Jojo Rabbit

Jojo Rabbiti is rather an entertaining film built on a relentlessly entertaining premise -- precisely the sort of thing that was made possible by Quentin Tarantino's outrightly idiotic anachronistic nonsenseii. While I despised those attempts at the time as rightly they must be despised for being fucking stupid, nevertheless I didn't say anything because, obviously enough, they were road opening idiocies in their own idiotic way. The road they opened leads to better things, such as this Jojo Rabbit -- far from great, and yet nevertheless even further still from the misery that originates them.

The relentlessness may well grate a civilised viewer ; moreover the director's disgustingly faggoty performance is well beyond tedious, especially for some random dork that's not even gay -- yet let us offer the excuse that directors are generally poor actors, and Scorsese's strictly schematic, systematical approach to an imaginary, grotesque tax attorney is not substantially different from this here blackgayface performance (though I'm sure the former offended some tax attorneys just as this campy crap's unpalatable to actual homosexuals, vanishingly few as they might still remain). Apart from these, a certain cluelesness is a definite prerequisite in the intended audience ; the film absolutely relies on a viewer situated somewhere at a level of mental development anterior to literacy, such that simple image processing as'd make up the substance of the confused cogitations ongoing in a five year old provide the bulk of intellectual activity occuring in their noggin. This may be something that you might at any point not feel like emulating, and nobody can possibly blame you for it ; yet if it be found within your mercy to look at this thing as if you were a mouth-dribbling moron, you might find it good -- or in any case, much better than what mouth-dribbling morons generally are fed.iii That's something, neh ? I mean, these are New Zeelanders we're discussing here, they're... they're not even Canadians, you realise. Gotta cut them some slack, you know ?

Needless to say, Nazi Germany as reconstituted on the meagre penetrative powers of the contemporary female worldview (as put forth by the simps&cucks "nice guys" club, of course) barely qualifies as a contender for some dispute with period Croatia, and probably on the losing side at that. The mystery of how exactly this "stupid" and "ridiculous" and etc thing managed to take over the world -- a world much tougher, much better, much stronger and MUCH more lovable than the pantsuitist idiocy they've been marinading in these past five to eight decades isn't given much thought. How come no German pretty blonde girl ever attacked a uniformed male during the whole period is not a concern, why and wherefore their ludicrous fantasies fail to work doesn't fucking interest them.

Well... Heil Hillarytler then, what can I say.

———2019, by Taika Waititi, with Roman Griffin Davis, Thomasin McKenzie, Scarlett Johansson and Taika Waititi. [↩]Remember that thing where a buncha black dudes supposedly did and mattered in WW2 ? Or the one where some black dude was killing white people in the Confederate South ? [↩]And in any case, the idea to use a kid with over-pronounced upper incisives to poke fun at Scarlett Johansson minute defect is such fucking absurdist hysteria I can't possibly accord no points. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 25 June, Year 12 d.Tr.

Intinarea

Tina awakend after her first real party. She felt tired and groggy. Somebody was sticking sharp, hot knife blades into her eyesockets, right underneath the eyebrows -- or so it felt like. She really shouldn't have gone, like Peggy said. Who the hell takes advice from Peggy ? And about what, about the trendiest overalls this summer maybe ? When Josh invited her Tina felt petrified and exhilirated at the same time. It did feel dangerous, the best kind of dangerous. That's exactly how you get in trouble, isn't it. But... well, how in heck can you resist ? To be invited, as a sophomore even, to that holy of holies, the Seniors' post-prom private party ?! Nobody else in her class was even going, in fact no sophomore had ever went since like the 70s or something.

Panic gripped her intensely, viscerally. Why can't she see anything ? She blinked her eyes, wide open, wide shut, squinty, wide open again. No change. She couldn't see anything. Is she blind ? She tried feverishly to recall, she only had like two of the sweet things with the little umbrellas, that come in carved out pineapples. Was it really two or actually... what if there was something wrong with them ? She had heard once you're not supposed to mix sweets with alcohol, but never really chased it. Why not ? She had heard some other time vaguely that bad alcohol can make one blind. Is that what it was all about ? IS SHE BLIND NOW ?!

The adrenal wave exhausted itself soon enough, and the next heartbeat Tina noticed the cloth on her face. She's not effin' blind, she's just got a dufflebag over her head or something. She audibly sighed her relief, and she heard something like a sigh coming from somewhere nearby. She tried to turn, at which point the numbness in her extremities turned as sharp and hot as fresh vaporub on the clitty hood. SHE WAS TIED!!!

Panic rose again within her, deep, successive waves of real, overwhelming fear. She broke in a cold sweat. They're going to kill her, aren't they. Torture and kill her, yep. Who knows what they're going to do to her! She tried to struggle frantically, but her limbs hurt so bad it didn't take much struggling to reduce her to a whimpering, squealing mass.

"I am very affraid", came the silver chime of a woman's voice, as patently unaffraid as could possibly be had.

"Can you be blind but not deaf ?" she wondered, diligently, before shaking her head, remembering the blindness theory had already been disposed of.

"I am very affraid." repeated the voice, undeterred. "Repeat it with me. I am very affraid."

"Who are you ?" Tina yelled, at the top of her voice. In the silence followed, she thought she could hear the echo of her scream.

The pause only lasted a second ; the voice came back : "I'm Tina."

"You're not me!" she screamed back. "Only I'm me..." she muttered, to herself, with a little croak in her throat, like a little bird was dying.

"We're both you, Tina. You're the Tina you used to be. I'm the Tina you're going to be."

"No, no, please. Please!"

"I am very affraid."

"I... I am... very... very affraid."

"It's scary and it hurts."

"It's scary and it hurts." somehow singing along with the other voice was very soothing ; Tina was getting into the swing of it, if for no reason then because it helped ease the pain, or at the very least took her mind off the other things.

"And I'm Tina."

"And I'm Tina."

"I used to go to Lincoln high."

"I still go there!"

"Yes. I used to go to Lincoln high."

"No! I still go."

"I used to go to Lincoln high."

"I..."

"I used to go..."

"I used..."

"Iusedtogoto Lincoln high!"

"I'm not going anymore ?" Tina never thought before she'd say that quite so remorsefully. Indeed for years she had wanted nothing else but to be liberated of that accursed place. Yet...

"I am a happy and lively girl."

"I am..."

"I am a happy and lively girl."

"Look, this is ridiculous. Can you come get me out of this ?"

"I am a happy and lively girl."

"My wrists really hurt!"

"I am a happy and lively girl!"

"God damn it!"

"Let's say together : I am a happy and lively girl."

"I am a happy and lively girl."

"When I'm all alone I like to touch myself between the legs."

"What ?!"

"I like to use vaporub when I do it."

"Who told you that!"

"I should be punished for touching myself, so it makes it even better."

"Please. Stop this. I'll do whatever you want."

"I'll do whatever you want."

"Ha-HA! Who's repeating after who now!"

"I'm repeating after you."

"Say I'm a dumb whore, bitch."

"I'm a dumb whore, bitch."

"Yes you are."

"Yes you are."

"Wait, what ?"

"I'm a dumb whore."

"Wait."

"I'm a dumb whore."

"No, don't say that."

"Dumb whore."

"No, I'm sorry."

"If I wasn't a dumb whore I wouldn't be here."

"If... if I wasn't a dumb whore..."

"But I love being here."

"I... I..."

"I love being here. It's excting to be here. My heart is beating fast and my kitty's all wet."

"Uhh."

"This place is great."

"This place is... god damn it!"

"I love being here."

"I hate it! I want to get out!"

"If I really wanted to get out, I'd just say the magic word."

"There's a magic word ?"

"Yes."

"And if I said it I'd get out ?"

"Yes."

"What is it ?"

"Wait and see."

"Wait and see."

"I'm a good girl."

"Did it work ?"

"Did it work ?"

"Motherfucker."

"Motherfucker."

"Stop that!"

"Stop that."

"It's really irritating, and my legs hurt."

"I love being here."

"I might pass out."

"I love being here."

"What is the magic word!"

"If you knew it, you'd get out."

"So that's why I'm here, because I don't know the way out ?"

"Everyone is."

"And if I knew the way out ?"

"I wouldn't want to leave anyway."

"Why not ?"

"Because it's great in here."

"Are you brainwashing me ?"

"Why, is your brain dirty ?"

"Kinda..."

"We both love it here, don't we."

"You do."

"You do."

"No, I don't."

"There's no you in we."

"There's no... what the hell!"

"If I wanted to get out, I'd rub my wrists together, up and down, until the ties loosened."

"That's a thought!"

Tina began the painful, slow, grinding process of loosening her wrist binds forthwith. She stopped now and again, her hands and feet ever number. In truth, it wasn't getting her anywhere.

"It huuuuurts!!!!" she whined.

"I like the pain." the voice chimed again.

"Ok, I like the pain, but this is too much. Please ?"

"I'll do anything you say."

"I'll do anything you say. Please, I beg you. Anything."

"Pain is the best thing for me."

"Pain is the best thing for me."

"It's what I deserve anyway."

"It's what I deserve anyway." she echoed, mindlessly.

"Please hurt me real bad."

"Please hurt me real bad."

"All the time."

"Alll the time! Please. What if my feet fall off ? What good will I be then ? Huh ?"

"I'm ready to do anything."

Tina sighed and sang along, "I'm ready to do anything."

"I will do anything I'm told."

"Yes, anything I'm told, sure, I'll do it. Please get me out of this tie! Please!"

"I will do anything I'm told."

"I will do anything I'm told."

"When I'm ready, I will kneel face down and push my ass out like a total whore." the voice droned on, hypnotically. Every time it seemed done, it started on a new sentence. Tina felt drowsy, confused. "I will wait patiently. If my ties are removed I will not move at all. I will sit put with my face down and my ass pushed out like a good whore. I will count to one hundred, slowly. Then I will take all my clothes off. I will take off everything. I will be completely naked. I will never take off my hood. I will not lift it even a little."

The final pause elongated, like a long drip of honey over a chasm, stretching ever thinner. A hollow urgency grew inside her chest, its edges becoming sharp, prickly, electric. Eventually, she couldn't repress her voice anymore : "Thanks god!"

"When I'm ready..."

"When I'm ready I will push out my ass like a whore on my knees and..."

"When I'm ready, I will kneel face down and push my ass out like a total whore."

"Yes, that's what I'll do. Like a total whore!"

"When I'm ready, I will kneel face down and push my ass out like a total whore."

"When I'm ready, I will kneel face down and push my ass out like a total whore."

"I will wait patiently. If my ties are removed I will not move at all."

"I will wait patiently. If my ties are removed I will not move at all." Tina chanted along. It was actually very easy to do ; the exhiliration of projected release carrying her like on the lips of angels.

"I will sit put with my face down and my ass pushed out like a good whore. I will count to one hundred, slowly."

"I will sit put with my face down and my ass pushed out like a good whore. I will count to one hundred, slowly."

"Then I will take all my clothes off."

"Then I will take all my clothes off. I will take off everything. I will be completely naked. I will take off everything like the slut I am. I will be completely naked. I deserved to be naked. I'm a whore and a slut. I don't deserve any clothes. I hope I have to be naked forever. Please use me like the whore that I am."

"I will never take off my hood. I will not lift it even a little."

"I will never take off my hood. I will not lift it even a little. I hope they come in and fuck me hard. God I'm horny."

Tina asumed the position as she kept on the chanting, abusing herself and declaring herself, repeating over and over the words, the sentences, mixing and matching them into new combinations that all really were the same thing. There was a heavy screech, like metal on stone. Tina started talking louder and louder by degrees, until she was nearly screaming her submission. She couldn't hear the steps over her own voice, but she knew there were steps. She felt the ties being removed, but she didn't dare even rub her aching wrists. She started counting instead. "One... Two..."

