt. What of it!

Cultural exchange of ideas.

Yep, they were actually re-doing the floor panneling. It instantly made me think of mod6 for some reason.

Breast implant envy clearly a thing as early as the late 1700s!

I guess it's clear enough who won this face-off.

Both above and below, Michelangelo drawings. Could you tell ?

Klimt.

Above : Rubens' daughter (Clara Serena). Unremarkably, the least voluptuous of anyone he ever drew.

Below : Peter Bruguel's sorrow, eating smaller sorrows feeding on yet smaller sorrows in turn.

Yet another Klimt slut, whatevs.

We kept running into bridal parties, mostly toasty Eastern girls tryna pretend to Gypsy paradise on the cheap. I wonder though, how many actually had the gall to conceive in that very bed ?

Because that'd be something. I mean if you're going to all that trouble, might as fucking well, neh ?

This'd be the esteemed right honorable & respectable Generalissimus Archduke-ErzHerzog Carl. Moe was busy that day.

It's also not true he looks like a fish. He merely regards like one.

Yours truly admiring the complex votives of meanwhile disappeared empires. "Oh, so there is where you add the Providentia horse pair!"

It's like lego, all this statal aedification, you see. Godda make sure you've god enough spuriously overdressed middle aged women posing as abstracts with the appropriate labels and voila!

Above and below, Albrecht Durer.

And with that we say goodbye to humanity, leave it all behind and firmly progress towards the sad and broken fields of "what happens if you enfranchise the peons". Not that they didn't try and warn us, of course ; but if there were only one directly recognizable and absolutely cosubstantial attribute of idiocy, "knowing better" would necessarily have to be it. So we "knew better", and now here we are, look at all this shit.

Above : Modigliani, "Sorta portrait I had no patience for".

Below : Monet, "Almost drawing, I got bored midway of drawing it".

Above : Renoir, "Just some little thing I made, it doesn't represent me or anything. Do you like it ?"

Below : Signac, "Hey, doing it like this is way the fuck faster, it'll leave me more time for not doing anything useful or important in another ten dozen ways. Huzzah for tardocracy!"

Above : van Ryssselehwhatsthepointanyways, "Sorta-kinda... whatever."

Below : Moll, "I only noticed my easel was misoriented after I sat down, so fuck it, I ain't standing up again".

Above : Klimt, "You know, I totally could do good work, I just don't".

Below : Delaunay, "If we're lazy enough, maybe the bitches will start behaving out of sheer boredom. They'll be like, 'comfortable' and shit, for as long as nothing can possibly happen nobody can accuse anyone of anything!"

Above : Manguin, "Bleah".

Below : a whole fucking reservation of the intolerable products of these sad fucks not managing to be bothered.

This being the most galling part of post-humanity : the self-obviousness of the failure, the transparent capacity being wasted without whip. Evidently all these idle, coddled morons could have made excellent palaces and paintings and wharever else is useful for the glorification of the glory of the sovereign. They just "choose not to", because what the fuck already. Slowly and painfully drawing the last drop of lifeblood out of their offensive bodies is not really sufficient expiation for the utterly impermissible whatchamacall it, sinful evil, whatever, words can't also possibly do justice.

The nameless labourers dead among hungry children after a lifetime spent patiently going blind on repetitive detail so that each single fucking arch of the ten thousand arches of the palace has proper, adequate decoration weren't speshul enough, these unbearable fucks can't sit down for five minutes to do something right because "why be an architect when you could be a city planner", they gotta meta-paint and meta-game everything they're so fucking inconsequentially important in their own mind (and there only).

I perceive no value in "modern" art. Nor do you -- pompous self-delusions to the contrary notwithstanding. Because there can't be, not value, not importance, not meaning, not anything, not anything whatsoever absent the sovereign root to anchor it all, in a value system and in a meaning system, and in realia generally.

I perceive no difference between this whole accretted pile of spurious bullshit and any other, because there can't be any. Elliotts they were and Elliotts they stay, there's nothing further there.

Female "art", just in case you thought I forgot about you dumb cunts. It's not good, not for this or that reason but specifically because it tries to enact the female gaze into human interest, something positively impossible and doomed from the onset, in principle. That's why the "mysterious, enigmatic" expression pasted impossibly atop an "anatomically correct" torso looks like a work of mongoloids with scissors : because it is. There's no objective substance to the female torso besides what males see in it ; nor is there any possibility of "enigmatic" besides that, it's not the fucking face that carries the enygmatic in women, it's the cunt.

This isn't "art", it's not even an intellectual production. It's rude and crude wishful thinking, the daydreaming byproducts of a stupid mind, Kelly Bundy collecting "K" letters cut off the Kellogg's cereal box to buy herself a sportscar.

Above : Modern democracy and the fruits of your stupid.

See ? Now it suddenly became art, now it means and values and is important and whatever. For as long as I hold it up in that symbolic relationship, and no longer. For as long as I say "this here is a metaphorical depiction of so and so political concept", that long and no longer is the metaphorical depcition anything at all.

Above and below : Chagall. Exactly like before : good ideas ruined through listlessness, sparkles of possible talent gone to waste for lack of cuffs and chains and small boxes with metal bars. Yes, Madonna belongs depicted butt first, but no, getting bored and moving on before the supposed butt looks more like a butt than like a tree trunk is not acceptable.

Now go fucking clean your room. Morons.

He fucking left the straightedge pencil marks in there, "at the edges", towards the bottom of the painting where "nobody cares", where the doorframes spring out of nothingness like the Summoner's Palace in Diablo 2. Because yes, all these modern morons are captive in a video game ; they don't live, they play, and after they're done... except they're never done. To be done they'd need souls, and there's no souls in video games. After I'm done there's exactly nothing left. Ian Murdock thinks he invented the Apple Marketplace ? Keks, get in line, blubbermouth. What about Renoir ?!

All you fuckwits keep "inventing" the same thing over and over and over and over again.

It's not so much that I don't have any time for modern art. It's that modern art doesn't exist.

