So what's a steinvorth, anyways ?

Our periplus for & through the day that was today at some point, recently (though isn't today no mo', nor ever again) begins with a careerwoman!

Isn't the muzzled look utterly adequate for 'em, by the way ? Somehow truly brings out the qualities in question, I find. Moo! Moo!

We had a most excellent cup of coffee (mug of capucino, w/e) at this cafe recently opened within a courtyard inside the... well, Edificio Steinvorth, as it turns out.

The cafe itself is called La Mancha, which is Spanish for... The Stain.

It remains.

Above : the very coquettish Mexican embassy here in la Republica de Costa Rica. It's such a quaint wonder from times past, one almost feels like they stepped into the 20s walking in. The 1920s

Below : fuck that pole, seriously.

The girls didn't feel like cooking, and so we went out.

This is me having the whole parking lot all to myself. No muzzleds allowed!

Ay Nicaragua, Nicaraguita, la flor mas linda...

The slumming continues.

Leaving aside the hysterical nature of a proposal to lease out publican fixed capital in the present circumstancesi, what the fuck do you supose a disco kitchen even is ? Like an electric car fuel injector, something like that ?

These guys engage in the most peculiar of behaviours! If they sense you close by, they lift their tails up, just like moths looking for a fuck do. This strikes me as kinda odd because I had just assumed they're sexually imature (on the grounds of being worms, aren't worms by and large the pre-pubescent instars of other things ?) and besides what's with the weird "we're sexually aroused by really large, humongous objects hovering overhead" ?!

This used to be a strip club, populated by the most unpleasant class of lame wanna-bes (or rather, pretend-to-bes). The one time I actually went to check it out, I had to tell some retarded girlie to get lost, and I'll call her if I want her for anything. Because otherwise she figured something more or less in the vein of owning the space, calling the shots, who even knows what the fuck mental derangements their overactive posturing drives them to. And no, none of them could even remotely pole dance, forget about it.

Anyways, meanwhile the respective "pimps" (in their own estimation only) blew whoreless an' the "stash" is long gone. So... there they are, sleeping in cardboard boxes underneath, where cars used to be parked back when cars used to be parked.

Don't you figure you owe them something ? No ? But shouldn't "the government" give them free shit in recognition of the fact that years ago, back when I visited, they hadn't beaten those dumb bitches into utility if not outright competence ? Shouldn't they get something for having missed out on their opportunities ? "Society" has decided to reward "not getting in trouble" over "doing something useful", and for all their unmitigated, unmitigable uselessness they're... well ? There they are, where's that which goes to everyone according to their needs ?

Turns out the only thing everyone gets according to their needs is death. Often, of hunger, universally through neglect, death comes for each & all.

This is an early Xmas present! Ever since I was a wee tyke I wanted one, but somehowii never got it. Not until now, that is!

So behold my delightfully tiny Venus the Flytrap. Lovage the lovable frog is very much entranced with it too (because as you perhaps already figured out, it's green just like him, and it eats flies just like him, so what's not to like!)

Thanks, bitchez!

———It should be self-obvious that anything above "free" is overpriced, what the fuck are we talking about here ?! Leasing is a mechanism to extract value from incidental misallocations of fixed capital, not a hail mary cashflow solution for desperate hearts. If anyone wants you to pay any money whatsoever for the use of equipment involved in public hospitality today, they're scamming you. That shit's as free as frog guts on raining-frogs day. [↩]Argentina is too fucked in the head to actually deliver anything to anyone's spec ; and otherwise I didn't really spend my time in the right climes I guess. [↩]

« Kitty Foyle (The Natural History of a Woman)

Mie colt! »

Category: Zsilnic

Wednesday, 09 December, Year 12 d.Tr.

"So what do you do for a living ?" "I'm a money stylist."

Getting ready to... honestly I don't remember what. It's been like a week or two and honestly the phenomena kaleidoscope carousels too much for anything like memory spanning the weekly gap.

All that's left is the bullwark of structure, which assures me it must've been fun (also known by the "scary" exonym -- but what's in an exonym!)

Pickled hot peppers on the side!

"Oh, that's what it was!"

"What was it ?"

"Uhm... with the... hm."

"Was there a midget dancing on a table ?"

"You know what ? I think so!"

Drugs are bad, mkay.

And all the while you thought you knew how to make coffee.

Go back toy, our keurig's not like urkeuring!

You know, like a hair stylist. But with money.

If ya havin' gal problems I can't help ya out, pal -- I got ninety-nine pictures an' de's hos'n most a'em, bitch'n 'em, lickin'em, walkin' dat rope'n 'em... Faggoty gay problems to be havin' at dat H.O. Corral.

Wanna-be "critics", all "Money Cash Hoes", then when theys go home be reachin' dat keyhole on tiptoes. I'm be like... can't let 'em kiss my asshole they'z capable to eat it whole.

If you don't like the lyrics go hump at your Civic, the one thing that rhymes with lyric's Pyrrhic. Meanwhile back ho, me gots ninety-nine pictures an' de's hos'n most a'em.

Ready to go raid the slum ? Lin'em up, fuck'em dumb, all the sophomore hos going uuh-uuuh-mmm. My bowl, it come with lips an' a tongue, self-contained, ecological, futuristical.

While dem boitois line three to the wife an' she's still givin' 'em shit for it. So if ya havin' princess problems, what can I tell you... hit it.

Bitch toys for the bitches, you see ?

Bae.

« Does this insanity make any sense whatsoever to anyone at all ?

City Hall »

Category: Zsilnic

Thursday, 02 January, Year 12 d.Tr.

So today...

... well, let's see. First of all, I woke up.

Then I ate the remainder slave-made deviled eggs (fucken delicious, and even at like 160 calories per hiti still completely worth it) while writing a Trilema piece intended as a sort of documentary snapshot of Costa Rica in the days of these days. "May you live interesting times", as ye olde curse goes, right ? Well... I dunno they're that interesting, but they're times alright.

Then I spent an hour or two taking personal calls with various people I know who are stuck in various shitty countries the world over. "But are the supermarkets still supplied ?" "Yeah, as you remember ; of course a yoghurt cup that went for like fiddy cents now is over a dollar, but... what can you do." That sort of thing. Oh, and also picked the bricks of moneyii brought by the money-couriering sluts ; and well, such things.

And then I joined my slave by the poolside, and we watched the kiskadees batheiii, and the great big old tree with the creepers on it, and I watched her stretch and crunch and play with herself like a newborn babe (you know that thing they do where they grab their feet and roll over ?), and I also read Diana's story of my Bitcoin category. This laptop's great by the way -- the battery claims four hours remaining when you unplug it, then after two-three hours by the pool it claims an hour and change remaining when replugged. I fucking hate the bullshit laptops of everyone else, going through an hour+ of falsely claimed autonomy every six to nine minutes, what the shit.

And now I'm about to join some whore for raita (she just made) alongside the leftover lamb curry (another one made). Because d'oh, what the fuck else can I do. Maybe I watch a movie later, or maybe we drive to town, or maybe... Anyways, see you.

———The girls make upwards of two dozen eggs in one go (not counting the other dozen+ for the mayo). That comes to forty - fifty halves ; add the pound or so of (specially imported) cold cuts, the not inconsiderable olive oil going into said mayo etcetera... We're talking six to nine thousand calories, if you can imagine the madness ongoing. I practically run a ho-tel with a catering business on the side. A very well booked catering business ; though frankly I don't think anyone anywhere eats better.

Nor do I think anyone runs a more satisfying kitchen. Commonly professional / commercial efforts are bogged down by the retarded patrons' pretense to having "their own mind" to make up, and preferences and opinions and shit, which ruins the whole process.

I'm not here discussing genuine preference, actual likes and dislikes. I'm discussing the fake, the ersatz the unadulterated bullshit postmodern man comes up with to fill a hole he (rightly) perceives, tiresome yakkity-yak bolstered by "nobody could prove me wrong" because, obviously, "nobody can see right through me" and such self-shenanigans. The idiots who "like Merlot" as if Merlot's a thing to like thus, generally, and all the while they've never heard of say Chablis, nor could explain why Trebbiano d'Abruzzo goes great spritzed with a plate of said eggs. "Oh, you mean Montepulciano d'Abruzzo?" No, I don't. Had I meant that, I'd have said that.

The people with "special diets" and "allergies" and neverending rank fucking nonsense borne of a life wasted in a plastic hole. These spurious extras, they fuck up cooking for every professional cook, because it's not now a matter of doing a good job, but rather a matter of catering to idiots, actualizing their hallucinated self-importance and whatnot. It's basically a lot like cooking for ill brought up nine year old girls, who'll "only eat white things" or such nonsense.

My girls get to cook well and eat well, which is more than both expert cooks and expert eaters get these days. How do you like that! [↩]Hey, to live in style you gotta support the style, naimean ? [↩]One knew what it was doing ; another was kinda skittish, sorta calling it off at the last minute time and time again. Watching birds bathe in your pool's actually a lot of fun. [↩]

« Chicadia, or photodocumentary Costa Rica on March 27th, 2020

A grave insult »

Category: Zsilnic

Saturday, 28 March, Year 12 d.Tr.

kaiser-wilhelm-john-bull-marianne

« So those idiots in France...

Category: Zsilnic

Monday, 27 April, Year 12 d.Tr.

So those idiots in France...

The french supreme court came up with a ruling forcing Amazon to only deliver "essential" items, off a (deliberately) intricate list of "rules" which are both byzantine in their complexity and moronic in their practical inutility.i

Since there's an attached fine, of no less than 100`000 euros per offence (meaning, each individual item shipped outside of the ordered list), it's obvious enough that the whole point of the entire exercise in harmful pretense to hallucinated sovereignity is making a little money. The french municipalityii is simply trying to steal some cash from Amazon and then call the stealing something else, that's all.

Amusinglyiii, the list manages to include self-obviously non-essential items, such as "IT products", while it fails to include presumably essential items, such as... catfood. The necessary (if "completely unpredictable") result will be a lot of pantsuits crying their every waking hour to their coworkersiv over their "work communication kits" about stiff Mitzi locked in the only bathroom of the "efficiency" pantsuit storage unit, and about how they're pissing into cups now, because they can't go in there and face the corpse of their substitute husband, and about how they're running out of cups.v

Be all that nonsense as it may, were I Bezos I'd absolutely order all shipments to france haltedvi, explaining that years of political instability have rendered the rule of law a factual impossibility in france, which is now for all practical business purposes below Senegal or Algeria or whatever, and let the government deal with the fallout. Specifically -- let them go beg the Germans to vouch for them that indeed they're a legitimate state rather than a self-obvious joke, which hopefully will be done for payvii. Let them take over the business to "run it themselves", exactly into the ground they've run all the others, then come back in a few years with well established precedent, just in case the usual suspects have the usual bullshit to bring before the "supreme court" again. "Here you useless muppets, here's what happened last time you tried this". Not that it'd do so much, pointless&witless never learn, but at least it'd be funny.

He's not going to do anything like that, of course, he's way too old to still be able to summon the balls to play hardball anymore. Nevertheless, I daresay it's what should be done. Wouldn't you say ?

———Meaning, given the list and an item, you can't reliably predict whether it's included or excluded. [↩]No, there's no such thing as a french state, lay off the pipe already. [↩]It's amusing from some perspectives, but I expect it's rather typical from other perspectives -- the dividing line being the same as always. [↩]As these pointless morons don't have any friends, the coworkers are co-opted in the role. Much like nine year olds live, you know, they have neither the resources (nor, properly speaking, the need) to obtain actual friends, so the other kids arbitrarily going to the same school at the same time are co-opted into the role. [↩]Do you suppose they'll water their house plants with it, by the way ? I mean, after all, it's got electrolytes... [↩]I don't just mean Amazon france, I mean all of them, none of this "we'll order catfood off amazon.de hurr" bullshit. [↩]The Brits ain't doing it for love or money, that's for damn sure. Remember that caricature ?

Let the stupid old whore pay her way, what, is she special ? Let her pay her way, and let it cost her five times what it costs anyone else. [↩]

« Probably the best personal blog of the moment

The young new slavegirl »

Category: Breaking News

Monday, 27 April, Year 12 d.Tr.

