Amarcord

Amarcordi is probably Fellini's best film, and at the same time an incomprehensibly bizarre excursion in paracinematographic virtuosity. Or perhaps it is he that is the sane one, and indeed cinema has nothing to do with the stage, or literature ; perhaps it is indeed comicbookery, pulp fiction, perhaps that's really all it ever was -- perhaps the continuity is just imagined, perhaps films indeed are just a succession of stills misinterpreted.

I was going to center this review on the banal historical / "toxic" fact that indeed fascism, in its original presentation, was little more and little besides the rebellion of economically worthless urban youth, despicable scum devoid of means in proportion to their lack of skill, ability, or for that matter earnest desire to do anything worth doing. Mussolini came to power on the dubious merits of the idiotic herds of lxs nixas or whatever they call themselves these days, the abundant (and abundantly clueless) pile-ups of urban fermentation, they perfectly incapable to use the abundant urban infrastructureii to their most modest benefit yet perfectly capable to lie, and misrepresent, and deflect, and avoid.iii It was the apprentice riots of 1595 except in 1925 (Italy has been behind the times for millennia), it was -- then as now -- the retarded, failed cocksuckers going about wearing masks and herpderping about how "their lives are more important than my profits" as if their lives somehow were something, lawd's mercy.

Yet this'd be a fabulous waste : all that is true, of course, but it doesn't have anymore to do with Amarcord than it has to do with curdled mooncheese. There's this woman, you see, "madre e donna" as they say, an insufferable, astringent, screechingly unbearable shitwreck of an old woman. And then, she dies. And then, the hole she leaves behind is outright palpable, Fellini somehow makes that scumbag of a dumb cunt leave a bigger hole behind her than any splendiferous hero you care to name. Nobody dies as dramatically as this naghag. I can't even explain how he does it, except for the meagre observation that he leverages silence. I've never seen anyone this good, Tornatore's made a decent career out of trying his hand on this one Fellini masterpiece, again and again. And again.

Genuinely, deeply, warmly human, though caricatures, for being caricatures. The father will be missed. You sit, in the darkness of the movie room, luscious nude woman curled beside you, her ample tits and ampler hips somehow not yours but his now, and an underscore of his point, as if he fucking owned her, not you. You sit there and you miss his father, for no reason, absolutely no reason conceivable. The man was an inconsequential, inept asshat. You never even met! There's nothing there to miss, there never was. Yet, these freehand sketches of suspended characters, seemingly drawn with no care and no craft, as distant from anything like dramatic tradition as to not even interact to one another, nevertheless signify. How ?

I do not know. The scene's not even in the film, where the lone man whose wife has died sits at the table, by himself, and there's the missing everything that ever was. Everything that ever was! No less, and entirely of the imagination. Why is it that watching the "insane" yelling for a woman from atop a tree works to make this point ? How's any of this work ?!

I do not know.

———1973, by Federico Fellini. [↩]Somebody with an idea of how Greek's supposed to sound actually got out of bed in the morning to come to a building someone else built so these fuckwads could razz instead of struggle with Greek pronunciation "because it's cooler that way". Heeerp. [↩]"Of course. They had to."

I'm sure you've heard it all a million times, and with the same impudent pretense to innocence that's truly the most grating thing in peasants. Survivors, you see, "they have to", you see, somehow magically immune to the only important question : what, asks the Father, about your neck makes it so valuable it shouldn't be cut ?

No, "it's there" doesn't damn well cut it, as an answer. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Sunday, 06 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

A Place in the Sun

A Place in the Suni is as appalling a piece of propapulp as ever was churned out in support of America's "abstinence only" abuse of adolescent sexuality & associated psychoses.

"Nigger uhh I mean Boy ehmmm... Young man!"

goes the story narrative,

"don't reap the low hanging girl next door."

Right ?

"Because you never know when Massah's pretty young virgin daughter takes a shining to you. Which'll be consummatedly complete yet perfectly inadherent to any explication (seeing how it coincidentally makes no fucking sense nor ever happens as such, no girl ever fell for a guy for no reason ; but nevertheless it's what we need you to act as if you believe so we're gonna make it look as if it happened on our consciousness subversion machine) aaanddd... yeah!!! Wouldn't you be sorry then! Gotta save yourself for marriageii, boi. Gotta save yourself until we're well and done with you ; and don't you forget it, neither."

This apparently makes sense, somewhere (or rather -- as troglodytism knowns no bounds, apparently there's places under the Sun blessed with such retarded young males as'd actually buy into this completely insane not to mention self-contradictory six-ways-from-Sunday fecal compactioniii). Because the self-obvious (not to mention quite traditional, to say nothing of naturally occuring)

"Oh by the way lovergirl, once we're married there's going to be a maid living in with us. Well, mostly you, really, I got shit to do. I think she's pregnant, too. You know how they go."

apparently never happened or something. Lalala, nobody in Montgomery, Alabama ever heard of it, so there!

Anyways. Montgomery (Clift) is perfectly worthless as the mysterious youth of subnormal intelligence who's been raised by wolves (personified by a remarkably-lookalike rendition of Virginia Woolf, not merely physically but especially intellectually) in a cabin in the woods somewhere who otherwise spent his first two-three decades mostly keeping to himself / trying for a Norman Bates impersonation. He's worthless for sundry and countless reasons, among which boundless abundance I'm going to arbitrarily pick one : when he's laying on her chest, "asleep", his neck's extended in her arms, exposing a self-obvious knife fight mark. This fails to match the portrait of the shy and silent "strong" type, he makes you want to see his inner arms, fully expecting to encounter the black streaks in their usual places.

None it works any better, not really. The young hussy is revving a (slightly tinny, yet) engine under the ample hood, but she never gets to do much with it besides revving -- and this to the production's great loss, truly. The overpowering idea the viewer's left upon seeing Taylor in this thing necessarily goes along the lines of "gosh-howdy, if they just let her ad-lib she'd probably have done much better than this script". She never gets one good line, it's all Tin Alley hackathon through and through. And supposedly it comes from something them hillbillies actually thought a play. I really can't imagine how Americans managed their daily life in civilised society. If they were so apt to mistake that for a play, they probably mistook hatchets for cutlery and dung for perfume. "Don't worry, it'll fall off once it dries" America over there, born and bred.

People Idiots go around acting like spending this period of her life shooting porn is some kinda waste of a girl's time ; but having seen what they did to poor ol' Lizzie... there's really worse things she could do. Signing with MGM not even chief on the list (though surely towards the top).

———1951, by George Stevens, with a very visibly teen-aged Elizabeth Taylor. [↩]Apparently I never reviewed Double Dynamite, oddly enough. [↩]Fecal compactions are the natural byproduct of anal retentives "trusting their gut". Theirs is just as full of shit as everyone else's ; but under the pressure specific to them... well, it compacts, whadda ya want from me. [↩]

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La nostalgia... »

Category: Trilematograf

Friday, 30 April, Year 13 d.Tr.

A nice time at the movies

"Omg, that was such a rush!"

"I know, right ?"

"Totally!"

"You were something else, bazongas flapping out in the breeze... Hahaha."

"That's just because I'm way more of a whore than you'll ever be."

"Nuh-uh."

"Too bad nobody came along."

"Haha. Yeeeeahhh... too bad..."

"What do we do now ?"

"What."

"I don't want to go home. Do you ?"

"Naw. My mom's boring."

"How about the movies ?"

"The... movies ?!"

"Yeah. But like... I mean, we'll have to do things."

"Like... what things ?"

"You're asking me what kind of things we'd have to do at the movies ?"

"Yeah. That's what I'm asking you."

"Oh... I don't know... We'd have to take things off. Of course."

"What, you mean be all naked in the dark ? And play with ourselves ?"

"Yeeeaah..."

"That's not really enough, is it ?"

"You mean, for real whores ? Like us ?"

"Yeah."

"I guess you're right. That's what all the girlfriends have to do anyway."

"Hahaha. Yeah."

"How about this : you take the bottom, I take the top. We work each row, one at a time. Whenever there's a single dude, we just move over, sit next to him, then whisper in his ear 'How about a blowjob for a twenty ?' and we suck him off. You keep moving up, I keep moving down, when we're sitting next to each other we count the dough. Whoever's got more is the real whore."

"And what, gets the herp-ease to prove it ?"

"That's a myth."

"What's a myth ?"

"Herpy-z. There's no such thing."

"Yeah-huh. I've seen a mockumentary on TV once and everything."

"Oh, you saw it on TV, did you. It was on TV. The prostitution rests."

"How about mono ?"

"Monogamy ? You can't catch that. It's not gonadgeous."

"No, mononuclidosis."

"Oh. Yeah... That's a real thing. I read about that on the one website that's like, the whole Internet all by itself."

"That dude sure makes a lot of shit up, though."

"Yeah. Not the important parts, though."

"Now how do you know that ?"

~ * ~

"We could do this forever, just so we don't get cancer of the cat. Or lockjaw."

"Yuh. Gud dumn I cun't upun mumuff nuw."

"Hey! You two! Freeze!"