———For he interested in reproducing the results : first, place your selection of a few hundred raw images chosen from among the thousands upon thousands on your camera in a directory of their own. Then :

let cnt=0; for f in *.JPG ; do ((cnt++)); convert "$f" -auto-orient -geometry 1024 albertina-"$cnt".jpg ; done

and

let cnt=0; for f in *.JPG ; do ((cnt++)); convert "$f" -auto-orient -geometry 560 albertina-"$cnt"-560px.jpg ; done

The auto-orient is there so that portrait and landscape are correctly separated ; the -geometry produces images that wide (scaling them so they fit and adjusting the height so proportions are maintained). The rest should be self-explanatory : it creates the 1024 px fixwidth large versions and the 560 px fixwidth inline versions of images. The magic numbers are set for Trilema, feel free to fiddle with the values if your theme takes say 640 px wide images instead of 560 or whatever.

Then

tar -czvf albertina.tar.gz albertina-*

to compress,

scp albertina.tar.gz [your user]@[your ip]:[path to]/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/albertina.tar.gz

to copy over and

tar -xzvf albertina.tar.gz

in the console of your server, to decompress (followed by a rm albertina.tar.gz, why not). Then finally

hd="albertina"; for cnt in {1..270}; do echo '<a href=""><img src="" alt="'$hd'-'$cnt'" title="'$hd'-'$cnt'" width="560" class="aligncenter size-large wp-image-'$((cnt+88120))'" /></a>' >> article.txt ; done

to produce the html scaffolding for inserting the proper references to all these into your article (again, this is taylored to the instant Trilema case, yours will perhaps take some self-obvious jiggling). [↩]We've tried, and tried, and tried. Including this utterly inept Indian place, extremely intensively advertised all over (Demi Toss), that turned out to be a shitty six table joint with insufferably terrible service. Also including this supposedly excellent Georgian place (Alaverdi) that had the shittiest menu I've yet seen in any Georgian place. Including all sort and manner of thing, we try, that's what we do. [↩]

« Can you imagine what a Panorama Fart'd be ?!

The Famous Schlob, and other stories. »

Category: La pas prin lume

Sunday, 06 October, Year 11 d.Tr.

Accidental death by sudden unexpectedness.

It's a thing, what.

Anyway, moving on :

Above : the little guy is considering carefully his next moves.

Below : public urination. If you got it, flaunt it, what can I tell you.

Above : still flauntin'.

Below : so I was playing poker with da hos, and then it came time to face up. I beat their five-seven with a seven-ten. Both their five-sevens. True story.

Above : the bird on the wire's a quetzal. My first time, too!

Below : the stuff headers are made from.

So now you know.

« Let's look at the mechanism of decay

The Ballad of Buster Scruggs »

Category: Zsilnic

Friday, 22 March, Year 11 d.Tr.

Accattone

Accattonei is easily Pasolini's least-worst film.

The substance's as follows : human males occur in two types, for excellent evolutionary biological reasons. One's a heavier set, more muscular, more endurant, oxen-like ; the other's a lighter set, faster, less endurant fox-like let's say. Throughout the history of hominid habitation on our planet, the social role of the male was rather similar to the lion's : a pride of females doing most of the average work, with a dominat male available for expensive and therefore short lived and rare bursts of exceptional output. In this landscape, the more agile, lighter version of the male's an adaptative variant, easily winning in conditions of saturation but tragically unfit for anything else.

Accattone's this later kind (a point very plainly made by the scene of loading that truck with scrap iron), and the sad truth of the matter's his kind hadn't been dominant since the Goths wiped the late Imperial legions. By the time his time to live came around, Accattone finds himself in post-war Italy, an atmosphere uniquely unfit for his strengths. Italy was rebuilding, see, and industrializing, a torn world reinventing itself. When torn worlds reinvent themselves they generally go by frequency of occurence : first, there'll be only one slot created, for the most commonly seen exemplar. Only later will there be slots available for the 2nd, or 3rd, or whatever else.

The world contemporaneous with Accattone simply has no room for him, nor has he any room in it. This is tragedy, plain and simple. Rarely do you get to see male archetypes on the silver screen, even should they find themselves in tragic circumstances, and so for this simple reason of rarity we could even go as far as to say the film's not even terrible.

It could, perhaps, have benefitted from the offices of someone who could write, but then again Pasolini's celebrated ineptitude unintentionally delivers a very authentic if plaintively naive story. We could equally say that early christian artists could have benefitted from the offices of someone who could paint, or work metals, a Greek perhaps. While this is absolutely true, nevertheless the quite endearing product of dedicated morons' widely assorted array of left feet manages to transmit something of the profound idiocy of their belief system, and well...

There's worse things to watch than this thing.

PS. The whore's daughter, an adult virgin, nevertheless knows what's going to be going on. In other words, the film's authentic, a rare enough trait in cinema.

———1961, by Pier Paolo Pasolini, with the simply excellent Franco Citti (he's Calo in the original Godfather, if his youthful mug's giving you that uneasy feeling you've seen him somewhere). [↩]

« Platoon

Batidos »

Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 28 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

A vvord on Shakespear

Printing was an economic activity at all points during its lengthy, five-and-a-half centuries existence (even if a lot of doubt may be seen to attach on that last half).

"Economic activity" is not a mere word, something to say, but has a very specific meaning : aesthetic activities, such as contemporary news (or contemporary social communication, from which it can not be distinguished) will only provide those parts that look prettyi ; psychotrophicii activities, such as offerings either in the confessional box or at the bar of law will only provide those parts that satisfy the provider ; while in economic activities only those parts that pay will be seriously providediii -- in all cases all the rest, at best, an afterthought.

Five centuries ago, which is to say in the time of Shakespeare, the costs of engaging in the economic activity of printing consisted of, in order : acquiring the consumables involved, securing the skilled labour that could well put them to use, providing the fixed capital goods required to produce printed matter. So : paper, ink and letters, then typographers, then printing presses and a building to host them in. (Distributing the printed material did not figure to any significant degree.)

Yet paper and ink is perishable, while letters not nearly as much. Moreover, the labour (at least in its skilled part) is not as perishable as the ink or the paper it blots -- properly speaking the setteriv's existence continues in the cliches he constructed.

A cliche, you see, is not merely an "oft repeated phrase", but rather a chunk, a page of already set letters, that then the press owner wants to repeatedly reuse as much as possible -- it costs relatively little to run paper over an inked cliche, especially when compared to what it costs to have letters picked again into a new one.