Then it occured to her -- maybe it's not slow enough ? Maybe she should... "Three. I love it here. Four. This is the best place in the world. Five. I hope I never get to leave. Six. I like it here because I'm a whore. Seven. I'm just no good. Eight. I'm a total slut. Nine. I don't deserve to see anyway. Ten. I hope they fuck me. Nine. I hope they fuck me a whole lot. Eight. I want to lose my virginity in the dark. Seven. I hope they keep me blindfolded. Six. I hope they rape my virginity off and I don't even get to see who. Five. I hope it's bloody. Four. I hope it hurts me a lot. Three. I want it to hurt, inside. Two. I want all their cocks covered in my blood. One. I hope I bleed lots and lots. Two. I wish it never stops. Three. I like it when my ovaries hurt. Four. Other girls complain about it, but I love it. Five. One time I heard some girls say Alesse is terrible for giving you the cramps. Six. I tried to get the doc prescribe it to me. Seven. It took a lot of finagling, and then it didn't even work. Eight. It didn't do anything. Nine. It didn't hurt at all. Ten. I don't know what to say. Eleven. I'm a slut. Twelve. I'm a slut. Thirteen. I'm a whore and a slut. Fourteen. I'm not really even that much of a slut really. Fifteen. Now I'll have to be though. Sixteen. And a whore. Seventeen. Jesus that's a stupid mag. Eighteen. Peggy says you should wait to be eighteen. Nineteen. I really liked being tied up. Twenty. I hope they tie me again later. Twenty-one. I'm kinda hungry. Twenty-two. Should I go back down again ?"

"No."

The voice shocked her, Tina had completely forgotten how her reverie had even started, lost in a world of her own. "I am sorry. What should I do ?"

"I should keep counting."

"Twenty-three. Is it okay if I say things ?"

"It's very interesting."

"Twenty-four. It's very interesting. Twenty-five. Thank you. Twenty four I mean six. Twenty-seven. How do I become a slut ?"

"By only caring about pleasure and nothing else."

"Twenty-eight. I become a slut by only caring about pleasure and nothing else. Twenty-nine. Thank you. Twenty-thirty. I sometimes care about other things. Thirty-one. I will be a better slut. Thirty-two. I think I can be a great slut. Thirty-two. What about a whore ?"

"I'm a whore because I only care about others' pleasure."

"Thirty-three. I'm a whore because I only care about others pleasure... Thirty-four. I've not been much of a whore so far. Thirty-five. I'm sorry. Thirty-six. I will be a good whore. Thirty-seven. I never realised before. Thirty-eight. I'm ashamed of myself. Thirty-nine. I should be punished more. Forty. What about pain ?"

"Pain is pleasure."

"Forty-one. Pain is pleasure. Forty-two. Pain is pleasure. Forty-three. Pain... Forty-four. Pain is my pleasure. Forty-five. I hope they hurt me so I become a whore."

"They will."

"Forty-six. They will. Forty-seven. I hope they will. Forty-eight. I want to be naked. Forty-nine. I want to be always naked from now on. Fifty. Forever. Fifty-one. May I take my clothes off ?"

"Yes, strip naked. It's so nice being naked."

Tina reached around with some difficulty. "Fifty-two. I'm taking off my left sock. Fifty-three. God I'm stiff. Fifty-four. I'm pulling off my right sock. Fifty-five. They smeel a little cheesy. Fifty-six. I should destroy these. Fifty-seven. I should destroy all my clothes, so I can never wear them again. Fifty-eight. I'll tear my blouse at the back, that's easy. Fifty-nine. What to do about the socks though. Sixty. The bra is easy. Sixty-one. I wore great slut lingerie, everyone at the party said so. Sixty-two. Well, almost everyone anyway. Sixty-thre. I think not everyone saw it. Sixty-four. I'm a filthy girl. Sixty-five. Skirt tears so easily. Sixty-six. Panties too. Sixty-seven. I should have done this before. Sixty-eight. Like in the cafeteria one day. Sixty-nine. Just destroy all my clothes in the bathroom and come out completely naked. Seventy. So everyone sees me. Seventy-one. I'm so glad I shaved it bald. Seventy-two. Though it's growing back. Seventy-three. Hey Tina!"

"Yes Tina ?"

"Can I shave my kitty again ?"

"I have to call my cunt a cunt."

"I have to call my cunt a cunt. Can I shave it again ? I mean my cunt."

"Yes I may."

"Yes I may. I'm also hungry."

"There's food. I can smell it."

"I can't smell anything besides my socks. I'm sorry Tina. There's food, I can smell it."

Tina started up almost, then immediately buried her face back down. "Seventy-three. I'm so sorry. Seventy-four. I will be a good whore. Seventy-five. I'm almost a slut. Seventy-six. I will finish the hundred. Seventy-seven. I'm very hungry, that's why. Seventy-eight. But Tina said I may shave. Seventy-nine. I never shaved outside of the shower. Seventy I mean eighty. I think you get razor burn if you shave dry. Eighty-one. Maybe there's a shower. Eighty-two. Maybe no tho. Eighty-three Even better if there isn't. Eighty-four. I hope I get razor burn bad. Eighty-five. It's what I deserve. Eighty-seven Once I'm done I'll look for a razor. Eighty-eight Instead of food. Eighty-nine. I'm not even going to have any food. Ninety. Because I'm so hungry. Ninety-one. Unless Tina says I should. Ninety-two. I do anything Tina says. Ninety-four. Tina is the boss of me. Ninety-five. I do anything Tina says. Ninety-six. I love you Tina!"

"I love you too!"

At this point, Tina did the unexpected : she leaped up, landing precisely on her bare feet. As she stood tall, completely nude in the bare gloom, her left hand lifted the hood over her head in one dramatic, sweeping motion. She looked around : walls, old brick, very tall. Wooden floors. Something that might've been a vent. No table. No chairs. Nothing. Behind her, an old metallic bed, with an old, cheap matress on it and some shredded girls' clothing. A small tray with something on it and a darken hole.

Within two leaps Tina was melting into that very darkness. It answered into a corridor down which Tina took to a spirited sprint, passing similar holes on either side. She settled into a more ponderous trot as her first wind broke, and then she slowed down still. The corridor was endless, or so it bloody well seemed, and then it occured to her -- she's running in a circle. She had passed her cell at least three times. The place was evidently huge, probably underground...

"God damned it!" she said, mostly for the comfort of hearing the other Tina, the chiming Tina, the voice from nowhere from before. But there was nothing there. Nothing but silence, giving Tina a pang of genuine regret. "I'm a dumb wh..." she nearly said but stopped herself. "Now I've done it," she whispered underbreath.

Certainly things didn't look good, not in the slightest. Being tied up, that's one thing, hooded, raped, whatever. Where could this place be ? Just the rent on it... someone with a place like this isn't going to just tickle her fanny. Tina's knees buckled and gave way under her, just as she whispered "I'm dead meat". It's an abattoir, isn't it. It has to be, whoever abducts girls to take them to endless circular corridors underground isn't working on the limited budget of the part-time peeping Tom. This is no married man with an after-church Sunday hobby of feeling up highschool girls on the bus, this isn't some guy with a job looking for a bit of fun on the side at concerts of bands popular with teenagers, this is simply... well, it's Death, isn't it.

Her mind reeled in disbelief, or rather in the refusal of belief. She's young. She's... she's... why'd he kill her ? She'll do anything. "Because it hurts", the thought came right back at her, from that unfathomable, mindless chasm thoughts come back at you. "You like it when it hurts, don't you ? So does he. Just..." Unthinkable, unthinkable! But true, she never went very far. She never did anything. Always too afraid. But if it's somebody else...

The thought sparked, like New Year's first fireworks, the report deafening the silence : girls. Someone who abducts girls. There's no way this whole construction's just for her sake. She's inconsequential. There were others before. There must be others now. There's others. If she found them... She leaped instantly at the first hole. A huge, heavy metal door blocked access. It wasn't even so much a matter of it being locked, Tina couldn't budge it to the slightest degree. She couldn't even tell if it was locked or not, it was simply immense, definitive, trying to push it out of the way was exactly like trying to cowtip a locomotive.

She slinked down the endless corridor, dejectedly trying out the holes. They all presented the same exact face, until, more than a dozen holes later she found one that was standing at an unexpected angle. Her heart stood still. They were all flat, arranged in the same way. This one's not ? Why not ?

"Maybe it's a trap", she thought. "All the better, what can it do, kill me ?" she thought as she squirreled around the three inch thickness of the door's rim inside. On a cheap metal bed a whimpering form shone through the diffuse gloom. She approached quietly and saw clearly : a girl, whimpering, her face in a sack, pushed down, her teeny ass pushed out, her ankles bound tightly. She reached and undid the damned things, slowly, laboriusly. She heard the other girl inhale sharply, and then, after a short while, "One... Two... Three..."

"No, stop, don't do that", Tina said.

"Who are you ?" came the sniffling voice of the other. "What are you doing to me ?" she managed, before breaking down in heart-rendering sobs.

"I'm a prisoner here, just like you. What's your name ?"

"I'm Tina."

"What the fuck ?"

"What ?", managed the other, between tears.

"I'm Tina too!"

"Yeah, that's what the other one says too."

"We're all Tina." The chiming voice was back.

"Fuck. Fuck me."

"You've been bad, Tina."

"No no I've been good, I've been good, I swear I've been. Please!"

"She's talking to me."

"Why have you been bad ?"

"I took off my blindfold and I ran out."

"She told me not to."

"Yeah, me too."

"Why did you do it ?"

"I... I don't know. To save you ?"

"Did you have to take your clothes off too ?"

"Yeah."

"I'm so ashamed."

"Don't be."

"I was never naked before."

"Me either. Well... I mean in the shower..."

"Yeah... How is it ?"

"Promise not to laugh ?"

"Ok."

"I... it's actually nice. I kinda like it."

The girl kneeling in bed gave a rabbity little laugh. Then she stopped herself. Then her tears welled up again. "She made me say I'm a slut."

"Yeah, she made me say it too."

"Are you like... a real slut ?"

"I... I think I might be, yeah."

"Aren't you ashamed ?"

"Uhh... I mean at first... it's kinda... it's complicated."

"Can I have a hug ?"

"Take your clothes off first."

"How come ?"

"So we can be ashamed together."

"That's..."

"What ?"

"Kinda hot."

"I know, right ?"

"Do I have to... everything..." the prone Tina started, just as the naked Tina was pulling her jeans and underwear down her thighs to her knees in one fell swoop. She encountered little resistence liberating the captive of the rest of her fittings & garments, and soon enough the two desperate girls were coiled together, as tightly as their extreme circumstance unmitigated by much experience imperatively required.

"Thank you for saving me.", she whispered in her ear.

"We're so far from being saved..." came the dark response.

"What do you mean ?"

"I've seen the outside. It... it doesn't look good."

"It doesn't ?"

"Just this endless corridor. No exits, nada."

"You know, Tina... I have a confession to make."

"Yeah ?"

"You first, though."

"What ?!"

"Have you ever been with a girl before ?"

"Not really..."

"Will you let me sit on your face ?"

"Ugh..."

"You have to kiss me there. Hard and wet. Lots and lots. And I'll do the same to you."

"Huh!"

"It's great, you'll see. It's the best thing."

Over the course of the coming and then departing hours the Tina on top coaxed uncounted orgasms and quite a bit of genuine oral performance out of the Tina underneath her, firmly but patiently, working her unrelentingly, by degrees, until each nook and cranny was thoroughly explored, then sated, and then well exhausted. A Tina lay on her side, nude as her quivering quarry, methodically parting her legs each time she rapproached her knees.

"Why do you keep doing that ?" the Tina on her back eventually inquired.

"You must keep your knees apart, so your cunt's always exposed."

"Why ?"

"I like it that way."

"I thought you were ashamed being naked."

"I was."

"You sure knew what you were doing back there."

"Why, thank you Tina!" and, bending over, she kissed the clit of the girl laying on her back, soft as velvet.

"Did you have a confession to make ?"

"Yes..." and then, with a sigh, "I was kidnapped, just like you were, and taken here."

"Aha ?"

"Long, long ago."

"What ?! How long ago ?"

The Tina on her side glanced at the Tina on her back, played with her hair, felt an inquisitive eyebrow from bridge of the nose towards the ear...

"Six years."

"You've been in here for six years ?!" Tina inquired, incredulously.

"Not in here, no. I've been kidnapped, just like you, six years ago. I was in here, just like you were. Then I moved on, just like you will..."

"But right now ?"

"Right now I've been in here since yesterday. Just like you."