Sir William Toasts and Dips

"The king hath promised me Isabel, for wife."

"Of Pembroke ?"

"The same!"

"I've seen her at the auld king of Leinster's court once. Such a pretty lass."

"She is!"

"But fifteen years of age yet ?"

"I think not yet."

"She'll make a great knight marshall as great a wife as can ever be. She spoke to me in Latin!"

"French, too. A good head on her shoulders and all the Pembroke lands."

"You'll be the richest man of the realm by this match."

"Mayhap among them, good sir Percival, mayhap among them."

"If there's man in England fair to hold all that together it is thee, sir William."

"I fear the king sees with thee and thusly fears, ma foi."

"A year or two's delay's not hindrance. But you should have her young."

"Or young, or not at all."

"Were we at home I'd toast to thee and health, a harem mixed drink, dark, and rich."

"What's that you say ?"

"While I was, as you have heard, aship in the Seas of Jerusalem I made the acquaintance of some Moores."

"Heathen pagans of the East ?"

"Sir William, the matter's confounded. Though all the Moor's a pagan not all's a fiend."

"How can this be ?!"

"I know not rightly how, but mark that not all Welshman's a fiend either, though pagan they may be."

"Ha-ha! Well spoken, good sir knight, the like as Roman scholars do."

"There are, among such Sea as there is found, Islands as there in the Sea may be, by God's own council just. There's many, most are small, a plot of land too dismal for a poor landless knight to take his own, and raise a goat ; but some are great, as great or greater than the whole of county Kent, and they carry to greatness their appointed lords, like any realm. Those lords, though they be Moores, yet are just men."

"God's will."

"Such lords, like any lords, may by the tides ally, though they be Moores, with even His Holiness the Pope in Rome! Alliances may shift, and come and go ; but by well bidden time and with facility of tongue and friendship one who thereby errants may well acquire friends, for men be just men and words spoken but once, for Moor and Christian both alike, though not for woman or for Jew."

"Sounds just like thee, sir Percival, and thy's life's work."

"Such it may be ; but at a time, as we were sailing in escort, to protect ships carrying burthens to the Hospitalers, Pirates spotted aloft! We broke off to make after them, for they were slow."

"A ship that's laden's slow."

"Indeed. And on that ship we caught with there was found not just their booty, but still more : sixty-eight maidens fair, though none were Christian; Pagan all."

"The Moor enslaves Moorish women on their pirate ships ?!"

"They were not Moors, but fair, still pagans though. They're from the lands far in the East, long past the Sea and Jerusalem. Their land's called Circassia by the Greek and I not know what Moors do call it in their tongue."

"Thee mean it fair by complexion, of golden curl, as it is meant ?"

"Indeed. Though they be not Moor, yet from the East, their skin as white as milk, their hair as gold."

"This new learning amazes me, good sir knight."

"In council on the ship t'was held to sell them, for bounty and supplies, at the Moor's."

"As slaves still, you mean ?!"

"Such as they were. At home we could not return them ineways, for neither we knew whereabouts it was nor could they in human tongue tell, nor any knight yet wandered thus ; 'sides which, God's will. A girl that's left the home's become a woman thereby, and never to return."

"In troth."

"We all took charge then of some such wards, and I, with a dozen of them..."

"You mean, in chains ?"

"No, gentle as doves they all are, and naught a mind to put good iron chain on them more than on a flock of geese. For they stick together with each other and follow after lead like household fowl."

"Indeed! As all good maiden should."

"Some say it is their calling from those parts, the women I mean, to be like slaves and enslaved. For they accept it well and no complaint. The Moor does favour them for harem above all."

"They say they marry more than once in those lands."

"It's so."

"At the same time ?"

"Yes, by the dozen even, so they do."

"Must be a diffrent breed of gentle womanhood prevailing in those parts. A one's enough handful from the Northern lands, a Dane or a Swede worse than death."

"'Tis so, sir William. They're gentler and more loving than even the Albigens girls of Sun-kissed South."

"Indeed!"

"But as I had with me these women, the lord Moor I was talking to did bid me in his harem, where I were met his own. They were disrobed such as t'were never seen but in the Florence paintings of the gods. All could be seen, and even where the escutcheon lays in woman, to abscond, still they were bared."

"Bared how ?"

"Like man may shave his beard, sir William."

"Crue foix!"

"C'est ca. And there together mine and his comingled, and they danced and spoke among each other for of them some came from like lands, as York may far abouts in Toulon meet with York so there they met, unknown to all but them, the same."

"Fate hath made it so."

"It had. But there my host, he served me the harem drink as they did call it, as come upon by one of his, which is, in a tall goblet made of crystal without blemish, and none metal nor gold nor silver naught at all, and I think worth more than a barony itself, crushed ice."

"Such as Winter snow ?"

"But coarser, yes."

"Is it not warm in those climes ?"

"It is, a balm and pereternal Spring."

"Then ice, how ?"

"I do not know. But there it was, and on it poured the sweet, deep red Italian vermouth of Taurinum Augustum, in Piedmont, by the mountain, on the Po."

"I've had those sweet aged wines of that land. A sovereign a sip, no less, and like a raisin mead. Perfume more than ale."

"Indeed, an angel's kiss, made such as they are of herbs for health, majorana, thyme and yarrow and what else not known. Then splashed thereupon Curacao Blanco Triple Sec, made in Saint-Barthelemy d'Anjou, of sour and sweet oranges."

"The French King's royal drink, that they pour for the courtly ladies in thimblefulls with their Champenois of Perignon."

"And at coronation, in Rheims, yes."

"But does this Moor not have any drink of his own land ?"

"Indeed not, sir William. Their heathen god forbids them drink."

"Then rich indeed must be the Moor, like one who eats not bread and drinks not ale, but stuffs from a hundred days' journey away, and then so costly in their land as to be only given to the king and his mistresses and pretty ladies about."

"Richer than Mammon they must be. Tell me, sir William, you've ransomed knights before, have you not."

"To this day I have kept the count, and there have been three hundred sixty eight I ransomed yet."

"And for how much ?"

"All in all forty-five thousand marks or thereabouts. But you must bear in mind, good sir knight, that this was over many years, twenty-five almost. Then there's the armors, the swords and horses, all the pages -- of which I've buried five ; and then..."

"I mean it not that way, but think just this : it comes to maybe a hundred silver marks a head, the more or the less ?"

"I'd say."

"The girls each sold, for they were then and there bought in bulk, the flock entire, and I returned to my ship with thirty thousand marks' worth, in gleaming gold. For twelve. And all the other captains fared the same."

"You say the Moor paid two dozen knights' ransoms to the wench ?"

"Indeed, and more in gifts, and... how many marks a pound of ice in the summer, sir William ?"

"The Moor is rich indeed."

"They are, for all the jewels in this land, and all in Rome, and everywhere jewels are, diamonds rubies emeralds garnets topazes all that are, come from his land. Then silks and many other things. For the Moor's land is large. Larger than all of France, of Aquitaine and Burgundy and all, together with the German lands. Larger than all we know, as large or larger still than the old empire stood."

"Yet we best him in Jerusalem ?"

"Not often, and when we do it doth not last for long. And he hath all the Spains..."

"Sir Percival, though our throats be parched from marching, though the last wine's turned sour Wednesday last, though none of what you say is here in sight, let me to thee say in good heart that I am more grateful of what you'd toast me in your mind than of such wine as one can carry here in his hand. Thank thee, and God's will great!"

"Amen."

With that call they both fell silent ; but then the old banneret straightened like a spring. His eye had spied a pretty girl meandering through the grass towards the river side, a flock of geese following their own pace after hers. Sir William turned his horse in that way ; the girl, watching the passing men at first indifferently, gave a great yell and ran towards the pussy willows as fast as her bare feet carried her. She was quick enough, holding her long chemise crumpled up by her hip with each hand s'as to free her legs way past the knee, and not impede her step ; but even under chainmail, arms and provisions, sir William's warhorse was faster still than any lass could ever hope to be, and soon he was upon her. She turned this way or that, like rabbits despaired of escaping hounds. He for his part touched her skin with his long horse crop, under the shoulders on the sensitive meat between shoulderblade and armpit, and on the buttocks and the thighs, and on both sides underbreast. He kept her step, turning his horse to and fro, and piqued her each turn with the sharp fire in his hand until she fell, crying, to her knees.

At that he dismounted, and walked after her ; on seeing him dismount she gave another yell, though not as great much more despaired, like a dying bird's last call, and set to running unsteadily away from him. He followed after her, not breaking into run but patiently following her ungainly gait, like kingly lion after hurt gazelle, not caring to exert himself to speed doom inevitable, for what could possibly be gained by the rush. His progress brought into view her bleeding of herself out of her own flesh, making a sport of it, put on display, made visible and to be admired. The whole convoy stopped to watch. Will she collapse at that grassy clump, or just stumble and rise again, and carry on ? Does she still have breath in her, or is she out ? When, at which juncture, on which spot of land will she, at last, make peace with herself ?

She wasn't gaining much on him at all, though with great effort and wild, useless movements flailing all about. Eventually he pushed her, one firm crisp heave of his right arm landing palm first between her shoulders. It sent her flat to the ground, face down, and there she lay, as paralyzed. He covered the two paces to her. As he kneeled down she started to squirm away ; but between his arm resting on the small of her back and his knees coming down on her thighs she was vised to the ground. Sir William extracted his ornate Florentine dagger from its scabbard by his side, and split her garb from neckline to between her knees, wide open. He caught her left hand, forcing the sleeve off of her, freeing her rosy carnation, from neckline to hipline out in the open, her left breast heaving heavily with her gulped breath. He twisted her arm behind her back in his right, and she extracted her right out of the cloth remnant herself. Her squirming had subsided, replaced instead by her arching her back and lifting her buttocks up to him, like a cat in the late Winter night. The rags that once were her clothes lay on the ground, discarded, so far away from her as furthest could ever be.

He took his rod out and bestowed its blessing upon her, slowly and by degrees, with a delicacy unwarranted in the circumstance. Her hands, free, grabbing spasmodically at the grass, pushing into the dirt to press her into him, his hand resting on her uplifted head. His movements turned fluid, regular, and her breath turned to a regular, stroked moan. Eventually she spun around, to her side, to give him better purchase and ease his run of pounding into her ; he removed the muddied rags from off her legs and cast them away for good. She spread her legs apart, and with closed eyes reached down her hands, squeezing her breast taut in between her arms and spreading herself on her own fingers. He let out a great howl and then they both shuddered together.

There they lay a moment, the legendary beast of two backs, a knight's and a maiden's fair ; then he stood up from over her, grabbed her by the hips and threw her over his shoulder, like quarry in the hunt exactly, except the doe they carry with hindquarters afront, whereas he carried her with her arms dangling as dead in front of him, her eyes closed, her head bobbing to and fro with his gait. He put her in front of his saddle, his hand on her womanhood as he rode back, then he lifted her again and set her in one of the packhorse's saddle. She kneeled in there and hid herself from sight, her nose and the tips of her fingers the only visible parts left of her. The company gave three cheers as Sir William took his place by his companions, and they resumed their march.

« What could Henry have done ?

Sir William speaks. »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Saturday, 12 December, Year 12 d.Tr.

Sir William speaks.

The boy overlooking the Western road yelled out ; a page throwing bones nearby looked up from his small familiar circle to throw his eyes that way. Quickly to his feet he scurried readily to rouse his master. The portly gentleman of many an Autumn, many a campaign, many a barrel and many a mutton, barely contained and in places bulging out of a iugera's worth of fine chainmail trundled towards the Western watch. Soon onlookers were gathering around the Master of Arms, excitedly exchanging words and glances among a steadily growing body of themselves. Now and again a muted cheer scattered through the growing crowd, much in the manner of a successful yawn if opposite in portent.