"But... I mean, like... what's the officer, problem ?"

"Just get in the fucking car."

"Okay, okay. Jeeze."

"What do you want with them anyway ?"

"I know this lanky bitch is a cinch ringer for those eight larceny from the person beefs. We oughta take her downtown and put her on a Show Up or twelve."

"Uhhh..."

"What the hell, Carl! You know she's a whore."

"She looks fifteen. Maybe."

"What, with those hooters on her ?!"

"That dun mean nuttin. My sister in law's cousin's nine years old, got more rack on her than a whole shelf of Sports Illustrated."

"Yeah. Right. Your cousin in law's sister's feeding that hog bitch of hers too much. I've seen the way she shovels that potato salad. How old are you, bitch ?"

"I'm fifteen. But she's sixteen. It should count for something."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean ?!"

"She lets me hang out with her, doesn't she ? That's almost as good as sixteen."

"Ahahahaha. Listen, Max... they're not streetwalkers. Whatever the hell they are. Just a coupla beautiful young sexy kids with a mother to support, odds are."

"Yeah. Right. I dunno, Carl. They sound just like whores to me."

"You know how tough it is for a girl to get three square meals and a roof over her head in this town. Let's give them a break, cut them loose."

"Man... and what else ? They're broke, too, maybe ? That tween ass right there ain't enough to buy a pass from me. If she ain't too shy to show what her derby's like... maybe, I say just maybe I might give her a break."

"Jesus Max, she's got a pair of thighs on her... As soft as a bunny's fur."

"That why they call you Bunny, bitch ?"

"Are you two done interviewing already ?"

"What ?"

"Quit yakking and start fucking."

"Yeah. Are you two a coupla faggots or something ?"

"Sweethearts, Bunny! We've rolled up a coupla hand-holding sweethearts over here. Driving all day in their automobile, exchanging kisses all the while."

~ * ~

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

"Fill me up, Daddy!"

"Yeeeeah!"

"Give it up, cop."

"Holy god that was a rush!"

"Better than that old bag raising the kids back home. Ten thousand times better."

"And you wanted to stick them up with larceny. What if they got a deuce ?"

"That'd have been a pity. I don't remember the last time I had a good time with a whore."

"I don't remember the last time I had a good time fucking. Bitches, how much the ride ?"

"Just give them a hundy. Here!"

"You give them a hundred. I'll give them two. If you two whores ever move your whore asses off my street, I'm gonna find you and croak you. Got that ?"

"Yes Daddy."

"Does that mean we got like a licence to whore, now ?"

"Damn straight. You're bonded, licensed, the works. Now turn loose, get the fuck back to work."

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Saturday, 17 April, Year 13 d.Tr.

A bottle of whiskey for me ; and a can of whiskas for the missus

You know ?

In other hatefacts, what do you suppose a totalitarian state even is ? Or rather : how do you propose to make the difference between this here present "popular democracy"i and that there hitlerist-fascist abomination whereby... the state... was going to... what was it going to do ? Answer all questions, issue all boots, mother all children and whatnotelse. Right ?

When the state moves away from being a well oiled mechanism fine-tuned towards the solving of the few problems it excels at solving in the few domains it's adequate to, and instead becomes a troglodytism approaching all problems in all fields but not even getting close to solving anything, in the fein but vain hope that it needn't be useful at all but merely through being ubiquitous shall live forever... well, that's when you know there's not much left in it.

There was a police bus getting in the way down the pedestrian streetii a few days ago ; and emblazoned on this bus the idealized likeness of a dumb cunt in uniform, painting the face of some kid. 'Cause they're so close to the public and deeply beloved and whatnot, don't you know -- meanwhile for the second time in this country's brief but happy history the police just got stomped by the general public. Literally, stomped, broken arms and heads, the works ; and the first time wasn't so long ago. Gotta love dat femstate herpy-derp, huh!

'Cause that's what happens when you give the dumb cunts uniforms : the uniform breaks off of them, exactly like if you were trying to dress trees. Yet, importantly, and lest we forget : the herded females are victims in this just as much as the state is (meaning not at all) : you did it, not they nor them but you. The idea, transparently self-obvious like Bremsstrahlung shining right through "shielding", is that if you make her wear stateclothes playing with kids once, maybe she'll think of the state when playing with kids all the time. Maybe she'll think of the state. Maybe the state.

There ain't no chance in hell the state's gonna survive these final days, of courseiii ; but like retirement homes are full of "fighters" engaged in a "brave" (really ? what alternatives were there ?) soi-dissant "battles" with cancer, so are dusks, zeniths and apusuri filled to the brim with ubiquitous states "winning" the war on everything.

Good luck si-un praz verde, mmmkay.

———Also known as socialism 3.0 -- that thing whereby the state's there to "provide" for all "a person's" needs (as the state defines persons and needs). [↩]The notion of police breaking the rules is so very... how shall I put it. Your forefathers would think you unhousebroken. That's the only way to say it, civilisation doesn't enter into the discussion like descriptive geometry isn't a cat problem. The god damned litterbox is too much for your sad ilk, what science, what technology. [↩]What need does Costa Rica even have of a state in the first place ? What need at all ?

What, all so when the stupid cunts of foreign realms come over there's somebody here to extend a wholly baseless (but superficially satisfying) feeling of "representation" ? Spend all that time and money so other people's unruly, unloved, aged, fat and stupid wives have emotional support ?! At your expense ?!

There's absolutely no need for there to be anyone here, waiting by the phone in case some nuland or other feels neglected and would like to call someone. Let the UStards deal with their own mental issues. Let them deal with their own despair at their gnawing inadequacy for life and irrelevancy for the world. There's absolutely no need and certainly no reason to get mixed up in any of that!

Other people might be stupid, that's good enough for them ; but thereby it doesn't follow everyone's gotta be just as stupid too. [↩]

« The crazy world &c

The Cabin in the Cotton »

Category: Zsilnic

Monday, 17 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

A beautiful image

A bench stands on a strip of green, ancient, wooden, immutable. Black locusts bloom behind, a lazy river carries waterbugs and presumably pike upfront.

On the bench, a man and a girl are sitting. She's wearing a halter and a thigh-high pin skirt. His hand is firmly wrapped around her slender, nervous neck. She's kissing him submissively. Her roller blades are off, her bare feet up on the bench, on either side of her behind, heels digging into wood. Her knees press together, holding the skirt up, holding up like a flag of her newfound station girlish underpants all bunched up.

Her friend, rollerblades still on her feet, hotpants still in place, lays in the dirt at their feet, her straight elbows supporting her upturned breast in its upbeat quivers. She has her friend's big toe in her mouth, the other toes pressing on her jaw. She's sniffing the wetspot, nostrils flared, a tiny drop of sweet honeydew sparkling on the tip of her nose. Yesterday they made the best of friends, and tomorrow they'll make the best of lovers. In between the two, today's present, extending itself, endlessly, like a sweet drop of honeydew.

~ * ~

The bitches pestered me until I caved in and bought an industrial blender, it could be said. It wouldn't be said by me, or by them, but then again what's said's perforce rarely going to be said by us : most of the market for sayings goes for idiots' sayings, and idiotic sayings. Somehow the amplest demand follows the lowliest, lowest quality goods -- like in any other market. The naive expectation of "rational markets", an unwarranted extension of the situationi in the British Empire's London's most select of quarters (ie, including Bultitude Senior, but excluding any woman he ever fucked, and any maggots that ever crawled back from it) a century ago, whereby increased supply improved overall happiness through (implicitly) judiciousii allocation of resources long gave way to "equality", whereby increased supply ever spawns more and more of Elena's sleepless worms. The more of everything the less of everything, and especially lesser everythings.

In actual reality, they told me how great it is, and inquired for support. I readily extended it, as I readily do, and in the usual terms : "if it's as great as you say, why not". "Because it's a lot of money", doh. In the end though, that is precisely what money's for : to acquire the best there is, and good stuff generally -- and besides, we certainly spent more on fruit. After a moment's hesitation, driven by that old "well... what if it isn't going to turn out as great as it promised ?" nevertheless the grand is spent, the blender's boughtiii, and let me say plainly it's quite as great an addition to any slutfest as they had said. If you're going to blend at all, go VitaMix or go home, there's no two ways about it. The stuff that comes out tastes differently, for having been reduced to its atomic components by the 2.whatever horsepower engine. No, seriously, we have to keep it hidden lest the local kids attempt to mount it on their bikes ; it could probably blend blenders ; it's just a nice thing to have around in these end days of polyvynil & viscose underpants on all civillian butts everywhere. A lasp gast of white man's industry & savoir faire, as the toilet flushes to Africa ?

~ * ~

She enjoys her ankles tied together while she's fucked, a belt or a ziptie serving just as well. One bites rosy flesh painfully, deliciously. The other's so overwhelmingly domineering, so harsh, so inescapable. Rubbing her ankles together merely helps drive home her helpless state and the helplessness of her condition. She can appreciate all of them for their own reasons, she's clever, sensitive like that. Rope's good too, so is a firm hand grasp, index separating her feet or no, even duct tape, though it's a pain afterwards. And electric cable, also biting, metal chain, with lock emplaced or just wrapped until the legs are too heavy to lift on quad exertion alone. She secretly dreams one day to be put in cement, and thinks this secret dream's her own, unknown to all, impenetrable to her owner. Now she finds different. Though she long suspected, on some level, published certainty's a different matter, and public exposure a delight in its own ways. So she paints her toenails, and she dreams.