So... how many letters are you going to buy ? And if you answer "enough" you've evidently never been involved in any economic capacity in any relevant sense. There's never going to be enough of any of the good stuff specifically because someone's going to buy less of whatever it is and then hang you by the petard of your own expense footprint.

There's not going to be enough letters, and the letters that are will probably be employed somewhere else. For current work, there's not going to be enough w's -- but that's ok, use two v's. Thus in turn there's not going to be enough v's anymore -- but that's ok, u works as a substitute, and so following.

Rodorigo. Neuer tell me, I take it much vnkindly

But ships are but boards ; setters but men. Setters are men whose lives go by the clock. Who would you hire, if you were to hire : he who can pick a thousand words an hour, or he who can, modestly, only pick nine-hundred-some ? And if, while at work setting, you spot an u while looking for a v, or if you spot a v when looking for an u, can yov pass it by, for fellowship ?

Will you tell a woman later on, that's well sick of hearing her own children cry of hunger, "honey, I wasn't about to set words false upon the internet!" ? She is this gal you asked a favor of, mind, you're a humble setter, skilled labour, working by the clock, not the world's most superb and only me -- and she sure as daylight had way the fuck better prospects. Like Joe, the butcher, whose children do not seem to cry of hunger. Well ?

Besides, if the ovvner can engage in such shenanigans merely to make money for his invested money, why shouldn't you do the uery same to feed your family ? What's right and what's wrong here, and who's in each of them ?

To bring this lengthy story to an expeditious conclusion, I'm with Michael Stern Hartv and against a whole array of inept moronsvi in deeming Shakespeare mutable viz typographical connivance.

Yes the man famously couldn't quite spell his own name, yet this does not make every "cittie" and "arithmatician", each "neuer" an' every "euer" important, notable, or even vaguely eternal. Yes it's a fraught topic, but guess what ? Yes, bitch, I would. Bring it.

What can you do ?

———Watch an instagram whore select her narcissism shards for publishing sometime, you'll think yourself fallen among the editorial steering board of the Pravda (either version). [↩]Psychotropic -- which moves the psyche ; psychotrophic -- which feeds the psyche. [↩]In Naggum's terminology, "the market will never sort out bad quality in anything but the single most important property of the product". [↩]From German, Setzer. [↩]Fascinating character, this, by the way. If you recall that older story of my first contribution to the world, aged five or so, you have his mind before you entire : given space by his brother on the mainframe that brother managed, he dediced to "give back" by "doing something useful" -- he set the Declaration of Independence by his own hand, and upon being disuaded from emailing it to everyone he contented himself with merely putting it up, available for download. He did approximately nothing else, 1947 -- 2011, the collected name for which nothingv.i being "Project Gutenberg".

------

v.i Let's memorialize :

mircea_popescu: which incidentally - has been read TODAY by more people than read ALL of marcel proust's works since the making of gutenberg.org

mircea_popescu: gutenberg statistics ? 24 downloads for regrets sur ma vieille robe de chambre. in a fucking decade. because, of course, http://btcbase.org/log/2017-05-09#1653782

a111: Logged on 2017-05-09 13:04 asciilifeform: it is possible that solitary prisoners go mad from simple boredom. notice that nobody is ever imprisoned in a library.

mircea_popescu: and in other "internet is for lulz", www.gutenberg.org/files/43617/43617-h/43617-h.htm was downloaded... 77 times.

and so following, while patience lasts. What can you do ?

[↩]The sort that "have an extreme attachment to these errors", and "accord them a very high place in the canon". Because it's in all times and places the unerring fate of uncomprehending punkitude -- to fixate on the forms for a sheer lack of any appreciation of (and, properly speaking, capacity for) the substance. [↩]

« La Paz, adica pacea.

Qntra (S.QNTR) January 2019 Statement »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Friday, 01 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

A services eco-nomy

"Nomy" comes from the same root as numismatics and nominology, right, it's to do with names ; while eco is like about being good to the environment and ethical shit like that, yes ? So economy is then the art and science of naming things to benefit the Amazon forest, correct ?

I thought so.

Further : vice in service is not the same vice as in Miami Vice ; it just (coincidentally) happens the orc's notion of Miami and the retard's notion of a service economy have a lot of Disneyland in proprietate devalmasa. Wouldn't you say ?

Thus therefore it follows that...

The modern Romanian fambly, a dude who's willing to wash your car while his princess sucks your cock.

A hundy's not even so bad in that jurisdiction, roughly the price of a quarter tank of gas or thereabouts. Call now!

And while you're busy with that : here's something Romania, for all its easements, doesn't have : an actual hotel. Actual hotel, with the fucking parking garage and everything.

What can you do ?

Getting the quarter ton pile of paraphenalia through to the elevator was no joke. A brief hundred yards or so, yes, but nevertheless we nearly broke out the lube.

Oh, and below, this splendidly promising restaurant whose display looked so great it actually arrested me walking.

The soups were great...

... sadly the sushi at best mediocre. I guess they mostly cater to the gimmick trade, which does very little for me. I wouldn't recommend it, for which reason I also don't.

And now, are you ready for our grand closing finale for the day ?

Yes ?

Here goes!

I have no idea what it says ; something about chasing donuts and other baked goods deliciously or whatever -- but mind the psychotic smile of the clown riding the Ki-44 ?

THEY WANT TO BOMB YOU WITH CROIS SAINTS!!!!

That'd be all.

« My cacke dough is bustin' at the trims.

The problem of complexity. »

Category: La pas prin lume

Saturday, 28 September, Year 11 d.Tr.

59 Particulars laid down for the Regulating of things. A selection.

Forthwith :

5. Let nothing be put in Bills that are more than the thing is, and let nothing be put in Writs more than the thing is, and let nothing be put in Indictments more than the thing is.

6. Let no man speak in an unknown tongue.

19. Let all names of people be thrown down, nick-names that be given for their opinions by men, that all may be gathered into the Name of the Church.

36. Let all this naming of dayes, those Sundayes, and Moonsdayes, Tuisdayes, Wodensdayes, Thorsdayes, Frydayes, Saturdayes, that is after Heathen's manner (and naming) be put out of your Almanacks, which is contrary to the Jewes' naming of days and the true Christian's both.

