(fractalcrack) a short in french & english.

postscript

it is definitely impossible to understand both french AND english,
yet understand neither literature NOR love.

La partie en anglais est pas mal... j'ai toujours eu un faible pour les trains...
Par contre, pour le paragraphe en français... j'ai eu beau le lire plusieurs fois, je n'ai pas compris de quoi il s'agissait....

what?

--

happy birthday scorpio! you are naturally intuitive and kind. attentive lover and devoted friend. sensual and deep. however, injustice can literally drive you insane.

libra is your ally, also taurus. you must be on guard for the rage that injustice inspires in you, as being cool on the surface, you tend to suppress that rage to where it becomes internal symptoms -- such as illnesses affecting the reproductive region that can include difficulty in conception or childbirth, as well as impotence. injustice makes you angry!

the legend of the scorpion is one of the sort of animal that would sting itself to death when cornered rather than be captured. the friends you have love this tendency to be individualistic -- but care must be taken. chances are that you are not purely scorpio -- the majority of scorpio have a major virgo or libra tendency.

you have a bad repruuttation. do you deserve it?

few are better at being determined liars -- or being self destructively vengeful -- than scorpio when she puts her mind to it -- or using denial as a tool of empowerment.

that ALWAYS backfires...


---
rainbow mika's story

THE DOOMED OF JUDGMENT HALL
Part One: Shadow City Secret Heroes



The heart ( jb )
A special part of the body was the heart, the essence of life, seat of the mind with its emotions, intelligence, and moral sense.

My heart, my mother; my heart, my mother! My heart whereby I came into being!
The prayer of Ani
Budge The Papyrus of Ani

The heart gave man 's life its direction. Enjoyment was closely tied to the sensations of the body. Following one's heart meant living a full life:

The west seeks to hide (i.e. death and its realm is forgotten) from him who follows his heart. The heart is a god, the stomach is its shrine.
The inscription of Nebneteru
M. Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature, Volume III, p. 22

When the heart got tired the body died. After the deceased had begun his journey into the underworld, the jb as a record of a person's moral past was weighed by Anubis against a feather representing Maat. If found too heavy it was devoured by the monster Ammit, terminating its owner for eternity [3].

The heart of Osiris hath in very truth been weighed, and his Heart-soul hath borne testimony on his behalf; his heart hath been found right by the trial in the Great Balance. There hath not been found any wickedness in him; he hath not wasted the offerings which have been made in the temples; he hath not committed any evil act; and he hath not set his mouth in motion with words of evil whilst he was upon earth.
The speech of Thoth
Budge The Papyrus of Ani


Heart Scarab of Hatnofer,
ca. 1466 B.C.E.; Dynasty 18, reign of Hatshepsut;
New Kingdom
Western Thebes
Rogers Fund, 1936 (36.3.2)
Source: Metmuseum website
During the embalming the heart was not removed together with the other interior organs. A scarab was inserted into the mummy's bindings right above the heart in an attempt to prevent it from speaking out against its owner, lest my name appear stinking and putrid before the lord of the other world.
Heart scarabs were often inscribed with texts from the 30th chapter of the Book of the Dead, but at times other texts were chosen, such as the one below which, with its invocation of Nut, is exceptional:

I have come and I have brought to you. I am your guide Nut. I open my wing and spread it over you. I keep your heart in its place: It will not be removed from your coffin until you come to life again, O blessed Tjatenbastet-tanedjemtjaut.
22nd dynasty
After Étienne Drioton, Une formule inédite sur un scarabée de coeur, BIFAO 41 (1942), p.100

The name ( rn )
The name is the foundation of a being as an individual. Only when it has a name, i.e. when it can be addressed and related to, does it begin its proper existence, with its name as its essence. The various aspects of the being are reflected in the different names it is given: In the Book of the Dead, chapter 142, Osiris had one hundred different names.
Names were closely bound up with magic. Knowledge of somebody's names gave one insight into his being and power over him, but speaking out a name could also be dangerous

It is the king who will judge the dead, accompanied by Hell's chief executioner He-who-must-not-be-named, on the day the revered gods are slaughtered.
Pyramid Texts 273-4 (tr. Jacob Rabinowitz)

'True' names were often kept secret. In the Pyramid Texts (# 394) a god is mentioned whose name was not even known to his mother .

An adoration of Ra who rises on the horizon, when he makes his ba, the visible form of his soul, rise like a powerful ghost from the underworld—the shining spectre of Ra that is our physical sun; when he raises himself, rejoicing in the power of his ka; an adoration of Ra, his ba and his ka, when he has the sun-boat's steersman shove off from the east and head out into deep sky while addressed in these words by the Osiris X:
Hail Ra!
Hail to your ba!
Hail to your ka!
The Osiris X knows our name, and the names of your ba and your ka in all their aspects.
Book of the Dead 15a (tr. Jacob Rabinowitz)

An important part of ensuring the continued existence after death was the perpetuation of the name, in accordance with the Egyptian saying He lives whose name is spoken [4]. Especially important was that inscriptions of offerings crucial for survival in the hereafter, named the recipient.

Erased inscription and picture of Hatshepsut
Luxor
Excerpt. Source: V.Easy

The reasons for Thutmose III trying to obliterate all references to
his stepmother 20 years after he came to power are unclear
Inscribing names in stone gave them permanence, and obliterating them was a kind of postmortem punishment or revenge: the person was assigned to oblivion. This was the fate post-Amarnan pharaohs had in mind when they erased inscriptions containing the name of Akhenaten.
The ka ( kA )
Unfortunately the ancient Egyptians never defined clearly what was meant by the ka, and the concept may well have undergone changes over the millennia or had different meanings according to the social settings. It has been variously translated as soul, life-force, will etc. but no single western concept is anything like it. Being pronounced kA like the word for 'bull', a symbol of potency, the closest to it in English may be a 'life-creating force'. [ 5]
The ka was a constant close companion of the body in life and death depicted throughout the pharaonic period following the king and bearing the royal Horus name.

The king's kas and hemesets stand behind him and sustain him;
Pyramid Texts 273-4

According to pictures drawn during the 18th dynasty, the ka came into being when a person was born, often depicted as a twin or double, but, unlike the body it belonged to, it was immortal provided it received nourishment. Being a spiritual entity it did not eat the food but seems to have extracted the life-sustaining forces from the offerings, be they real or symbolic.
Dying was referred to as going to one's ka. Upon the body's demise the ka rejoined its divine origin, but always remained in close proximity of the body. In Old Kingdom tombs false or ka doors were supposed to give this spiritual part of the deceased access to the world of the living. The kas were thought to reside in tomb statues.