When she's not dreaming, when she's living it, the rod inside, she whimpers, curled up, legs to the side, heavy tits battling against nearby folded thighs. The fetal position fuck, whimpering, biting her nail sometimes, biting her lip other times, she fucks on her side, eyes rolled up, breath bated and released in the particular manner of the subdued female mammal. She doesn't like it dry and he doesn't force her that way. She loathes to admit it, others love the sudden, sharp demand, but she prefers, so much prefers the well lubricated, whispered slide in and out. She doesn't know how to cum just yet, though doubtless one day she will learn, or rather discover, and the miracle's not long away, not far away. Soon.

For now, she fucks and whimpers and he spends in her.

The end.

———Speaking of which, did you ever see that most amusing picture of the cheap "suit" Americans on their cheap "War Production" cruiser, receiving the visit of some Japanese fellows dressed in 1880s British fashions ? It's quite the sight, let me fish it for you. Here :

[↩]This judiciousness means something quite akin to "let the victor have the spoils", and necessarily "your daughter is to be sold, like so much fresh fish, on the open market, to the gold importers". It is not merely orthogonal, but actually opposite, to any contemporary notions of "reducing inequality", or any period "Reformist" nonsense along the lines of Huxley & co,

We must therefore concentrate on producing a single equalized environment; and this clearly should be one as favourable as possible to the expression of the genetic qualities that we think desirable. Equally clearly, this should include the following items. A marked raising of the standard of diet for the great majority of the population, until all should be provided both with adequate calories and adequate accessory factors; provision of facilities for healthy exercise and recreation; and upward equalization of educational opportunity.

No, the poor shouldn't have food, no, the stupid shouldn't have sunlight. They should rot, and they'd better rot, in isolation. In the ghetto, in the five points tenements, in the swamp that bore them. There is strictly no space for human civilisation anywhere, except as carved out of their tears. Their "justified", if you ask them (do not ask them), tears. [↩]Fancy that wonder, a plane Made In The USA used to fit comfortably within a thousand dollars. You could have a new car for three hundred. The Indians "sold" their land at a dollar-forty an acre. Can there be greater luxury than a whole grand blown on a blender ?

I'm sure the future will tell. [↩]

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King Creole »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Friday, 21 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

3 + 3 = 6

That's not math.

You realise this, do you ? Oneplusoneequalstwo has nothing to do with math whatsoever, it's about as arithmetic as business cards. Those also have numbers on them. And signs !!11!

The elementary addition table, showing the arbitrary array of symbols you've arbitrarily drafted into representing underlying mathematical reality to your crummy senses is alli axiomatic. There's no substantial difference between 1 + 1 = 2 and 1 + 1 = 3 or / 3 / 7 =ii for that matter! As long as you stick to unambiguous usage any symbol's just as good as any other, and altogether perfect at the task of... signifying. Which is mere representation, it does not involve the thing represented to any degree. If some day someone tells you I said you're a cuckster doofus, that has nothing to do with me. It's a representation of what I said, not what I actually said ; and the same's true for Math.

Once the entire pile-up of 1 + 1 = 2, 2 + 1 = 3 ; 3 + 1 = 4 and so on given (and along with it the conventional decimal notation, whereby 179 = 1 * 102 + 7 * 101 + 9 * 100, just like polynomial standard form exactly), then -- and only then! -- do certain mathematical truths take over, and extremely reliable predictions can be made, for instance such as to whether the bag with 4`563 + 1`446 beads in it will have more beads in it than the boat with 3`336 + 2`950 slaves in it has slaves in it (to the standard of, if every slave's given a bead, will there be beads leftover or beadles slaves to be thrown overboard briefly leftover). Until such a time, however... it's not that "there's no math", of course not ; but there's no math for you.

That's all I had to say.

———Not exactly all, the structure's fundamentally math ; but the skins stretched on that underwire, now those are perfectly indifferent (to math, I mean ; to you they matter immensely as supports for that one vainest of all conceits). [↩]If instead of "1" you used "/" to denote the same thing and similarily [what is now known as] + was written down as "3" or = as "7"... exactly nothing would change. Perhaps not even keyboard positions. [↩]

« Ed Wood

MiniGame (S.MG) Statement on Q1 2021 »

Category: Trilenciclopedia

Wednesday, 14 April, Year 13 d.Tr.

253 - 269 - 863 - 261 - 471 - 958 - 220 - 370 - 4 - 21 - 19 - 24

Funny title, huh.

Alright, here's its original version :

I don't expect you recognize the patterns ; let's just say they're navali signals, from back in a day when... hm.

~ * ~

As you no doubt know nowii, as per the period-relevant signalling conventions &c, the blue over yellow diagonal split's end of message, blue pierced white two, plain eight, french sex, flags being unique they're not repeated but there's a single "repeat" flag which is why there's no 444 or 222 and so on etcetera etcetera.

No ? 'Telegraphic Signals ; or Marine Vocabulary' (by Sir Home Popham, 1803)iii is still just as unknown to you now as it was when this ordeal begun ?! I wonder how that's possible!

Anyways, here.

As you can no doubt see consulting the source material (and not your imaginary god of pantsuit), 253 is England-ish, 269 is Expect-ed-ing-ation, 261 is Ever-y-thing-where, 220 is Did, do, does, doing, done (and in that order, because did before do and does afterwards!) and so on, 370 is His (no ambiguity, 369 is Him, none of that He-im-is-eriv etc here!), 471 is Man-men (loses the deferential in the plural, doesn't it), 863 Thatv, 958 is Will-ing-ly-ness and so there we have it :

English Expectation That Everywhere Men Willingly Doing His D-U-T-Y.

by which of course I mean

England Expecting. That every man willingly did his 12 * 693 + 56 * 692 + 46 * 691 + 26 * 690vi!

and so following in merriment.

Now on to today's topic :

His Lordship came to me on the poopvii, and after ordering certain signals to be made, about a quarter to noon, he said, "Mr. Pasco, I wish to say to the fleet, ENGLAND CONFIDES THAT EVERY MAN WILL DO HIS DUTY" and he added "You must be quick, for I have one more to make which is for close action".

I replied, "If your Lordship will permit me to substitute 'expects' for 'confides' the signal will soon be completed, because the word 'expects' is in the vocabulary, whereas 'confides' must be speltviii". His Lordship replied, in haste and with seeming satisfaction, "That will do, Pasco, make it directly."

Don't you find it odd that DUTY isn't in there, and it has to be 4-21-19-24, SEVEN signals and THREE pauses for a FOUR letter word that you'd expect, perhaps, along with me, to stand as the cornerstone of the whole fucking thing, because seriously now if these fellows don't have duty in their vocabulary what the ruck are they doing there, floating atop a lice paddy bereft of womanhood's sweet embrace years at a time ?!

Abatedment's included, there's Admonishing, like that, perfective (as well as distinguishable from Admonished, which yes is also in there), they have Announce and Annoy and Desolate, Decay, Diligence (-nt, -ly), there's Disperse, Dispose an' Distinct ; but there's just no Duty, that's all. Because seriously now, how often might "ships that engage in combat" need discuss that point ?! There's Glance, Glare an' Gloomy, good enough!

Doesn't this situation oddly remind one of the whole "simplicty" debacle ?

Spot the flags

———As counterdistinct from merely maritime flag signals, see... [↩]God having meanwhile downloaded the relevant wail-fu into your brain JIT, I expect ? Because that's totallies what happens when careerwomen & the simps they tow through the world find themselves mercilessly mocked and roundly ridiculed in open waters, no ?

But anything else wouldn't be fair!!! [↩]They weren't using the 1799 book anymore because of some copyright disputes with the French. Which incidentally also explains why Nelson didn't know whatall's in there : they had just had the damned thing issued the prior month. [↩]Speaking of Her : that's 366, but there's no Hers. How do you spell coverture ? [↩]862 is Than, not to be confused with. What the fuck is with these morons, seriously, would you consolidate the intrinsic weakness of an alphabetic language thusly ?!

Actually... you would, wouldn't you. You would, we know you would, because you do. [↩]Twelve times with three girls and fifty-six times with two and forty-six with one and twenty-six alone! [↩]Not kidding. It's a marine term, one could go so far as to call it nautical. [↩]The spelling they used employed no J, and sorted V before U. [↩]

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Category: Trilenciclopedia

Sunday, 10 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

20`000 Years In Sing-Sing

20`000 Years In Sing-Singi is as tediously insufferable a piece of socialist pro-state / anti-human agitprop as ever could be devised.