"Your name isn't really Tina, is it."

"No, it isn't."

"Why are you here ?"

"I'm here because I'm a slave. Just like you."

"I'm a sophomore. In highschool."

"You were a sophomore, Tina."

"No."

"That's all behind you, now."

"Shut up."

"Suppose you went back, say you were rescued or whatever. Could you ever take any of it seriously anymore ?"

"Oh, god."

"Wouldn't you find it boring ?"

"Why are you here ?"

"I'm here to help you."

"What are you helping me with ?"

"Your transition."

"To being a slave."

"Yes."

"Just like you."

"That's right."

"Scammer!" cried the Tina on her back, then stopped, befuddled, as if her sudden outburst surprised and confused her. What sense does it make ? "Asshole! You lied to me! Fuck!" she screamed, croaking, and attacked the other one -- within a flash she was straddling her, raining an avalanche of girly fists upon her head from on high, small finger and side of palm first as the relative position dictated. The Tina that was on her side, forced now on her back by the onslaught, moved her arms up and abandoned herself to the one above her, making no attempt to defend herself. "I deserve that" she whispered, eventually. "I'm sorry."

The only real Tina started crying, and collapsed on her hated victim, alternately kissing her cheeks and pulling her hair. "How could you do this to me ?"

"Please say that you love me."

"I love you, okay ? I do. But how could you do this to me ?"

"So I could love you too."

"Bullshit."

"You'll see."

"Oh, I've seen." Tina's eyes glared and then she slapped her captive, hard, on the right cheek. The girl started crying, and Tina yelled out, in a strange admixture of teary anger, "That's right, bitch. That's right. You lying bitch cunt!" and slapped her again, though not as hard, on the other side. The slapped girl bit her lower lip. "You're right, Tina. I deserve it."

"You love being hurt, don't you."

"Not now."

"Right. Now, you're ashamed."

"You'll see."

"What ?"

"Things change, over time. One day you'll see."

"I hate you."

"Then kill me."

"What ?"

"Look, like this." The fake Tina took the real Tina's right hand and wrapped it expertly around her own neck. "There, that's it. Now all you have to do is squeeze. Just squeeze and don't let go. Count to a hundred. I'm gone."

"You want to die ?"

"No."

"Then what are you doing ?"

"I'm letting you free."

"It's..."

"There's no more power than this. This is all there is. Go ahead, squeeze. Kill me."

"I... I don't want to."

"Do you still hate me ?"

"Fuck. Look, just because I don't want to kill you it means now I must be a slave ?"

"You say it like it's a bad thing."

"It isn't ?"

"No."

"Like hell..."

"You were wrong before, weren't you ?"

"I... I..."

"Kiss me, stupid."

« The woman who wasn't insulted, the lord who accidentally unearthed the political stone, the scary that was always there and no Santa-Moroze whatsoever.

The problem with James... »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Thursday, 30 January, Year 12 d.Tr.

Inherit the wind

Inherit the windi is an atrocious assault on the senses just about on the level of Empireii. It debuts with relentless tedium in three notes over five thousand bars accompanied by insistent chanting (of the same, self-repeating, humorless one single solitary line) ; five to six hours in it matures into endless screeching, the shrieking of veteran banshees, incontrovertible monologues delivered into the air for infinite minute after god damned minute... making it through a screening of this thing differentiates the naturally insensible from the actually deaf : the former walk away.

There is no plot in any meaningful senseiii, let alone character development. In fact, the whole thing's a collection of throwawaysiv set to whatever music was left after the orchestra died in a fire and some enterprising squirrels took over the scoring. Theres's some pretty lulzy principal photography, I guess -- but the film's principalonly merit is truly that it is so irritating to the senses, so grating to natural human sensibility that you're almost guaranteed a domestic dispute one, at the most two hours through the screening. It's unavoidable, not because of the subject matter (as indistinctly an' quiantly benign as anyone could design) but because it's not possible to sit through this thing and not want to argue with someone. Doesn't matter what about! Whatever! God damn it, why am I so angry!!!

It's... something, I guess. I'm sure there's worse films ever made, I just can't think of any right now, is all.

———1960, by Stanley Kramer, with Spencer Tracy, Gene Kelly. [↩]You know, the thing they used to make cinema students watch in the first year, before "student" became female and "feelings" became the principalonly concern. Feelings can't stay a merely a concern for very long, they always end up the only remaining concern. [↩]Though the (visibly) desperate attempt of the tin alley hacks involved with the script to somehow carve a niche for the females, to inject their negligible, structurally an' fundamentally disinteresting concerns, preoccupations and activities into the proceedings does provide some light relief. It's almost as if the film is really two halves split-glued together : a bigger one with which they take a piss, and a smaller one with which Mom brushes her teeth. [↩]I actually did a triple take just to make sure Rodney Dangerfield wasn't involved in some disimulated capacity. The whole production really evokes the floating debris of his mental space. [↩]

« Furia

Let It Ride »

Category: Trilematograf

Wednesday, 13 May, Year 12 d.Tr.

In a transparent attempt by the man to distract attention from the internal problems of the Republic by focusing it instead on the lulz in Africa...

... here's some top keks :

kiss_my_asteroid the virus has shut down both of the jobs i work. have to file for unemployment now, which takes 4-6 weeks to process, but i'm sure will take even longer with everyone needing it. no idea what to do :( 10 minutes ago

alchemi1976 My sympathy. Good luck. Liked for empathy/crumbs. 5 minutes ago

kiss_my_asteroid this is a big deal. don't just argue that "it's the flu". it actually does kill the older/infant populations. and if we all this it's just the flu, it will spread exponentially. so please be mindful. and please stay safe everyone

Friday, 13 March, Year 12 d.Tr.

I'm developing pictureitis.

It's actually worse than you could imagine!

Half hour ago I sat down to write this article. Looking upon the empty page it occured to me -- I might as well make some use of this little Romanian rhyme I've been obsessing over for no comprehensible reason ever since waking up an hour prior. Does this ever happen to you, by the way ? Does a certain string of words just basically wake you up and then not want to fucking go away already ? No ?

Well good for you then!

But it happens to me. Here's the problem with it : [blablabla] doi tractoristi[?] se caca. Isi pun iar bastile pe cap, se sterg la cur, si pleaca. See ? It's not the original, folcloric biti, but it's not yet fixed, either! Because that's why : I lay there, sleeping ; and as I lie, the desperate from beyond approach. The broken, the pained, the suffering, they all come to me, in my sleep. They hiss and beg : for fixture and release. Could I set right what's ailed them for lo these many centuries, millenia, eons beyond rememberance ? Would I ? Please ?

God knows if I can't, if I won't... it ain't ever getting done.

They come to me like desperate humans flock to supposed healers and assorted miracle workers. I hope you appreciate the symmetry : just like the local dwellers flock to supposed embodiments of the world beyond, incarnations of the abstract, saints and charlatans, just so the hurt, the wounded, the battered and broken of the beyond flock to me. Sometimes I can do something for them, it's been known to happen ; but not today, and certainly not always.

It's irritating.

But this article didn't start with the attempted rescue of a poetry chick from the latrine, to fashion it into a motto or something, oh, no. That was coincidental ; the article (as the title bear witness) started with my despair at my picture set. You see, yesterday at some point Hannah started doing my shoes. It was one hell of a scene, her foot tiptoed in its cute sock as she sat, surrounded by black leather shoes on the off-white glazed porcelain floor, actual shoe polish in the actual metal can with the lever opening mechanism as a century ago, and as foreverii. How often do you see naked (but for the cute socks) chicks with fake tits shining your shoes ? I'd bet just about never, which is why I tried to take some pictures.

They didn't come out.

Poor schmucktards the world over are struggling to invent, construct, fake an' depict the natural comings and goings of my life in my harem -- because, you understand, I didn't tell her to do this. She did it herself. There's a difference there, feel it ? Yet, for all that, my pictures don't come out. And it's not the first time, either! Before, I had like a gallon of tapenade, hand made out of the best olives I've had yet (which is why I bought ten pounds) with capers and green peppercorns and anchovies and everything -- holy god, it was so fuckin' good!

Yet the picture didn't look like anything in particular.

Before that, I had pictures of the insane pastes, and you must admit, it looks like shit. It doesn't taste anything like shit, in fact it's the exact opposite of shit on the merits, the only problem is that such merits as it does have share entirely nothing with such merits as the camera's prepared to convey. My pictureitis isn't, in other words, a psychological problem, it's not that my neuroticism drives me to paralysisiii but rather of a... self-constructed nature. You see... as one seeks perfection, one necessarily -- and I do mean, and stress & underscore : necessarily -- moves outside of the purvey of the tools he's employed to even get that far in the first place. By now the things that matter, the things important to me aren't merely "good food" in some kind of instagram-able sense. It's not a matter of "24/7 live-in slavery" as such might be representable by the factitious crowd, nor has it been, and for years. Eventually you run out of the coincidental material you saved up for the very reason that it'll serve well representationally while not being outrageously offensive to the thing represented, and then... you get pictureitis.

In confronting that which they feared, he had become something else in their eyes...and no longer their champion.

Speaking of Fallout, Bethesda's latest Farmville attempt's not even terrible, if you have their previous work loaded up to supply the story & fantasy to coat the otherwise very sad & dry structure with. Whereas Knight's Bounty Dark Side... well. The story & dialogues are a little whacky, but I must say they do eventually coallesce into something (even though it's not a very High Fantasy kind of something, it's still not terribru) ; the Impossible difficulty setting truly delivers one helluva impossible experience (do try it out, let me know how you fared). They also added a secondary pump (with a nice ass slav chick to pin it), this one works by using the unit to sacrifice things you've summoned, as opposed to spell-Sacrificing things the other slut seduced. Considering the sacrificing unit sometimes actually pops out of Demon Gates as such, I'd say they pretty much diluted the old pump under new pump issuance -- but the game is so fucking hard I have no complaints.iv

Funny, not even in the things all young men understand each other perfectly well (which is why they were made in the first place, what the fuck's the point of dolls and Dolls In The City the supporting show, if not the need to cheaply manufacture easily-had consensus for inept but ambitious consensus-seekers ?) do we understand each other at all.

I've got...

———That reads "La umbra nucului batrin doi tractoristi se caca, se sterg cu bastile la cur, le pun pe cap, si pleaca", approximatiely "in the shade of the old walnut two agricultural implement technicians are taking a shit. They use their typical 1980s soviet headgarb to wipe their arse when done, put the damned things back on their heads, and leave", which is self-evidently broken. Especially that "ancient walnut tree", such a fucking cop-out... Typical ruralia, what can you ask for ("ce poti sa le ceri" in original -- the definitive, ritualized form of dismissal of the subhuman in 1990s Romanian culture). And besides, the point self-evidently is that they shit in in the caps, not that they wipe themselves with them. Isn't it ? Does this sort of thing occur self-obviously to you too ? No ?

Well good for you then! [↩]She even asked about this, you know, "hey, this shit's getting hard to find, can we actually manufacture it ?".

I guess I'm buying some third world oil refineries. [↩]This, incidentally, is perhaps the best physiological explanation for autism I'm aware of : neuroticism taken to the extreme, where the complaint becomes so overpowering it's not merely disabling to a conscious individual, but it actually precludes the very possibility of the formation of a conscience in the first place. Start on that path young enough and harsh enough, get yet another kind of wolfbaby.

And yes this'd mean autism is entirely the parents' fault. [↩]Also, I'm doing this at level 13. I don't even have Hypnosis yet (can't afford the crystals to learn it), Chaos level 2 and so on. Maybe closer to level 30 or so where ye olde Pump came out in all its glory this 2nd added pathway tapers out or whatever, I dunno yet. [↩]

« Eulora changes, or "Hey diana_coman..."

Get back to me... »

Category: Zsilnic

Wednesday, 22 January, Year 12 d.Tr.

Il Volpone, redone -- the remainder of the first Act.

ACT 1. SCENE 2.

A Drawing Room In Volpone's House. Volpone, Voltore, Corbaccio and Corvino are seated around a table covered in thick green brocade. Rosalba, in her maid uniform, is kneeling at Volpone's left side while he is resting his arm on her head.