Ka statue of Harawibra, 13th dynasty
Courtesy Jon Bodsworth
The ka as a life-sustaining force was contained in the food. The plural of ka, kaw, meant food offerings. The ka as recipient of food offerings is attested to since the late Old Kingdom.
During the New Kingdom the ka was seen to have different aspects:

The Osiris X, may he rest in peace, knows the names of your ka, the aspect of your soul that abides in the ground:
Nourishing ka,
ka of food,
lordly ka,
ka the ever-present helper,
ka which is a pair of kas begetting more kas,
healthy ka,
sparkling ka,
victorious ka,
ka the strong,
ka that strengthens the sun each day to rise from the world of the dead,
ka of shining resurrection,
powerful ka,
effective ka.
Book of the Dead 15a (tr. Jacob Rabinowitz)

The ka has also been interpreted as meaning "will" somewhat in the sense Schopenhauer used it. It has been claimed that during the Late New Kingdom it was a hidden, transcendental god which was described as

Thy being is the infinite neheh [2]
Thy image is the unchanging djet [2]
From thy planning ka emanate all occurrences
Jan Assmann, Ägypten, Theologie und Frömmigkeit einer frühen Hochkultur, p.280

The shadow, ( xAjb.t , Sw.t )
Shadows were a blessing for those who could rest in them in a hot country like Egypt. Metaphorically, gods threw shadows too, shadows of protection: Kings were described as being in the shadow of the god. The holy sites at Amarna were called Shadow of Re. We can easily understand the divine shadow and its effects, but it is unclear what the function of the human shut was.
In the light of the life-giving sun body and shadow are inseparable. But the pitch-black Sw.t was not an ordinary shadow of a body, it rather belonged to the world of the 'soul', moving independently of its body and partaking of the funerary offerings:

Shadow and ba-birds
Tomb of Irinufer, Thebes
Source: Ägypten - Schatzkammer der Pharaonen

O mighty One, when he is adored, great one among bas, greatly respected ba inspiring the gods with awe when he has appeared on his great throne: then may he prepare the path for NN, justified, his ba, his akh and his shadow (Sw.t), may they be well provided for.
The Papyrus of Nu (BM EA 10477)
After a transliteration and German translation on the Thesaurus Linguae Aegyptiae website

Unlike the body, the shadow was not bound to the grave and could go where the body could not. In New Kingdom tombs it was at times depicted leaving it accompanied by the ba-bird.

Let not be shut in my soul, let not be fettered my "shadow", let be opened the way for my soul and for my "shadow", may it see the great god,
E.A.W.Budge The Book of the Dead Chapter 92
May I look upon my soul and my "shadow".
E.A.W.Budge The Book of the Dead Chapter 89

On his journey through the underworld the deceased had to beware of many dangers. There are affirmations in the Book of the Dead that his akh power will not be taken from him, and that he will not lose his shadow:

My shadow will not be prevailed over
The Papyrus of Nu (BM EA 10477)
After a transliteration and German translation on the Thesaurus Linguae Aegyptiae website

One of the perils the shadow would meet was the Devourer of Shadows, one of the daemons appealed to in the Negative Confessions:

O Devourer of Shadows who comes forth from the cave, I have not stolen.
pKairo CG 25095 (pMaiherperi)
After a transliteration and German translation on the Thesaurus Linguae Aegyptiae website

What would happen to the deceased if it fell prey to the Devourer is not known, though one may surmise that it would have spelled out his destruction and oblivion.
The akh ( Ax )
According to the Pyramid Text #474 The akh belongs to the heaven, the corpse to the earth. The body is buried while the akh, the Shining One, ascends to the sky, becoming a star. It is the part of the body least bound to the others, but just as important as the others for assuring the immortality of the deceased. Rising to the heavens king Unas joined the stars:

This Unas comes to you, O Nut,
This Unas comes to you, O Nut,
He has consigned his father to the earth,
He has left Horus behind him.
Grown are his falcon wings,
Plumes of the holy hawk;
His power has brought him,
His magic has equipped him!

The sky-goddess replies

Make your seat in heaven,
Among the stars of heaven,
For you are the Lone Star, the comrade of Hu!
You shall look down on Osiris,
As he commands the spirits,
While you stand far from him;
You are not among them,
You shall not be among them!
M. Lichtheim. Ancient Egyptian Literature: A Book of Readings. Vol. 1 - Pyramid Texts, Utterance 245

The gods would best be described as akhu . The pharaoh, having a divine nature, had always become an akh and joined the stars after the demise of his mortal shell, but later ordinary mortals too attained this status when they became transfigured dead.

Shining Ra, in your celestial aspect, as an akh,
you are Atum within the sky,
an old man as you set on the horizon,
a judge within your palace - which is the heavens,
a king enthroned in the sunset,
and when you've sunk west into the underworld, a king down there as well.
Atum, ancient one, who first dawned from Nun, from the black deep of her primordial night.
Book of the Dead, chapter 15a (tr. Jacob Rabinowitz)

Akh has been translated as spirit, ghost or as transfiguration.
The ba ( bA )
Originally, gods who manifested themselves anonymously were called ba, later it became also the visible form a god assumed, thus the Phoenix was the ba of Re.

Ba-bird of Tutankhamen
Courtesy Jon Bodsworth
Excerpt
From the end of the Old Kingdom onwards the ba was the sum of the immortal forces inherent in human beings which made up his personality. It has been called a person's psyche and is generally translated as soul.
The ba was mostly represented in the form of a bird, generally with a human head and, according to grave images, often perching on trees planted by the tomb. It could move about, sometimes in the company of the shadow, but always returned to the body it belonged to. Spells enabled it to assume any shape it wished. It partook of the offered nourishment and seems also to have had creative powers.


Ithyphallic Amen-Re ba-bird
Source: Samivel, The Glory of Egypt
Excerpt
The Osiris X knows the names of your ba, the form in which you travel our world - the sun.
Ba pure of body,
health-embodying ba,
ba bright and unharmed,
ba of magic,
ba who causes himself to appear,
male ba,
ba whose warm energy encourages copulating.
Book of the Dead 15a

In Egypt's declining years Amen-Re is addressed as Hidden ba, who is revered, at the same time Bes Pantheos, a seven-headed daemon was a manifestation of the power of Amen-Re:

Bes with seven heads: he embodies the ba's of Amen-Re
Jan Assmann, Ägypten, Theologie und Frömmigkeit einer frühen Hochkultur, p.282

The sahu
The sahu has been variously described as the spirit-body, as a self-defined psychic boundary or the repository of the soul (Budge). It was seemingly immortal and similar in form to the mortal body it sprang from.