Every tired trope of sovieto-fascisto-rooseveltism is in there : far from "work made man" (in the theoretically-etherated presentation of that discussion) rather "there is no viable alternative to work, not for anyone" -- because (obviously) "everyone's really the same, interchangeable, equivalent and fictitiousii" ; then "no maniii means anything except through the others [and we plan to control that through]", the "warden" says ; and then he turns around and attempts to sell the water he stole from the man whose house he set himself on fire back to him, at the "cheapest" price of all : that man's own soul.iv The trade goes through, too -- apparently the injuns are dumb enough to be still buying them blankets, in 1936 as well as they did back in 1639. What's a few years! Coupla hundred of 'em's nothing compared to 20`000, which is what this Reich is apparently dreaming of. The other's thousand wasn't quite enough dream for all the ever-inflationary needs of all them countless many dreamers in the bureaucracies, as it turns out.

There's little more past that ; a few scenes scattered as if by accident here and there that work in a sort of neorealism avant la lettre, but they're about as inconsequential in the pile of vomit as Ed Wood's occasional strokes of genius.

George: I had 'em, Jerry. They loved me.

JerrY: And then?

George: I lost them. I can usually come up with one good comment during a meeting ; but by the end it's buried under a pile of gaffes and bad puns.

Anyways, I proclaim you The Country Of George ; that's what it's always been, and that's how it'll die : buried, under its own dejected secretions, by itself. But I... I salute you, Country of George ; and then I wipe my ass on you.

Buh-bye!

———1932, by Michael Curtiz, with Spencer Tracy, Bette Davis. [↩]Which is, of course, to say constructed ; and guess what protestanturd is disavowedly dreaming itself a hunchback demiurge in that... construction. [↩]Females not simply omitted, but actually excepted. In the bovine sea of socialist equality the females are nevertheless still better, and also worth something in themselves -- depending on whether you take an exo- or endo- view this is either because they naturally contain a part that can indeed live in the purely vegetative manner that exactly maps on the only conception of human life available to the socialist state ; or else because, well... they can quite naturally be traded down the line (speaking of which : why do you figure the "law enforcement officer" also known as the East Area Rapist had the females tie up their male "partners", rather than the other way around ?).

So, obviously enough, the cuck "sacrifices himself" so she can "go on with '''her''' life" etcetera etcetera. It's the only decent thing to do! And you should see them cucks' pained mugs when I use mine, too! [↩]No, seriously, access by Connors to Connors' own girlfriend is to be doled out by "the warden" ? And the idiot (as depicted) sees exactly nothing wrong with this, like any bou ever since the invention of gelding. Pshaw. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 13 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

Yet I do not repent me, or Semana Santa en Costa Rica

In the meanwhile it's been another week. How many more before the whole thing comes crashing down is anyone's guess ; it's true that I find myself quite comfortable up here in this sprawling crow's nest I've built over the decades -- but on the other hand I've never heard of a shipwreck in water so shallow, the ship sunk up to half mast only.

In any case : until such a time as you all drown, I'll be here trying to discern whether I feel like cracking open another bottle of Veuve Cliquot and, of course, I fully expect y'all to unquestioningly dedicate your life to supporting my lifestyle. There's things that are important in this world, and then things that aren't, after all. And besides : this is what things are for.

Breakfast, if you're curious, consisted of very ripe mangoes with milk and ice, put through the blender. Experimentally about half a gallon of milk, one pound of ice and five or so pounds of mango suffice, a mere dozen fruits. As Hannah said, when they smell faintly of post-race tyres you know you've got a good batch. I know I got a good batch by the comparison points they use, I wish to know whose slavegirl drives 240 like it's nothing (which it isn't, of course it isn't, until the car flies it's all fun and games).

Then second breakfast consisted of very lightly stovetouched fresh shrimp. And then, as we sat lazily around, bare cunts lounging about my livingroom like it's nothing (which it isn't, because... come on now, if bare cunt ain't naturally abundant what the hell is ?!)... well, what shall we do today ?

"How about we take a trip to Turrialba", came the winning suggestion. "The hills must be great after the rain"i. Indeed! And so... off we went.

The ticos are taking advantage of the substantially lighter traffic to do some road maintenance work. Win-win, as they say -- not only are all the spurious bozos not on the road, thus therefore making more room and lightening the spurious wear, but there's even some opportunity to fix the (many!) things they broke, back when they were (irresponsibly!) still allowed out of the cubes.

Seriously now, I hope they weld you all in, fuckers. I hope you get cubed at birth, and then they just stack you all in a warehouse somewhere.

Just because I like populations in the billions so there's a never-ending supply of fresh pretty cunt desperate to make it and amply abnundant to choose from it don't mean the production facilities supporting all that delicious fruiting have to be in plain view, let alone derping about getting underfoot and in my way.

#MoreOfTheSameAndLessOfEverything, meaning 99% less males at all, and ten thousand bio-wombs to the human resources production warehouse, stacked like high density dog kennels. You can "instagramtravel" or whatever it is you sad lot "do" from inside the cubes just as well ; and besides : a dozen cubic feet should be enough for each and every last one of ya.

Now go make me some pretty daughters, will you.

Anyone care to translate ?

Nicole wore those pretty pink sandals y'all know and love down, I mean down. So I marched her into one o' those whore shoe stores they have here on either side of ye olde whorewalk, an' bought her a new pair. Which she wore out. #BimboStyle

Oh, and the other thing. I bought myself a coffee slushee while waiting for Hannah to buy three pounds of freshly baked caju nuts, five pounds of freshly baked coffee beans and whatever else she got, the undying admiration of this flamingly gay clerk who rather didn't think it's right for a woman such as her, in all her greatness, to quite so abjectly slave to me, as the whole arrangement rather shakes his pseudosexual beliefs to their very foundations ; and for Nicole to pick up Valerie or something like that, this very peppy, tall, thick, babyfaced bisexual chick walking down the street in a style entirely her own, you should've seen this for yourself, sleeveless tit retainer barely able to cope with the udders on her and blue plastic gloves up to her elbows, well used denim overalls worn with the top down to not interfere with the juggling um I think I mean jiggling, in any case altogether summing up to exactly the hottest truck driver I ever saw (minus, perhaps, the moustache). O look, three hundred fifty words' run-on sentence, effortlessly expressed. Go me, for it's the truth. Anyways, the intercept took some doing, the healthy slut was going at such a clip my hound had to break into a run to close on her.

On the way back we cut through the Mercado Central, at the entrance of which lay in ambush the usual worthless old women trying to get in the way of life (this time, under the flimsy pretext of offering us alcohol). I walked right past, not gracing them with as much as a glance, which really burned : they broke into a chorus of how they need me (literally) and took to following us around poking Nicole and whining. It didn't do anything, in the sense that on one hand I kept right on ignoring it, and on the other hand I don't expect their stupid cuntbrains figure out their present nonsense's not the way.ii So nothing plus nothing equals what, hope & change ? I don't think so.

But obviously, after reuniting the girls got their own copies of my drink they had so sippingly admired, and well... eventually it was drunk, and that's why Hannah's discarding a plastic cup.

By the way, now that I look at it... what do you think those two going the other way do ? For sex I mean.

I guess girl-on-top is a physiologic necessity in some miscouplings.

And we're out through Curridabat and on towards Cartago.

O no, wait, actually, not yet.

First, gotta attend to the 69.

Have you ever had sex in the car, by the way ?

While it was moving ?

Because this is to my mind the great distinguisher of people : the world is split, yes, in two unequal halves, indeed. But it's not split between those who have a car and those who do not. Nor is it split between those who have access to cunt, and those who do not. Nor even is it split between those who have put the foregoing two together, and those who have not. The world in fact is split between they who do not have enough abundance of both to do what they will with them, and... me, who have, and do.

Have sex in the car while the other woman is driving the car, magari stop to change drivers/whorses at some point, to the mindblowing of local "just wanted to help"-ers, and so on. You know ?

And since everyone's hungry after all this, time for some pizza.

Yeah, that's right : we still eat out, April 2020 or no April 2020. We were the only people there ; and evidently, by the uneasy horror exuding off the full complement of waiters + the pizzaioli hanging by the bar, we were the first people they had seen the whole day long. "Oh, all you nice folk came here today just for me ?!" I enquired, with the entranced crew of that fabled shop.

They confirmed, and thereupon after "seating myself anywhere" I ordered a nice pile-up. After it was all done and they brought me the check I proceeded to, for the first time in like, forever, stand up and take it to their cashier.

"Here, I said : this is my check. Fifty-something thousand. And here," I counted the money, "Here is a hundred thousand. Divy up the remainder among all the people here, for they showed up for work, and I very much appreciate this display of sanity among all the hysteria."

They were quite happy ; and I am quite content. What did you think money was for ?

The poor icecream seller, however, was not so fortunate. Yet he has a family to support, just like the waitstaff serving me ; though unlike them, I expect he has no savings. This is what you stupid cunts ever do, and then are too fucking stupid and wilfully ignorant to be ashamed of yourselves. Not that it surprises anyoneiii, but yes you should be, and if one day you claw yourselves above wormhood you will be, utterly and thoroughly ashamed of yourselves.

And now we're out of Curridabat and on to Cartago.