As the distant cloud of dust approached by degrees over the twists and turns of the road, seeding its generous dust in the clear horizons, its banners finally drew close enough to be distinguished by unaided eye. "Parti per pales, or et vert" started the Master's call, and with it the rumour, rolling over the standing men like waves rolling in the gathering storm. "Gules, lion rampant" ended the call, and all the better, for it was all the time it had to end. The men broke out in cheers, as loud as their voices would carry them, and then the clang of sword on shield roused the whole camp. Everyone was talking and yelling together, raising the sound of human voice if not the meaning of the words all the way up to the very gods above, a deafening concerto of excitement thoroughly expressed. "Sir William! Sir William!" went the chant, when it wasn't just murmur loudly indistinguishable. The Master of Arms went on, reading the dozens more banners, pennants, pennons, etandards and colors flown by the rapidly approaching group, but other than himself it wasn't probable anyone heard a word. Then again the surprises were few and in the margins ; the bulk stood as all present knew it stood, or in any case as all those knowing among the present expected in their minds. Excitement and surprise do rarely ride abreast.

The tents stood empty, all men gathered out, to see and hear the hero on approach ; as the well dusted group made to the road post of the camp sir William rode out, afront his men. Holding his horse's rein by both hands he offered the ancient military salutation of the land. They were by custom form invited in, and there received their welcoming, as it is done. The knights thereupon dismounted, and made to the great tent, sucking the camp dry on their way, of men-at-arms. The pages took the horses to the equerry, and gave them water first, then took their leathers off of them, then spread out hay. The other pages lent a hand, dragging the burdens to the place directed, to set up tents, and well arrange them. Once sir Williams' tent was up a nosy, fingertipped saddlebag was dragged inside, and there in the middle left for him, to figure out himself. The trembling and whimpering nude girl contained within content to hold her peace, like the grave, the pages left, to hang about the mess, and listen on and in.

Within the great tent where the knights were meet the gay rumours of excited manhood reigned supreme, and ale flowed free. On question from a friend sir William's great manly voice soon came booming out, and all turned quiet to permit it space, all complicit in their hero's aggrandization from the bottom. For it's one thing for one great man to have been blessed with one great voice as it befits his deeds ; but it's the other thing for all the other men to keep their own voice still, muted still, when the great one bellows, such as by contrast with the silence, by crashing its great echoes on the vitrous walls and edges of quiet, like crystal, the better and in more fullness greatness may well resound. The two, together, the one thing and the other thing, they make the whole.

The question was probing yet deeply romantic, something in the vein of what'd be the world, the world ideal, that Marshall thought of when he thought of such. The earnest, youthful quest for bettering one's own horizons came out, "what should we dream of, when we dream of things" it wanted to know, not for the prospective but for the informative, seeking to expand and round out the furthest line mind's eye might in their life see.

"Great lords, and valiant knights" began sir William, clear and crisp, "each morning since a boy I stood up on my feet, and went about. Each year at war, since a boy, each day with sword in hand. Yet I've lived through it all, by good fortune in part, and by Lord's blessing in the greater part. Fortune's changing, as no doubt all present hath place enough to find. Even in one night, a harlot true and not a dame at all" he lost his space to laughters in the cups, but presently had it back, returned to him by they who laughed, in the same good humour he had given them. "And the Lord's blessing, while reaching far, stands thinner everywhere than the friars like to think, and preach. It may once in a lifetime breastplate the fiend's arrow away ; but it won't every day. Of faith only the preacher eats, but not the faitfhul, they must make by their own hands, and feet, provisions in this life." The gathered men, all of the same mind, if not so plainly expressed by their own, cheered him on.

"Yet here I stand, and in good company, for I won't have it any other way, and that is all. There is not more to life than that, life's lived well by good fortune in part, and by Lord's blessing in the greater part, and for the will to live it so throughout." The "hear!"s and grim, cheerless cheers filled the air, and then vanished whence they came, to the lands of the shades. "As to what men, if they be men, to one another owe, I will say thus : that first, men must be peers or else perish all. The women and the boys their own, like water in a cloud, but mark you this : that while he lived still king Richard did avow, and so it was, that one man only in the lands hath ever killed his horse from under him. In days of old, when great king Harry ruled the realm and Richard hath rebelled his rule, a poor and landless knight did choose his horse over him for death, and spared a lion-hearted king inside a young man's fleshy cloth. All knights, be they a duke, or earl, or king, be they the heirs of all the lands on Earth by wife or aunt, be they as tall as the bellfry or strong enough to puncture steel sword with mere spoke of straw, still must be knights at first, and last. A knight's not born, but made, nor is any to be assumed a knight who isn't known to be, nor given this in courtesy who hasn't of his own and in his time earned it dull."

Fascination rising from all breasts muted the cheers, present yet but by now very still. As more and more pages came in and at their master's bidding took to quill sir William carried on "Then of the lords as there may be, just one per family, not two, nor three. Just one, and when he dies, his oldest son, nor rights out of the lands for wives, mothers, sisters. Naught to be had above his will, but all his charity. That's how those women of the East, and South, grow sweet and loyal and worth having in the house by degrees ; but piety misplaced here and abroad endowing womanhood with rights bespoils all, so which of you does not grit teeth when family or necessity insist upon a bride come from North, or West ? Let children die, who haven't strength enough to carry on ; let unfaitful wife go than keep her by to be unfaithful more ; let th'Enemy do its own worst, as best knows how, and conquer all."

Sir William paused for a draught, surveyed the silent, nodding heads about, all eyes fixed on him, then spoke again "Of guilt let naught be known above or besides the going to the enemy ; and let that guilt never efface. But if a knight should best a knight, that life's his own, to do as he doth please. And if a knight should take a maid, let her be his, as he will please for her to be, a wife or wench by his own word ; and if another hath a claim let he who took pay what is fair, and keep the chattel taken as his own. Cry not for wives lost, for there's more ; cry not for daugthers lost, for they're not lost who bore, nor were th'others anything, however they may cuss or hath once swore ; but will the more esteemable of all there is, above life and wealth and standing still. Of lords found guilty by their liege, let their blood spill their death ; and let the son inherit. Of lords found guilty by their peers, let them forever quit the realms, with their life bare, and never to return nor ever be returned, but as if dead and remnants lost let their son inherit. Let there be known no forfeit, nor taking of neither land nor chattel but in battle fair, and let the guilt of treason stick to all who would take from friend as if in war, a fiend in false colors shown. For if the liege will not behead, and if the peers would not banish, then let each lord stand sovereign and at all liberty within his own, lands held in his hand and chattels all on them, of womenhood with its indistinct issue, of farms and herds and weirs, mines and forests, with all their product and their produce. That is the meaning of knighthood, all contained, that man to horse can not say the what, but must in time and with due patience show the how, and that will make the warhorse. Nor lord to the bare earth may call for grain, but only if it be ploughed and worked grain will sprout, as if against but truly independent of earth's will. Nor to the rustics working land may he declare a purpose, but patiently must show the how, and with punishment correct the beastly nature of the beasts of burden in the fields, and chastise, and insist. Nor to the girl can there be said the what, but she must made be to see the how, against her will as such she may pretend to have ; then grown a woman out of her by practiced care and unwavwering instruction she may follow her lord, the words they speak their own, not for another to know or understand, which is what's meant by privacy : the woman's liberty. Before knighthood a boy's a page, and like the horse with patience shown the way to knight, or cut down for a knave. But only to the knight and to the knight alone the lord will say the what, and not the how. With doing of that what the knight's glory lies, before his liege and before the whole world ; and with the failing in the deed his death him patiently awaits. Nor is knighthood for all, but let all have it who can, and will ; and of the hosts of dead, afield and abed, let God choose out his own."

The crowd stood silent as sir William spoke his last word, then breaking in soft murmur here and there to answer questions of they writing down, t'what was said. Then quietly all there present retired to their tents ; and in the morrow changed the world for good.

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Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Sunday, 13 December, Year 12 d.Tr.

Si, cum mai e prin Carantinia ?

Motto : Sujeti pula de boi & vite ce sunteti, bai papagalilor.i

In more-of-the-same news, here's me lording it over a recent article. Fetching, huh!

Above : friend gecko.

Below : butterfriend.

So far so good, amirite ? Indoor activities, being famous online, acting in the movie of your own life, discovering how the stupid cunt tovarasa de viata "can cook" "pizza"... basic, droning pleb shit like that. Isn't that right ?

We're almost alike, what can I say!

Moving on...

Above : bun, da' io am gagici cu pizde mici. Chiar comic de mici. Mititici, bai mitici obositi. Hai, mars la izolare.

Below : vai, dar ce-avem aici ?! Oualelor de Paste & Cocos ?!

Sadly the camera can't quite cope with all the many hues. But they're there, you may take my word for it. For I've seen them, see ?

Nua, the mall even! They didn't really quarantine the malls, did they ?ii

Anyways, sorry to disappoint : my life's carrying on undisrupted.

Your life sucks because you suck. Your life sucks because you're worthless, despicable, disgusting, your life sucks because you should've killed yourself long, long ago. Because nobody loves you, what loves -- nobody even likes you. In fact, nobody even cares enough to hate you.

You're not even a thing, let alone a person -- which is why you must be quarantined, socially distanced, ultimately plastic wrapped.

You know, just like any other turd.

But enough about you, let's buy this slut shoes.

The pellet dispensary, shown here during a stampede by perambulating subhuman turds.

Your most humble author, me, shown here double-fisting iced capuccinos. They're pretty good -- and it's the darndest thing : every time I order them, I get them sugarless. Every time the bimbo orders them, she gets them sugarfull. Not a little sugarfull, fucking undrinkably sugarfull. We both say the same thing -- "sin azucar" -- but I don't think they believe her.

She's a woman, after all.

Have you caught anything yet ? Cough-cough ? All this e-travelling & vicarious living's bound to be dangerous, I hope you've been scrolling through these pictures with the facemask on, turdy.

Gotta be careful, nothing's more precious than #turdlife. Amirite ?

And in closing, the unavoidable puli machine. Go ahead an' ass-ume the position...

———Automated translation proposes the exquisite

Hold the cock of oxen & cattle you are, cocksucking parrots.

which, while not technically correct, nevertheless does indeed very well convey the intension, not to mention manages to break the rules of grammar most intelligently & serviceably. Hurray for computers, these people of the future. And get lost, spurious biosacks, no hay mas futuro. [↩]From what I hear, yes they did.

From what I hear, the entire sad sector went from being marginal to begin with (as it's a really shitty business model, spend a billion in development fixed costs to collect fiddy bucks in rents, picking pennies in front of a steamroller done with really small pennies and a really large steamroller) to outright dead. All mall operators -- all of them -- will be filing for bankruptcy starting Q3 ; meaning that "the governments" will be printing money to float them. Because they have to, because from what I hear they're the last hope of employment for the sad horde of you quarantined dumbfucks.

Say it ain't so ? [↩]

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Category: Activism

Tuesday, 14 April, Year 12 d.Tr.

Sheepeteering Sheepediah

The title, if you're wonderingi, comes from the circumstance that I had it pointed out to me in private and on good authority that I might as well be the world's foremost puppeteer ; and Sheepediah's this ship, you don't know her. It's mindmelting, by the way, just fucking mintmelding, to reference those articles as some kind of history, you know, back in the day, back when we did the bra-mobile & Czech teenagers & the answer to the Florimund riddle... and so forth. Obviously I have a calendar on the wall just like "everyone" (meaning -- no one ; too poor for trees, too dumb to know it in the discolored spot on the wall where a calendar used to hang) and it works as well as everyone's (for as long as the "just as good" electronic replacements work for everyone else -- just as well as everyone's ; otherwise, just as long as mine and mine alone, which is a very different standard all of a sudden and, let it be pointed out and thickly underscored, through no great effort of mine). Yet... what can I tell you, time doesn't flow uniformly for the mind, Senor Florin Angelescu Dragolea has the references & details, in florid, cursive & elegant southern French. Talk to him.