Thou goest round about heaven, thou sailest in the presence of Ra, thou lookest upon all the beings who have knowledge. Hail, Ra, thou who goest round about in the sky, I say, O Osiris in truth, that I am the Sahu of the god, and I beseech thee not to let me be driven away, nor to be cast upon the wall of blazing fire.
Book of the Dead

- [1] Not that our own views are less so: many of us speak of the body and its resurrection without having a clear notion of what that entails. We speak of having a mind, spirit, and soul but are hard put when having to define what they are
[2] Neheh and djet are dimensions of time. Assmann speaks of them (in analogy with the 'united double kingdom') as 'united double time', where neheh, the imperfect time dimension, is associated with change, Kheper, the One who Becomes, and djet, the perfect aspect of time, is related to completion, Atem, the Perfect One.
[3] The final judgment was - in theory - not influenced by the social position of the deceased:

The west is the abode of him who is faultless,
Praise god for the man who has reached it!
No man will attain it,
Unless his heart is exact in doing right.
The poor is not distinguished there from the rich,
Only he who is found free of fault
By scale and weight before eternity's lord.
There is none exempt from being reckoned:
Thoth as Baboon in charge of the balance
Will reckon each man for his deeds on earth.
Inscription from the tomb of Petosiris
M. Lichtheim Ancient Egyptian Literature Volume III, pp.45f

On the other hand, the knowledgable were certainly at an advantage. Magic could protect a person, prevent the heart from disclosing any dark secrets, or bully deities into being lenient. Knowlegde, or the means to acquire a semblance of it, went with social position.
[4] Inscription from the tomb of Petosiris, High Priest of Thoth, Hermopolis:

I built this tomb in this necropolis,
Beside the great souls who are there,
In order that my father's name be pronounced,
And that of my elder brother,
A man is revived when his name is pronounced!
M. Lichtheim Ancient Egyptian Literature Volume III, pp.45f

[5] This interpretation like the ones that follow it are mostly speculative. They reflect what some Egyptologists think rather than what the Egyptians thought.
[6] Rituals were of essence in achieving transfiguration, as is written in pBM 10208, the recitation of this ritual is effective for the one who recites it:

[Ritual for the transfiguration of Osiris in the necropolis, to be performed in the temple of Osiris-Khentamenti], the great god, lord of Abydos at all feasts for Osiris and at all his epiphanies in the land, [which are performed in the sanctuaries, both for the transfiguration of his ba and the permanent preservation of his corpse (and that) his ba] shall shine in the heavens and his corpse endure in the underworld, that he may be rejuvenated at the beginning of the month, that [his son Horus] be constant [on his throne, (while) he is holding his office for all eternity].
from Papyrus BM 10208, 4th century BCE
after a German translation on the Thesaurus Linguae Aegyptiae website



fatal blonde
waiting was her strong suit. wait, wait some more. stare. breathe. wait.

just because i am female he thinks he can push me around. mika stared horribly into the bathroom mirror and pulled her bra strap so that it hung out just a touch.

so sex, she thought about herself, to herself. she smiled and the fangs caught the light nicely.

she had gone to the dentist that morning and had it done. requested no anesthetic because pain was her lover
more than any pig of a man. the fangs were razor sharp.

i'm a stepping razor now baby she said out loud.

a flush behind her. wow, there was someone in here?

the girl was wearing khaki pants with a matching satchel and a powder blue tee shirt.

she had a pretty face; pretty nervous as mika caught the stare in the mirror.
mika smiled pretty to expose the new fangs; the girl left the bathroom.

and didn't even wash her wittle hands...! mika loved nothing more than scaring people.

her date was waiting in the bar. she lightly washed her hands and walked slowly, damn, i'm cool, back into the small barroom with the ripped up black and white tile.

she was watching people. if she had been watching the room from the perspective of some other person, some watcher, she would have noticed that her torn black and white stockings were the same as the linoleum tile floor, ripped up, black and white, elegant dirt punk style.

she was a reflexive master of being in her environment,was mika. and as she twisted her fireman's cap, with the blue pinstripes that the shovelers of coal wore back in the days when such trains were run, and turned the ironbacked chair around the assume a manly straddle and give maurice a good view of the way her too tight denim shorts stretched across the mound of venus, she was sure she was in command of her situation. she smiled, a broad hungry smile and showed her new fronts to maurice, who stared, in awe of her.

so what drinks are you buying me?

in a few minutes they were both drinking hghballs* and he was gazing into her eyes reciting: some terrible goth lyrics about corrosion. she was bored but she was happy because she was going to kill him in bed, in hot blood, that night. she had it all planned out while the dentist filed and chizeled and the pain shot through her skiull.

what do you think of that?

i like the way your mouth moves when you read, she squeeked, like a cigarette smoking mouse.

it's very, she lisped, sensual. i need another drink, don't you?

he offered to buy her another but said he was okay.



great. that means the stupid fuck thinks he's seducing me.

mika was one of those people with weird chemistry.
for whatever reason, call it magic, she had been able to drink vodka for a long time and not even approach drunkenness.

once she had been at a superbowl party and she had downed an entire fifth of karkov almost by herself.

the boys at Omega Chi had been happy to use her and she vaguely remembered the pounding, the sneers and spitting, as if she had been watching it on teevee.

for some reason the next morning combo of morning after pills and hair-or-the-oh GOD

only been partly sucessful; she didnt; turn up preggers after that, but her hangover didn't go away
immediately 'cause she--

he was rubbing his shoe with the square phaggy toes up and down her leg.

what a slime ball. this is gonna be fun.

she hooked her fingers into his belt loop.
hey, look what i can do now.

she bit her tongue with her sharp new fangs until it bled. then she spat the bright fluid from the stinging wound into his shot glass.

here.

he stared at her. he had picked her up at a bar with 185 varieties of beer from around the world. she had been in that dark punk mode, but the fangs were new. but he was strung out from collisions with lsd and psychoactive chemicals meant to offset schizoaffective symptoms; reality tended to be dodgy in interpretive weight in his life.

the girl with the fangs smiled and slitted her blue eyes at him.

he pucked the shot up and, while her thumb was pressing into his stiffening penis,
swallowed the vodka and the blood from her tongue all at once.
then he grabbed her face and they kissed over the table, he could feel the candle flame heating his throat,
he could feel her tug suggesting that they move towards the door. "yeah. finally i get to fuck her again."

in the foyer he opened his mouth to speak. she pushed him into the girls bathroom.

they stood there, for a second, staring at each other.

you are the wildest goth girl i ever met.

she pulle dthe condom out of her pocket. sick mika had taken great pains to make tiny invisible pinpricks in the plastic wrapper of the household-name spartan warrior's helmetface logo and the latex sheath inside. here. take this!
then she went into the stall and closed the door. wait one minute.

what are you doing? but he heard the match strike, smelled the trace sulfur.

i'm such a bad girl, maurice heard her saying from behind the metal door. open it!

maurice opened to metal door to see mika sitting on the seat with her legs just barely parted. on the wal lof the stall somehow the red candle was fixed, burning. the inverted pentagram shocked him with the sugestion of evil, it was magicmarkered above the tank. she sat there, smiling impishly...the new fangs gleamed red with her blood.


are you hard enough yet? not too drunk to fuk are ya?

he wasn't.