It is waiting for you, shameless, spurious shitsacks.

What are you waiting for ?

Seriously now, social distancing nothing, kill yourselves. Kill yourselves today, nobody likes you, you're in everyone's way, all you contribute to this world is infective media. Make the right choice for once in your miserable, offensive "lives" such as they are and fucking end the charade, what the fuck are you waiting for ?

With you it's strictly a question of time anyways.

A glimpse of the future.

Make the future present now!

Notice anything about this picture ?

Anything at all ?

That's right, we went into the doggy shop of Turrialba, whichever's the one close to the park, and I selected some duds for the girls. "How many do you want", inquired the girl behind the plastic wrap. "The whole thing", came the response she wasn't expecting. As it turns out in actual lived practice pet shops end up a vastly more substantial supplier of harem paraphenalia than "dedicated" sex stores ever manage, in both terms of value and volume. I suppose it must be because the pet shops are doing it earnestly, whereas the sex shops are trying to survive on selling mere pretense, though there could be other reasons.

Kinda fun to follow in the wake of anklebell'd slavegirls carrying weights for you ; it also makes quite the impression on the locals.

Human trafficking, the movie. How do you like the scenography ?

It looks right, doesn't it, viscerally satisfying, rather exactly what you were hoping for. Those sacks piled in the midshot, a wooden pellet lost upon them, the rape trucks, the unforgiving and unforgiven asphalt.

Well...

Try it sometime, what can I say. It's by very far a much more delightful way of living than being cubed in your pantsuit.

The brief wet brought out some toads, who had been waiting itchily in self-imposed quarantine lo these many many months. They can't fuck while buried, you realise.

Actually, do you ?

From what I hear being stuck with "the lady of the house" in the very house in question has driven most married subhumans (for men they can never again be) to desperation and beyond. Is this so ? Don't worry, you can tell me, you're perfectly safe as there's literally nothing left by this point that could possibly make me respect you less.

Or anyone else, I guess, if such a wonder as someone else were ever somehow found.

Here documented, sucking cock a la harem, a pairs sport.

The ideaiv is not to engulf it,

but to kiss

and gently lick

and suckle the sides

slowly and patiently, until the rising sea of bliss overwhelms the levies,

then catch it on the face.

Are you ready ?

———It's rained here, for the first time in many many weeks. Twice. [↩]Before this piddly end times they'd actually follow Hannah around, now and again, similarly wailing and poking at her because "her purse is open" and "danger!!!!". Stupid fucking old useless cunts lobby... [↩]How's that for "What MP says, happens ?

More stuff to painstakingly ignore, huh. Enjoy. [↩]Making out is encouraged, during and after, a more fair division of the collected sploodge a common occurrence, and so following. [↩]

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Category: Zsilnic

Sunday, 05 April, Year 12 d.Tr.

Women in Love

Oh, where do we begin. So D. H. Lawrence is basically the janitor doing Jane Austeni services for the upper crust Englishman of a dying empire (as opposed to the 1800s spinster/"careerwoman"). Same exact thing in all respects : pick a demographic, write faux bullshit "about" it under the mantle of whatever "ideological imperatives". He's no better than the women (or the mainstream socialist morons for that matter), however being a cucky simp instead of a retarded girly he actually puts some work into it. His nonsense is elaborate, florid, tediously balanced and tiresomely recherched (which is not the same as researched). This is a very strong vein of English-language expression, what'd be called kitsch in any other space (but is not called anything specifically in this particularly god-forsaken thorny patch of bitter weeds because there's scant anything else, so there's little need perceived from the inside) ; and it continues happily, in the undisturbed manner of the insensate to the present days. There's a strong vein of nude and rude me-too-ism and wanna-be-ism born of utter and unfixable poverty in English because that's, ultimately, all that English ever was : the coincidental byproduct of utter and unfixable poverty.

On that basis one could readily dismiss Women in Loveii with something terse like "it's only quality is Glenda Jackson's tits" (which aren't all that bad nor would it land exactly far from the truth). The sum-total "revolutionary" thought in the socio-sexual morass here presentediii is little more than The Buller-Podington Compacts ; except not naturally occurring, like it actually has historicallyiv, but most contrivedly, and for the worst of all possible reasons : pecuniaryv insufficiency. A dude's not capable of holding his own harem, goes the logic, for being too poor and stupid and insubstantial ; but if two joined forces and made of each other's wife the other's other ? What then ? Maybe if they corner her between the two of them blondy might be stomped out of her retarded "self-actualizing" bullshit, all that "being in herself sufficient" crap she drones on about ? Maybe the perfect self-abasement of the "artiste" could be spread around, like butter, dati cu ea subtire s-ajunga pina-n fund ? Maybe onwards an "upwards" pretense could be maintained by simply making the flats smaller, more tightly packed, "efficiently"-er ? Maybe the rolling brownouts make everyone not notice it's ceased being a city long ago, because look, you can't sayvi there's no power ?

It's nothing short of reprehensible, altogether, thoroughly -- men who can't enslave women shouldn't, and climbing on each other's shoulders to pretend to almost passably adequate tallness from behind a borrowed coat is the very heart and core of filth, misery, sin and error. Which is after all what reprehensible even means, something so utterly fucked it should be excised and the puss burned.

I haven't been this utterly repulsed by characters ever since the last time I took a look at contemporary scar tissue ; excepting for Oliver Reed's creation, which is genuinely interesting and sticks together, though sadly is marred by the irrespirable company. Mayhap if he were rescued out of this deplorable crew and got to live his own life ?

———Or whichever Bronte sister, if you prefer. Not like there's any difference anyways. [↩]1969, by Ken Russell, with Oliver Reed, Glenda Jackson and some dumbass immature blonde. [↩]Correctly summing up Lawrence's original, for that matter. [↩]See for instance Adam Worth's amusements with Kitty Flynn and her friends. [↩]Technically the correct word would have been "substantial", but you're so apt to miss the real manifestations of substance, such as not being fucking poor, that I'm stuck. There's no way to be a man of substance without being a man of substance, buncha suptstancin' cucks on a stock already! [↩]Here's an abridged thesaurus : The .best spamblast, The alleged crisis of the supposed engineering, Coltunasi, The last blog, thelastpsychiatrist.com - Bad At Math. Adnotated, The life & times, poolside, Pesk-u, in all timelines, and dimensions!, Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 13 -- The Iceberg, The problem of complexity. Deal with it. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 31 December, Year 12 d.Tr.

What I said was...

I. That the presence of the state is predicated upon a monopoly on violence. If there's such a thing, there's therefore a state ; if there isn't, there's no state.

II. That depending on how society handles access to that monopoly on violence (also known as the public forcei) it can be either open or closed, to wit : societies where anyone can borrow the state violence machine but it can only be used according to certain rules are open ; societies where only certain portions can so borrow but they can do whatever the fuck with it are closed -- this is what the South was before the Civil War, for example.ii

III. That daily practice flowing over immemorableiii millenia has established some particular failure modes of open societies, namely : communism, whereby the rules on use of the monopoly on violence exclude its application towards defense of property ; socialism, where the use is applied towards some kind or manner of "all of us", "no kids left behind", "everyone should have at least this much" sort of nonsense, trying to put a floor under humanityiv ; and pantsuitism, where the state is applied towards some kind or manner of "defense of rights", a shifting mess of nonsense going circularly nowhere.v

See ? It ain't that fucking hard, ye buncha aerated bubbleheads!vi

———To have a monopoly on fucking you must have a cock, to do the fucking with, and that cock will then be public necessarily. Just like mine.

The exact same applies throughout. [↩]And it is also why I don't think open societies are worth two shits, and I do not support them in practice : trying to find "the right set of rules" is not only an inescapably and necessarily doomed exercise (this much wouldn't automatically bring about a moral imperative, seeing how there's nothing wrong per se with pursuing doomed courses) but also a very transparent and most self-evident cop-out. Being obviously the trying to get out of the true work of life, which is and forever absolutely will be the sorting of the whos from the whats does immediately give rise to a moral imperative, to not fucking do that. And so... I ain't gonna, you can take your open societies and shove them, they're as good, right and useful as tits on a boar. [↩]Apparently. [↩]Itself a gross misuse that's also (and most amusingly) self-defeated. There will never be any procedure, manner or device through which humanity could be employed to set a floor underneath humanity, for approximately the same reasons ye venerable baron Munchausen never made it to the Moon. [↩]And, obviously enough, the point that was the butt of this whole thing, being also the answer to the question posed (which ran "does this-and-so aspect of socialism conflict with a classification of communism") : since communism is negative in its definition whereas the other two positive, there's necessarily going to be some overlap, that'll likely stay imperfect, because fruits that aren't apples and fruits that are pears do include some common ground, and also aren't ever going to reduce to each other.

And yes, all societies without exception close up over time, because the point of life stays the point of life irrespective of what idiots blather on all the while. [↩]As you perhaps intuit, some bimbos were severely hurt doing the making of this adventure.

Serves them right! [↩]

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Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Friday, 10 July, Year 12 d.Tr.

What could Henry have done ?