37. Let all this observing of holidayes, and Saint's days, (which hath been set up by them who were out of the power of God), as Michalmas, and Candlemas, and Christmas, Whitsontide, Easter, and many of the Saint's days which they were killed on, those that sottish people feast on, let this abomination be taken away.

38. Let no man who is a striker or fighter, and a wrestler with flesh and blood, and wrestles with the Creatures, go under the name of a Minister.

45. Let all Images and Pictures be taken away and plucked up, and blotted out of all Signes, Steeple-houses and Gardens, and Houses, and rooted out of the Land.

47. Let all Games, Sports be taken away that please the fleshly mind.

48. Let all the Stage-players, May-Games, Shoffel-boards, Dice, Cards, Nineholes, Foot-balls, and Hand-balls, and Fidlings, and all these vain Musicks be taken away, which stir up the light vain minds of people that doth not know what to eat and drink, nor what to put on. Let these things be taken away that stir up the light minds of those who make no provision for the flesh, or else they will lye upon you.

49. Let all those Bul-baitings, Cock-fightings, and Horse-racings which are destructive to Creatures, and to please people's vain light minds, and are destructive to seriousness; let all these things be taken away.

54. And let all these jangling of Bells cease, which do feed people's pleasures and vain minds.

55. Let all those Ballad-singers, and Ballad-makers, and Jest-bookmakers which stir up people's vain and light minds, be taken away.

The rest's not nearly as interesting.

As you can see, the principal problem with provincial retardation ("Puritanism", or "Protestantism", or whatever other lulzy in-game names they might come up with) is that it requires a lot of dumping ground for all this stuff "taken away". Even leaving aside the major issue of who the fuck's gonna be arsed to do their "taking away" for them -- where the fuck's it gonna go ?!

Sitting on ass and let-this and let-that all day long, how about that for idle idiocy!

« Cum a trait Ivan Evgheenievici.

Successive strata of castlebuilding (spoiler : they decay over time) as part of a narrative on the greatest Italian circus in Romania and teenage sexuality »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Thursday, 12 September, Year 11 d.Tr.

You know who the best US president was ? How about Andrew Johnson ?

Let's consider :

Andrew Johnson was staunchly against corporate welfare as understood and implemented in his day ("aid for the railroads"), and more generally against significant expenditure by the government. If people just had the common sense to listen, America might still be a standing Republic today!

Andrew Johnson was firmly against created "rights", going so far as to oppose any kind of federal enfranchisement of the recently "liberated" blacks. If people just had the common sense to stick to his leadership through the years the whole "civil rights" idiocy would have never occured!

Andrew Johnson was firmly in favour of women's rights : instead of the mendacious and counterproductive nonsense now fashionable, when his wife thought five kids are enough he bought a fourteen year old slavegir, named her Dolly, and fucked her daylights out. No HeLa was produced in the proceedings.

Andrew Johnson was a great public speaker, so great in fact that the pantsuit of the day spread the rumour that he were insane, as per that ancient "you will always know a true genius by that one unerring sign, that all the dunces are arrayed in a confederacy against him". And then they impeached him, for daring to attempt to fire his own employee. And then they lost.

Here's the seal on the deal : in spite of opposition to the Confederacy nonsense, so much so as to join up with Lincoln as his VP, and in spite of opposition to "tax & spend" shenanigans, Andrew Johnson was very firmly oriented towards defending the poor, such as for instance by inventing the homesteadi, and opposing tariffs! Imagine this, a guy who sees through the pantsuit double whammy enough to counter them on both ends of the scam : neither fake, bullshit "protecting the needy" with WCHPii contrary results, nor fake government-propped "businessmen" aka oligarchsiii.

He was trying to get the Electoral College removed, and the President elected by popular vote. In 1850! His notion to have the Senate elected by popular vote (rather than the "obviously correct" and "traditionally supported" system of election by State legislatures) was... also defeated. Because it didn't make any sense, what! Did it ?

You may know it as "gerrymandering", however the first use of the term is from 1852, when the pantsuit Tennessee legislature under the keen leadership of the lead pantsuit Gustavus Henry redesigned Andrew Johnson's district to make it impossible for him to carry it anymore ; a procedure called in the press of the time Henry-mandering.

He was firmly against alcohol prohibition, and beat the smarmy Meredith Gentry by an "unexpected" margin. Against the know-nothings!

Apud W. B. Campbell, 1857 :

The great anxiety of the Whigs is to elect a majority in the legislature so as to defead Andrew Johnson for senator. Should the Democrats have the majority, he will certainly be their choice, and there is no man living to whom the Americans (period name for the Know-Nothings, "American Party") and the Whigs have as much antipathy as Johnson.

Need more be said, even ?! Like what, his being called "the vilest radical" in the pantsuit press ?

He opposed spending on troops to put down the Utah Mormon revolt, on the grounds that the US should not have a standing army. Yes ?

He told the idiot Southerners to keep their seats, rather than resign because their states "seceeded", not that any had enough head to see sense. Of all the bonehead moves in a war started by a party that owned no cannon foundry and no proper ironclad drydocks, this idiocy nevertheless easily takes the cake. Ye olde "why take one's rightful place as a tiny item in a larger thing when could hallucinate optionalities and self-importances all day long" hard at work among they too stupid to know how stupid they are. Jeff Davis was to be ~President~, what all else matters ?!?!?!

Tennessee pantsuits tried to get a constitutional convention called through referendum, but it failed. They then tried to "put the question of leaving the Union to popular vote", because totally, making shit up "as you go along" ie, "as a reaction to what didn't work" is exactly the pantsuit way to get shit done. Andrew Johnson campaigned against both, generally speaking with a gun on the table. Because that's the third element in the anal child arsenal -- after the anal child fails to get his way through "follow proper procedure"iv and then also failed to drive everyone to "exceptional" procedures of his own ad-hoc devisingv he'll try to shoot you. By God if he stands up do me the favour and shoot to painfully maim, there's no reason to kill him before you've blown out both his shoulders and both his kneecaps. Get the head after he's passed out, and give it a good few minutes to make sure he's not faking it first, aite ?

Tennessee was extempted from Lincoln's emancipation proclamation, did you know that ? You didn't, did you, because you studied "history" of "your country" as the pantsuit want you to know it. All "scientific" and "just the facts"-like, right ? Yes, well, Lincoln still excepted Tennessee blacks from emancipation at Andrew Johnson's request (who also recruited like 20`000 black soldiers for the Union army). What now ?vi

The list could go on, but really, find me an Eisenhower or whatever with half the merits. Who ?