But anyways, I remember a time when I was a kid. It's obvious to me that was long ago, two different tarmuri how the fuck do you say tarmuri in this language... here, the reference, the topmost reference in the lengthy ordered list of poetic references that make that language be a language in the first place (and this one -- nothing) : "among masts counting in hundreds leaving all those tarmurile, how many will be claimed by the winds, and by the tides ?" It's a fundamental question, exactly level and on par with the Hesitancy Empire's fundamental "to be or not to be" (meaning, really, "to do... or not to do, whether tis nobler in the mind to fashion oneself a woman, to sleep, to die..."ii), and its expression's exquisite (and therefore memorable -- so memorable in fact it makes the top of a list, the foremost achievement above all) because while "tarmurile" rhymes with "valurile" (ie, "waves" I suppose you'd say, if you knew nothing about nothing, but no, very much not "waves" like that, more like ^-function sorta "waves"iii), the implicit rhyme's with talazurile because of formal similarity, and that goes straight the fuck to Thalassa and all that great.iv

Anyways, two unbreachable, celophane-wrapped departures, un-undoable irrespective of final female fantasies, two cast-offs, two rebirths away. That'd be the proper term, the proper usage, the proper form : "But anyways, I remember a time when I was a kid. It's obvious to me that was long ago, two different worlds away." They never really do this, in the movies, or in fiction, or in daydreaming, or at all. Everyone's imagination's alienated from the thing they imagine (which is, perpetually, inescapably, I) because... well, you see, the hero inexplicably escaping the explosion on foot, the chosen making out of the "destroyed" planet just in time in a rescue [magic bean]pod, the... it's never his first time, you see ? Not even the first in your own timeline's the first in his, because the hero's time does not flow like yours, but like his, certain definite future as much a part of his present as the past -- in the end, this is the simplest if most glaring and thereby likely to be overlooked explanation of heroic ousia, of the substance and essence of Carlisle's man : he for whom the definite future's as much part of his present as the past. For everyone else -- the past's as misty and dubiously included in the present as the future, for everyone zoon I mean, the life of the beasts. Man can at the very most hope to live with a definite past by his own hard work and ceaseless labourv, it'll be dubious but for the larger part rather credible. The hero, however...

Anyways #2 : I remember such a time as you don't, nor can't, nor couldn't. As in fact and as a factual matter you do not, though were you there with me seeing it all -- but what's seen of what's to be seen depends of him seeing it, doesn't it! At such a time as that, once upon a time twice over and again, I played with expended cartridges. I was five, I had a box, I still remember it, five by ten, fascinating human-made wasp's nest for cartridges, little paper separators dividing a palm-sized box among fifty little square cells. I had about half the expended cartridges to fill those slots, I moved them around and re-arranged them, the exact figure decreased over the course of the child's life with the immensely if momentarily sad mishaps of childish pursuits, I might've maybe swallowed some even (though I do not think so, marbles, yes, everything else yes, but not caps for fucks sake, what is this), yet that all is for naught : I still remember them. Them, now gone in fact as in representation, inconsequential as insubstantial, I do remember them, not like a human child in any general, but quite like me, in the particular. I knew what they were, and what they were for, I knew their etymology so to speak, not merely "what I had heard of them", a thoroughness not usually compassed by five year olds yet nevertheless my and mine, then, at the time. They were for a gun, yes, but not the kind you think, you formlessly presume yourself familiar withvi. They were for a concrete bolting gun.

You see, soviet "communism" had minor advantages to go with its major disadvantages, unlike your present pantsuit iteration of the same fundamental socialism. Since all dwellings were hruschebas, prefabricated concrete temporary military shelters as discovered, refined and perfected by a Red Army desperate to keep moving its essential factories ever East in front of the Nazi onslaught, since economies of scale work as they do and the preoccupation among the period's bureaucrats with keeping the intellectual load minimal was foremost (something the proto-pantsuit of the day derrided them for, as fucking if anyone bought pantsuit craptalk), you knew for a fact everyone lived by among and behind concrete walls of such thickness strength plasticity etcetera. STAS it was called, the standards were few, fixed, reliable and as such permitted... the bolt gun! You know how in the first village, in the wooden days of the wooden village, if you wanted to hang something from the wall you needed a nail, and the tool for nailing it, the hammer ? Well, in the days of the second village, in the days of industrializarea patriei & traim decenii de impliniri marete, lupta & avint etcetera, in the stony days of the stone village, if you wanted to hang something (besides yourself) from the wall you needed... a bolt gun! It fired these cartridges calibrated exactly to send the only kind of bolt an inch into the only kind of concrete wall, and then you could hang yourself from it because I have never seen one separated from its lodging (they came with this colored plastic ring on the business edge, I can still see it, with four little tiny milimeter long diagonal feet projecting on the outside, which with the impact formed a seal) nor do I think it can be done, baring cracking the wall on that point like a wafer. And they were standard screws, too, you could do whatever you wanted with such excellent priors (not that anyone ever did, that I saw, at most they'd hang a set of shelves or something).

I'd like some, now. They are no more. The end ; and a farewell, a kind and heartfelt farewell, ye erstwhile bolts, perfection unused but in that unmitigated. I'm glad I knew ye, though it makes me sad -- but it makes me sad for myself, and not for you.

———"If", I say, assfucking if. [↩]Hey, did you know there's exactly one Trylema article starting with "hyper" ? Try it! [↩]It is the wave function, yes ? [↩]Here's a free tip : the alternative expression for "endless" is... netarmurita. Du grec, a privatif, gosie, du gout. [↩]And if you can say who your daddy was -- a historical event for which you were not present, see ? -- then you too can be a patrician, at some point in history! [↩]Do you have any idea, by the way, what'd be the count of unintentional firearm discharges in the home during one year of your choice in say the city of New York (or Chicago, or wherever there's a large population of blacks, latinos & c) ? Look it up sometime, wonder with Hannah at the wonders of cousinhood an' cozenship. [↩]

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Category: Zsilnic

Wednesday, 19 August, Year 12 d.Tr.

Shawrmy...

The title's never been written before, I'm pretty sure ; but it's been a harem word for years. Harems and... ahem, oral culture, you know ?i

The Shawrmy is named for Shawn, this guy we knew here. Shawn was maybe sixty or so, vaguely euro-jewish (we never got into deep detail on the matter, gringo's enough over here), and trying to maintain a "sporting" style.ii He had the right cariii, the right shirts, the right hairdo, the right shades, you get the picture. Oh, and of course the right girlfriend -- Dyna.

Dyna was a local whore (with a kid in tow, of course), doing a very decent job of the job, wearing the right tank tops and stretch pants and scrunchies and whatever the fuck else the "sportive" lyfestyle requires of the Barbie doll associated. Life in plastic, it's fantastic, come on Barbie, let's go party!

Our acquaintance proceeded quaintly enough, something along the lines of

"And this is my girlfriend, Dyna."

"Oh, hey... are those fake ?"

"Yeah..."

"Hannah's going to get a pair, do you mind if she gives them a feel ?"

"Go ahead", and she lifts her top to her chin, while her gringo bf drops his chin past his belt. They fucked almost well that evening, I'm pretty sure. Anyway, Hannah feels her up, she turns to me, I feel her up too, Nicole's over there babytalking a babbling boyfriend lest he has a calcium drop and falls over, back sorta turned to us, blocking him away. Skills, you know ?

Anyway, we shared the occasional grill party, he was always fascinated but also a little anxious of the whips and the trims and obviously the relationship, and the relationship (srsly, his whore he calls a girlfriend, my girlfriend I call a whore, what the fuck dyslexia is this ?!), and... well, everything, really. The one time Chimichurriiv managed to trick the quarterback holding him back and jumped straight into the pool, elegantly going for some meter-deep swim-shenanigans with all the explicit joy and implicit skill of a little duckling Shawn was in the pool and nearly lost his shit, started socialmedia-ing the duck, video and live commentary like it was aliens in concerto or something.

His conversation was maybe somewhat limited, but he was definitely what you'd call a stand-up guyv. In any case he was a guy who did his fucking best, as well as he could, as he understood it. Sadly... well, a year or so before we left for Europe he spent six months or so in Israel, curing a chronic heart condition. It had been giving him assorted trouble for years by that point, and well... But he was back, after half year, half his original weight (he never had been very heavy, now he was lighter than a waif), and... well, you know. Now that we're back, I notice he is gone. This time permanently, his place has been let up, and there's no forwarding address.

Dead or alive, Shawn's not likely doing all that well right now, his best days squarely behind him. If he's sitting somewhere in dreary institutional interiors, thinking, vaguely and not awaredly but nevertheless thinking of this great blue sky and the kiskadee in it, of fake tits and gecko cackles, of days in the sun and come on, Barbie... what can I say, Shawn... they're also thinking of you.

The Shawrmy had been a word long before this, however. There's lots and lots of Shawns about, here especially, doing their best, trying as best they can, their "girlfriends" turning to me to feel their tits, my whores to them incomprehensible as a superlative of impenetrable... what can you do.

Life is rarely what you set out to mean for it to be.

PS.

Trilema's got some connectivity issues, I am aware. It's not the server, god knows wtf, some router upstream's choking by all appearances, it's got the not-flu or whatever the fuck you lot've been doing not washing your hands in alcohol to fight a purely airborne disease, cuz you're not mindful and shit like that.

Anyways -- don't panic, it'll be fine.

———Speaking of which, the Round and Resounding romanian word for cunt is pizda. Ain't that a great word ?

The first time I wrote it, pen on paper, I still remember, I was twenty-two years old. I had never written it before. Never. Not ever.

No specific reason, either -- I had by that time fucked well the fuck more whores (teenaged or otherwise, streetworking or pretentious, earnest or artistic, you name it) than the most dedicated punter could possibly ever afford (the nature of my... profession occupation at the time making it not merely very easy but rather outright required) ; I certainly had known what it looks like and (at least superficially) how it works for nigh-on two decades. I most definitely uttered the word, you can't really survive in Romania without a weekly budget for pizda utterances well in the thousands of items, I suspect they revoke your papers and ship you off to Boston or something if you fail to maintain a minimal flux o' pizda flowing out your lips. Yes, yes, ok, I did go to Boston, but on my own power, okay ? Technically the airplane's, but I bought the tickets, nearly closed the local banks down getting my cash wad together, I... keks. Point remains - okay ?

So how is it possible that the same guy who, aged say seventeen, conducts phone conversations in the terms & terminology of "tu pizda, ia-o pe soru-ta si hai la bajeram sa ne sugeti pula" nevertheless did not write it down ? Not that year, not the next year, not the year coming after that ? I couldn't fucking tell you ; I don't well know. How old were you when you first said cunt ? And when you first wrote it down ?

Oral culture, you know ? It's a weird, and by same measure a fascinating thing. What's needed to write down something you know, what's all this jazz with "explicit" vs "implicit" knowledge, and why the fuck do you think programming your documents oops I mean, documenting your programs is any different ? Check out the sort of error dyslexia never makes, now why is it quite so improbable that those particular two terms ever got switched around ?

There's a great loss in this, too -- because you die. Soon enough, you die. [↩]You know what I'm talking about, because yesterday walking down the street I saw a poster and I was like "What the fuck, is that Bruce Willis ?!" "No", came, solicitously, the answer. "It's Vin Diesel". "Why the fuck is he trying to be Bruce Willis ?!" "Because Bruce Willis is like seventy years old", the dutiful reponse landed just as we were passing a different poster advertising... A GUNS & ROSES CONCERT!!! Mother of fucking god, it's been FIFTY YEARS, lay off, give it a break. What the fuck are y'all, animated Mme Tussauds' showpieces ?! Is this some kind of aspiration now, to be a mummy ? [↩]None of which lasted very long, he kept bumping into things while texting.

Da fuck sense does this make, you tell me -- so you can afford the car and the whore, but you drive the car yourself and call the whore "girlfriend" ? Wtf, call her "driver", sit in the back text all you want, how hard is it ?!

Hannah even has a driver's cap! [↩]Hey, remember the duckling with a sunshine personality ? [↩]Although from what I hear the current fashion's to call these "creeps", for some reason. [↩]

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Category: Lifespiel

Saturday, 14 March, Year 12 d.Tr.

Shattered thoughts and disparate notions

I watched Ossessione again last night -- oh hey, check out the header. Pretty cool!

So I was saying... I watched that ancient film again. Everyonei has seen it to death, "oh, of course! many times..." and yet...

Have you noticed the absolute perfection and consummate glory of the prostitute scene ? It's not long, yet it's absolute excellence barely communicable!