We're not talking about the eigth, gimme a break, who cares alreadyi, nor even the third. We're talking of Henry Plantagenet, king in England, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine jure uxoris, Count of Anjou (hence "Angevin") and Maine (no, it's not in the US). You know, Empress Mathilde's runt. Do you ever indulge this sort of writer's cramp whereby you pick some historical event and attempt alternative playouts in your mind ?

I do, and in which spirit, here's what ole Henry might've done :

Introduce royal communications between somewhere abouts Calais (in his dominion) and somewhere maybe towards Dover (in his dominion), by mandating one ship sails each way with every tide, to take passengers and cargo across for free at first. Because, self-obviously, if your land's centered on a body of water that Mare Nostrum becomes the necessary focus of ownership policy.

Actually declare the putative "Angevin Empire", proclaim himself Augustus Emperor of the Western World and let the HRE & co sort it out for themselves. If well supported with practical measures such an ideological claim might have very well quashed the Capetian pretenders out of all possible shape, resulting in quite an actionable basis for Richard (if Richard were worth two shits, which...).

To go with the foregoing, assassinated Phillip 2. Most definitely.

Made it the law that no man may be ordained priest who had not spent three years working in the king's chancellery or wherever ordered by the king. If nothing else this'd have produced ample supplies of illuminated manuscripts (although other skunkwork-y projects such as improvements in taxation management or education might well have come out of it, depending on the quality of his Lord Chancellor), though it might just as well have elegantly pre-empted that whole ulterior sadness.

Burned at the stake, specifically for heresy, any bishop who ordained a priest incorrectly ; starting with Thomas Beckett, who I'm sure must've done something quite like it. It's not enough, it's not even helpful to kill the moron ; for instance if I ever decide to lighten the world of a few CIA agents / FBI agents / whatever USG-blue dorks, it'll be through public raping and hanging-by-own-guts, not through shooting, what the hell.

Perhaps extended the foregoing towards "no man may marry who's not served in the king's army for a year" eventually, though that rather sounds like it'd take some doing. Introduced a system to mirror the Church's nunneries (ie, places where girls infirm, undowriable or otherwise not attractive enough to mary well could safely be placed out of the way), whereby second and ulteriror sons could be given up to the crown, to learn archery or whatever, damsel raping. "I care not who fucks upon my cost, nor who my garments wears..." A good idea's a good idea, what.

Found a good location for a major iron mineii, and built it up, including with such machinery as could be in the period had, and then constructed a metalworking center around itiii. If this takes whole flocks of sheeps being herded that way on some sort of regular schedule, all the better, whole flocks of sheep will be thus herded. The people managing the shipping lanes across the Channel can branch out ; and if this means invading Denmark or the future Dutch or something... whatever. Frisian barbarians, what do they know anyways.

Fun times!

———All the precious fucking cuntlets can't possibly get enough of the supposed "demure" young bitch and oh-how-dramatique and overwhelmingly interesting her life was!!!

I didn't even review Anne of a thousand days specifically out of spite for this moronic demo. Also because it's a terrible fucking film, not to mention that miserable Bujold fucktard could spoil a picnic, let alone a cinematic production, however doomed-from-the-start Bridget Boland's involvement promised it'd be. But great actresses can still shine in horrid films, though it does require parts the contemporary girlies manifestly lack. [↩]This is because the moderate needs of the time could well have been served from a single well-developed location, to capitalize maximally on sunk costs. [↩]Which'd necessarily drive cultural supremacy, because swords sold well back in those days. Together with a glut of written works, the basis is well set. [↩]

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Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Friday, 11 December, Year 12 d.Tr.

What can occur during a meanwhile ?

October 26th bright an' early I sat myself down by the pool with a small pile of a coupla dozen pictures selected from among a few hundred. I was going to write one of those pieces with ample illustration and modest commentary that delight the light interest ; but events an' tighs things turned my tide of inki another way, and... well, here we are, fifty thousand words later, the Tuesday afterii that Monday a week apart.

It's been a meanwhile I would say, so let's inquire : what fits inside such space as a meanwhile hides within ? What ventures and adventures, what happenings and happenstances, what all's a meanwhile made up of ? One could readily be excused for thinking that penning a half-novel should be enough to fill a body's week to full fullfill, surfeit an' overkill ; but in my case this ain't so. One could similarily be excused for thinking handling a house full of women's enough to fill anyone's week in an' out an' back in an' out again, each week an' everyweek. But... well, I'm much too well organized for that, they serve me an' cater to my needs. A lot of them there may well be, but they're a lot of benefits an' gains an' pleasures an' enjoymenta an' relaxing loving warm supporting joy, like a bundle of kittens decked in fresh ribbons. At least most of the time ; certainly this time. Even with all the watching an' reviewing films an' all there's still plenty of room left. So then, without further ado, let's proceed to a non-exhaustive listing of what other things fit into this Hamiltonian Hotel that is my arbitrary week.

Above you can admire Hannah's world-famous tits dress. This thing will accidentally her nipples every step, it's a pleasure to take her for walks among the muzzled hordes wearing it.

Below you can admire one of my steaks. It's remarkable because it's a first time, generally chefs manage to cook me a decent steak I'm willing to eat after a back-an-forth or two ; but this crew of depatriated Ukrainians managed on the first pass. Well done!

Above : a thin lizard guy who wanted to say hello! I've never seen his exact ilk before, I don't think, and he is rather pretty, don't you think ?

Below : it's unclear to me what the fuck happened ; either this peacible people set fire to a car for no apparent reason in the middle of relative nowhere or else this Mitsubishi just spontaneously immolated itself with little provocation. I guess we'll never know.

Above & below : jungle ambulance service. See if you can find Waldo.

Different bare-those-tits dress, along with my catch of the day and trims. They cook a mean snapper, these people.

We went for a paraglide. At first I was going to take shots over the bay an' publish them right here ; it is indeed a very picturesque bay, pretty and foamy and just right like a little jewel made for the purpose of illustrating the concept of a bay. But then... once I was up there I was like "fuck all y'all, I'm enjoying this". I really couldn't be bothered to take the camera out and futz with it instead of looking around, so... you can just imagine what a bay looks like.

Above : more steak, just in case you were worried.

Below : car crash. Truth be told the locals can't drive to save their lives. They're extremely poor at judging distances, velocities, when it's a good idea to pass to the point of it being virtually mandatory and when it's more like a suicide than a pass in the first place etcetera. They're not pushy like most other terrible driver races, Mexicans, Romanians, what have you ; but they're still terrible in their own, laid back, pura vida way.

Above : captive colibri bird. They don't really comprehend glass and most of my place is encased in it, so they get trapped easily. Then they fucking panic and drive themselves to near exhaustion, and have to be daintily rescued. They're the cutest little desperate prisoners too, they'll climb on my rescuefinger and hold on for dear life with their (otherwise remarkably sharp) little claws but all carefully to not actually do any damage or god forbid pierce the skin ; and once they're out of the horrorbox of seethrough they fly off like a gunshot. I think this is the third or fourth rescued (they were all different species too, this being the largest, I also evacuated to safety a flying peanut earlier) but this time Hannah was handy with the camera so... I guess you get to see it.

Below : Yay chocolate cake (home-made) with things an' trims (including bimbo-approved greatest-icecream-in-three-cantons). It was delicious!

As you can see the water's back, somewhat ; which means it's marshy now, not quite the lake it used to be yet, but no longer arid either. Probably the prettiest known state of land.

A certain sheep guy whose name is too lengthy to be mentioned here. He's very talented and also best friends with all the other guys, of which there's numerous tribes an' herds.

This guy actually lives on my hill, among the spiders and the nude tweens of obscured origins chained to steel poles to ripen slowly in the moonlight. I think he's a quetzal but there are dissenting oppinions. Then again I also don't think I'm a vampire (but there are dissenting... well, not so much oppinions, really).

That'd be all for now. It is still a fragmentary exhibition, of course, but the thing of it is that absurdly precocious literary character's tempting me again with her absconsive lures. Or are they abrasive rather, what'd you say ? Hannah says I'm a menace, "Whatever he doesn't care for, he just sends in his imaginary twelve year old bearing very real sticks of dynamite. Kaboom!" ; but truth be told it's quite a pleasure to have them read her journal back to me. I even had to (temporarily!) lift any punishments as might from time to time and context to context attach to rolling one's eyes at me.

Fun, you know. The ultimate filler of all nooks and crannies comes all the way from France, in a jar labelled joie de vivre.

———I actually wrote a full dozen articles in the interval, 5`717 + 4`384 + 5`212 + 1`262 + 611 + 4`730 + 4`071 + 4`436 + 5`719 + 874 + 3`442 + 1`676 = 42`134 words that baker's week. A good half-novel really, and I am very happy with it. Honestly I think the Babydoll series is some of the best fiction I've ever done. [↩]It's only really early Tuesday morning on this machine set on Euro time for business purposes ; otherwise it's Monday evening. [↩]

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Category: Zsilnic

Tuesday, 03 November, Year 12 d.Tr.

Water

I was sleeping a moment before. I am not sleeping right now. Between these moments...