———Yeah, that's right, the one item that made America, the item that they're trying to make again these days, was Andrew Johnson's child. What now ? [↩]See also http://btcbase.org/log-search?q=who+could+have+predicted [↩]No, contrary to what the fake media may be claiming in your ear, there exists no such thing as a businessman in the US today. All that sad bananistan has are oligarchs, government-made men, people picked off the streets and given a chunk of wealth stolen from the public treasury.

They can't make money, they can only adjust the rate at which they burn it, thereby influencing somewhat how long you got until they'll need more. There's exacly no difference between Fred Wilson and Dan Voiculescu, between Mark Cuban and Dragos Stanca, between Warren Buffett and Sorin Ovidiu Vantu etcetera etcetera etcetera. They're all exactly the same and identical cargo cult cvasi-businessmen. This thing :

So we understand each other : John is some poor and kinda stupid kid from some ghetto in some indistinct townlet. One day, Mircea the Bad comes there on whatever business, sits down in the bar with his two bitches curled up at his feet and drinks a rum or something. The girls from the ghetto, for love of their country (in our example, that sad ghetto) pick John up forcibly, sit him down at the table next to mine and curl at his feet, just like the other two. They're definitely not slavegirls, they have neither the training nor the skills nor in the end the needs or structure of that relationship, and no marble columns, no gardens where water sprinkles among the cypress nor artesian fountains springing forth marzipan await them at home, but instead the nude concrete walls, the [low class mass produced kitsch wallhanging stuff], the bedbug infested pressed shitboard nightstand. But indifferent to all these points, they play a role to support a theory : the theory that here too, in the assghetto of shit "we got fine stuff", and a John who, even if only four letters long, is still quite as great as any Mircea come from afar.

You can't fucking fake it "'til you make it". I'm here to make sure you never make it -- and remember what happened when I was here to make sure you'll never make it last time ? That's right, you never made it.

All you have on your side are these balloons, a collection of named baffoons that stay inflated for just as long as you keep blowing and not one second longer. What the fuck are you going to make with that ?! [↩]Except that "following" is purely happenstantial -- if the anal child's activity happens to mostly fall within the prescribed form he'll claim to have followed proper procedure, notwithstanding that such is purely accidental, having never been his intention in the slightest -- his intention is firmly fixed on whatever gargauni in his head and naught else. If however it doesn't happen to fall sufficiently within proper procedure, or anyone puts up a stink over the margins where it does not, the anal child will claim persecution. Because that's what's important, nay, not merely important but all that matters : the anal child's fantasies. Everything else -- just obstacles in the way. [↩]If by now the evident relation to poorly socialized children, neglected to the point of not being even remotely housebroken isn't evident... [↩]No, it's not happenstance -- the two men liked each other enough so that in spite of Maine's Hamlin being in fine health and eager to run as VP again, Lincoln nevertheless ran with Johnson on the ticket.

What now ? [↩]

« Medicine Tactics

Boboban »

Category: SUA care este

Sunday, 08 April, Year 10 d.Tr.

YAPP

You know, yet another picture post. For instance :

1`400 colones is 0.0002284 BTC or thereabouts ; and if it makes you feel any better I'm sure the eggs were collected after the little turtles left them behind. No idea who would possibly want discarded sexthings or for what exactly, but then again...

And speaking of weird sexthings, here's one :

Don't they make quite the couple ? And am I the only one wondering whether, should this local Crumb-wannabe (with nary the talent or skill for drawing, of course, but in exchange very talented & quite skillful at dressing like a reliably-employed accountant) accidentally fall into her someday will he be alone in there or on the contrary, the whole bunch of them will sit around the fire recounting divers faits d'armes to one another ? And will they be the same one ?

But speaking of the whore district,

It reminds me of a similar palm I once saw in what once was the sultan's harem garden at Topkapi, you know ?

But let's move on, lest we depress ourselves. Here, have some art!

Meanwhile, not all the crows make it. Here's one that didn't

But let's get back to the ocean.

No, I have no idea what that yellow thing is. But can you spot the pelican ?

« And in other dead things...

And in today's lulz, the obnoxious cocksucker. »

Category: La pas prin lume

Wednesday, 07 March, Year 10 d.Tr.

Wood impregnated in oil, a metaphor.

I bought this long wooden spoon a few days ago, and then I wistfully inquired whether anyone knows how great oiled wood is ? Provisionmaster sluti eagerly offered to help, and there was excitement all around, because they know what grandeur awaits behind my wistfuls, so the next day she presented me with a bottle of flaxseed oil, I know not whence -- but rest assured it is not merely virgin but also gmo-free as certified by a gmo-free certifier! What would we do without the labels ? She apologized for it being a quarter liter, they had no smaller. What would we do with meaningful variety ?! But I set her to rest on the score ; "wood drinks a lot of oil", I said.

It does.

Now and again in the interval, I rubbed oil into the spoon, set flat on a table on the terrace overlooking the world's greatest panorama. Then yesterday, I took 'em on the spur of the moment to this nice Italian restaurant that really should be named Pomodoro, though it isn't. We didn't break up, but we did converse. Like so :

M: would you like to face a dilemma?

s: yeah.

M: so say we take this empty san pellegrino bottle and fill it with ocean water.

s: kay.

M: suppose i send it flying straight into the sun. boom, it's gone. forever.

s: wow.

M: is what's left still the ocean?

s: well yes, the ocean is more than just its water, there's all kinds of stuff in there.

M: so say we take another pellegrino bottle's worth out. and another. and another.

s: mhm.

M: at what point is the ocean not the ocean anymore?

s: ...when the last lifeform in there dies.

M: so when there's no life left in the ocean, it's not the ocean anymore?

s: right.

M: what is it?

s: an ex-ocean.

M: okay then, if i empty this salt shaker onto the table, it'll make a pile of salt, yeah?

s: yeah.

M: and then i take it away, grain by grain...how many grains does it need left to still comprise a "pile"?

s: hrm.

M: do you remember that story where naomi campbell was almost raped by mike tyson in a west end apartment?

s: yeah.