---


an hour later they were screwing in his apartment, a Byronic scene of red and white candles, voodoo glow skulls and naked intercourse. red wine.

he was weak from draininghimself into her when she sank her fangs into his throat. he was limp inside her with a viselike grip as she aced him, sucking the seed from his loins -- the condom with the perforation had been unnecessary, he'd dumped load after load into her. and as his life gurgled from his throat into hers she thought, all men are pigs.

in stereo

stars in the water seeming

to be alone on a strange island with hardly any friends. no friends? so lonely, no friends. My name is Two, and I sit here in the automated city.

I can’t remember, and I forgot on purpose. what a thing to remember?

so here I am in Amnesia Park. It’s basically a glass dome. I mean, there are stairs and elevators that go down beyond this obvious surface level that i am on, and there is music that comes throbbing up, on certain levels of this structure, I can feel the bass emanations through the floor. but for some reason I feel as if...there were a presence nearby i can’t see, but i feel...I always go to the edge and walk around the perimeter...

I sit here at the end of a large table. There are many seats, like a banquet table, but I am the only person here.

Overhead, so many stars! Flickering. Twinkling. Bright. Stars, planets...

I can walk and walk in this place, and I have. Has this always been my home? I don’t remember. Don’t want to. No.

I could leave this room, enter a corridor. Over the railing is a yawning vestibule, a fountain. lights dance in the water. lights, glass everywhere. Even beneath my feet as I walk. Where did all this glass come from.
i feel dry...arid, like a desert walking in this dome, this glass hotel
I walk slowly down the corridor and let my hand gently drift across the railing..it seems like the water is alive, but that’s just the reflection of starlight from above, from all sides.

It’s a long way down.

I can press this button here--a new hum, vague and faint, in the walls. This place is full of hums, echoes, buzzes...music plays in faraway corridors...

elevator comes. I can see my own face for a moment. i look sad.

why do I think I look sad? I must have been happy once.

The doors slide open.

“welcome,” the elevator says. The palette of destinations flashes.

I enter and press a button

“I see we have levels to go together,” the elevator seems to mention offhandedly.

it’s almost heartening to have one of the talking machines say a few words to me...i dimly remember.

But I don’t wanna get into a big long drawn out debate with an elevator right now.

“Down, please.”

...and the glass elevator begins to slide between the walls of Amnesia City...it’s a wandering voyage laterally and then vertically, then laterally again...



“Down it is.”

I like talking elevators...neat trick. But I press one of the middle buttons to shortchange any notions of further chitchat.








The doors open, like an eye. I am at the foot of the fountain.


“Is here better, or any worse?”

I am caught off guard. “Uh, yeah, I guess.” I thought i turned that off...I step out into the atrium.

“Thank you,” the contralto voice replies.

There is a moment when I am taken by the shimmering glass archway, by the lights of the elevator dancing away down the wall.

There is someone here at the end of the cavernous walkway. I see her, I have seen her before. what is her name? she is oblivious to me, nodding her head and almost dancing, but not quite...she’s wearing phones over her ears.

I could go and talk to her, but she might tell me who and where we are.

I’m not sure. I think- no, I am sure. I forgot on purpose.

At that moment -- at the moment I decide not to disturb her--

You see-I noticed her, slightly, dancing and nodding her head to her music and looked for awhile. Here we are in Amnesia Park, this transparent enclosure. I looked and considered speaking for awhile, as I listened to the sound of rushing water.

when I decided -- at the very moment, the instant I decided not to approach her, she spun on the ball of her foot and noticed me. Her mouth opened and made an O. Then she bolted -- ran around the corner.

Mixed feelings.

II


Here I am in this clear bubble. the stars, the black sky. I am a runaway from prison. There were so many prisoners, I don’t remember how I escaped--

and it doesn’t matter. we were all crammed together, so little room to breathe, now I have been in this excellent glass fortress-- how long?

It’s so different. I am who I was before, in prison, but not really. I am wandering and there’s this person!

No! Don’t want to see, talk to, be with anyone. Someone to tell me who I am. I just want to feel the pulsations, echoes from deep below -- the music comes from below the floor, a beautiful sort of music --

no! I don’t want to see anyone now! just want to be alone!

I ran around a corner. I thought I was going to be -- at peace here, alone. No questions! No hassles!
I don’t know, but I know that there are others who might try to make up my mind for me.

I run down long hallways, take left and right turns...

There is a moving staircase that seems to flow out of the glass floor, seamlessly. I will stop here - no steps coming to pursue me.

I like that fine.

I won’t be trapped, cornered, made prisoner of any kind! No! There are other things to do, explore, look at my reflection in the glass walls, explore all the rooms.

Reflective surfaces all around me. Running water, canals with very regular straight edges. I cup my hands and take a sip of the water that flows. So clear and beautiful to taste...this place--what is it?

It’s another form of existance, I realise somehow. A spiritual asylum?

I don’t know how I got here and my memories of my former life as a prisoner are indistinct and fading But here -- here is a different story.

All I have are the clothes I’m wearing - padded at the knees and ankles. phones. music. how do I somehow know this music that emanates from the underneath of this place, from some basement chamber?


Two.

Who cares? meanwhile, I can find my room. “My room”.

All that means is that I have returned to the same cubicle in this glass dome structure on more than one occasion.

I usually just find myself there. It’s somewhere nearby. But...I just want to stop here and look at this fountain.

There’s something about water under pressure. It - at the top of the fountain - is almost dancing and hypnotic. And as I gaze at the pinnacle of the water jet, I observe the curvature of the dome, the reflection of the inside of this place, the stars, the multitude of stars...! It’s peaceful here...like there is something to do, but no hurry, no rush to do it...

I feel that it would take only the slightest bit of concentration, and i could rise, like a cloud of steam, and pass through the levels above me, floating...

The fountain is mysterious. There’s a round crystalline base, with a canal that leaves it and oases into a lagoon, twinkling and gurgling, past my feet. I could get in and swim if i wanted to, but i don’t want to.

