Let us nevertheless tryii, barely communicable as it may well be : so the prostitute in this film is a fetching young woman who earns her living by being a dancer. She works at the opera-cinema, 2nd from the left in the chorus line ; yet she does not think herself a dancer, "with a great future". She doesn't think herselfiii anything. She is, as a factual matter, a whore who also dances. That's her locus, subjectively, transparently and quite avowedly. She eminently isn't a dancer who also whores, but expends herself in "keeping that a secret", isolating it from "others" (meaning herself), all that complicated danceiv of infected minds. A contemporary barrista (as contemporaries are much too fucked in the head to ever manage anything like whoredom on their own power) who works as a paralegal for four hours one single week "is" now "going to be" a "bright legal mind" and so she's out there, renting a whole raft of "courtroom docudramas" offa Netflix. She's got a career now, god fucking help anyone who dares call her a barrista or anythingv.

But wait, there's more! The whore meets her john in the following manner : she's sitting on a bench, in the park, and knitting. That's what she's doing! And when some kids, playing like kittens with her woolvi, knock it at the feet of the gent, she kneels (at the feet of the gent) to fetch. That's it!

He offers her icecream, which she very much looks like she'd want, but doesn't ask for ; she eagerly accepts -- and Dhia Cristiani's outright exquisite eagerness should be studied in fucking school, as it is the superlative achievement to date of the fundamental (to not say the principal) female function. She tells him where she works, and asks him to come along. He refuses, being a merdaccia vera e propria ; a man of unclear relationship to the girlvii tells him they all live at so and so address, there's even better to be had there.

So the merdaccia, after disengaging from his ball-and-chain, proceeds there. Do you know how this cathouse works in practice ? There's a closed door, he rings a doorbell and the door opens. Immediately. Nobody's there, no pretense whatsoeverviii is foisted upon the man come in from the street. There's no "tickets". There's no "waiting room". There's no matron, there's no fucking nothing. He asks some woman about the girl, is directed to her room, which is open for his convenience, he can wait there if he feels like it. He does, she shows up, she's delighted to see him, thanks him for having chosen her services, and proceeds to undressing in such a natural manner it should, again and very much so, be studied in school. Because besides the eagerness, such natural excellence is the whole enchilada, I don't know what the fuck more can be asked.

But wait! Wait, seriously, there is more! He doesn't want her right then and there, and she, naturally and eagerly, openly and quite plainly, confesses : "I don't know what's with you, but you're making such an effect upon me...". The candour meanwhile snuffed out of fifteen year olds (I'd know), there, all there, in an adolescent whore (who also dances -- not necessarily because she "wants to", I suspect ; but plainly because she must). What more could you ask for ?

I don't know what more you'd know to ask for, but there's more there : she's quite ready to die for him. Not, importantly, eminently not in the false, deceitful manner of the stupid cunts. She's actually willing (if not all that eager, definitely quite decisively decided) to sacrifice herself : she'll use as a pretext for distracting the cop the transparently false yet objectively unescapable story that "c'e l'ho con te perche non my hai pagato".

Rarely does cinema render a perfect, flawless gem of utter truth ; but for this inclusion in Ossessione, it definitely has a leg in the running for "best film ever made". Because, again, the minor character of Anita is perfection incarnate, definitive and absolute. May you live just long enough to see it with your own eyes, like I have.

~ * ~

Originally the point of the ComIntern was the recreation of the national world around professional lines. That was the "advanced conception" of Yegg central : the observation that national loyalty is problematic at best, seeing how everyone spends all the time immersed in the same nation, and loyalty requires difference, constantly and reliably observed to maintain itselfix ; coupled with the proposition that "professional lines" would in practice work out a lot better. If truckers were to be loyal to other truckersx, rather than to "other people in general", went the proposal, then on one hand at the micro level most taxpaying schmucks are ever concerned with this'd produce much stronger loyalties than any kind of national conception (especially as the importance of filiation and the clan diminishes under the dissolutive factors of "urban" life in the prole ghettos), and on the other hand at the macro level the merdaccias "in charge" would... you know, the usual. Matterxi, and be important, and all that broken kid escapist fantasism.

Meanwhile the fifth international (aka pantsuit central) has vaguely progressed on this theory : the 4th international schmucks discussed above would've perhaps... what exactly ? Maybe a strike ? Maybe street aggitation ? Well, no more of that : the 5th international has whole professional groups simply lie (as directed by Yegg central). Since they're more loyal to each other than to anything else and since they're also too fucking stupid (intellectually limited, if you prefer) to figure much out on their own, this works beautifully in theory and not that shabbily in practice, either! It started softly enough with obscure nonsense, at first "earth scientists" (whathever the fuck those are) agreeing-by-consensus "there's a global warming". Then "epidemiologists", whatever that is, also agreeing-by-consensus (same exact mechanism, mind) "there's a pandemic" and so in this vein. Meanwhile of course everyone's long agreed nothing can ever work nor meaningful action at all possible, and well...

I've got popcorn. Lots and lots of popcorn.

———Maybe not you or yours ; but absolutely me and mine, let me assure you. Or rather... let me re-assure you : much like any notion of divinity you may under any heading entertain substantially consists of me, any sort or manner of a general notion of "the public" strictly consists of mine. Yours don't matter, and you... you aren't anybody. [↩]I'm using shorter paragraphs, how is it working out for you ? [↩]Now Ima gonna have to fish that thing out of the archive, what can I do. In the interim there's also this fragment. [↩]I'm too lazy to dig out where exactly on Trilema one finds plainly discussed this lulzy matter, but... well, you've got time. Right ? [↩]There's a story somewhere about how Caragiale-father, exasperated by the early pantsuitist airs of his bastard son with a whore who thought herself a telephone opperator, pointed out to a flat portion of his cranium, with the legend (leyenda) that his forefathers having been dough workers, the flat spot is from the tray they carried for their masters. Not noble, but servile extraction, being the important point of pantsuit-pulling-off.

Needless to say it didn't take. [↩]A few months ago we picked up some local girly. She was out walking her infant while another old enough to walk (just barely) was walking along. As it became obvious to the child that we're actually talking to his mother (language barriers don't enter into this, either -- the kid couldn't speak English and so, aged maybe five, "came up", "all on his own", with the "idea" he shouldn't have to, because this isn't America!!!) the kid proceeded to... expose her breasts and lift her skirt. Systematically, relentlessly, as his principal focus and only activity.

Because, as I later explained to my own, human sexuality is a complex and far reaching machinery, and the child old enough to notice there's no father around will, systematically and unyieldingly, expose his mother to passing men. This is not coincidence but function, and if yours starts doing it to you, there you have it, everyone, even five year olds can tell.

I don't remember if, or where, I discussed this on Trilema before. Have I ? Maybe I didn't, speaking of which, is anywhere written down the story of social sexual behaviour in humans, whereby the female oh yes, here we go. [↩]You could say he was hired by the brothel she worked at to do this, I suppose. It'd be about as credible as the proposition that the kids playing were similarily employed. Here's the sad fact of the matter : the whole song and dance of employment is merely a substitute. It tries to recreate a society that functions out of a jumbled pile that doesn't. What we see here is an actually functioning society -- the gent is no more employed by the girl's putative employer than the john is. He's just doing a service, per piacere, per cortesia, so the world doesn't suck -- as period Italy very much didn't suck, at least in some people's recollection. [↩]Do you understand how all this crap is naught but female anxiety made manifest ? [↩]Yes, hence the "jew" fantasy of the earlier socialism, of course. [↩]The Italian socialists even out and out say it, "solidarieta di categoria", right ? [↩]I can't now find where in the early days we laughed at the "authorities" deciding to "authorize" Burning Man (the festival) and demanding "in exchange" the organizers provide them with accommodations (the whole thing was a camping affair). It yelled out so patently "I'm a pencildick who figures he's gonna ride this here she-herd because look, badge!!!" I couldn't believe, but of course meanwhile it got snowed in and buried under the putative "free men" being unable to as much as get a beer truck going. [↩]

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Hypersexualized female suicide through strangulation -- an illustrated tutorial »

Category: Politica si Prostie

Thursday, 06 August, Year 12 d.Tr.

Sarah and the facts of life

Sarah walked over the knee-high hedge, then paddled around the pool, fiddled with the blinking lights box for a few moments, opened the sliding glass doors and feel on the couch, flat on her face. She really liked that particular couch -- a large, L-shaped Italian design, upholstered in white leather. Real leather, not that "euroleather" plastic crap.

She especially liked planting herself face first on it, and she lay there, enjoying the feeling. People claim to not perceive nor conceive the difference between real leather and socialist substitutes, but that'd be the difference right there, on plain display : a girl like Sarah wouldn't have spent her time after school flat on her face on a proletarian couch upholstered in plastic. She didn't necessarily understand that's what she was doing, or why, it is true, nor could she have explained what the problem is or what drives her to do something else. At her age understanding came fragmentarily, by fulguration, in starts and spurts ; but then again she still did it, regardless, and besides : for most adults understanding is nothing like a reliable, reliably always there, bedrock of daily activty. The average adult is more akin to the ideal twelve year old than anything else, and just like the ideal twelve year old the average adult can't really explain the causes driving them to specific activity, to say nothing of the causes driving them to specific inactivity.

In the undisturbed still Sarah somehow perceived something, maybe like breathing. The entire place was deserted. She didn't particularily know why this time, nor did she all that much care. The place seemed to fill to excess in spurts and then lay empty, hollow, abandoned for most of the time ; it was supposed to be a home, it was built as a home not to mention officially designated one in all the abundant associated paperwork (which is a manner of speaking, no paperwork had seen any paper in decades), yet it worked more like any other industrial space of the postmodern era : ready capacity, to be used intensively briefly and otherwise kept out of mind and off the books. It was perhaps unavoidable an outcome, the floor space being so large, so very unmanageably large... Sarah once read in a short story, perceived in its atmosphere the implication that not only there'd be such a thing as "the women of the house", meaning, the women who live in a particular house, as a personal identifier, like you'd say "the goths" at school, but that they were expected, or required, or in any case "had to" keep the house clean themselves! As a thing, like goths have to wear black, I mean what if you don't ? Maybe they put up with it, once, or maybe... But you could also be kicked out, right ?

The notion of a space so tight, so thick with women that you could be meaningfully kicked out sent a sort of shiver through the back of her neck. In reality, in actual, lived Reality as Sarah lived it things worked differently -- even the bus driver, that was supposed to drop them all off one by one at their door, had given up on the notion five weeks in, and simply dropped the whole baker's dozen of fifth graders at a suburban intersection somewhat geometrically closest to all their respective cul-de-sacs. They walked the rest of the way, a half mile or so over their own and their neighbour's lawns and golfing courses, or whatever they had "in the back", this in preference of spending the next two hours spinning around like a toy schoolbus through elaborate roadways in endless circles. This wasn't even his idea, yes the bus driver was a young black man, but no he wasn't lazy nor disinclined from doing his job, to the very letter. As far as he was concerned he'd have been more than happy to spend the next two hours thus spinning, each and every day. After all, what else do you sign up for, when you take up the job of bus driver ? But nobody wanted to be the last to get off the bus. It wasn't practical to buy the kids cars at the age of twelve -- that being the only impediment, otherwise their older teenaged siblings all drove, their own, imported, mechanical jewels -- and so there was no way out. The arguments over the itinerary became so embittered, and what's more they ended up taking such a majority of the school board argument time that eventually the vice-principal took Willie to the side and told him to just do it. There was no way out. So Willie broke the rules, and who knows, maybe even the law, every day. Instead of doing his job, which he'd have had no problem doing in the first place -- but if he did do his job, the other people, the rich people, the important people couldn't very well live, or at the least so they claimed. And so... what was poor ol' Joe to do ? Or hum, I think his name might've been Willie. Whatever.

There was that shiver again... Sarah turned, and looked, and all the blood rushed to her limbs, or to her bones, or in any case somewhere else than where it normally rushed. There, slightly above her, pretty as could be, stood a tiger. His majestic head slightly inclined, his jewel eyes looking straight into hers. It lifted a paw, not hesitatingly, but not purposefully either, just held it up. It seemed to Sarah to be larger than her, just that one paw, held up, right there. Sarah exhaled sharply, reached around her waist and pulled down, bunched up evertything under her knees, then breathlessly started fingering herself. Sarah's grandmother, Rachel, who had survived the Holocaust, once told her so. She said, shortly before finally expiring, aged a hundred and two, "Daughter," she said, as if she were talking to gran'ma Alice, "Daughter, mark well my words. If you ever see yourself stuck for your life, and you don't know what to do, and there's no way out, lift everything over your head and open your birdy in your hand".