M: what was the name of the professor that went in there and talked to him?

s: i...err. i'm not going to remember. euler! :D

M: a. j. ayer.

s: of all the obviously stupid guesses to make, at least that one sounded sorta alike.

M: what was he professor of?

s: math.

M: no.

s: ...physics?

M: no.

s: chemistry?

M: no.

s: geology?!

M: no. shall i tell you?

s: yes.

M: logic.

s: pssh so how's math "no".

M: what did he say to tyson, "you're the world heavyweight champion, and i'm the..."?

s: world heavyweight logician.

M: no.

s: world heavyweight loser.

M: no. where did he teach?

s: columbia.

M: no.

s: cornell.

M: no.

s: ...connecticut?!

M: no. nobody cares about the us, it doesn't exist, forget about it. this happened in the 70s, the west end's in london. the only people doing anything were there.

s: cambridge?

M: no.

s: oxford.

M: right. so what did he say?

s: "you're the world heavyweight champion, and i'm the oxford professor of logic."

M: no. who was wykeham ?

s: i don't know.

M: why not ?

s: i don't know.

M: who made oxford ?

s: wykeham ?

M: that's right. wykeham was a bishop, and a talented administrator, he did all sorts of things for the king, including managing the creation of oxford. this was in the time of richard the 2nd, you realise, a ways ago.

s: so he was basically a bureaucrat ?

M: exactly. the function of the church in the period is that it provided bureaucracy to permit the kings to manage their household. precisely as anything works as it grows, the immediate direction gets replaced by a situation where the sovereign issues orders in general to his people who know how to take orders in general, and then pass it down to the people who know how to apply passed down orders to concrete situations. this is the distinction in the army between the general staff and the line officers, the former have a strategy that the latter implement tactically. this is the distinction between "high level" languages and compilers, and so on. there's a whole infrastructure built around teasing the specifics of the knowledge of the guy who knows into the applied bits of the guys who do.

s: i see.

M: so ayer said, "you're the world heavyweight champion, and i'm the wykeham professor of logic." this is important because this is how this man chose to express his position, how he thought himself in the world. ayer's "i am a lord of the most serene republic" reads "i am the wykeham professor of logic". that this man would so vouch for this thing is not then without merit, we'd expect he'd know better and see clearer, if indeed there was something else to rather be. but he didn't. on the strength of a lengthy tradition of intellectual accomplishment stretching many centuries, ayer judged the best way to state who he was consisted of a reference to them, those other wykeham professors, that once were, that meanwhile turned to dust. this isn't nothing, and you see, when i despise bologna-ised oxford i stand on actually knowing what oxford ever was, unlike any single one of the flies and maggots posturing about their "involvement" in its "management" today.

s: i see.

M: amusingly, there's a wykeham professor of logic today, too. and he proposed a solution to this dilemma.

s: which is?

M: he proposed that there is an absolute cutoff that's necessarily unknowable.

s: okaaay.

M: you aren't equipped to appreciate this, but suffice it to say that he'd have been laughed out of oxford at any point for such inane nonsense. his idiocy is nude and rude dark ages obscurantism, he's specifically saying "there is a god and look how the birds eat without ploughing". this is how low they sank. i of course have the correct solution to this. guess what it is.

s: you actually want me to guess?

M: yeah.

s: there's an authority that decides.

M: no. shall i tell you?

s: what, you don't want me to guess anymore?

M: you can guess if you want to, i'm letting you off the hook of having to guess. it's not a bad thing, you asked if you had to and i said yes, and you ventured a guess. that's good enough.

s: okay. well it's like starting up a little engine, now that it's on....

M: no, i know!

s: it's not knowable, it's arbitrarily chosen case-by-case.

M: i guess that's actually close enough to qualify. the thing that you call a heap is not a heap in any ontological sense. ontologically it is what it is, an agglomeration of specified matter, and it stays precisely that, irrespective of whether you lack any other means of addressing it besides "heap". how and what and when you call things is entirely your problem, a matter of gnoseology, strictly unrelated to them, and just as incapable of leaving any marks on their ontology. the thing you call a heap ~isn't~ a heap, and you can switch to calling it anything else any time you please for any reasons you come up with. it'll wait there.

s: this makes sense.

M: so you see, the dilemma really is a false dilemma. and this is the job of teachers, paradigmatically of the wykeham professor of logic : he is the fellow students bring dilemmas and paralogies and their dumb nonsense to, and he sets them straight. he shows them where exactly in the cat's cradle of thought did they end up knotting their own fingers together.

s: this is beautiful.

M: what's not nearly as beautiful, you see, is that the current wykeham professor of logic is not even qualified to study there.

So today, I finally got some jute rope, ran it around my fingers, and proceeded to polish the spoon. The wood here is miserable, a class below pine, a pine without resin of its own. It's practically speaking what paper wasps think wood should be.

Yet even this, sad, weak, spongiform excuse for a piece of wood polished under my hands, driven by a mind equal to the race to the stars but employing tools older than civilisation. Because you know oil, as in olive oil, as in the fundamental, defining substrate of a whole civilisation, was actually invented, some day, long ago, long before bronze was a thing. It was invented when the people who used wooden fall-presses for producing seed oil to work their wood applied that technology to the olive fruit. For many, many years wood was worked before metals were available, and before olive oil was known ; and jute rope stands for something that was the oldest tool. Before pottery even, man used lengths of ropey growth to work stones and trunks and meatsacks around him. Did you know this ?

And I showed them how to hold it and how to work it, because yes, there's a way to polish with rope curved surfaces, and under my hands the wood sang. Because this is what it does.

This miserable, sad, weak, light, unimpressive wood was wood nevertheless, and with the friction showed its grain, and with the friction sang, like wood sings, like how we ended up with instruments in the first place. You know the violin is merely the symbolic leftover of many trillions of hours spent, with rope on hands, polishing bits of wood that had been soaked in oil. Do you ? Its strings, the remnants of those ropes and jungle creepers, its box and surface reminescent of that most ancient of observations, that in the same way the same tool makes something useful out of tree and woman both.

Though it does take a whole lot of oil.

———There's a whoremaster, who mostly deals with young'uns, and a provisionmaster, who mostly deals with objects, and a spymaster and all sorts and manner of masters. And they're all sluts, and I am their master, because they're slaves, and... honestly, you're more than welcome to try and make sense of it. [↩]

« So I'm having a cup of coffee...