ONE.

There is an intricate return at the heart of the nexus, the network, the cosmos’ bright latticework that connects us all to each other and everything. Most of the time it is not apparent: we are hurrying through, going from here to there to accomplish tasks, make things happen. When we are attempting nothing, and truly still, then it becomes apparent.

My name is Eon. Welcome to my mind, soul, heart, experience, whichever you prefer as I am a gestalt of these things and more. Essence. It That I Am manifests causally as a crystal sphere, transparent in places, opaque in places, one sixteenth the size of the small planet it-I am embedded into. The home of elemental water, the source of crystal, the nexus of thought and feeling. Primal, undifferentiated thought and feeling.

a labyrinth of walls and rooms, canals wherein flows elemental water. My consciousness, the Eon consciousness, operates the doors that open and clothes, creates the music that pulsates, emanating, from the Centre, and observes the actions and thoughts of the inhabitants, the man and the woman both named Two.





II.


All of a sudden I am not comfortable staying in this one place. I have been sitting here for awhile. Got to get up, explore!



Apprehension - where was I before, you saw men wearing masks, heavy masks where only mouths were visible, barking orders and telling us - the women - where to go and what to do and when to do it and how often and how little and always in lines, lines, Lines! Off to your cells! In the cells, the screens, the faces of men, always masked. Only ever saw the eyes of other women, either terrified or glassy, like they wish they had masks. And that man! I can’t let him see me, imprison me!

But this place, this dome is so huge!


all a delusion, this whole place is a fairytale within metaphors of ascenscion and enlightenment...an attempt at romance? what is the consumnation of romance, of bliss? is it a never ending spiral into higher and higher levels of spiritual sharing and understanding that instead of making you wonder, tears away the doubt from the eyes of the lovers and transports them into each other, into a world they share and only they share, a world unafflicted by alarm clocks and car radios, a world unafflicted by tension and greed? what is the bliss without a criminal stain, that sees itself in the eyes of another and so creates a doorway into eternity?

...they had found the slippery passageway downstairs, towards the pulsating, throbbing, music that emanated from the bliss centers of the living planet,revealed to them as they spiraled in the light of sudden comprehension, the truth of the need to know the self in each other, the union which had waited intervals of measure transcending time and space...the two heartbeats melded into the lostness of no one but The Act in being and touching and knowing each other, knowing the sweet gateway into the divine that they had “forgotten”...the conscious joy of union of acknowledgement sends away the fears of the past that made amnesia more ideal and welcoming a way than union...

you can tell me that the world’s current global militatism has some basis other than the denial of love. with the denial of love still evaporating scientifically in the air around your face i will not request a kiss in such heated non-arguments. the air becomes thick with denial, humid...when military agressors have mammary glands that are capable of lactating and ovaries capable of estrus and, of course, fingers that can pull the simple, by comparison, trigger release mechanism of a pistol, then they are just military agressors. I tell them there’s no hurry, I’m just sitting here doing time.

The Screams Of The Vanquished

I have heard the screams of the vanquished - but it was not the screams
of the sentient beings. No, the screams of the vanquished are the screams
of beings of almost pure denial -- denying themselves out of existance
with a few last tortured shrieks of spite against love and malice against creation.

It is all coming to an end, for them --
as if someone changed all the water in the aquarium, and love breathers
can thrive now -- and they despise the sea change.


that's so nice. poor little thangs.

--loud nights beneath vichyquand les nazis ont organisé leur structure de puissance en Allemagne, il y avait des sources notables de résistance qui ont obtenu le point à travers cela qu'il ne serait pas simple ou facile pour le hitler d'écarter sa attitude aryenne à travers l'Allemagne et le monde.

de note étaient la "matrice meuten" qui a gagné une réputation en tant que combattants futés durs... pendant un moment où de jeunes NAZIS ont été forcés de pleurnicher et de porter plainte à leurs supérieurs qu'ils obtenaient viciously battus dans certains voisinages allemands.


l'histoire de la résistance a été romanticized fortement, tristement, au cours des ans depuis que la fin de la guerre contre "le hitlerianism" une histoire est le conte "hanna senesh" -- qui a parachuté derrière les lignes allemandes, et a été torturée à la mort qu'elle est morte en quelques ses années '20 apparemment le gouvernement allemand, en fait, a employé et a préconisé la torture.


à un niveau différent, le hauge des jens chr. était une résistance qui a survécu jusqu'à ce que long après la guerre. hauge en novembre de 2006 un spéculateur prospère d'huile -- mais également un vétéran de la résistance norvégienne. la plus mauvaise idée celle qui ne fonctionne jamais est 'le feu de combat avec le feu.' en dépit du couche-point d'ayn les millions de contradictions de ventilateurs, en fait existent -- et en tant que de tels mouvements de résistance qui ont choisi d'embrasser la tactique de leurs tormentors plutôt évidemment échoués.

même en France, endroit célèbre de la résistance d''maqui '- le miterrand de f. est entré vers le bas en encyclopédies après sa mort en tant que socialiste conservateur. une sorte plus conservatrice de socialisme que la partie des ouvriers allemands des hitler que vous ne trouverez pas et tellement tristement, quoique le miterrand ait pu avoir effectué le grand travail pour expulser les Allemands dans la résistance vichy -- c'était l'idéologie qui est entrée la forme nazie de pensée dans la France.

c'est le feu de combat à sens unique avec le feu tombe en panne toujours ceux qui sont résistés tendent à organiser heirarchically avec les chefs clairement définis et les sectateurs que ceux qui 'n'obtiennent pas 'l'anarchisme pas -- mais c'est un fait qu'il n'y a aucune conduite ou heirarchy le mouvement d'anarchiste et en groupant - parce que ce serait une contradiction absurde ou un mensonge utile -- quelque chose autre que l'anarchisme conçu decieve. le résultat est des comptes de corps -- en Amérique du sud et en Asie aussi bien qu'en Amérique du Nord et l'Europe. triste. in short they posed and screamed 'join our resistance' but as soon as people spoke of the french resistors they said 'that's scary' and started making cracks about 'niggers'. there's no such thing as a nigger. i think it is some sort of twisted word that people use when they almost have no way of relating to human feeling, natural love...it is easy to force out racists in this way, and of course...racists want to join La Resistance, La Aliancia, to ruin it...when resistance fails it is because they adopt the strategies of those they oppose. there are no anarchist organizers, no anarchist leaders. but anarchist lovers? that's for breakfast...