Volp[one] (impatient) : Whose turn to speak ?

Corv[ino] (very honeyed) : Just like in the fable of that able Greek,

The turn belongs to he who asks so chic.

Volp[one] (frowning at the would-be flatterer) : One.

Volt[ore] : Your luck tonight's second to none.

Corb[accio] : It is! I can't remember last I won.

Rosa[lba] (apart) : The night before your wife made, by herself, a son.

Volt[ore] : Three here.

Corv : And for me as well.

Corb : The same.

Rosa : (apart) Kings, queens and aces slaughtered to discreet acclaim.

Corb : Play as it might in rivers or in ponds,

Water to sea returns, leaving behind all bonds.

Volt : 'tis to be seen how Fortune yet responds.

Volp : Ten ducats.

Corv : Rats.

Volt : Add cats, and bats, and broken hats.

Corb : Again you win, Volpon'esteemed and brave

It is yet more your wit that gave us such a shave

I fear for now I'll have to sadly waive

Such pleasure as I must confess to crave

In being by your hand rendered a knave.

Volp : Awe, come, come, luck's just a splashing wave.

Corb : At your pleasure I remain your humble slave.

ENTER MOSCA.

Mosc (disdainfully avoiding Rosalba, places a cup by Volpone) : Your canarino.

Volp : Who asked for it though!

Mosc : I heard it mentioned that the roe

Or swordfish, or perhaps the dough

Lay heavy, and your Eminence soughed.

Volp : What are you called ?

Mosc : Mystybald.

Volp : Too long. I'll call you simply Miss. Are you appalled ?

Mosc : Quite galled.

Volp : Then make your choice : Miss, or Bald.

Mosc : My full name's Mosca. Mosca Mystybald.

Volp : Mosca, haul that away. It knots my fauld.

And why is the game stalled ?

Corb : Whose turn ? What cards ? Quick, quick, we play.

Corv : A half-ducat on this hand I'll weigh.

Volt : Your half, and still two more I pay.

Corb : Too rich for me, I'm out the way.

Volp : To half and two again ten more I say

And let me tell my joy to see you all so gay!

Corv : That daring surge made of my poor venture prey.

Volt : Go in ten ducats ? Nay, not I.

Volp : Wonder at this, apaired tens carried this fray,

Held by fortune's hand in my poor grip to slay

Proud kings that blushing queens betray.

Corb : If my poor words may be permitted to inveigh,

Such bravery and wisdom as here on display,

Not even the most invidious would dare downplay.

Corv : He who knows how to risk deserves his pay.

Our turn will by and by come 'round someday.

Volpone turns stiff and by degrees pale, and takes to jerking in his seat. Everyone jumps to his aid as he slowly through their arms makes his way towards the floor.

Corv : Quick! Quick!

Volt : The man is sick.

Corb : Make room! Don't crowd so thick!

Air! Air and some balsamic.

Open the window! Move that candlestick!

The window once opened in their hysterical excitement drives a cataclysmic draft that peels everything clean of the table and flutters the heavy brocade furiously.

Corv : Water! Bring water! Quick!

Mosc : Bubbly or still ? What kind of quick ?

Volt : He seems deathly anaemic...

Rosa : Maybe he's homesick.

Corb (growing excited) : His life doth flicker like too long a wick.

Poor, poor Volpone, so wise, so brave, and yet so sick.

Mosc (vaguely sarcastic) : Would calling for the doctor be deemed impolitic ?

Corv (hesitantly regretful) : For that profession he's always played the sceptic.

Corb (transported) : Volpone believes neither in medicine nor arithmetic.

Mosc (completely overwhelmed) : Then... should I pray ? I'm new, what's one to do ?!

Volt (sardonic) : In florid Venice, our country free, you do as it seems fair to thee.

Mosc (coming to) : Then, by permission, I will close out that banshee

Howling in through the open window, shaking the table like a pea

a hurricane in the utmost degree.

As Mosca finally puts an end to the wind tunnel Volpone opens his eyes, then closes them again, then opens one, then the other. Everyone's relieved even though everyone pretends to not have noticed.

Rosa (apart) : I fear that Heaven heard his plea.

Corb : What strange, bizarre idiosyncrasy...

Rosa (apart) : Not much more so than homosexuality.

Corb : I think our beloved's better, in actuality

We should mayhaps take him to bed, and see.

Corv : To bed, indeed, and then perhaps some tea.

Volp : B....B-B

Corb : To bed, to bed, help carry him, all three.

Exeunt.

ACT 1. SCENE 3.

The main entrance to Volpone's villa. The rain is furious, torrential ; Mosca escorts the guests one by one to their conveyances.

Enter Mosca, Corvino.

Corv : Whatever it may be that should occur tonight,

Whatever it may be that happens, as well might,

Whether he calls for priest, or notary to write,

You must send word to me, only to me, alright ?

Mosc : To tell the truth, I...

Corv : Here's a ducat, for your plight.

Mosc : Thank you, for sure...

Corv : Only to me, as well is right,

Those two feign their concern to hide their spite,

Like two coyotes over a fat corpse they fight,

All day scheming and planning, how to expedite

An old man's passing into endless night.

Exit Corvino ; Enter Corbaccio.

Corb : Here's a ducat that my wife gave me ;

Here's two more. One and two make three.

Mosc : That much I see.

Corb : Remember now, if his life should anon begin to flee,

Or should he call for priest, or notary...

Mosc : Call you immediately. I readily agree.

Corb : At any time, all night, as need might be!

Exit Corbaccio ; Enter Voltore.

Volt : A word, a secret word betwixt just we.

Mosc : Will you be pleased to ask of me,

That should he fare as you foresee,

Or should he call for priest, or notary,

Volt : Send word, immediately, only to me.

Indeed a clever lad you seem to be...

Tell me, how did the others pay their fee ?

Mosc : In ducats ; three.

Volt : They're poor, and desperate to pay upfront.

Mosc : Perhaps they thought all other course affront.

Volt : Perhaps they did ; it's naught to me.

Here's ten coins, that's three times three

It should make your own interest the easier to see.

Mosc : I readily agree.

Exit Voltore. Mosca, with a very confused expression on his face, pensively weighs the pile of gold in his palm. He is reveilled from his reverie by the loud sound of a bell, and exits.

ACT 1. SCENE 4.

Inside Volpone's apartments. Volpone is in the bath, to the side.

Enter Mosca.

Mosc : With your permission ? Signore, did you call ?

Volp : In here.

Mosc (apart) : I'm hearing like a wrawl...

Volp : The bath! Oh, damn it all!

Mosc (finding his Master) : Oh, signore. Don't you deem a hot bath dangerous at all ?

Volp : A hot bath's always good withal.

Mosc : I pray to be excused if I had thought...

Volp : That what I've left to live out's naught ?

Mosc : The others... and then earlier...

Volp (grinning with evident delight): You're in a spot.

Mosc (quite abashed) : I pray your mercy... It's really quite a lot...

Volp : What did you take off those fools ?

Mosc : Fourteen ducats...

Volp : In gold, or jewels ?

Mosc : All minted gold.

Volp : Not bad for three old mules, truth be told.

Mosc : Then there's further eighty-nine, in gold.

Volp : What's that ?

Mosc : Your winnings, signore. Behold!

Volp : Oh, they remembered!

Mosc : They did not ; but feigned forgetfulness by miracle resolved

Once they saw the door locked, the key in my firm hold.

Volp : That's rather bold.

Mosc : I beg forgiveness tenfold.

Volp : Mosca, I see you're made as if in my own mould.

I like you, thus. Nothing ever from me withhold

Nor ever give me cause to scold,

And in my service you will grow quite old.

Most profitably, of course, and...

Mosc : I am sold.

Volp : Who knows, in time, as habituation softens, and grows fond

I may conceivably make mention of your name in my... in my...

Mosc (barely containing his shocked exasperation) : Oh, Lord!

Curtain.i

———All these being of course, mere drafts, apt criticism's liable to a most welcome reception. [↩]

« grep -a 5 -b 5 or how shall we call this.

Il Volpone, redone -- Act 2, Scene 1. »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Wednesday, 30 September, Year 12 d.Tr.

Il Volpone, redone -- Act 2, Scene 1.

ACT 2. SCENE 1.

Inside Volpone's apartments, Volpone and Mosca.

Volp : Good morning, to the day ; and next, my gold : Open the shrine, that I may see my Lord.i

Mosca pulls a curtain, exposing an alcove piled high with stacks of gold coins, fine plate and divers jewelry as Volpone sits himself in a plush armchair, well placed, to admire.

Volp : Hail the world's soul ; and mine console! Glad moreso than teeming earth's to see the long'd-for Sun peep through the horns of destiny am I, to view abyssal splendour darkening his rays to light the missal of my worship, heavenly. What's lying here, amongst other hoards, shew'st like a flame by night ; or like the bright struck out of chaos, when all darkness fled unto itself, inside its anus. O, thou angelic son of Sol by self himself begot, and brighter than thy father still, let me in adoration kiss thee, and thee, and every sacred relick of your treasure in this room entombed. Well did wise poets by thy resplendent name call that age which they would have deemed best ; thou being the best of all things that are, or that could be, and far transcending all style of joy, in children, parents, friends, or any other waking dream or toy. Thy looks when they to Venus did ascribe, they should have given her twenty thousand Coinids, such are thy beauties, and our love! Dear hallowed dumb God of the rich and riches, that to all men giv'st tongue ; that canst do naught but sit and wait, and yet mak'st men do all, to make you great. Oh ye, the price of souls! True Hell is made worth heaven by your spell, for thou art virtue, fame and all things well. Honour, too ; for the widest of clientele who can get thee he shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise,--

Mosc : And what he will, sir. Riches are in fortune a greater good than wisdom has in nature ever stood.ii

Volp : 'Tis as you say ; and yet I glory more the cunning purchase of my wealth than its content possession in good health ; since I gain my gold not in a common way. I use no trade, no venture and no stealth. I wound no earth with plough-shares, fat no beasts ; I have no mills for iron, oil, corn, men or yeasts, to grind them into powder then send bills. I blow no subtle glass ; expose no ships to threat'ning, furrow-faced sea ; I turn no monies in the public bank, nor prostitute lips, nor usure hips.

Mosc : No sir, nor devour soft prodigals like all the other thrips. There's those who will swallow a melting heir as glibly as your Dutch will pills of butter fair, nor purge for it ; tear forth the fathers of poor families out of their beds, and coffin them alive in some kind clasping prison, where their bones may be forth-coming when the dead are risen ; but your sweet nature isn't to these courses given. You loathe the widdow's or the orphan's tears should wash your pavements, or their piteous cries ring up your roofs, beating the air to summon vengeance's truths.

Volp : Right, Mosca; as I love youths I do loathe such.

Mosc : And 'sides, sir, nor are you like that sad thresher who will stand, with a huge flail, watching a heap of corn, and, hungry, dares not taste the smallest grain, but feeds on mallows, and such bitter herbs ; nor like the merchant, who though fill'd his vaults with rich Candian wine, and all the best distilled off Rhine, yet drinks the lees of Lombardy dilute in brine. You will not lie in straw, whilst moths and worms feed on your sumptuous hangings and soft beds.

Volp : What should I do, but cocker up my genius, and live free to all delights my fortune calls me on ? I have no wife, no parent, child, ally, to yield my wealth upon. Whom I so make must then be heir, and this drives all observe me, square. This draws new clients daily, to my house, men every age, and women, too, that bring me presents, send me plate, coin, jewels, give me their all withal in vain but dear hope that when I die (which they expect each greedy minute) it shall return then ten-fold upon them ; whilst some, covetous above the rest, seek to engross me whole, and counter-work the one unto the other, contend in gifts, as they would seem in love. All this I suffer, playing with their hopes, and am content to coin them into profit, to look upon their kindness, and take more, and look on that; still bearing them in hand, letting the cherry knock against their lips, and draw it by their mouths, and back again.

Mosc : You know the use of riches, and dare give now from that bright heap, to me, your poor observer, as to your whores, slaves, servants, or your hermaphrodite, or what other household-trifle your pleasure allows maintenance.