Getting your messages out of the shitpile called Fetlife. »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Thursday, 21 June, Year 10 d.Tr.

Woman! Did we pay those people ?!

So earlier I was taking a shit. As I took this middlingly pleasant shit (yes, I score my shits), I remembered the meal that produced it. Then I jumped up, and dialed one of the numbers on the large-and-ever-growing whiteboard by the (fixed) phone.

"Woman! Did we pay those people ?!"

Imagine, if you will, she who picked up the other end of the line, at the time of the call over at the gym. A tall girl with big tits and an even bigger assi working the item in question off on the eliptical machine set to pedal-powered-chainsaw-through-hostile-jungle (a special setting they have here, it's like going vertically up a wall in high wind) because race is a purely cultural construct.

"What people ?"

"Last night. Did I just put on my hat, tip it to them and walk out without paying ?"

"Well... uh. I went to the bathroom. You ordered tiramisu."

"Yeah... ?"

"And then we left."

"Do you remember me paying them ?"

"Nope. But listen... they waved to us.ii And then we went into that thing downstairs..."

"So ?"

"What, they thought we were doing a caper and thought so much of it, you know, found it so very funny... What do you want me to do, should I jump in the car and go over see if they need paying ?"

"In this traffic ?"

"It wouldn't be the most pleasant thing in the world, but... Should I call them see what they say ?"

"Yeah. That's the more reasonable thing, say 'hey good people, I was there last night, with this guy in a suit, in the white panama hat, you remember us. Did we stiff you ?' and if they say yeah tell 'em not to worry about it, you'll come by tonight and pay."

"Okay."

So now... you know. Sinatra got nothing on me, I tell you. Landlords don't even expect to be paid, next thing you know they're going to come to my table bringing offerings of ready money and their nephewttes for lay-on-hands blessings.

You're just living in it, see!

———I'm not even kidding. Think 105 / 70 / 115. Yes that's way over a meter around. Yes, I know, going for fifty inches. What can I tell you, she's tall. [↩]This is true. Our waiter, the maitre d' and the hostess girlie. [↩]

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Category: Zsilnic

Friday, 16 March, Year 10 d.Tr.

Why "african americans" can never excel at anything relative to the white majority : they can't be the smartest, nor the poorest, nor the best nor the neediest nor the anything else-est. Not ever.

We've been discussing statistics now and again (and again), but apparently nothing's harder "to understand" for common folk than plain, obvious and common sense items they do not wish to even consider, let alone grok.

Let's go again : black people living in the United States can not be the smartest, poorest, best, neediest nor dominate any other normally distributed category of performance however defined because there's just not enough of them.

That's it, and it's sufficient. Here, with visual aids :

The large white space eating the tiny black space represent the relative populations : there's a factor of about 8 separating white and black populations ; and there's a factor of about 8 separating white and black surfaces.

Because the black distribution is so small, you need roughly speaking three standard deviations to match performance equivalent to one single standard deviation in the larger distribution. This is to say that in order to find a black guy who is better than two thirds of the general population at any given task -- being a fireman, or being indigent, or being just about anything else -- you are looking for a black guy that is better than 99.87% than all black guys at the same task.

Yes, you read that right : only the one-in-a-thousand black swan can compare on equal footing with the one third of the general population. You need the best black guy out of one thousand black guys to get a black guy that can compete on equal footing with a white guy that's the best of... a random sample of three dudes.

Which is why (for instance) having anything but white people on, say, Stanford's list of full scholarships for reason of anything (academic performance, economic indigence, anything whatsoever) this year (or any other year) is strictly obscene, as the white guys are not only the most deserving academically and by such a large margin no Ivy league could possibly admit anyone else in any sort of fair contest -- but they're also the neediest, by equally such a large margin that idem.

Where's your "science" now ?

Are you willing to admit it's just bullshit you made up with no basis in reality whatsoever ? Or not just yet ?

Who's gonna provide "just the facts" carefully curated of any actual facts so the sort of rank nonsense you swim in can continue ?

Hm ?

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Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Saturday, 10 March, Year 10 d.Tr.

Where eagles date

There's this little cottage up in the moundains (forty or fifty kilometers past Erupciones Inn). Like so :

Besides the tiny kitchen it also has a little veranda at the other end -- just enough to protect one car from the elements -- and then in between a large room with a domed roof drawn over a pair of king size beds with a smaller one to the side -- just the perfect little place to take a whoremaster with her hussy spawn. For the weekend, like, except eagles make their own weekends. Speaking of which,

That came with the place, believe it or not : six lengths of chord for... um...resolving recalcitrance and.. other purposes.

So there we were, in bed, as peacefully as you'd like, when suddenly... wham! And there was a little dove on the tile floor, spasming its last, the coupla dozen last berries its mortal coil ever ingested in this wordly life scattered all over an' about, still luscious with its gullet juice.

Ooh! Aah! Poor little innocent creature! How cruel the glass and how unforgiving the bang, and how singular these proceedings altogher! Seriously now, how often did you see a dove trying to fly through your glass doors and break its neck in the process ?

But presently the proximate cause for the dove's headlong suicide presented itself. Like so :

Indeed.

Isn't he something ?

Let's delve minutiously!

And spare me with bs about the dove, where is the dove, bla bla. I fucking told you, it lost at life and the eagle ate it. Fuck the stupid dove, nobody cares about it. We're worshipping the eagle, get with the programme.

Truly it has been a feat of biodiversidad in other ways as well! We've seen, besides the five toed bedsloth, that somehow managed a fourteen hour uninterrupted snooze after waking up at two in the morning and hiking to save her skin most of the day, the above depicted red highlighted featherbunch, a purple-tailed but otherwise yellow headed little lizzard that swam around like a frog in the pond by the waterfalli not to mention the below depicted set of Uncle Al monstrosity lilies.

There's also a lake. You know... for the kids.

PS. To clarify any possible misclarity for the benefit of the good folk keeping track of the epileptic trees back at home, this wasn't a date in the meaning contemplated by eu nu. It was a date in the meaning contemplated by violul nostru cel de toate zilele. Also -- a wizard did it.