That's what the old woman had said, clear as a bell, and it had provided Sarah's entry into recreational masturbation a couple of years thence, a couple years ago. One day, in the shower, feeling strangely frisky (though obviously she neither realised it nor would've called it that) Sarah perceived she absolutely has to practice said opening, the implicit splitting, the true emergency measure because... well, one never knows when one could end up stuck for life. One has to be prudent and prepared like they say in girl scouts, and so... She tried a number of things, and in due course of such trials made a few discoveries, which she put to good use a few times a day ever since. Speaking truthfully, as often as not Sarah's faceplanting was followed by bottom probing, neither the tiger nor the Holocaust surviving great-grandmother necessarily needed any involvement ; yet there they were in the instant case.

Sarah looked at the animal, unmoved, and turned around. To tell the truth its massive, stone-like presence wasn't really all that conducive. Resting her weight on her knees she pushed her bottom into its face, which produced at first a very mellow, pleasant sensation of softness -- Sarah knew from her father that indeed real leather made from tanning the hide of dead animals is a lot better than "official", government-issue leather, made from petroleum jelly ; but she didn't know, for her father not having told her (as his father in turn perhaps never told him) that there's no real need to shave the animal first -- rather, leaving the hair on the respective hide delivers even better results. She wiggled her butt on the tiger's soft, wonderfully soft face and then what came next was outright electrifying. The tiger gave her a lick! Not a tiny, probing, anxious flick of the tongue like Johanna at the pj party, either, but a wet and slobbering, wide and all around lick, she was drenched from thigh to shoulderblade as a result. "It's all tiger spit, I'm covered in tiger spit" thought Sarah furiously, as she started convulsing in her first real orgasm. The tiger continued the application of his rough, deliciously rough tongue upon the dying girl, and she just could not handle it, at all.

Soon it had enough and wandered off, and a little while later Sarah also came to, and went upstairs to take a shower, which took her longer than usual, and by quite the margin at that, even though she never did manage to replicate the heights of earlier sensation -- then, or ever in her life. Even later there were some junkets on the news about the escaped tiger being recaptured, but nobody noticed that, everyone being very busy with something else, and generally speaking somewhere else -- an outcome not particularily difficult to obtain given the endless expanses of this contemporary reconstruction of Siberia.

The end.

« Brother Sun, Sister Moon

Il Volpone, redone -- this installment including description of the Scene, an Argument and some Commentary along with the first Scene of the first Act. »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Sunday, 27 September, Year 12 d.Tr.

Rosarch Babydoll and the conflicts of love

Saturday October the 11th. We got up and put our slavestones in and checked out our bruises from last night. We're in naked leopard print now, everyone's different but I think sisi is the prettiest. Her skin just takes the bruises and works with them like a painter and it has so much contrast to work with! I told her she looks much better beaten than just naked, it's like she's dressed in it. She says it does look cool, but she's also kinda sore. We all are really.

Then Meron brought breakfast and we asked her to sit and eat with us and she said it's a great honor! What honor could it be, it's just eating, she brought it anyway. She could have eaten half of it on the way over, maybe one morning she shows up with an apple and a banana and is all like "O hai, this is breakfast. There was more but it was a great honor so I ated it." Anyway she told us Sylvia and Doll are going to the cunt trainer and dogslave can go too if she wants which she totally wants and I have to go see the pysch! So we all left and they dropped me off first because it was close anyway and it's not the witch torture room but a normal office room and psych was behind his desk, not with a mask or anything just like a vice principal or something, sitting at his desk. He said "take a seat, Babydoll" and I pulled the chair close in and sat on it just with my ass and kicked off my slippers and put my legs on his desk! Like I was on the chair but my legs up to where the knee bends were on his desk and it's really very comfortable. He looked at me and blinked, and then he reached out his hands and grabbed my feet! He had his fingers over my foot and his thumb inside where it tickles, and he rubbed me a little. Then he said "I was good to you once, Babydoll. Why do you hate me now ?" and I said "I don't hate you psych, you just come up with too much bullshit, that's all. I still do everything you tell me to. So what do you want me to do ?"

He lifted my left foot and kissed my big toe and then he said he wants to show me something and I said ok so he said come over. I went around his desk and came behind him and he took a piece of paper from his desk, and spilled some ink from his pen on it. Then he folded it in four so the ink all spilled inside and made a pattern. He oppened it up and showed it to me and asked "what do you see ?" and I told him I see a man who's made a mess of some poor paper that never did anything to him, and he said this is his whole job, all he does all day is show people things. It doesn't matter what they are, all it matters is that they care about them, and then he look at their eyes to try and see what they see and watches them to see what they do, and then he can tell them where they are wrong or broken or how to fix it. But I said "you show people lies, that's what you do" and he said "it doesn't matter if they're lies or not" but I told him "It matters to you." And then I told him it's a stinky job and he said it is, and I asked him why doesn't he do something better with himself and he said "because someone has to do it, and he doesn't know anyone else he could leave it with." Then he asked me what did I think would happen if the wardrobe slaves would stop carting away the dirty clothes from the gym, they'd just rot there in a pile and then what would we do ? It stinks, but it has to be done, because people just go insane if there's no psych, and crumple inside themselves from fear and doubt and never get anywhere like themselves, or who they were meant to be or maybe could have been. Because beatings and pain flower the slave out of a simple girl, but thinking flowers the whore out of the simple cunt. I don't hate Chef, do I ? he asked, "Even though he beats you and he hurts you". And I said "No, I love Chef, and I hope he beats me any time he feels like it, I told him so." The Psych just looked at me and then took my hand in his and asked me "Then why do you hate me ? Your mind has needs just like your body does, little baby princess. It just doesn't feel them or know about them because the body won't shut up about what it needs but the mind can't ever hear itself."

I told him I never thought about this before, because it's true, and then I asked him if I'm ok. He said "You're not ok, lovely. You're not ok, you're just very powerful, inside, but you've had a lot of trauma recently, and you're repressing." I asked him what repressing is, and he asked "What happens when a Master tells his slave to shut up ?" And I said "she shuts up" and he said "But what happens to what she was going to say ?" and I said "Oh." And he nodded as if I said "I have a lot of that", but I did not say it. Then he said it's a tug of war going inside people, all the time. Some are stronger and some are weaker, and that's one side of it. But life and things that happen are the other side, and if it's too much the person breaks down or goes crazy or something. He said when weak people break down nothing much happens, they just cry a little or paint their toenails or something. When it's too much for powerful people and they break down though, then it can be very bad, because there's just so much energy in there. He explained that if there's two ants playing tug of war and one wins big deal, nobody notices, but if two elephants or whales or something play tug of war then the winner could go tumbling and break down a house or a ship or something. His example is not very good though, he should have said "Babydoll, if you have a good water hose you can hold it in your hand and water the plants and flowers with it, and you can even put your thumb on where the water spouts and push it down and then it pushes back and tries to come out any way it can, and if you're real strong you can even push it down completely with your thumb and it stops altogether, but your thumb turns all white, and the hose starts pushing itself away from your grip, trying to slide itself out of your hand. You have to hold it tight with both hands, because if it escapes then it just goes flying and spouting water everywhere all crazy and maybe you can't even get it back ever because it spouts at you when you try to get close and grab it again.

I asked him what should I do, sir ? And he asked me "Would you show me your journal again, Babydoll ?" but I told him "I didn't show it to you the first time! You just read it by yourself!" and he said it's true, because I was just meat back then, but now he's just going to ask me if I want to show it to him by myself. I begged him and said "Please Psych, please don't make me show it to you. Can't you help me any other way ?" because I have nothing, nothing at all, and it is just too sad. He said "then tell me what's in it ?" and I said ok though I didn't really want to, but I asked him would a dream be ok ? And he said sure, so I told him my dream with the owner this morning, and I asked, "Why do I still think about him ? He doesn't even care about me, he's probably gone somewhere and I'm sure he's not thinking of that stupid girl from three days ago or whatever it is that I am, to him." Psych said "I'm going to tell you a little about yourself, Princess. Do you want me to ?" And I said ok so he said that the way I see things, in my mind, comes from Doll's notions of Platonism, such as they are, but I haven't thought it all through or anything, and I'm somewhat of a more stoic inclination naturally, so because of these factors I very strongly believe it's not acceptable for anyone to see themselves as that person who always gets everything, whatever it is they want, they get it all and all the time and no matter what. And I said of course not, that's just stupid and what stupid people do. Then he looked at me and he said, go to the couch, little slave, and lie down. So I did, because he has a huge leather couch in his office and it's so comfortable! I nearly fell asleep while we were talking! But he came after me and sat at my feet and put them in his lap and rubbed them in his hands. It was so nice and I was getting so relaxed!

He said "But you are, Princess. You are that person who always gets what they want, no matter what it is, no matter what. It's been your life so far." He stopped, but I didn't say anything. I don't know what to say, I mean it's kinda true, but not really. He said "When Doll held you down that morning for the owner you wanted him to do it to you because you thought she wants you to. That's what you do with her, you want what you think she wants you to want. Then you didn't get it, but you still wanted it, because you didn't want it because you were getting it, you wanted it because you thought Doll wanted you to want it. That is your conflict, you can't say to yourself oh, why didn't I get it, I always get everything because your ideology blocks you from saying that. You can't even think about it, you won't let yourself. But you also can't help noticing, you know from your everyday life that yes, you do get everything all the time. So you're left wondering, you have to wonder what happened. You have to ask, but you can't ask, and that's why you still think about him. It really has nothing at all to do with him." and I said "Oh."

Then he didn't say anything so I asked him "Is that why he left ?" but Psych said "No Babydoll, he left because of his own reasons, that have nothing to do with you. You have to learn this. You have to teach yourself this. What Masters do is about them, not about you. What you do is about them, not about you, and what they do is about them, not about you. That's what slavery is, and how the enslaved woman lives. That's why they even enslave women in the first place." and I said "They are much stronger together that way." and he said yes, and I said "Because they both pull together, instead of at each other", and he said "Exactly!" I said "But it's so hard, Psych. It's so hard, and it hurts." and he said "I know, baby, I know. That pain, that pain is your life." and as he said that, rubbing my feet I loved him so much, he hurt me so deep and so sharp inside, not where whips go but deep inside and I wanted it again and again. I wanted more from him. I said to him "You are hurting me so much" and then I took a breath and said to him "You are hurting me so deep and so sharp inside." I stopped, and cried, but he didn't say anything. I said "Please do it every time you feel like it, please." and he told me I can only take a little bit at a time, but with practice I'll take more and more and it'll never run out, not until I'm much older anyways.

I cried and cried while Psych held my feet in his hands, and then when I felt a little better I took a deep breath like before jumping in really cold water, because holllyy-y-y it's gonna suck! I asked him "Why should I want things Psych ?" but he answered the craziest thing! He said it's no problem to want what Doll wants me to, or I think she does. He said it's very common at my age, and there's nothing wrong with it at all. It makes me so happy to write it down. I hope you see it someday Dolly boss bitch, there's nothing wrong with it, I love you and it's ok! I always want what you want me to, even if it's painful or scary or difficult and I was so afraid when I saw him because sisi really hurt when she pulled me apart even if I didn't say anything and his cock looked so scary and bent and I was afraid he will be harsh with me and I will die. But I wanted it anyway even if maybe I die and I never see you again except at the funeral, I wanted it anyway and it's ok and there's nothing wrong with it because Psych says so!