POST OBJECTIVISM: EPISTEMOLOGY AND THE MODERN MAN

cool people all over got vibed out by the satan worshippers who lied to everyone for money.
no singer cause no heart - they didn't want feelings fucking up their loud hopelessness and stinking shame.
fuck them and people who like them. with a boot. in the ass.

for kathy chang. little fucking judases. i don't need to be jeanne dixon to read the minds of you absurd little Nietzche worshippers. we are astrologers.

nemea can hear you in texas and you make her sick. you make tamara want to puke. lars laughs and gives you the finger. sebastian can't wait to get away from you and checks every few months to see if it still sucks.

i thought you "made it" you DC pederast.
when are you gonna go face the music SHIT HEAD?

you can't take it you limp dick electric DICK HOLE cause it's all, uh

then i could see through them. i felt like jesus looking at judas.
they were posing at shows, but they were not friends of anarchy. they were exactly for what they claimed to be against. i had to wipe my ASS.

you are like some sick hategod. have fun impressing shitheads who hate fun you GODDAM SOVIET REPUBLICAN,
you picture of a nuclear soviet.
eat shit according to your needs. love haley with an asterisk. foul play telling the truth the weak poseurs said.

they were too racist and sure of ther superiority to play with lars and eliot duhan.
they sabotaged ALL Those bands. doctor cockburn herself diseased hag sabotaged all starfish bands just cause she was greedy.e vil people thank satan for what god gives. sunday' morning's every day for me. see you
are bad vibes or no vbes. now YOU are the unfunny sex men.
good. play. every gig you play is LAUGHINGSTOCK.
tour the rust belt.
rub yourself raw.
you'll learn one day.

and now a picture of someone who was cool and warned me about you, stinking liz. she will never be your fan.always she was on the side of the good and everyone in west philly knows her you god damn stinking turtleheads. hey don't forget to WIPE YOUR ASS yanni you stinkinglizard. YOUHATE YOU. eat shit according to your needs.



2.Image hosted by Photobucket.com
THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS
the love song of kathy phoenix
Image hosted by Photobucket.com


(prefacing theory: A government that has to deal with its constituent members with pepper spray and incarceration is not a democracy: it is a military state, a police state; a tyranny.)

prefacing theory two: The Great American Novel must be: a) a criticism of the American way of life and b) unpublishable.

I THOUGHT ABOUT THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS.

BUT AT THE OUTSET I THOUGHT THAT THE ANNOYING LITTLE CAPITALIST INSIDE ME WANTED TO CRYSTALLIZE IT, PITCH IT AS A MINISERIES, MAKE TONS OF CASH... IT SEEMED LIKE SUCH A BEAUTIFUL IDEA THAT ITS CORRUPTION WAS INEVITABLE.

I HAD TO THINK ABOUT IT.

IT WAS A CONCEPT BORN OF ANGUISH AND LOVE.

love that stayed hiding deep in my gullet while i tramped off to appointments. to catch buses, trains. love that almost always seemed inappropriate. out of line. impractical. anguished, i wondered why i had no idea WHY i was going to make these deals, sign these contracts. i had emotions, but they were so often wrailing, piteous feelings that i couldn't get up to the surface. the bills had to be paid, though, and the debt and the fear of debt towered, menacing, always menacing. AT NIGHT, ALONE, BEFORE SLEEP, I WOULD TREMBLE. ANGUISH THAT I COULD NOT TRACE TO A SOURCE. OCCASIONALLY, A SINGLE TEAR. WHO HAS TIME TO SIT UP WEEPING ALL NIGHT? THERE IS PROGRAMMING TO DO IN THE A. M.

&

I THOUGHT ABOUT THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS. BECAUSE I LOVED SOME FOLKS, AND THEY SEEMED TO HAVE LITTLE MONEY, CLOSER TO NONE. I LOVED THEM UTTERLY; WITH AN INTENSITY WORDS CANNOT RELATE. I LOVED THEM, AND THEY WERE MARCHING OFF TO WAR AGAINST A HORRIBLE ENEMY; AN ENEMY UTTERLY DEVOID OF PITY. I WATCHED THEM LOCK THEIR ARMS TOGETHER AND BEND THEIR HEADS DOWN, GETTING PUMMELED WITH THE BATONS OF PEACE OFFICERS AND GETTING CARTED OFF TO JAILS. PROTESTING. OR ELSE GETTING SWEPT OFF THE STREET LIKE SO MUCH DETRITUS. IGNORED BY THE POLICE AFTER GETTING THE SHIT BRUTALLY KICKED OUT OF THEM. IGNORED OR MALIGNED BY THE MEDIA. BRAVELY, LIKE SOLDIERS. PATRIOTS FOR A NATION WITH NO NAME AND NO BORDERS. I WAS TORN; ANGUISHED AS I WATCHED THESE QUIXOTIC FREEDOM FIGHTERS DEPLETING THEMSELVES. I DIDN'T WANT THEM TO LOSE BECAUSE THEY WERE FIGHTING FOR ME. THEY HADN'T SAID SO. BUT THEY WERE. i was tired of watching them fight.

I THOUGHT ABOUT THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS WHILE CHOKING ON THE REALISATION THAT THERE WERE NO ENEMIES.

I THOUGHT ABOUT THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS WHEN THE BAND I WAS IN STARTED PLAYING DIFFERENT TUNES.

I WISHED THAT I COULD FORGET, AT TIMES, THAT THE CORPORATE EMPIRES WERE COMPOSED OF LIVING BREATHING INDIVIDUALS WITH HEARTS AND SOULS, PEOPLE WHO WANTED LOVE AND PEACE.

I WANTED TO FORGET BUT I KNEW. I KNEW THAT THE MASSIVE MEGACORPS WERE MADE UP OF WARM, BREATHING, SENTIENT BEINGS THAT WANTED TO make love AND feel good.

HOMO SAPIENS, OR SOMETHING. I THOUGHT ABOUT JUSTICE, I THOUGHT ABOUT FLAMING ARMAGEDDON.

post objectivism: THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERSi

I THOUGHT ABOUT HEAVEN ON EARTH; I SAID TO MYSELF; "WHAT IF ALL THE MISERY THAT RULES THE EARTH TODAY TURNED INTO JOY?"

I THOUGHT ABOUT THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS AND I QUESTIONED MY OWN GUILTINESS UNTIL I FELT SOMETHING ELSE. AND I FELT SOMETHING AKIN TO PITY.


PITY FOR A POOR OLD MAN, A SICK TIRED AND VERY OLD MAN WHO THEY PUSH AND PUSH. THE LAST TIME I HAD SEEN HIM HE LOOKED SO SICK AND TIRED. HIS SPIRITUAL CONSTITUENTS, SOME OF THEM HANG ON HIS EVERY WORD. IT'S HIS JOB AND HE LOOKS SO OLD, SO INFIRM. HE HANGS ON.