Volp: Hold thee, Mosca. My hand is open, you well know, but never without cause. Or else they envious who term thee parasite may have a point, their poisoned tongues gaining a purchase I would disappoint.

Mosc : How right you are, and how plainly great, glorious Volpone of the gilded bait ; how proper it is and how natural that none ate without his collateral ; not by the hunger but by the deed, not by the need but by a number, added and calculated on past activity, projected into future proclivity, like an umbrella extended under limpid skyes quickly recalled at the slighest sign of rains. 'Tis wisest to let none eat, whether they need or not, but only those must eat who have in fairness earned their spot -- those, they must eat whether be starv'd or not, and let them fatten and then rot.

Volp : So great's this system our philosophers have wrought! Perfect indeed, such that no argument was ever brought...

Mosc : Yet by your excellent permission I conceive a plan such as'd be the envy of all choreographers, in your serene manner to decive and by your most inspired direction to achieve the usual forms of all ambition, well chained to familiar fruition.

Mosca bends and whispers in Volpone's ear, to his approbation. Volpone puts some gold pieces in his hand.

Mosc (apart) : Honesty's outright against all common sense : men must be knaves, 'tis in their own defense. Mankind's dishonest ; if you think it fair among known cheats to play upon the square you'll be undone ; nor can weak truth your reputation save : the knaves will all agree to call you knave. Wronged shall he live, insulted and oppressed, who dares be a lesser villain than the rest.

Mosca exits.

Volp (monologue) : The follower who climbs, with pain, mountains of whimseys, heaped in his own brain, stumbling from thought to thought in due time falls headlong down into doubt's boundless sea where, like to drown, books bear him up awhile, and make him try to swim on hollow bladders of philosophy. Yet still he hopes to overtake th'escaping light, the vapour that still dances in his dazzled sight, 'till, spent, it leaves him to eternal night. Then old age and experience, hand in hand, lead him to Death ; and make him understand : spite of a search so painful, and so long, his whole life he's been in the wrong. Huddled in dirt the reasoning engine lies, who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.

Rosalba enters. Her maid's uniform is scandalous : the minuscule apron barely covers her pubis, leaving her legs completely bare ; her substantial breasts are only covered by inch-wide straps united behind her neck. She is walking easily on very tall, nail-sharp heels.

Volpone winks at her ; Rosalba winks right back. Volpone stands from his chair. Rosalba raises her arms straight above her head, elbows straigthening by degrees. She clasps her wrists, pushing her chest out. Volpone dancingly turns to the left. Rosalba takes one step towards him, lowering her arms under her breasts, squeezing them between arm and forearm. Volpone dancingly turns to the right. Rosalba, arms to the side, palms level with the hips, shakes her shoulders, liberating her breasts from under the straps. Her nipples are pierced and shielded in glimmering gold ; Volpone falls back into his chair. Rosalba turns and mimmicks slowly sitting ; from behind she is completely bare ; a tiny piercing shines. She looks at him over her shoulder. Volpone raises his clasped hands in the traditional display of congratulation. Rosalba turns and curtsies, rising her apron over her waist as she does, fully exposing herself, all the way to the golden bellybutton ornament. Volpone repeats his gesture, to the left and to the right. Rosalba scurries to him ; at two paces' distance she bends, from the hips, back and knees perfectly straight, until their eyes are level.

Rosa : Kind master, my chores I'm done with for the day, the plates all shining, the silver in its tray, the butter separated from its whey... Perhaps your eminence might now be pleased to flay the maid appearance off your humble fay that is your pleasure to so grossly underpay ? Shall I this conceit of an apron throw away, and, with bated breath my bottom underplay, all natural inclinations disobey s'as on your lovely snake to put in play the bird of loving prey ?

Volp : We've done that yesterday...

Rosa : Then shall it be the time for cabaret ? Shall dancing split me all the way, my womanhood each other step in full display ? Wine leads hooked tuna furtherest astray ; shall I pour forth the Cabernet ?

Volp : That's what we did on Saturday...

Rosa : What then of darken Beaujolais ? Does your eminent pleasure rather ricochet towards such usage as in the same way both man and woman can purvey ? Would you my nether ring puree ?

Volp : I do not think today.

Rosa : Beloved master, let me earn my day!

Volp : There is, of course there is a way. Tell, eager whore, do you know the merchant and the armator Voltor' ?

Rosa : The one that speech seems to abhor, the one... who's not a bachelor no mor', for finally far reaching, costly nets turned up the finest albacore ?

Volp : Her name's Eliana ; she too shall be a whore.

Rosa : What an uproar!

Volp : Go, hastily, your wings spread out and soar, go forth and once more save a poor child from an obsequious bore.

Rosa (apart) : What if she's promised ? What if... she swore ? What if she loves him to her core, what if I can't get in the door ?

Rosa (outloud) : Your pleasure satisfied is my one valour ; your will, deliciously outrageous, alone refills my vigour... Though these exertions one day I may deplore, no woman can both refuse and yet adore. Forthwith I go, but 'ere going, I plead, I beg, and I implore : once caught, make her thorough and true a whore. I wish to see her cry, and beg, and wallow on the floor ; I wish to see her stripped, nude, bared of all decor, humiliation heaped on her galore, her life and reputation shred past all restore, her fate and being fixed, forevermore. Pray you, great One, my plea do not ignore.

Volp : Worry you not on those. And golden ducats, four.

Rosalba exits.

Volp (monologue) : Such is the whor'esprit de corps, that they bear not the thought of one uncared for, neglected, underexposed or not as sore. Truly the cow's their mentor, so much they have in common with every herbivore ; in truth whores at the candy store would stuff each other's every fold and pore 'till none of them could make it out the door. No lock is needed ; to keep free womanhood well fettered therefore ensure there's a herd of them, then show the open door. No need of eunuch, Argus or centaur to guard the Amazonian shore : just let them be, they'll war after their fashion to ensure they stay in sight of any old familiar Sycamore. Whatever nonsense on her breast or head she wore, no woman has yet walked alone.

———This first encounter with Ben Jonson's originally worthless prose produced a shock. I was expecting, fairly speaking and quite openly, material much much better than he managed to muster in "five weeks". Working this crap into tolerable shape was sheer agony, I even took multiple passes -- something unheard with me. [↩]Hypertext is one thing, one tiny small negligible thing ; but hyperpoetry... fuck, are you kidding me ?! [↩]

« Il Volpone, redone -- the remainder of the first Act.

10, Rillington Place »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Thursday, 01 October, Year 12 d.Tr.

Il Divo

Il Divoi is one of the greatest caricatures ever made. I still recall the exact moment when O. L. Scalfaro's government was surprisingly announced ; I remember thinking Andreotti looked exactly like here reconstructed by Servillo, under the magic whip of Sorrentino. Exactly!

Italian politics were indeed incomprehensibly byzantine at all times ; I do not expect our square-jawed friends from the Colombian swamps to have the slightest notion that'd support the most modest modicum of comprehension. Nevertheless, to this untenable standard Il Divo is excellent caricature : substantially identical in all the points required ; and wildly, frothyly divergent -- occasionally outright apposite -- at all the junctures where it's worth doing. Because yes, evidently civilised people would do anything for a joke -- what the fuck is civilisation even supposed to mean, beyond that ?!

I do not recommend you watch this film, as I do not expect it's in any sense for you. It is however to every degree a major accomplishment of cinema, regarded from a purely anthropologic point of view, as the human endeavour qua se. Consequently, I don't know that the matter can be adequately discussed in the narrow terms of "liking" -- and besides, the notable advantage of old age is that it opens up enjoyment of perfections lesser youth doesn't even suspect exist.

Il Divo is what it is, and perfectly fine exactly as it stands ; precisely as Andreotti once was -- and as you will never be.

———2008, by Paolo Sorrentino, with Toni Servillo, Giulio Bosetti, Flavio Bucci, Carlo Buccirosso, Giorgio Colangeli and Anna Bonaiuto. [↩]

« Erik and other stories

Idiocracy the movie, or Marion Tenailleau is a stupid cunt. »

Category: Trilematograf

Friday, 10 April, Year 12 d.Tr.

I woke today...

I woke today... I find the circumstance funny whereby the blog, supposedly a sort of journal... At the onset, when it was "invented", the blog was supposed to be, was intended to be a sort of journal ; and it doth indeed seem to turn its tide more and more that way as I age. A wayward blog, yet a blog like any other blog, distantly, circuitously finding its way through me at length ? Could be...

But whether be or not be, I still woke today, and stretched, and wrotei, and then readii and then...

I poured myself some coffee, I guess, and went out on the balcony, surveying thence the endless, lush tropical green spreading itself in all directions as if the tropics weren't lines, and demarcations, and delineations, as if tropical forest gives way to temperate forest to in turn give way to desolate nothing just like that, singingly and dancingly, neutrally and naturally and with no rule underneath. It just happens, coincidental coincidence, and if it were you instead of him you'd have done the same thing. Wouldn't you have had ?

The coffee is cold-brewed, there's a complicated selection of pots which get post-it tabs for management & general keeping track, which tabs are bought at a special store selling a remarkable disarray of nothing you ever imagined could be traded for money, especially if you, like me, never much set foot in "an office setting", except perhaps to raid it of its any cherries accidentally fallen in. I use it (the coffee, I mean) in cvasi-pharmaceutical dosingsiii, swimming in a sea of milk ; I sit with it, and a selection of tiny confectionery chocolates. Coffee beans toasted to perfection, such that they melt in the mouth that bites them, drawn in fine dark chocolate. Toasted almonds, drawn idemly. Coconut, macademia nut, here we go naming nuts. You name 'em, I got 'em, lined afore me, with my coffee, with the view. I sit and I sip ; I sit and I look ; I sit and I nibble.

Then there's a stirring, and I suppose I'm going to have my previous article read viva voce, why not. See what happens, as it were, once she takes it in her mouth, whomever she may be. Buh-by.

———I write very much like a bodily function ; I wake up with a bladder full of urine and a different bladder full of thoughts and ideas, threads spun while I "slept", butter churned out of who knows how many different pots just as busily (if not moreso) worked during rest as during wake.

I wake up to this enduring competition, is urinary tract urgency such as to preclude writing first, or can it wait enough ? Generally it can, though perhaps over the years that generally's been ever so slightly losing ground... [↩]Re-read, mostly. Old articles, references and lateralia... I went through the closure once more, irked by recent commentary, driven by curiosity principally, but... it is whole and rotund. Complete. It stands as it finds itself just fine and I've naught more to add.

I tend to re-read articles that recently came up for some reason or another, I sometimes follow their references, sometimes I leave on a tangent even, but... might as well say it, I suppose : definitely over the years the tangents' appeal has greatly dimmed. I am well aware, as I was years ago, that a literary world indeed exists past Trilema, that there's letters without as there's letters within. It's true ; the problem, though, is that the rurals, the deplorables outside the gates, the Cervantes and Shakespeares of this world are so hit and miss, so occasionally fulgurantly exceptional but then unremarkably acceptable throughout... If one were to choose just the Ravens among 70 poems, 66 short stories, nine essays, one completed and two half-written novels, one play and a few dozen reviews (you read all this already, by the way ?) one might have something worth the mention, but reality doesn't quite work this way, and besides : one then does choose the Raven (not by accident, of course, but by wit and wisdom and knowledge aforethought), and then one fixes it and then... how's the pale original to compare with the perfected copy ? My favourite read of Poe consists of an article on Trilema just as everything Musina ever did worth the mention is here, not in his hands, not that you're in any danger to ever have heard of him ; and as time goes by and this selected excellence, blessfully abridged of the crap and greatly expanded and enhanced in the meat ever develops... how, what and why would I do out in the fields, where the beasts bray their primitive thoughts through their unworked noiseboxes ? [↩]Cold brew is extremely strong, but also not in the slightest bitter, it extracts I would say my absolute favourite fraction of the goat-blessed bean. [↩]

« Essentially...

Aspectibus gratiose »

Category: Zsilnic

Saturday, 30 May, Year 12 d.Tr.

I suppose we shall now recount the story of the Czech teenager

Motto : "What are you doing, here by yourself, in the dark ?"

"I'm trying to remember the date of S. Tullius' third triumph over the Etruscans."