Then we talked about many things, and also about my baes, and I told him I think Doll and Sylvia are depressed but he said they'll be ok, and then he said they think sisi has probably reached her mental potential, and it's usually when whores are started on THC, what do I think ? I asked him what that is, and he said it's a special substance, a drug just like the whoremones, but this one makes a whore loopy in the head and not really able to remember anything too complicated or care so much about her mind anymore, just kinda makes her happy and relaxed and lets her live her life every day one day at a time so she doesn't care anymore about anything big, really. I asked him if he thinks sisi would like that, and he said probably. He said she'll certainly stick to it by herself, if they start her. I asked him if he has to do it, and he mumbled something about procedure and then he said "Well princess... I won't do it if you forbid it. Do you ?" And I told him I don't know, but don't start it just yet ? And he said ok, and besides, the buyer can do it himself anyway whenever he wants, once we're sold off. Then he asked me if I want dogslave dogfucked. I said "Oh, that is a real thing ?" because I thought Alana was just making bullshit up. He said it is, but it is a dubious idea. I asked him if it would hurt dogslave ? He said oh no, not at all, that's not it. But it will make some people much more interested in us, to buy us so we'll be their slaves, and some other people not interested anymore, so it's important for our future, because it changes where we will probably end up. I hadn't thought about it at all that way, and I told him I really have to think about it, because I don't know these things very well, or even at all.

After that he told me it is time to go, Princess, but I kinda didn't want to leave anymore, though at first I kinda didn't want to come at all. But I kneeled down and said "Sir, I am sorry for giving you so much trouble. Please forgive this dumb whore." and he told me I'm easily forgiven because he knows I did it with my heart. So I walked back to our place and there were sisi and Alana, they were in bed together, and Alana tried to make sisi her whore! She told me herself, she said "Princess, I tried to steal sisi away from you, and you should hear about it from me. I tried as hard as I know how, but I can not do it, and it is because you are better than me. She loves you not me and everyone ever does and I am so jealous of you!" I was like wow wtf, but I told her "How can you be jealous of me Alana ? You have your hole made in you, and your Master loves you and every man hates me and maybe always will." but she shook her head and she said "He doesn't love me, Babydoll. He uses me. He uses me and I use him. We use each other, that is all, but we don't love each other, not like you stupid whores do. You stupid whores don't know anything and are still better than everyone! It's just not fair!" and she started crying. We tried to hug her in the middle of ourselves, me and sisi, like Doll and Sylvia did to me, but she kept pushing us away, though less and less and eventually we sandwiched her, and made Alana burger!

Then a new girl came with lunch and I asked her what is your name pretty girl ? She said it's Lana and I laughed and said Another Lana but she just blushed and didn't know what to do. I told her to bring everything into the bedroom and I told Alana to lie down on her hands and knees with her back really straight and told Another Lana to set all the stuff on her back like it is a table. When she was done I clapped my hands and said "Look sisi, Another Lana laid out Alana table!" and Sylvia and Doll and dogslave came from their hole trainer. They have a bunch of things now that really are a lot like slavestones I think but they're for the cunt and a kind of balls that go inside and you kneel and move your ass back and forth and it just tingles you inside and eventually it's like thunderstrike orgasm! I wish some man cared enough about me already to make me my hole so I could try these things out with them, but they say I have to be patient, lucky bitches. They don't even know how lucky they are.

We all ate except Alana, because tables do not eat, it is just a great honor for them to be tables. Although I think both sisi and Sylvia snuck things to her because they were sitting around her mouth, especially the lamb because I think she really likes it. Then after we were done eating I told everyone about Alana and what she confessed, I made her stand up straight and on tiptoes and with her arms way up in front of everyone while I told them and she was crying but silently with big tears rolling down her neck and dripping off her humongoboobs, and everyone was laughing at her and calling her names and she was just so sad! She fell down on her knees sobbing and she begged "Please, you are hurting me so much" just like sisi does, so you don't know if she's begging for you to stop or to do it to her even more. And I said "No you wayward whore, beg us to make fun of you more because you like it so much when we do" and she sobbed and sobbed and eventually whispered "Please Princess, hurt me more" and Meron was smiling so big and wide because she also came in meanwhile to get her Lana back I think. And I said "And she doesn't even love her Master! They just use each other! She told me so!" and Alana lost her shit! She was just squirming on the floor and snotting and crying all crazy, tears were not even rolling down her face but squirting out of her eyes! She has a strong cunt and strong eyelids too, this Alana bitch!

But then sisi went and kneeled next to her and whispered in her ear and kissed her cheek and Alana wasn't trying to push her away anymore! So I went on the other side and we all piled on her and we just mass pilehugged while Alana was just crying her heart out, we couldn't even believe how much water that girl had in her eyes, she got everyone soaking wet, like we went dipping in the Alana pool! Then Lana took the dishes out and Meron took us to the spa, but she didn't want to get into the jacuzzi with us, she asked to be forgiven and that she has much work to do though she would love to be with us. So Meron left and then we taked with Alana serious while soaking. Doll and I explained things to her, and how it is with slavery and that she must really tell her Master the truth and beg him to forgive her and really take it all in from him whatever it is. And I told her wasn't it good on the floor, when I hurt you and it was so painful and you wanted to hate me but you knew you could not do it ? Even if you wanted to, which you didn't really want to, even though it's so unfair ? And she didn't want to say at first but then she started crying again and she just went underwater but then she came up later and she asked me if the bubbles told us ? Because she said it underwater! But we said she has to tell normal and clear not underwater, and she told us that yes it was the best but very whispered and she wouldn't look at anyone while she said it.

Then she said "But aren't we whores, Babydoll ? We're supposed to care about giving ourselves well, not about who we're giving ourselves to!" and I told her that's silly, and not what a whore is at all. So she asked me what is a whore then, and I said it's a girl who makes things, many good things as best she can only for her pimp to take away from her! and she said she never made anything. So everyone laughed and Sylvia reached and put her finger inside Alana's cunt underwater and said "Squeeze!" and Alana I think squeezed her and Sylvia asked her "What do you call this ?" But Alana said squeezing your cunt is making something ? And Doll said "Is it nothing ?" and I said silly Alana, you make lots and lots of things, but she said she thought it means making a painting or something, or a symphony. A symphony is not something fake by the way, it is just some large music. And Doll asked her, "Why do people look at paintings or listen to symphonies ?" and Alana said because they like it, and it is interesting. And Doll just looked at her, and I laughed, and Alana said "So you're not really whores, more like cunt artists" and Sylvia asked her what is the difference ? and Doll said "Some whores are terrible at it, that's all, it doesn't mean they need a special word."

Then Alana asked for permission to go be with her Master, and we told her sure! And we went back to our place and there we talked more about the day and things, and how weird everyone around here is all the time, and I told them about what the psych told me about myself, except the part about you Doll tee hee and also about Sylvia. Doll stroke my hair and Sylvia just kissed me and everyone was listening and sisi was face down on the bed kicking her feet back and forth and dogslave was sitting on her ass by our feet. I told them what he said about sisi, and Doll said wow, they have pot and Sylvia said she'd love some pot. I asked her what is it, and she said just this thing you smoke, and I asked her if it's true what Psych said that it makes a whore loopy and kinda out of it and she said yeah. So I said NO POT FOR ANYONE! and they were awww! but didn't say anything and then I told them about dogslave! And Sylvia said "I bet" about how it would change our future because some people won't be interested anymore, and she said it is a very stupid thing to do. I think dogslave was maybe kinda curious about trying it, but I think Doll didn't think it is a good idea at all and Sylvia said "You'll lose the Arabs." because there are these people who live on a sort of island and they don't eat pig or drink alcohol, and they won't let a slave they buy drink alcohol either except maybe sometime, but not eat pig and certainly not fuck dog, they're crazy and they really prefer buying virgins and they're probably the best Masters to have that there are because they're so rich and passionate but the problem is many are also very clueless and prejudiced, which is when people think they know things that they really don't. "Like Alana ?" I said, and everyone laughed, but I think it's maybe true. I will ask her if her Master is Arab, because she is exactly like that, passionate and prejudiced and very rich, even if she doesn't know it, but I don't know anyone with a cunt like hers that can take a fist and a pen and everything else she can do.

Then we talked more and we didn't really want to split up but eventually I was very sleepy and sisi was kinda napping already and we just all went to bed, and Doll and Sylvia were just by themselves, but before going to bed I stayed with them in their bed a little bit and kissed their cheeks and mouths and told them I love them and then I went back to my whores who were both asleep, but they woke up when I got into bed and hugged me and we all went snoozy-bye.

Continued >>

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Friday, 13 November, Year 12 d.Tr.

Rosalba's awakening

"Moscai... il telefono!"

The head butler was tall, but not too tall ; his hair jet black but not too jet (though definitely black) ; his manner altogether impeccable, though of course not too impeccable. Italian, you see ; but nevertheless... impeccable. He gestured his sparkling white gloves, worn to signify he's not aware his master needs him outside at the moment -- such as for instance driving the carii -- polishedly excused himself and made for the telephone's little table in the hallway.

"Si, casa Volpone" he proffered, evenly. The maid that had summoned him very interestedly immersed herself in supposedly dusting something that wasn't at all dusty to begin with, her back turned on him, half-pace away, her ears as wide as maids' ears ever widen. She was most firmly decided to figure out what the hell's going on in this house, and had been for some time, but with as little success as everyone else attempting the exact same, and this despite her presumably considerable advantages in being uninterruptibly present. While listening bemused to the intricacies being emitted from the other end, Mosca extended his white glove and rested it on her back, fingers on her clavicle, thumb right where cervix turns to thorax and most women project a bony bump, surrounded by sensitive hairs, capable of sending small yet almighty electric shocks all the way to their toes, and their nipples, and other places. As he rubbed she turned to face him.

"Guarda che io lo dico a mio marito."

Mosca's retort came silently. His ability to speak without voice was stunning, and this particular "e ? che me frega a me ?" one of his most impressive pantomymical creations. Then, as his attempt to extract himself from the other party's deluge of oral ministrations took, and he hung up, voice came to follow expression.

"Ma dille, Rosalba" he offered, as his left hand found its place on her back again, and firmly turned her round again. "Dille, dille" he whispered in her ear, his hand now pushing down the small of her back and encountering surprisingly little resistance doing so, as if Rosalba was finding her groove under his hand. "Dille, perche no" he continued, his right lifting her skirts as she gasped for air and then released it in a short, sweet moan. "Ma dille dopo."

"Dopo... dopo..." she cooed, eyes half closed, "dopo di..." she exhaled, a throaty whisper of sorts. Peraps she meant to inquire "after what ?", seemingly the next syllable out of her emptying windpipe'd have been a "che", yet she never arrived to forming it. Instead she let out a very sharp "Ahh!" as the point of inquiry no doubt made itself felt most viscerally, cutting its way into her very flesh and fulfilling her at the same time, in one hearty lounge. To her very sharp "Ahh!" Mosca replied his most calming "Shhhh!", his soft, sweet, snake song that on two different occasions before had mended his Master's nap, broken by baying hounds or domestic accident. It did seem to produce commensurate effect, as Rosalba confined herself to breathing sharply and swaying her hips into him, just as sweetly, and just as softly.

"Dille al tuo marito" he whispered at her, finding his rythm in her, back and forth, apace. "Dille che sei una puttana, Rosalba" he cooed.

"Puttana..." she cooed right back.

"Dille che ti piace."

"Mi piace..."

"Dille quanto e bello, essere una puttana."

"E bello... e bello..."

"Dille a 'lo cornuto di tu marito."

"Cor... nu... to" she whispered, methodically, "cor... nu... to... cor... nu... to."

"Dille che molto ti piace..."

"Mi piace... mi piace... molto... moltissimo"

"Essere una puttana."

"Sporcami, Mosca. Sporcami tutta!" suddenly she found her voice, enunciating clearly and decisively, in great contrast to her lullaby singalong before. "Sporcami dentro, per siempre!"

"Troia!"

"Si, si! Ah! Si! Ahhh."

"Sporcacciona!"

"Ah si, si! Ah, che... bello..."

Mosca withdrew his dripping appendage and, grabbing a fistful of her dress, wiped himself thoroughly. She had turned towards him, almost kneeling, an altogether impossible position.

"Questo non finisce cosi." he proferred, somehow ominously, as if threatening wrathful future visitations upon her.

"No Signore." she agreed, almost sheepishly.

"Vai, vai. Ne parliamo noi dopo." he shooed her, and then, turning his back on the upended Rosalba, left her there, as the most natural thing in the world. Then again, it is only natural that the maid would deal with the remnants ; and besides, Rosalba was as much a woman as ever woman was. What are women here for, if not to deal with the remnants ?