A while back, not all that long ago, I crushed a girl's life. Utterly, out of the blue, I pulled her out of what to her had been, suspiciously but substantially her life. I took that suspicious substance of what she deemed, of what to her had seemed her life and crumpled it up. I pulled it right out, like you'd tear a scene out of a pull-out book for kids, crumpled it up and crushed it like a wet paper noodle, underfoot. It's gone, all suspicions checked out, rounded out, confirmed. It's gone, and it self-evidently never was a life in the first place, to any degree, in any substantial sense, not at all. Excepting the part where it actually had been her life, lived as such, for however long, it never has been nor could ever had been a life. Never could have been. Never. A sleep, perhaps, slept, a moment before. Not anymore, after a certain point. Gone, past a certain moment.

Sleep is a lot like youth. There's nothing to regret more than, besides, or beyond

She said, "Daddy, you're so pretty. You got eyelashes just like a bitch's. Phyllis took Chris to visit that sucker in the shit-house. Daddy, can I kiss my candy?

No more ; yet in the moment it's never perceived ; and afterwards it's gone. Forever gone.

Nothing at all, as it may seem, traded for what you want, whatever it is that you want ; that nothing in time inescapably rounding itself, growing into massive, obliteratingly all-encompassing everythingness while the whatever it was you wanted shrinking, insubstantially, unesteemably, evaporating quietly, invisibly and by itself, like naphtalene. There was a ball of it there, you recall clearly ; now it is gone. No one took it, nobody touched it, where's it gone ?! There's a reason old memories, like the old houses they inhabit, all reek of mothballs. Mothballs long gone, purchased in trade certified on receipts lost long ago.

I barely sleep these days, but with the dawn I stretch, and yawn, and... carry on. To water. The nights are cool, and I'm a fool. Each star's a pool, of water... The dry little scenes rendered in colored bits of paper, readily pulled out of easily yielding pages of well written books readily mix with all the readily abundant water everywhere. They readily crush, then, underfoot, all crumpled up. So many wet paper noodles underfoot. And then, the dawn... and carry on...

Things she had never tried before, things she had pretended she was doing but never truly done before, things she pretended don't exist so as to not do though she'd have done, things of herself and of the world novel to her for no reason at all, in a succession, done and redone. I watch her go, she doesn't notice me, too absorbed in the impossible insanity of novelty. After a long while I speak, and she shudders, and she admits upon reflection : indeed, never before. Striking, impossible, yet true. How could this be ? It is. But all of it is... was... all of it right there, all along ? Indeed.

Everyone ultimately wakes for water. Most, in the bladder ; I wake for water acumulated in my mind, tears in the mind's eye, abundant, readily turned to rain. A rainmaker's sleep, suspicious, dubious, more like pretense than limit, an activity condescended, tolerated, engaged in for fellowship. "Master doesn't sleep, he waits." For water.

One day it shall all wash away, one day it shall all be washed away. By whom ? An old man, an old man just like me. It's said that they forget ; and then the seven-fold river, dark as Night, quiet, memoryless... that's water, water all through, pure water all through. The paper bits, once dry, once colorful, all crumpled underfoot, long gone, long long ago. Whence they go, when they go ? Not like Autumn's dry leaves, gone with a whisp of wind, piled up to be eventually burned, one last huzzah of an aroma, the true and only scent of nostalgy. Maybe just like them, inconsiderable, unconsidered knots of color, now powerless once dolorous color swept away like discarded virtual items on the virtual floors of a computer game. Where's the junk you threw on the floor gone when it's gone ? You wore it once, maybe. You could've worn it, for sure. Gone now, like it never was, floating away on the uneven mists of memory towards the even waters of oblivion. There it'll stay, forever, and not be.

Oracles may well ask of anyone, "what of you, in your life". Sometimes they do. No one can ever answer, for no one may ever answer. Questo non e consentito. Perch'e immorale.

« Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 16 -- Away from the track.

Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 17 -- Trying a new game. »

Category: 3 ani experienta

Tuesday, 20 October, Year 12 d.Tr.

Walks among the quaint quarantruins

Isn't that a great coinage ? The quarantruins, what was left after the third world war.i

Do you believe in precious cuntlets' "talent" ? Because really... maybe you shouldn't.

Let's take a moment to think together, why not. What precisely in there makes you suspect the dumbass of any talent ? The hollow behind the eyes, that's what suggests talent to you ? The chin, what exactly is it, that she has hair ?

To quote a naked woman on her knees,

I told him once that I'd always wanted to walk through a city like I owned it; no one on the street, no cars or noise or closed doors.

Well...

All dreams are realized by the immutable machine. All slavegirls' dreams are realized ; that's what a harem even is : the immutable machine.

Isn't picturesque nature picture-perfect in this picture ?

I swear to god I didn't shoot a panel, like "the pros" do it. I do admit it looks very much as if I had ; but purposefully and just to make sure I actually took a piss on one of those poles. True story.ii

This then is the Volcan Irazu, a bunch of sand up high. Closed for the public and all that, all the things that make a difference to us.

Bimbo getting ready for a more intimate, more direct, more immediate connection with nature, reality, and the sandy bottom. Her idea.

How many Indiana girls have you known that were barefoot ?

Of them, how many had been barefoot on volcanic sand, ash and pumice ?

At the tropics ?

Years ago Hannah stepped on a discarded beard hair somehow such that it embedded into her foot, and was there for years. This is the fate of barefoot women -- they absorb the environment, it becomes, for long stretches, part of them, and in the process it alters their existence.

So now there's arena del volcan up this other one's toe skins and whatnot. What can you do ?

The big secret nobody talks about is that women are made for soiling.

What had you thought women were made for ?

———

War. War never changes. The Romans waged war to gather slaves and wealth. Spain built an empire atop its lust for gold and territory. Hitler shaped a battered Germany into an economic superpower.

But... war never changes ? Up until the 21st century war was still waged over the resources that could be acquired. Back in those days the spoils of war were also its weapons: Petroleum and Uranium. For these resources "people fought each other with cannons over a stretch of land enough for a hen to make a cramped nest", as some disbelieving mestizo writer pointed out.

Then the believers came. They believed in change they could believe in, and they changed their beliefs in change. Then they believed that change could believe, and they changed what belief could change. Eventually change became the word for stasis and belief was called science ; by 2020 the storm of yet another world war had come yet again. In a few brief hours most of the planet was reduced to its natural state. Pretension to humanity abandoned, the hordes of idle, worthless, pantsuit-wearing post-human apes stayed home.

But War... War never changes. The end of the world occurred pretty much as we had predicted. Way too many pointless walkers and not nearly enough space or resources to go around. Necessarily therefore too much pretense, too many special and especially precious cuntlets so, so far above getting their hands dirty that the clouds looked had to look up to them. The details are trivial and pointless ; the reasons, as always, purely human ones. The Earth was nearly wiped clean of life. A great cleansing, conventional absurdity made meaningful by militant, organized idiocy rising like a poisoned mist from vast plantations of barely literate niggers rained from the skies. Continents whole were swallowed in hollow nothingness, and fell beneath the quiet oceans. Humanity was extinguished under the crushing weight of the spurious, soul-less horde ; their spirits became part of the background radiation that blankets the Earth.

A quiet darkness fell across the planet, lasting many years. Few survived the devastation. Some had been fortunate enough to reach safety, taking shelter in great underground vaults. When the great darkness passed, these vaults opened, and their inhabitants emerged to begin their lives again.

One of the northern tribes claims they are descended from one such Vault. They hold that their founder and ancestor, one known as the "Vault Dweller," once saved the world from a great evil. According to their legend, this evil arose in the South. It corrupted all it touched, twisting men inside, turning them into beasts. Only through the bravery of this Vault Dweller was the evil destroyed. But in so doing, he lost many of his friends and suffered greatly, sacrificing much of himself to save the world.

When at last he returned to the home he had fought so hard to protect, he was cast out. Exiled. In confronting that which they feared, he had become something else in their eyes, and no longer their champion.

Forsaken by his people, he strode into the wasteland. He traveled far to the North, until he came to the great canyons. There, he founded a small village, Arroyo, where he lived out the rest of his years. And so, for a generation since its founding, Arroyo has lived in peace, its canyons sheltering it from knowledge outside world. It is home. Your home.

But the scars left by the war have not yet healed. And the Earth has not forgotten. Life in the vault is about to change, and from the ashes of assonaut desintegration, a new civilization is struggling to arise.

Yes ? Yes. [↩]Actually, on our way back the next day, some very awkward "professional" dude was taking a piss there himself, which produced great hilarity in the haremcar because... well... what, did he smell it ? The day before we had seen the young Staffordshire terrier guard dog lazily, with a most perverse glint in his eye, lap up slowly and pensively the urine his father, the old Staffordshire terrier had dribbled on the ground, in a failed attempt to piss on the wheel (he's old!) and it made it kinda... well, you know, "funny" if that's how you call coincidental meaning where you live. [↩]

« Nuts, absolutely fucking nuts.

Robocop »

Category: La pas prin lume

Tuesday, 26 May, Year 12 d.Tr.