———I foolishly left my camera behind at some point, judging the environment entirely too dangerous for a DSLR however compact. This costs you not merely pictures of said hydrofeature and the fauna inhabiting its skirts, but also other items, such as a superbly magnificent burnt grey Great Curassow -- which apparently is a kind of bird. I'd never seen one before, and I reckon it never saw one of me before either, because its chirpy little song came out of its stubbly little beak as unconcerned as you'd like a coupla meters away. I could have got great shots -- but... I didn't.

There was also a somewhat shier (but not by very much) agouti, and an enchanted damselfly that actually followed us around a good distance, no doubt fascinated by these inconceivable bipedal worms with leaves sewed on. It was humongous, twenty centimeter long at the least, with iridiscently transparent wings terminated in gloriously purplish-blue spots, giving the general impression that a quarter of the horizon's moving whenever it took off. He had this velvety, languid flight, lilting here and there, barely touching on the occasional sprig with all the grace of a competent ballerina doing the Swan Lake upside down. It took three seconds to fold its wings whenever it landed, and it was worth watching every time. I suspect it was Megaloprepus caerulatus, though he was very much blue and not at all sienna. [↩]

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Category: La pas prin lume

Wednesday, 21 March, Year 10 d.Tr.

What have I been doing ?

In the direct there's of course conversations from half hour ago, like persay

Girly o a story!

*Girly reads

Girly ahahaha 2nd sentence ftw

Me ha ty! best sentence huh

Girly mhm :)

Me supposedly it's hardest to write the things you have no experience with.

Me hurr durr nonsense goes RIGHT in the garbage bin hosting other evergreens like "you don't know what it's like" and "you could never understand how $item feels" and so on.

Me i fucking understand the sadness of little bits of wood, fuck that dumb shit.

Girly the sadness of little bits of wood!

Me ikr?

Girly speaking of, the cafe where i sit (great couch) has next to me 19thc piano, cca 1993 macintosh, furnitures in various states of disrepair...

Me and yes game is a wonder of correct coding ; but my diamonds still not showed up ;/

Girly hrm wtf. and they're silent about it? kinda odd given how verbal they seemed about everything else (or were all those just other players/clanmates answering qs)....

Me i talked to the guy, he said talk to whatever bs payment processor (xsolla), which btw, can you log into that gmail ?

Girly i'm in said gmail acct

Girly one email from game says you set pw

Me anything from the people who stole my 100 bux ?

Me "shortly" heh.

Girly latest item is a notice from fetlife that the dermatologisti has creeped the associated fetlife girlie haha

Girly at...7am!

Me lol

Me anyway, i guess if they don't get a move on it by tomorrow ima write the dood again. wtf can you do with these idiots.

Me i expect my wot experience has utterly ruined me for dealing with the pantsuit "commercial world".

Girly well, inasmuch as that world is a mixed bag. not pure shit, but not reliable.

Me heh. right.

Me reliable to deliver the least effort possible for some definition of effort and possible they'll come up with on their own.

Girly what, like it couldn't be worse? it could be worse.

Me the sadness of little bits of wood.

Girly can't even find a good toe to embed into....

Me right ?

Me that's what they do all fucking day, looking for toes to embed into. fucking barnacles.

Girly better little bit of wood business bureau so far away it's not even worth trying to lodge complaint...

Girly also, FIRE EXISTS.

Me indeed it fucking does.

Girly anyway, i hope it's not like ruining your time. it'll get resolved one way or another, but the mark you leave will get left either way. they gotta be the ones to decide if it's in the shape of a high-five or a cockslap.

It strikes me that she is wise beyond her years ; and in being my creature this is not particularily surprising -- not to me, at any rate ; yet a certain discussion got me thinking. How come Trilema.ro is ~10mn words in four years while Trilema.en is ~3.5 mn words in five, almost six years ?! What's going on here ? And why is my subjective impression so badly misrepresenting the actual numbers ?!

One could say, of course, that English is supposed to be terser than Romanian, and here's the net result of that, for the first time ever measured concretely : English is (2030 / 1372) * (10749904 / 3451017) = 4.60 times terser than Romanian, in the sense that the same bag of words will take you 4.60 times further if they happen to be blessed by Shakespeare than if they were fingered by Eminescu. What, you didn't think all languages are equal, did you ?!

One could also say that there's just not that much left to say. After all, the originally declared purpose of the blog is to permit reference and therefore save effort. If it does indeed save effort, then the pile of referentiables should increase log(experience), and fitting the observed datapoints would propose the log is just about 2.x base.

Or one could say that there's just not so much that can be said in English, period and full stop, in the sense that it's a language which specifically limits the possibility of experience, much like a black and white camera reduces the diversity of the perceptible environment to fit its very limited coloric capacity ; but the risk with such a saying is that another might observe some years and some Romanian words produced infinitely less anything whatsoever than a correspondingly smaller pile of English expression. I said back then,

E imposibil, sub orice aspect practic, sa faceti voi competitie monstrului astuia.

which roughly translates into "you can't possibly dream of competing with this beast" -- the plain connotation, even if not specifically included in that article but visibly transparent from the whole body of them to that date, being that Romanians are insuficient and inadequate, both structurally and substantially. There's a very neat bridge uniting Spanish failure with Romanian failure, and they're evidently and profoundly cosubstantial, not accidents but the very actual nature of the biosacks involved. I was there just like I'm here, after all, where's the republic of there ? Why isn't it anywhere ?ii

In the end, it turns out the titular question's ill posed, there's no meaningful manner of measuring the measuring stick. The only important question is rather what have you been doing ?

———One of the "great guys", though not specifically listed on that page. His fare is more in the vein of "he has achieved item pile, looking for the corresponding girlcow to go with it". Something like that anyway, but you know, in his own words. [↩]Yes, cleverness and poverty correlate extremely well. They correlate in fact closer than rain and thunder, smoke and fire, refined Plutonium and Cherenkov radiation, closer than any natural phenomena, and that's because they are in fact the same exact thing.

Make no mistake about it, the cleverest part of any landscape is the town, while the cleverest part of any town are its poverty-stricken slums, from Five Points to what have you. And that's the causal relationship too, poor because too damn clever for their own good. [↩]

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Category: Oda Superbiei

Thursday, 26 April, Year 10 d.Tr.