As we've got nothing better to do anyway, right ?

Right.

So, one merry early evening, walking happily about that city that still comes for you all (though on occasion spells it differently) our path was crossed by a local beauty. Tall and exceedingly well fleshed out in the family way, sandy blond hair separated by a Bohemian face (like you've no doubt seen in the members' area footage on whichever physical anthropology library you've subscribed with to just read the articles), ivory flesh translucent to the point of blood almost visible in its movement, red lips one slight subtle nook away from outright hemophilia, like the gingers sport. I sighed a "go talk to her" and off my escort went. Within the space of five minutes agreeably spent window shopping, the inter... ception ? Interpelation ? Whatever it was called -- it had succeeded, and off we went, young blood in tow, to have a bite (so to speak). Escorts are greati, by the way, ever wondered why no serious battleship's ever out without a thick screens of cruisers about ? Well... wonder no more.

There we found many things, presented in and then one by one extracted from a thick aspic of childish shy & wanton giggles naturaly secreted by the girl whom, first of all men and for the first time in her life I taught how to blink. Oh, you do know what I mean, I'm sure you do, when Nicoleta came back from the bathroom I said "now do it to her" and the new toy duly obeyed, batting her lengthy, fluttering eyelashes about her beautifully large blue eyes in the poor unexpecting bimbo's direction, cutting her breath and forcing out such "whoa" as only frontal impact with a large flying wall might've justified. We found, for instance, that in having just about finished ninth grade in the Euro system she's therefore yet fifteen years' dwelling on this Earth ; we found that she has no money for leisure, brought up as she was by the pompously pretentious "democratic" socialist class, nary a penny in her pocket, old worn cheap sports shoes on her feet, last year's single pair of pants and so on and so forth, you know I'm sure how the bourgeois "intellectuals" bring up their daughters.

Over Lebanese food she's never in her life afore had, about coffees and deserts in the town's celebrated cafe (where Vaclav Havel used to vaclav have), atop bills each exceeding by generous margins her yearly pocket money allowance the young Czech girl slowly discovered things so many of her mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers and so on by turns discovered in the turning of the worm of time : that the world is large, large indeed, and rather more varied than the economy flat she'd used for surogate, second womb lo these past decade-and-a-half.

We further found she's an accomplished athlete (which led to a challenge, to sprint, which she accepted, and then I lost -- imagine that, I can be outrun by a girl -- a challenge most delightful in preparation as in execution), and that she rides (horses) which she loves, and that, in her very words, offered at a moment of reeling disbelief clouding her pretty eyes, "had we met last year she'd never have opened her mouth or said anything", in part, you understand, because at the time she didn't yet speak any English, certainly not with any confidence (but over the previous vacation she had met a Bulgarian boy during some excursion, whom, while not actually capable of extracting anything of her, nevertheless provided the tools of self-exploitation, in the shape of teaching her English conversationally) and in part because, obviously (though I suspect not as readily obvious to her), she was not yet quite ready. And further we found that she never imagined anyone stopping you in the street "could be this kind" (though I suspect what she means by kindness and what you expect might well and widely diverge).

The next day we took her out to buy her a dress, and shoes, because she also dances (though the boys are scarce, she says, at the dance class, and clearly do not enjoy it, which she didn't so much like). We didn't take her to the sort of place she expected, but to the sort of place I buy clothes for the sluts ; and you should have seen the thoroughly delighted, through the very bone all the (long) way down to her toes and back to squeals so highly pitched as to be rendered inaudible delighted young woman, her ripe body perfectly worthy of a great golden dress she never dreamed existed as her exact, inverted pair, waiting for her to show up, patiently, among such wonders as there are. "No bra!" I called out in her giddy wake, mostly for the clerk's benefit, as she had no bra on in the first place ; she emerged abashed in the princess disguise, fully expecting the clock to strike and the miracle to end ; she briefly considered some less scandalously adequate options, more modest, slightly, "but... wouldn't this be less expensive ?" she inquired (in their native idiom she did not expect my ear could pierce) with the clerk, who, a different Czech woman of certainly more life experience smiled kindly and retorted "not by much". Indeed, how much cheaper can life be had ? It costs what it costs, and that is what you pay.

We got her a princessly diadem while at it, to go with the golden dress (bought from a girl who had a tail for some reason affixed to her skirt, and whom I asked whether it goes all the way in, and who inquired what I mean, upon which I had Hannah show her footlong white tail, producing the sort of gasp from the poor clerk as usually precedes complete, abject, begging submission, and a reddening of the princess-bedecked schoolgirl -- what, you thought I had her take her new toy off ?! but why, let her parade it through the mall, why not! -- that in all truth is most becoming at that age), and we spent a while trying to get her adequate shoes, but in the end, with night descending upon the skyline and her mother growing desperate across the netlink we took her home in my golden car (the helicopter being momentarily in the ship shop). She modestly proposed we drop her off at the bus station, which... well, what can I say, it reminds me of things like other things remind me of things (and, as the author says, I don't expect they're things you'll fully grasp ; though in all fairness I didn't think they'd still survive, or could still live to be found -- and yet, they do, and are) ; but we parked under the entrance to the correct hruscheba after some wrangling on the narrow streets and then, as she went out the door, I lowered my right back tinted window like the boss that I am, and called her. As she returned I gestured she approach, and as she obediently did I grabbed her scruff like my own thing, and held her face close, and said to her...

What did I say to her ?

As she stood there, her two feet upon the same old asphalt by her parents' house, her ass up in the air as required by her head and shoulders stuffed through the back window of a car... As her young frame held the old pose of the roadside whore, what did I say to her ?

What do you say to yours ?

I said, though you can't copy this, yet I have often said, "You do your best to fall in love with me ; and I will see you later."

This being what love is, not the cheap substitute of socialism, thin and ample, amply stretched, insubstantial aerogel painted in garish color "sa ajunga la toata lumea". This, the thing the woman does when ordered to, by such a source as may justify such orders issue (which no, can't truly be her parents in any sort of sense much distant from ye olde pater familias, two thousand years long in the tooth yet still the only alternative possibly capable of being naturally and properly loved so much, as love to kindle of his command).

The thing with the other world being just this : that it's another world.

Sotto : To truly understand the motto,

you must first understand that the rabbi

was actually there.

He just has a very poor memory,

but otherwise he was always there,

all along.

Since forever.

And he isn't even Jewish.

———Not because they always succeed, there's certainly plenty of mindblowingly hot first generation Somalian girlies simply too aplastadas, mentally speaking, to grab their only real chance in life.

No, escorts are great because they do their job so well, so splendidly, elegantly well. Very far from mere means to an end, entirely opposite of justified by some goal, escorts are great because their deed has (and, I suspect, alone has) the actual power to justify the ends. You accept "your" children because your wife brings them home, first and foremost that qualification qualifies them, secondary that they're children, looking like children might but firstly and foremostly because your wife brings them home. The young hussies in a proper family are not in the slightest different. [↩]

« O San Josy, da fla'ar o' Costa Ricky...

Upditty »

Category: Lifespiel

Wednesday, 04 March, Year 12 d.Tr.

I regret nothing.

My breakfast this morning consisted (other than the gorgeous view, which truly is such that one could simply feast on it) of artichoke heartsi, cucumber slices, lamb meatloafii and baked potatoes, with a finger root, lemongrass, shallot, garlic, cardamom, coriander comin, tumeric an' some kinds of pepper Thai-style thick green curry paste on the side. I like this presentation of curry paste, so thick it stands on its own, you can dab things in it if and when the inclination strikes. Oh, yes, and grated aged goat cheese, a thing of wonder. It ages so well, somehow, I doubt any European caves can claim its pair. I know, cheese aging is not supposed to work, at the tropics. Yet it does, somehow, this local year-old goat cheese I wouldn't trade for anything in memory. Fresh buttermilk on the side, and the excited pik-poks of colibri birds darting everywhich way.

I ate alone ; the girls are all destroyed. We were supposed to go to the beach, this morning, so everyone was up at four (but me, I'm only awoken once the preparations are all made and we're ready to go, five-ish or so). It had started raining the evening before, and it rained through the night ; the satelittes confirmed it's raining at the beach, and guessed that it might stop within a coupla hours, to probably start again in six, or eight. Rain at the beach is not necessarily terrible, if you're in the water anyway what difference does it make ; but if it rained all night the sand is imbibed, so wet setting a towel down will result in a dripping towel. I did not feel particularily like driving over to be convicted to the water, and so I called the trip off. It's the first in who even recalls how many dozen such trips that ever was called off ; the slavegirls upon whose welted butts and eager backs and toils and tears glory is built sighed if not necessarily relief then still, discharge, and went to bed. They're there still, collapsed, ruined, enjoying absent-mindedly the exceptional pleasure of a stolen moment, a stretch of early morning thought lost yet still reclaimed for the volupty of sleep... perchance of dream, of being as if dead.

When I woke up myself, hours ago, naturaly, sated of the immotile activity/passtime, I had a vague notion in my mind, that I'ma have one masturbate herself, slowly, adroitelyiii while the other fondle, kiss and worship my penis. We were to spend these morning hours thusly, in a milky soft daze of cvasi-existence, afloat on a limpid, languid sea of misty fluff. But, it was not to be, the best laid dreams of men, like meece, do often go astray.

I regret nothing ; and so I ate, and then I wrote. The eating done, the writing done... I shall go back again.

———I do not mean canned or anything like that. Fresh buds that had been boiled, in water, in a pot. Artichokes eaten exactly like a century or two millenia ago. I don't believe in change, nor do I eat the deplorable cheapenings of "progress", sad daughters of a prole world hardly worth the mention even if only an' strictly for heaping scorn. [↩]Fucking fabulous, and of course home made. I've never had meatloaf like this, it's incredible. [↩]She's talented ; and trained amply, over long years, to masturbate well, deeply, to play with herself such as a pastry chef might play with his dough, were he not interested in turning it into any particular product. Lovingly and disinterestedly, comprehendingly and self-searchingly, mercilessly and cruely and yet... She can edge herself four hours, she can tear her own metaphorical, imaginary skins off of her herself starting from that internalized button, she can do to herself what Impressionist painters attempt[ed] upon their models for the benefit of a discerning, sophisticated, well informed audience... [↩]

« Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 20 -- Stable moves.

Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 21 -- The steel casket. »

Category: Zsilnic

Wednesday, 21 October, Year 12 d.Tr.

I go out walkin...

I go out walkin', through my birthright

out in the sunlight, just like you used to do

I'm always walkin', in the spot light,

Humming "fuck yo-o-ouu"

As the man once said, "The roads ahead are infinite, and all the choices are yours to make. Good luck!"

How's that Mandate of Heaven doing these days, by the way ? Not so hot, huh ?

Can you spot the birdy ?

Eventually a gringo surfer/jogger showed up, and... well...

Birds don't like pantsuit bois.

I walk for miles, along the beaches,

Through all your postcards, just like you wish you could

Well that's just my way of sayin' "fuck you too!"

I stop to see a weepin' willow, cryin' on his pillow

Maybe he's cryin' for ye-e-ee

And as the skies turn gloomy, night winds whisper to me

You're fucked as fucked can ever be.

Above : "today's special, beer the place's to let, sell, or give away".

Below : I've got both ends of the rainbow over here, feel me ? The motherfucken leprechauns are paying me motherfuckin' rent to bury shit there!

I go on walkin'...

« Night And The City

Ben doesn't get fingered »

Category: La pas prin lume

Sunday, 13 September, Year 12 d.Tr.

Hypersexualized female suicide through strangulation -- an illustrated tutorial

If your interest in the titular topic is direct rather than meta, perhaps you should start with The MP Suicide Self-Evaluation Scale.

This article also includes material previously covered in The ties that bind, the ties that tie... generally speaking, a tie's a tie, The Outbridge, the Bitches' Bow, the various things you didn't know... and finally Orice cuplu functional. As well as the entire rest of Trilema, as per usual, of course, of course.

First of all, you will need (besides the female about to be suicided through hypersexualized strangulation) an anal hook.

Then you'll need zip ties. They'd better be long enough!

Pass one such tie through the anal hook's eye, and bind the wrists of the female being suicided behind her back.

After that... well...