PITY FOR MYSELF. YEAH, I WAS THROWING A MAJOR LEAGUE PITY PARTY, NO ONE WAS THERE BUT MYSELF AND MY MEMORIES. PITY. I FELT PITY FOR THE PROLES, FOR ALL US PROLES WHO DON'T SEE ANY OTHER WAY BUT SLAVING FOR USELESS PAPER UNTIL WE SHIT AND EXPIRE. AND FOR ALL THE SERFS WHO WON'T GET ANYWHERE NEAR AS MUCH AS THAT PAPER, WHO HAVE BROKEN THEIR OWN BACKS FOR GENERATIONS, LIKE OUR ANCESTORS, BREAKING THEIR BACKS IN TOILET PAPER FACTORIES THAT LEACH POISON INTO THEIR GROUNDWATER.

AND I FELT PITY FOR THE BORGOISIE, SO ISOLATED FROM THEIR FEELINGS THAT THEY COULD'T UNDERSTAND LIFTING A FINGER AND NOT SEEING A PROFIT.

THE PAIN INSIDE THEM THAT THEY BARELY ACKNOWLEDGE, RARELY UNDERSTAND; THEIR HEARTS LIKE THE PHANTOM LIMBS OF WAR VERTERANS.

I FELT A GREAT DEAL OF PITY AND I THOUGHT ABOUT THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS.

I OBSERVED WITH HORROR--ALTHOUGH IT WAS A LITTLE FUNNY--THAT "little green men" WERE CONTROLLING ALMOST EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING.

MORE WAVES OF PITY FOLLOWED. "BURN A DOLLAR FOR JUSTICE" SOME WELL WISHER SAID TO ME ONCE, LONG BEFORE THIS IDEA STARTED MAKING ITSELF PLAIN TO ME.

UNTIL I REALISED THAT IF IT WERE ABOUT ANYTHING, IT CERTANLY WASN'T ABOUT DESTROYING ANYTHING. ESPECIALLY NOT AN OVERSTIGMATIZED PIECE OF TREE TISSUE, IN MY FAVORITE COLOR, NO LESS.
it was about the difference between ayn rand and friedrich nietzche, it was about the general way n. detested nearly everyone, and about rand's questionable atheism and her sex addiction -- and her stated love of TRUTH. Nietzche was dead, and I knew what that meant. It was a bathroom wall joke. Then the bombs started falling on Iraq after the Loser became president. bloodless coup d'etat happened to get pervez his sweet job.

BUT WHITE FOLKS DON'T DO THINGS LIKE THAT. WHITE FOLKS ARE STRAIGHTFORWARD AND DIRECT. IT'S THOSE MUD COLORED SAVAGES WHO CAN'T HAVE A GOVERNMENT. I THOUGHT ABOUT IT WHILE THE NAZI PUNKS OPENED A TEMPLE OF SET AND HUNG A SIGN UPSTAIRS FROM A BAR OWNED BY JEWS. I NEEDED TO FIX OBJECTIVISM.


I COULD TRY TO CLOSE MY EYES TO THE PALPABLE DISGUST I FELT FOR ALL THE INTIMDATING AND RUTHLESS SYSTEMS THAT ENSLAVE AND DEMORALIZE.

EXCEPT FOR THE POLICE OFFICERS, AND THE CORPORATE EXECUTIVES, THE BOSSES AND THE GENERALS...IT HAS BEEN SO EASY THROUGH HISTORY FOR WOULD-BE REVOLUTIONARIES TO PLAN THEIR DEATHS, TO CREATE MANIFESTOES WITH NO ROOM FOR THOSE HUMAN BEINGS. TO THINK NOTHING OF REVENGE, OF RIGHTEOUSLY FIGHTING FIRE WITH FIRE. IF THAT IS WHAT RIGHTEOUS MEANS THAN I WILL NEVER BE RIGHTEOUS.





it was march. the year two thousand and one.

&

EARTHQUAKES COULD COME TO THE U. S.!

HORRIBLE, TERRIFYING EARTHQUAKES! THUNDER, BUT FROM OUT OF THE GROUND! SHAKING! BUILDINGS, TALL BUILDINGS, TOPPLING! MASS HYSTERIA!

OR NOT...

CITIES CAN HAVE ASPECTS OF BEAUTY...ALL LIT UP AT NIGHT, SHINING AND DISTINGUISHED, TWINKLING IN A CLOUD OF FOG. GORGEOUS!

BUT THEN, ONE GETS CLOSER, AND THE MISERY, THE ALIENATION, THE GRINDING DRUDGERY THAT KEEPS THE FINANCIAL ENGINES RUNNING...NOT SO GORGEOUS. AFTER A WHILE I LEARNED THAT CITIES TEND TO SHOW LESS THAN WHAT THERE ACTUALLY IS TO THE SUPERFICIAL OBSERVER. OF COURSE PEOPLE WHO CLEAN TOILETS, DEAL WITH THE GARBAGE AND FILTH THAT OTHERS LEAVE BEHIND FOR A LIVING...IT IS THEY WHO MAKE CITIES LOOK GOOD, YET THEY ARE GENERALLY BEHIND THE SCENES. I BET THEY LOVE CLEANING TOILETS AND PICKING UP GARBAGE.

I AM CHRIS MARRIN. ONCE UPON A TIME I WAS DETERMINED TO BE THE RICHEST MAN ALIVE. I COULD JUST AS EASILY CALL MYSELF EBENEZER SCROOGE, THE WAY I SEE THINGS NOW. I WAS DETERMINED TO BE THE HARDEST WORKING SCREENWRITER--THE HARDEST WORKING MAN IN SHOW BUSINESS. I HAD SEVEN GREAT IDEAS BEFORE BREAKFAST. I WAS FULL OF "IT."

YOU KNOW, WHEN A PRODUCER OR A NETWORK EXECUTIVE SAYS, "HE'S GOT "IT?" WELL YOU NEVER HEARD OF ME, BUT I HAD "IT." I WAS FULL OF "IT."

THAT WAS A LONG TIME AGO. SCREW "IT" NOW.