Vida y noche en Centroamerica

Let's go for a deserted walk among the sprawling cvasi-urban deserts that once were supposedly gardens, shall we!

The national bank of Costa Rica announced that the current collapse of the local currency is "just normal seasonal variation". Seeing how the national bank of Costa Rica is very much not me (however much they'd like to pretend otherwise), I don't expect their spurious "announcements" and other narrative attempts at magic-through-relabelling will do anything ; nor does anyone else.

The hallowed, fabled, dreamful cien, ever more distant an ideal, ever less meaningful anyways. And it couldn't have "happened" to nicer people who done it to themselves!

No estacionar means don't park. Enough sad.

We've been walking through some truly seedy partsi, meanwhile completely sterilized by depopulation -- because that's the big secret of urban safety : nothing's more dangerous than people.

Downtown, the law & order complex. As deserted as the rest of this country of which little remains but the name.

The remnants of perhaps San Jose's foremost still standing Casino (which in the Italian language as well as in Costa Rican practice denotes a brothel). Wanting's not worth much, is it though.

Meanwhile the days... the days are so much better spent on the green. There's buzzing life, not necessarily any less human than the unconvincing simulacra of humanity put forth by the unconvincing simulacra of urban aglomerations.

A city of ants, winged hemipteran ant-like things, fallen into the gutter. They're still trying to make the best of it, but... well... truth be told, it ain't ever gonna be what it was before.

Until the first serious rain ; at which point it ain't gonna be anything but its memory, anymore.

The rains have meanwhile washed what appears to have been ample textual intricacy. Incomprehensible now, it remains in general outline, like an ancient writ summarized by its wordcount. There was about a square foot of wordage in there, if that helps you in any way.

And why shouldn't it ?

That ellipsis... you know ?

Place definitely looks like it's seen some shit, some hardcore, caged tit type'o shit.

I confess it's pretty sad, going through the rubbish, through this country-size midden, and finding things, bits and pieces, artifacts divers and peculiar of a meanwhile decayed civilisation. It's a lot like finding half-burned dolls after a sinister conflagration, you can't help but think of the little girl who must've played with it, dreamed and thought with it, perceived limits through and in it, projected and designed only to be ultimately blindsided by thermodynamics, the ubiquitously silent yet perpetually unexpectable overlord. All sorts and manner of small business wrecks litter the desolace (you know, like populace, but brought up to date), and you can't help but think of the small owners and their hopes an' dreams an' hard work throughout. For naught, all of it, because... well... the salvation of the drowning may indeed be work for the very hands of the drowning in question, but this does not in the slightest mean any and all work, labour, effort or flailing of the hands of the drowning means, begets or even facilitates anything like salvation. In fact, most generally... quite the opposite stands true.

But... hey, at least they've fixed the "global warming", rite.

One of the better rape alleys I know of ; though it's plain obvious we're the only ones having any fun with it.

Imagine yourself taking it in the ass, chained barefoot to some metal wreck down there, maybe left behind, oozing and gaping...

The truth of the matter is that only the rich may ever have any fun of this world -- everyone else's stuck squirming for dear life. Which, of course, is precisely as it should be.

Meanwhile resurrected bimbo ; she, like me, returns. Because, as you will never know, death by anoxia is not even real.

———So much so, the police insistently warns us, you know, "omg, this part is really bad". "Why ? There's nobody here." "Precisely!!!". [↩]

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Category: La pas prin lume

Thursday, 13 August, Year 12 d.Tr.

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Category: Zsilnic

Thursday, 05 March, Year 12 d.Tr.

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Category: Zsilnic

Thursday, 05 March, Year 12 d.Tr.

Untamed Youth

Untamed Youthi is the poorly constructed story of some of the tamest, lamest youth conceivable. It's dubious anything this sad ever actually existed in practice, in no small part because similarities to Soviet bloc productions of the period abound, and there's nothing more suspicious than the smooth agreement of idiots. The cvasi-identity of plot elements and literary devices, the parallel run of the story are each individually bad enough ; in concert they're outright horrid. Yet that stakhanovist horror is somehow easily brushed aside, as the reeling mind has enough trouble getting itself out of a rut of "holy shit, just how ineffectual, cowardly, an' horizonless can these overgrown children actually be!" incessantly repeated to notice the broader issues. It's a lot like an Edsel falling off a cliff : the falling itself may hide from the unfortunate passengers just what a shitty car they happen to be falling with.

Mamie van Doren in particular is a fucking offensive piece of shit someone tried (and failed) to press in the approximate shape of a Marilyn Monroe tchotchke. She ain't got the tits, she ain't got the ass, or the hips, or the presence or the absence or the anything, anything whatsoever. She's Cook Champagne (America's #1 sparkling wine), unwelcome at any table. What the fuck were they thinking when they signed her, and what the fuck degenerates must've been doing the "thinking" in the first place are considerations beyond my meagre faculties of comprehension, or representation. My faculties of reprehensibilitation can barely cope, with great effort. I think I sprained something, actually.

Cochran's on occasion channeling an actual actor, here and there in the bog. It ain't enough. Not nearly enough. Untamed Youth may well be the worst movie ever made.

———1957, by H. W. Koch, with Mamie Van Doren Wannabe-en & Eddie Cochran. [↩]

« Una vita tranquilla

Let's talk about power. »

Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 31 March, Year 12 d.Tr.

Una vita tranquilla

I watched Una vita tranquillai mostly by obligation. Toni Servillo's built such immense credit with me I simply can't turn off something starring him -- a distinction indeed very few to date enjoyed (and each meanwhile managed to send it all to rack and ruinii). At the rate his accounts are unfortunately going, it won't be all that long now.

The film is outright idiocy, a plate of nonsense sliced arbitrarily and tied up in knots that want to think themselves ribbons. What, am I supposed to perhaps not notice that the car there depicted would not kill a passenger in the front seat should frontal impact occur (excepting the case where he is shot out the windshield) ? They had ran out of airbags just as they made this (upmarket) car, shrugged and mumbled to themselves "eh, fuck it, what's the worst that can happen" ? Am I supposed to not know that the scene in which (the very adorably credible, by the way) soubrette's doing her duty consists of her on her back (legs neotenically bent at the knee as opposed to expertly straight, held by the soles in her own hands), the young man's left hand wrapped around her throat, her eyes rolling up in her head while he pounds her from above like a divine beast ? Because why, because I've never killed anyone ? Never had sex ? What the fuck ?!

There is no way in the everloving fucking blue heavens that a retired gangster, a retired gangster from twenty years ago whom the (self-evident) son and likely heir of the current boss earnestly respects, steps on that rake. Are you fucking kidding me !? What the shit did he do in that basement for fifteen years, asks a man who has done his share of spending his time in bunkers "because it's wartime, and if you get shot we're all fucked" ? What the fuck did he think about, really, no pre-rendering of anything whatsoever, I'm to believe he's switched camps under Renate'siii loving influence and now behaves exactly ca o pizda proasta ?!

A film made by people who have no fucking idea what anything is, or rather : a film made by people who proceed on the foundationally stupid approach whereby they imagine visual acquaintance, subjectively perceived familiarity equate knowledge. There's no other way to explain the absurd ludicrousness of that scene where a man ever so faintly wipes his fingers and pours drinks after spending however many hours skinning boars. Do you think anyone could drink whatever the fuck he poured ? Alcoholics, maybe. Do you have any idea how boar fat stinks ? Do you know how fucking long it generally took me to clean the curdled blood and the adhesive fat off my hands after skinning one of those damned things ? Are you fucking kidding me ?!

Watching this thing is like spending time with mongoloid kidsiv, playing at architecture or music or whatever the fuck their indistinct moans and garbles are supposed to be. Nothing in particular, really.

———2010, by Claudio Cupellini, with Marco Antonio Servillo, Marco D'Amore, Francesco Di Leva, Alice Dwyer. [↩]Kill Bill, for a most memorable instance, was the item that finally took underwater Tarantino's credit with this bank. And all the better it did, too, as it saved me from ulterior horrors such as Kill Bill two, or that idiotic thing with the black dudes that mattered in WW2, good god. [↩]Holy shit that bitch is insufferable, I don't even mean the character, I mean the person, if you know any one anything like that beat the shit out of her, today. I don't mean lightly, I mean break her jaw on both sides and shatter each hip, what the everloving fuck, she has no business ever getting out of quarantine. [↩]Remarkably, both the pair of young men, and the young girl, work quite well and stand up on themselves. I'd much enjoy something in that vein re-shot, by sane directors.

Consider : two young men, that are visibly (and obviously enough, non-sexually) together, out on a job. One meets a girl (and do you have any doubt he's gonna fucking learn German ?). They have lots of money (in the only sane sense of "money", ie, power, leverage, the works) and no rules, so... what happens ? In one (classical) variant they share her ; in another (neogothic) variant the other ignores the matter entirely. What other variants are there ? It's a good basis, it just needs half-decent treatment. [↩]

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Untamed Youth »

Category: Trilematograf

Monday, 30 March, Year 12 d.Tr.