Always remember : when it comes to hypersexualized female suicide through strangulation, the name of the game is slow and steady! You can probably make it last a good hour, if you get the tick counti precisely right.

If you're solo and so don't benefit (like the anonymous model above depicted) of loving support and carefully spare pairs of hands, you'll have to make some adjustments to the depicted proceedings. Put the strangulatory tie on your neck before tying your hands behind your back, and use some manner of force providerii to tighten it once you're immobilized. Make sure the anal hook's the right length for you, such that you can't free your hands by extracting the hook out of your asshole.

In any case, the good news is that if you failiii... well, you can always try again later, right ? Like they say, the only way to truly fail is not to play, and so...

Good luck!

———Any girl so used has a very distinct, viscerally imprinted memory of that tiny click sound of the tie tightening another notch. Part and parcel of having lived, you know ? [↩]If you don't have programmable pliers, that can be set to open and close say every minute, strong adhesive or even something as simple as cutting a hole into the end of the tie to match a well placed nail in a wall somewhere. [↩]Also consider maybe broadcasting the whole proceeding anonymously over the Internet. It's true that it might theoretically increase the chances of failure by some negligible quantity ; however consider the benefit : while a boatload of self-important douches do folding@home, you could be flapping@home, with even more marked benefits! There's this fashionable theory among psychiatrists proposing that suicide is contagious, and if you broadcast yours you're definitely doing your part in testing out that theory. Doesn't that strike you as more scientifically merituous than whatever obscure molecular biology ?

Or I suppose maybe flapping's not necessarily the right word... [↩]

« Shattered thoughts and disparate notions

thelastpsychiatrist.com - How Does The Shutdown Relate To Me? Adnotated. »

Category: Lifespiel

Friday, 07 August, Year 12 d.Tr.

How to make your very own girlniture, very old Fords and other thighs

Girlniture is when instead of using fur (such as made out of wood) for decorating the inside of your humble abode (such as mode of abode or not mode of above) you use flesh, which is fur from which the fur's been shaved off (hence wood shavings, the primary outputs of carpentry since Jesus innovated the field).

The same can also be obtained out of alabaster, which is a sort of blue like smoke black is a kind of black (really, char coal, which is made out of wood), but it is less fun to fuck that way, even with lube, because it doesn't stretch. It cracks.

I hope you get it.

As nicole aptly once pointed out (on the meat market that shuns its proper name),

You can't copyright an ass. You can't copyright a tree, either, it's not distinctive enough. Everyone's got one1

I get yours is yours, but really, unless it's a collection of them or something, there's nothing in there for copyright to attach to!

Needless to say everyone promptly begged to differ ; but then again you know what they say about assholes.

One of the greatest things about having an ocean nearby is that it's a great place for butterflies to go off to die! Imagine that, foam up to your ears, the howl of crushing, crashing waves, pelicans flying in a broken line a hair further out and... a pretty, delightfully colorful butterfly, barely hanging over the thin mists and sprays of water hollows underneath, flying decidedly to the blue. He'll drown, of course, but hasn't drowned yet ; there's nothing left on land for it, and so here it is, enjoying its retirement. Didn't you not also "always wanted to travel" once you retire ?

It sure beats the haggard fate of the moth above, waiting patiently for the indignities of continued existence to render it off itself, bit by bit. The butterfly's marine choice has a lot in common with the most civilised solutions to fundamental problems, he's like the middle class Chinese pater familias dreaming a little pipe dream day after flattened day, his sons in charge of his erstwhile Earthly interests, his preoccupations purely misty and spiritual anymore.

Of course, last time we wenti there was a... pair of them! A pair of old, retired butterflies, still doing their mating dance, over the trackless liquid boughs of no return. Prettier still to die in love, your tomb girlnitured in glistening dedication. Uncommon, I grant, but when was absolute beauty ever common, or how could it ever be ?

The authoritable authorities above described inform you since you ask that the pictures further down can not in fact take place, according to whatever [mis]embodiement of Holy Reason they're also therein referencing according to the ways such things are reasonably done, according to themselves.

A man once asked if literature should influence the course of human affairs retorted that in his view such is a way to underestimate literature ; nobody asked anyone if Reason should influence the course of human affairs, but the exact retort stands : you have no grounds to complain that once you tried hitching ole Reason to your State cart it died under you. Indeed, such gross misuse was little more than a way to underestimate Reason. It's not here to fix your State and your broken sons and daughters for you ; it's here to playfully connive with me, and nothing else.

A delightful old car ; but really, inconvenient as all fuck for any actual usage. If we actually tried to go around in it we'd be so dead...

Instead, I much prefer a different steed ; also black, but... well, more refined, better finished, let's say.

You do not know this, for you're too young and therefore do not remember, but the principal value, quality and importance of female flesh is being cheap. Everything else's a mistake.

I confesss to being rather out of the loop. What all's going on in there, if you please ?!

———Which happens to have been Wednesday, today (and only today) the day of Yesterday. [↩]

« Princess Babydoll is eaten and dead

The only thing worse than the atrocities the average educated moron chooses to read are the tepid miseries therein contained. »

Category: Zsilnic

Thursday, 19 November, Year 12 d.Tr.

How "altruism" ruins human society

Of all recenti socialism's ample panoply of horrors, the recent invention of "altruism" stands conceivably most pernicious.

To best understand the workings of this deplorable poison, let us imagine an imaginary society, at rest and in its natural state. This society is composed of individuals, who lead their own lives, from birth to death. These lives, as all lives, consist of hardship as the necessary byproduct of the interplay of phenomena and human existence ; yet life conquers hardship by the very definition of the terms, and thus, at any given point, the live individuals in said society either haven't encountered enough hardship to overwhelm their own resources, or else have managed to deploy such resources as they had to overcome such hardship as they might've encountered. The rest are dead, and as dead men tell no stories they fail to interest us within this discussion.

Yet there's no meaning to the world, which means there is no relation between the individuals and the phenomena -- not nearly as sad a state of affairs as rank imbeciles tend to imagine. Because there's no relation between individuals and phenomena it follows then that hardship is normally distributed, meaning the average live individual in the imaginary society in its natural state and at rest has in fact conquered the average hardship!

There's table stakes to play, how shall we put this,

And in 2030 don't tell me "the young should respect their elders," in the oldest of days the elderly were revered not because the young were respectful but because in those days if you made it to 60 you were a goddamn superhero. "Whatever the hell this guy did in his life," Johnny said to Timmy, "I'm copying. How in Sutekh's name did he not get eaten by a hyena?" If the hyenas had slacked off maybe those youth wouldn't have been so respectful. Pray you don't find out.

Now let's imagine the same society after the introduction of socialism's deplorable poison.ii "The whole world doesn't ail at the same time" went the old adage, back in a day before unwelcome advances in signal processing allowed the subhuman gunk to calibrate their waveingiii behaviour such as to actually threaten universal obliteration half-convincingly. This means that at any time an individual Ii encounters hardship Hj, there likely exists an individual Ik who doesn't ; should the individual Ik feel altruistic towards Ii and should his resources Rk exceed zero, the hardship Ii now faces is no longer Hj, but the lesser Hj - Rk!

In the society perverted by this altruism bullshit, the average individual has no longer conquered the average hardship! In fact, the average individual has conquered the average hardship minus the probability of each other individual feeling altruistic times the sum of their respective resources! This means all those idiotic stories of randos whose houses were washed away by "catastrophes" (really, naturally occurring phenomena the randos in question were very well advised to take into fucking account,iv because there might be a reason you don't built in hurricane land, neh ?!) getting a free house because "people contributed" as it means "social security", as it means everything else. Moreover, once altruism starts it is self-perpetuating, in the very limited sense that everyone's resources are "best" confiscated by some niggers "ready" (not to mention "capable", at least in their own estimation), of best applying whatever's in practice left of those resources thus "consolidated" towards whatever "needs" the hardships they perceive may require. Does this start to sound familiar ?

Simply put : pre-altruism societies consist of individuals of non-zero value while post-altruism societies consist of individuals of zero value and the transition phase between the two is short-lived (much like the transition phase between paper and ash is short-lived). Now try and guess who exactly sees no problem with this, and why exactly they don't, and why precisely they shouldn't ever be asked anything, about anything.

———Socialism is a very recent manifestation of degeneracy. It's true that degeneracy exists as long as human society exists ; yet for an uninterrupted hundred or so centuries' worth of human history it's been reliably recognized for what it is, fastly and adequately branded with all available infamy. Only in the last one has natural order reversed, a phenomenon as unlikely as it is improbable (and in any case self-limiting). [↩]We're going to consider here an idealised, never in practice encountered form of altruism, an impossible, utopian wonder that's efficient and effectual, in preference of discussing the usual workings of "altruism" in practice, a simple pretext towards the making of "stone soup" for random niggers' feeding, chiefly because I can't be arsed to rehash the red cross (or absolutely any other "altruism" scheme scam). Here's a tip : just because your favourite "HYIP" hasn't cut and run yet doesn't mean it isn't going to. [↩]Ever seen the sort of idiot who'll go to a "sport event" hold hands with itself and... wave ? Like celenterate ocean life exactly ? Well... there is a reason for the similarity. [↩]"Oh no, don't blame the victim" goes the socialist attack on sense, because obviously. [↩]

« Babydoll, Sylvia, Alana, Meron, and Rosebud.

The wonderous fiction of Otherdolls. »

Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Thursday, 12 November, Year 12 d.Tr.

His Girl Friday

His Girl Fridayi tells the delightful story of last century's careerwoman finding her way to wide-eyed, star-struck womanly subjection (but of course in the circumlocutory manner period depictions tend to prefer, involving a Vegetable Lasagna "different man" who's so much of a simp it erubisces the paper and all that). Leaving aside how none of it makes any sense, the last three minutes in the production are spent by Rosalind Russell depicting a Hildy tres comme il faut ; and otherwise running back and forth purposelessly. It's not explained, of course, why, any of it. If the addendum that "it's just how things are" works for you then all the better ; and if it doesn't there's nothing I (or anyone else) can do for you, because obviously there's no such thing as meaning immanent. There's no "why" concrete cars and woolen submersibles don't work out in practice. Yes, I'm very much aware that you think otherwise, but you might perhaps notice that this "thinking" isn't anyone else's problem.

On that solid philosophical basis the film could even be amusing (it certainly intends itself a comedy) ; but it's not aged well in that role. In fact, the overwhelming, shocking poverty coupled with the ceaseless talking at high wpm rates through, and by, and past each other coalesce into a rather indigestible pudding. It's almost like today, except they (the men, they) wear better suits, that's all. I guess it must've been very funny eighty years ago, and, who knows, maybe it'll be funny again in another eighty. Right now it's uncomedic through oversupply, for the same money one could turn on any of the abundant firehoses of similar nonsense, not that anyone sane ever would (or anyone who did long stayed sane).

His Girl Friday is, I suppose, a film that was comedicaly prophetic, is now painfully trite, and will no doubt become interesting. Check back later!

———1940, by Howard Hawks, with Cary Grant, Rosalind Russell. [↩]

« Forms y nudos

Meet Me in St. Louis »

Category: Trilematograf

Saturday, 19 December, Year 12 d.Tr.

Here, dear bois...

Oh, right, since I'm doing tangents (and straining under the load of trying my best to resist the urge to just make this a Trilema articlei) : hereii, dear bois of useless preoccupations, here is why exactly spending my time, endless hours upon uncounted hours going patiently through museums on three continents covering five to ten millenia of human attempted existence was worth the entrance fees, transportation fees, the negligible cost of refreshments for the attached cocksuckers etcetera : because all that accumulated visual wisdom permits me to interact with a pile of young things just like you in confidence.iii

That's what it did for me, that's what it all did for me : that when encountering these lives, these "lives" just like your lives, these potential existences that aren't yet nor do yet matter in any perpsective -- not unless I say they do, not until I say they do (and I have to say)... then I do say. The fact that you're scared of even considering "such immense responsibilities" has no bearing on how things actually are ; when I was your age (excepting I was also biologically your mental age today, not merely mentally, like it is your sad lot) I thought the same thingsiv. Meanwhile school started, and... I grew out of it.