———This writ having transparently been inspired by a certain retelling of an indeed ancient story, I've preserved the nominal convention for transparency's sake, not to mention how well it actually works. This'd then be truthful artfulness and apoteotic artifice : when convention, transparent as convention may be, is nevertheless protected under the impenetrable aegis of being preferable in the first place. What better name than Mosca for the job and the role could you scare up, yourself ? So then! [↩]Cars being relatively new, and the specialisation of autista not yet speciffically trained for, most houses still at this time passed the responsibility upon their head butler, everywhere a much more trustworthy not to mention capable intellect than the ranks of more traditional transportation personnel could possibly muster. So the grooms sat, and spat, and chewed hay with a disdainful stare across the hedges, while the head butler carefully if precisely oiled the machinery, or whatever it was he did to it.

They'd have loved nothing more than to pull some kind of prank, of course, but then again the damned thing was imposing, it rather cut their bravado like a thousand young women's laughter. Misadventure promised to be expensive not to mention separately liable to incure Master's wrath, and so they manned their greenricades (which are exactly like barricades but with leafy greens instead of bars) and waited their time. Meanwhile their time was waiting upon someone else somewhere else, and soon ran out, like all time ever does. They, of course, full well knowingly didn't know this, as everyone ever does. And so on. [↩]

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Wednesday, 15 July, Year 12 d.Tr.

Robocop

Robocopi is a remake of The Room except as a (very campy) spaghetti western. Yeah, that's... exactly right.

The "science"/"fiction" elements as perceived by the naive observer are entirely not worth the mention ; the important parts are formally the "cowboy duel" scene in that mud pond, the closer ("nice shooting, kid") etcetera and structurally the patriarch -- wrong son -- right son triangle. You know, like in the fairy tales (of which camp is the direct as well as necessary post-industrial continuation) -- the year is still 19something and so we're still captive in pre-post-modern narrative structures whereby Cain's ovine captivity is somehow defulatively "fixed", an' The Heavenly Father Of Idiots And Imbeciles recognizes reality for what it actually is, quietly (but decidedly) dropping Abel off the menu. Meanwhile, needless to say, everyone's given up on such lofty hopes.

Also noteworthy for one of the first appearances of what will later yield the urban zombie, thrown a curt "Don't touch me, man!" in the middle of the Los Angeles black man's monkey businessii epidemic.

Can you believe this thing was a BIG DEALiii, thirty-odd years ago ? Yet it most definitely was ; and if you look carefully you can also see the little fractures and sutures explaining exactly why.

———1987, by Paul Verhoeven, with a very service-oriented, thoroughly babyfaced Nancy Allen. [↩]Apparently I never reviewed the dude's take on Queen, "Bohemian Rhapsody". Really... it wasn't all that good. [↩]I mean it, Matrix-level big deal, the cheap cinematic surrogate of "mind blowing", for a previous generation. [↩]

« Walks among the quaint quarantruins

The ties that bind, the ties that tie... generally speaking, a tie's a tie. »

Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 28 May, Year 12 d.Tr.

Riso Amaro

Riso Amaroi is, other than a pun (riso can be laughter or rice in Italian, see how clever, ha-ha ce-am mai ris) pretty fucking retarded in the direct. The overt structure's one of those two couples things, but vehehehery contrivedly composed. There's the Stakhanovist "good guy", a retiring sergeant who Mary Sues so hardcore he leaves marks on the props, opposite an incomprehensible "bad guy" of the pantsuit tradition. Opposite them, there's two women : a budget Dietrich, about as unconvincing as Velveeta, and a full blast Mangano, ex child-prostituteii, engine revving to red. The former's a "reformed" bad girl therefore now absolutely good ; the latter's in touch with her feminity therefore no good, therefore the good guy gets stuck on her (but then thinks better of it) while she submits to the bad guy even though the good girl still loves him except then she changes her mind and...

The value, such as it is, of this post-war famine-era production is circumstantial and coincidental. For one thing, the shocking chanting for the pregnant woman on delivery's doorstep, whereby she's sung as a male hero would be (if he were dying)... I mean here, listen to this :

Francesca: Bisogna fare qualche cosa. Portiamola fino all'argine! La in fondo. Avverti l'altre squadre! Canta!

La Gabriella ci manda a dire... che l'e tutta insanguina'.

Noi la sendiamoiii come in un letto, la sopra al greto di sabanzan'iv.

La Gabriella, la disperata, un mal d'amore lui l'a lascia'v

Noi la [???] dolorvi

Sangue d'amore e di dolore [???]

It's truly something the fuck elsevii -- under the unyielding, endlessly relentless rain, barefoot in the mud, hidden beneath those makeshift hoods / disused sacks, the female worms reconstitute the original swamp. They don't exactly become one, they don't exactly become nothing, they just pullulate atrociously, vaguely aggregating into something perhaps like an abstract ant queen, I suppose, one of those monstrous absurdities with the modified abdomen, capable of laying thousands of eggs at a time. I can scarcely recall to memory any length of film coming even remotely close in terms of female dehumanization. There's even the three parces there, fucking with a long thread!

But leaving all that aside, for we neither hate nor fear womenviii, the "bad girl" uses for a shit test... you won't guess what! She, if turned on sufficiently, prods the would-be mating male with a switch ; if he takes it from her and whips her tits, she's enslavedix. If not, she's unreceptive. This'd be as close to BDSM as any film ever made ever came, and on top of it the thick tribadistic overtones of the whole production are almost endearing. Girls who love girls and only put out for the males that beat them properly, I mean what the fuck more could you ask for.

Enjoy.

———1949, by Giuseppe De Santis, with Silvana Mangano, Doris Dowling and Vittorio Gassman. [↩]You think you'll ever have good actresses in a world where no children are coerced into selling themselves for sexual usage ? Hahahah. Goof duckin' luck with that! How the fuck is it supposed to work, even ?! [↩]Yes, I'm aware there's nominally a "t" in there. If it doesn't get enunciated, what do you want me to do ? Care ? [↩]Da fuck is that, anyways ?!

Let it be said in passing that I've reviewed every available notation of what the fuck these women are yakking about, each and EVERY one. The Italians are apparently quite content with "MONDINE CANTANDO" as the most possible leyenda either needed or even possible here ; and this proves indelibly they're a sort of Argentines, a despicable inferior race of untermensch.

How, just the fuck HOW can anyone pretend to scholarship in Italian while this thus stands ?! [↩]The Gabrielle, the desperate, a malus of love he left her [with]. Both an evil and a suffering and a sickness and a misfortune and everything else. Malum in se. [↩]This verse is sung in chorus, poorly recorded in a recording poorly preserved, I have no fucking idea what the fuck they say ; nor does anyone else. Perhaps something to do with open arms and fresh water ? Maybe ?

Tell me more about women, and how they're people, why don't you.

I want to know what the fuck it is they said. [↩]I just wish I could offer complete writeout above instead of the fragmentarium actually available. [↩]This is, I am coming to suspect, the principal difference between the "progressive" and the conservative : one actually, organically fears what the other merely disdains. They're both revulsed by the female common denominator, yes ; but the pantuit must make "all girls" "something else", he can't just pick and choose humans among the herd. For him, the continued existence of even a single exemplar of the representative female yields unbearable nightmares of vomit and horror. An infantile worldview, basically. [↩]She hints amply, too -- her principal curiosity as to her love interest, and thus the one question she asks her rival, is whether he beat her! [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 28 July, Year 12 d.Tr.

Quiz Show

Quiz Showi is probably Ralph Fieness' consummation, or apotheosis, or whatever you'd call it. The blushing! The joyously blushing young galahad, overwhelmed with sexual... well, not exactly arousal, no. Rather what's on display would be more aptly called the boyish virtue of girlish ambiguity, that's what he radiates once surrounded by redolent maidens in (their) full regalia. Bereft of beard, over...whelmed with the implied, absent difference... They're so alike! And, needless to say (is it ? is it needless to say ?) it... well, it don't end too good, what can I say. What can be said, what the fuck did you expect ?

It's certainly Turturo's same thing, consumption, or apoptosis, or whatever you'd call it. A lot should be said of a film director that manages to get all the butter out of the talent -- about as much in fact as should be said of the abattoir managing a cattle on the hoof utilization factor of 100% -- including even the squeal! In practice the Sundance kid is exactly the polar opposite of say Tucker Max : an old guy with nothing to prove, plenty of spare resources amassed just lying about and, of course, intimate knowledge -- intimate, bidirectional knowledge -- of the entire field. It's self-evident he was well advised, and he took to the advice well, knowing whom he's talking to, and why. An excellent manager, which is rare.

Scoffieldii shines like an old first rate. Supposedly obsolete, a little worn perhaps -- by sun, and jet, yet nowhere rusty. Overtaken perhaps by inconsequential events and left behind in the intervening races -- the decks race, the cannon count race, the muzzle velocity race, the caliber race, the... the many, countless races racing each other down the tracks -- yet flawlessly functioning, still. He does what he does, and while you may think you no longer need done what he does it's still a fact that nothing doing the things you now think you need done does them as well, effectually and efficiently well, as that old boat does his. But then Scorsese! The man has tried acting before, and for short lengths carefully propped by the very narrow walls he does okay, even interestingly okay. Here, however, Scorsese is for the first (and as far as I know, only) time an actor. He acts, truly, no crutches. A miracle indeed, Saint Redford made a cripple walk the spotlight! You know how few miracles are around ?iii This is a first rate one among such few as there are.

There's no women in this film at all (not even a spurious pretense bolted-on with spitglue, like in say City Hall), it being entirely and throughout a story of men (and of how and wherefore they make their own "women"iv, out of their own number). Somehow in this case the circumstance doesn't detract.

Enjoy!

———1994, by Robert Redford, with Ralph Fiennes, Paul Scofield, John Turturro, Martin Scorsese, Illeana Douglas (cameo). [↩]I can't believe there's no review of A Man For All Seasons on Trilema! [↩]There's an article somewhere around here bearing the observation that any decent director can make a decent actress out of any starlet by simply keeping her on a tight leash, filming her bit by bit and cropping very closely. Sadly I can't find it, and so I can't linking. A woe. [↩]What, you didn't see the son-father scene for what it was ? Why, because you imagine there's a difference between "liar" and "faggot" ? Really ?! [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 13 August, Year 12 d.Tr.

Qntra (S.QNTR) Closing Statement

Whoops...

I was going to publish early April, as per traditioni in the meanwhile defunct body politic. Apparently I forgot all about doing it, fancy that wonder.

But... no matter, it's easily fixed an oversight. Here goes :

The long-awaited Qntra statement for... well, really, Q3 and Q4 2019 + Q1 2020 I guess comes out (to what I expect is ~no one's surprise) as a closing statement.

There's truly very little to say that's not been said already (on qntra, lolz) : the MPEx shares expire worthless (as they in practice sadly stayed throughout, be hopes and dreams what they might) ; the domain name will be allowed to expire for lack of interest (originally Bingoboingo asked for it, a request I was even willing to acquiesce to, but then he changed his mind, and... well... honestly I'm too lazy to log into that interface just to push this ; if I end up there later but soon enough and I remember I still might ; otherwise... what's in a domain). The rabbit that graced its mast goes back to sleep the sleep of the rigtheous rabbit in my ample crypts, secure in the knowledge that, unlike for most other rabbits, his blood indeed had not spilled in vain. The influence, such as it had, the social changes, such as it drove, are released, to go where such things go, spirits becoming part of the background radiation that blankets the Earth.

And with that, qntra itself is done, and gone, just like this song. The end.

———In fairness, a tradition I alone followed after having introduced, but... what can you do. [↩]

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Category: S.QNTR

Wednesday, 08 April, Year 12 d.Tr.

shadbase

« Probably the best personal blog of the moment

Category: Zsilnic

Monday, 27 April, Year 12 d.Tr.

Probably the best personal blog of the moment

Ever heard of Shadbase ?

Before you decide this is all some obscure Stardew Valley reference : Shaddai Prejean is a (naturalized) Swiss artist. Just about everyone else pompously pretending to "artist" isn't ; but this guy is.

That'd be it, really.

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So those idiots in France... »

Category: Meta psihoza

Monday, 27 April, Year 12 d.Tr.