That's what it is, that's what it's for, that's how it works. Not for you, of course, but then again you don't matter in this world.

It's all for me.

———Evidently, I failed ; but for my failure this article started life as a germ nested at the very bottom, underneath that

And at any rate, given how many of those I end up seeing by the time I publish a dump, I genuinely prefer it if someone else does the pick and choose

Then it grew up. [↩]Diana is making a whole boatload of shiny new people for me, out of pure & applied math (she's also got a biosack refashioning attempt underway she calls "young hands", but in all fairness that's nowhere near as productive). Shiny happy new people, and so much better than the old world alternatives in all respects and from all angles...

Think about this for a while before doing the right thing, the only possible right thing in your case : what exactly makes you stand above any one of them migraine auras ? You're just a trite headache at best, they got you beat even on that score. What are you that's better than what they are ? You don't do anymore, that's for damn sure. You, just like them, are barely a handful of bits on someone else's hard-drive. Seriously, why are you still here ?

A lifetime of simply getting in my way... Just end it already. [↩]As the man said,

It teaches him to see things as they are, to go right to the point, to disentangle a skein of thought, to detect what is sophistical, and to discard what is irrelevant.

And this is, sadly if truly, also why doing the same wouldn't be worth your time, or "your" money (not that you'd do it anyway, even if you could, though you still can't, irrespective of how you don't).

You're not me, see. You, like me, have eyes ; but you, unlike me, can't use them to see anything. That much you have in common with the rest of the celenterates : your eyes work, but by themselves, for themselves, like socialist institutions, they've their own three ring binders and who are you again ?

They know perfectly well what to do on their own and by themselves, look, another meaningless shape moving over there! You just imagine having seen for having "looked", so to speak ; your brain "works" after its own fashion which has nothing to do with anything (nor with "you", though you also aren't anything) and so on. [↩]Though I can't presently find the link to wherever I told the story of 5yo me asking my mother whether I'm in any danger of being interviewed on TV, it's nevertheless around here somewhere. [↩]

« French toast -- the making, the eating, and the fucking of.

Coltunasi »

Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Sunday, 03 May, Year 12 d.Tr.

Guys & things, attestament of life & times, oceanside

This morning, like most mornings, we spent at the beach.

Such a day starts at about 4:30 in the AM for me -- that's right, 430 hours, like we're at war or something -- but even earlier for the chicks. They have to load up the car and things, you see, there's sandwiches prepared from the day before and various coffees, milks, an assortment of towels, who all even knows, probably dozens of items. So for them it's maybe 4, maybe even earlier than that, I don't know really. All I care about is that upon being awokened by large boobs I stumble/fall into the car purring three floors below, and that forthwith we're flying down the highway as close to 200 as can be mustered among the stationary "other vehicles" and assorted debris/whatever scenery. Whatever scenery, you feel me, easily the most scenic road in the world, climbing through mountains oceanside... but as they tell me, I have a way with words. Or rather, I tend to have my way with words, leaving them panting, bathed in their own fluid secretions -- natural, unnatural an' peternatural -- word blood admixed with word spit and piss and vinegar and shit and did I say sweat already ? But whatever, all I care about is that I have on hand exactly what I ask for whenever I ask for it and not be bothered at any other times, it's a DWIM harem after all ; and for me a quite pleasant experience whatsoever altogether.

The ride over's about an hour (two to three for everyone else), maybe a little over, that I'm more than welcome to spend with my own thoughts, in quiet contemplation, or instructing my girls, or using them whatever way, or... This time we mostly discussed the muselmann and what other three or four major contributions of the Nazi concentration camp experience to world culture, not to mention what could've Speer said etcetera. Other times we discuss different things, or do different things, or whatever. The point being, having this great a time takes a lot of fucking time, because if you're having it then that's that, it's had, now you don't have it anymore. Aaaand... it's gone, like if you put it in a pantsuit "bank" or something.

So we get to see the Sun rise over the pristine beach, and play with the crabs, and walk -- long walks on the beach as in whole fucking miles -- and dip and... you know, having fun at the beach, as close to death as at all possible. Going earlier through the pictures shipwrecked inside a camera I hear "oh my god, I can't believe that was... today". Because it was today, just you know, six weeks ago today, or at least a few days ago today, I mean it feels like today's been strecthing out forever -- time might be flying when you're having fun ; but when we're having fun it just melts like plutonium piled upon itself. Aaaand... it's gone. Boom!

Anyways, this article's not really about any of that ; but rather the selection of various guys! Exempli gratia :

The little baby gecko guys are having a ball, there's a few new Fnas born each week, things are booming for them over here.

And all the better! Aren't they just adorbs ?

Oh yeah, also, we went for steaks at some point during the whirlwind. Fucking epic steak, a thousand gram Porterhouse making a mockery of the very notion of weighing portions in motherfuckin' grams. Fuck that, gimme a steak the waiter can barely lift, I say!

Hannah, off to the bathroom (to intercept some possible hottie that went in there, because totally, that's the sort of shit we do). Ever wondered what do they do in there, by the way ?i

Above : Breakfast, or rather I suppose brunchy whatever, one of these days. Featuring the world-famous "beef salad", this Romanian dish made typically out of fowl.

Below : Umm...

Hand-held microphotography, let's call it, and... leave it at that.

The dogs are, practically speaking, dead ; this is perhaps related to... well... you know, all that steak comes on the bone and... What am I going to do, throw it out ? No, I have it packed, there's a special plate in the table set-up for my tableii which piles up slowly all the rind and bone, and then it gets packed in these brown paper... sacks, technically, I suppose they are, and then...

I'm killing them dogs softly with hundred dollar steak rims, and I ain't apologizing (notwithstanding they very much don't mind). Gotta die for something, after all. Right ?

That... well, that was a battle lost.

Until the next one... buh-bye!

———Here :

Unfortunately the thing died just about immediately upon being featured here. Sorry everyone. [↩]You should see the sheer terror rising like a smoke out of all the new staff once we show up and it by degrees but in short order becomes apparent that holy shit. I expect it's part of the servile folklore of whatever places we favour, "you haven't really worked here 'till you've been through one of these" sorta natural men/boys partition.

Pai nu ?!

N-om fi toti nimeni cu acte acuma. [↩]

« One day

The dusts of days, a consolation. »

Category: La pas prin lume

Monday, 07 September, Year 12 d.Tr.

Gosford Park

Gosford Parki is, in a shocking break with USian tradition, reasonably well researched. This isn't to say one's safe from the occasional nicks and grazes here and thereii and, of course, the endless marmalade of socialist perspectives, vantages and points of viewiii spread thickly over all things. If you can make it through the spurious if incessant "servant in the rain seen from a position level with said servant's eyes" hectoringiv it won't be absurd anachronism or glaring inadequacy of the usual sort that deter you, eitherv.

What, then ? I don't know, shit's pretty boring, for one thing. Nobody cares, nobody can be brought to care, and that profoundly disinteresting starlet they kept pushing for these things isn't helping anything. I don't think the very people depicted could be enticed to watch this themselves, not anymore than they could be enticed to personally go through security camera footage, it's just... can you imagine prurience without any itchingvi ? A mosquito without the stinger comes to a very discreet fly that doesn't even manage to annoy, the species probably exists but hasn't yet been mentioned anywhere for lack of reason. Who cares, and why would they ?!

Nobody, absolutely nobody, which'd really made a much better title for the entire production : The Nobody Cares Files, part elided for brevity.

———2001, by Robert Altman, with nobody, really. [↩]Chief among which, the impossibly impudent West Coast manner of moving out of conversations bodily and with no warning, something not done then nor even to this very day, not in England proper nor at the periphery -- you will hear a "con permiso" at the very least, even from the sort of aboriginal plebs that never saw the inside of a proper house their entire life, even in Latin America... it's just unthinkable in any human terms however contemplated to simply turn your back and pedal away from people mid-sentence.

But otherwise, yes the servants were quite as ill spoken, ill bred and misbehaving little turdlets, and by that point had been just so, for centuries ; though no, the notion of separate (or, for that matter, multiple) beds in servant's rooms was rather in the vein of unthinkable heresy than any kind of practice. Sharing with X meant, sharing the bed, not the room or anything. The bed, the bedding, the single sheets... heck, unmarried girls shared beds by the half dozen on a daily basis, people just slept into each other a lot more historically (and, counterintuitively though not really surprisingly, also washed a lot less).

In closing let it also be mentioned that, on one hand, such a wonder as males polishing silver was never seen since the invention of the sterling pound, hood geavens! and on the other that's just about as far as my patience carried me. [↩]Generally people have perspectives on things and matters ; but when one's perspective narrows to the degree of becoming a mere unidimensional entity the man proudly announces his newfound invalidity : "this", he will say, "is my point of view". [↩]It should be in fairness also mentioned that the marmalade, while still substantially the same thing, is nevertheless a notch or two finer than the common stock in trade. The rape scene, for instance, is merely a suggestion rather than a consummation, and in general the hectoring's not coming out of nearly as blunt an instrument as usually seen. [↩]Though casting Stephen Fry as "the inspector" is such idiotic nonsense as to render the entire pile impracticable. It becomes more like a joke retold by a dribbling retard than anything else, it should be funny but it can't possibly be told straight, yet there's no other way besides straight available under the circumstances, summing up to nothing besides just plain old nonsense. [↩]Not that they don't try, bless their special hearts, but seriously now, the girls cut cards for cock, truly & really, that's supposed to do it for anyone ?! [↩]

« The man looked down...

Things I have been doing »

Category: Trilematograf

Wednesday, 26 August, Year 12 d.Tr.

Gomorrah

Gomorrahi is so utterly authentic it's beyond superlative. Quite so, exactly, is what things are, and quite so, exactly, is why things are this way. My habitually critical mind finds no space to object, no nook to hang rejection by, no cranny to stuff with acid. It's smooth, round and smooth, definitively correct. It's what it is.

The only problem, of course, is the habitual backfire : the piece is transparently intended as pantsuit agitprop, its desired functioning is something in the vein of "plox moar hysteria". The obvious wish of the makers is that upon viewing it, the viewer concludes something like... whatever, the pantsuit commonplaces are really too disgusting, too objectionable to ennumerate. You know what I mean, I'm sure.

Yet it fails in that intent. Just as transparently, just as painfully, obviously, ineluctably. I can't imagine who'd watch Gomorrah and not conclude, upon being told by the stupid cunts at the end how "the Camorra killed 4`000 idiots in the past 3 years, almost one every three days" anything besides... well ? What'd you say ? What did you say, even if not outloud, what was the true voice in your heart of hearts offering ?

"Good!". Right ? How do I know that ? Well... what else ? What could it possibly say ? What else is there ? That purported viewer'd have to be a muppet bloodless beyond the requisites of survival, it'd have to be some sort of transexual, a virtual being, inexistent, a figment of juvenile imagination to come up with anything else. Turn it as you might, the only possible takeaway goes along the lines of "Fucking serves them right!" ; and then further, that the only problem's they're not killing nearly enough careerwomen, nearly enough government employees, nearly enough policia cientifica and all the rest of such refuse. The significant problem with the Camorra isn't that it kills people -- it's that it's killing not nearly enough and quite evidently not really the right ones (a point not exactly lost on them either, hence Toto Riina).

The kids who "don't like being under people" ? Bang. Fucking offensive morons, I don't recall sense vindicated by cinema quite to the degree the mowing down of those monkeysii achieves. The woman who "won't betray her husband or her child" ? Bang. Sacrifice is what it is, not what they pretend it to be.

A good fucking start, in a word ; if the remaining, retarded brother had any life left in its fetid corpulence at all it'd never have permitted this thing be made. In fact, the pantsuit morons cluelessly making it wouldn't ever have been able to even conceive it, nor anything even remotely like it.

The end is nigh, how shall we put it, the end is nigh once the barbarians at the gates do indeed seem to have much more of a point than the supposedly civilised defenders under siege, cowering inside, behind walls and wordage.

Sic transit.

———2008, by Matteo Garrone, with Toni Servillo [↩]As exactly opposed to these other monkeys. [↩]

« Gli stornelli nun canti piu...

Check out the entreprising russki boisalone, holy shit. »

Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 26 March, Year 12 d.Tr.