I SAW THE OTHER SIDE OF "IT".
I SAW SEVERAL OTHER ARTISTS IN THE ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY WHO HAD "IT" GET SO MUCH SUCCESS AND THEN THEY MYSTERIOUSLY BECAME IRRELEVANT, DERIVATIVE POP DISPENSERS. A COUPLE DIED HORRIBLE, TRAGIC, LONG DRAWN OUT AND INTIMATELY PUBLIC DEATHS. I NEED NOT NAME THE MANY SAD NAMES; IF YOU ARE READING THIS THEY WILL SPRING TO MIND. JANIS JOPLIN WAS FAR FROM THE FIRST. AND ALSO, AS I DEVELOPED MY OWN ARTISTIC PROCESS I ENCOUNTERED A DIFFERENT ELEMENT. GENIUSES, REAL GENIUSES, MAKING ART OF AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT NUANCE. ART THAT JUST BLEW ME AWAY! ABSOLUTELY NO DESIRE FOR PROFIT. THEY COULDN'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT MONEY! AND THEIR WORK WAS CONSCIOUS, FLOWING, BEAUTIFUL! AND FULL OF LOVE. THEY HAD SOMETHING THE NETWORKS COULDN'T HAVE, COULDN'T BEGIN TO TOUCH-- A VIRTUE, AN INTENSITY--

IN THOSE DAYS I HAD A THEORY THAT THE GREATEST ARTISTIC WORKS OF REORDED HISTORY COULD BE REFLECTED, THAT GRAFITTI REFLECTED CAVE PAINTINGS AND THAT I COULD CREATE WORK FOR MYSELF FOREVER BY-- BY CHOOSING A CLASSICAL WORK OF ART AND REVISING AND REFLECTING IT TO A MODERN AUDIENCE.

ONE DAY A TITLE CAME INTO MY HEAD. THERE ARE SO MANY TITLE THAT GO: THE (BLANK) OF THE (BLANK).

SUBJECT AND OBJECT, THE TITLE SUMMARIZES THE STORY. IT'S HAD MANY SUCCESSFUL INCARNATIONS.

THE LORD OF THE RINGS, THE VALLEY OF THE DOLLS, THE FATE OF THE EARTH, AND SO ON.

KATHLEEN, MY PARTNER, APPROACHED ME ONE MORNING SHORTLY AFTER COFFEE WITH A TITLE IN MIND: THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS. "BARINSTORM ON THIS," SHE SAID TO ME.

SO I THOUGHT ABOUT IT. WHAT WAS IT ABOUT? WHAT WAS THE STORY? AT FIRST IT WAS ALL ABOUT MONEY, AND WHAT IT DOES TO PEOPLE. AS I THOUGHT ABOUT THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS, THE ANNOYING LITTLE CAPITALIST INSIDE ME WAS CONTEMPLATING HIS MANY ANNOYING EGG-SUCKING CONTACTS WHO LOVED TO JUMP ON GOOD IDEAS AND MILK THEM ALL THE WAY TO THE BANK. WHO WOULD WANT TO GET IN ON IT?

"A MINISERIES," I COULD IMAGINE NORM ALREADY SAYING, "COLOSSAL! STUPENDOUS! WE WILL MAKE DOLLARS! TONS OF CASH!"

OTHER THINGS HAPPENED AND KATHLEEN DIED.

KATHLEEN DIED.

&

KATHLEEN WAS MY WRITING PARTNER.

WE WOULD SIT UP LATE NIGHTS HASHING OUT SCENARIOS. WE'D BEEN MARRIED FOR WHAT SEEMED LIKE FOREVER AND PRIMARILY BECAUSE WE COULD WORK TOGETHER. WHEN SHE COMMITTED SUICIDE I LOST THE TINY SCRAP OF WILL I HAD TO WORK, BUT IT WAS HER SUICIDE NOTE THAT NEARLY DESTROYED ME. MAYBE COMPLETELY.

IT WAS A SAD STATE OF AFFAIRS.

i stopped writing; stopped answering the phone. stopped paying the bill. and i took the scripts that my wife and i had sitting in file cabinets, including this one, and put them in a lock box. and i took the lock box outside and walked awhile -- you'll never find it-- and i buried that fucking lock box.

Kathleen had lost her shit, you see. I never saw somebody fall apart so fast. Kathleen had been vibrant and healthy. She was older than me, she and her parents had emigrated from China in the late fifties, beore I was born, and she'd had a lot of work published before we met and subsequently married. We had five and a half years of decent marriage, until one morning she woke up with...rabies or something, it was terrible how she changed! Ranting about "the soul of the earth" and "demonic forces"...on and on.

I had to have her hospitalised; she was terrorizing the people at the deli downstairs, she would go there almost naked, demanding that they burn all the money in the register and not letting the old Black men buy their lottery tickets...the proprietor finally told me that if i didn't have her committed, he would. That was the beginning of the roughest time in my life, and the end of hers. The medications they gave her in the hospital did this: a woman, five feet ten inches, a slender 127 pounds, ballooned to almost 200. Disconnected from all of our friends, she sat there watching tv, watching bad reruns and cursing the screen--where before she had only used foul language as emphasis and often putting it in the mouths of characters we created, she suddenly--what a change-- regularly spat the foullest curses. It was like watching The Exorcist. Or else she slept. Our sex life utterly ended, and one morning I went into the back yard and found a stinking, burnt-like charcoal mess of a corpse. She'd set herself on fire with gasoline. It was the ugliest thing I have ever borne witness to in my life. THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS WAS SITTING, LAST PAGE COMPLETED, NEXT TO MY TYPEWRITER.


WHAT WIDOWERS GO THROUGH IS NOT PRETTY. I WENT THROUGH IT. I'LL ALWAYS GO THROUGH IT. ABOUT A WEEK AFTER THE FUNERAL I BURIED EVERYTHING WE EVER WROTE TOGETHER AND SWORE TO WRITE NO MORE. INSTEAD I DRANK.

BUT I THOUGHT ABOUT IT.

oh yes. I THOUGHT ABOUT THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS, OUR LAST JOINT EFFORT. THOUGHT ABOUT IT HARD; THOUGHT ABOUT IT A LOT. THERE WERE TIMES WHEN I WANTED TO FORGET I KNEW ANYTHING AT ALL. I WANTED TO RIP MY HEART OUT OF MY CHEST AND THROW IT TO THE GROUND AND NOT HAVE TO DEAL WITH THE PAIN OF FEELING. I WOULD JUST PUT MY HEAD DOWN AND SIMPLY ACCEPT THE INEVITABLE DRUDGERY AND SUFFERING AND PAIN, LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE. JUST ACCEPT MY MISERABLE, GODFORSAKEN LOT IN LIFE. I DIDN'T HAVE THE GUTS TO ADMIT THAT THE THINGS I OWNED WERE MINE, THEY WERE ALL AROUND ME, AND I USED THEM ALL THE TIME, THE PHONE, THE WATCH, THE COMPUTER, THE CARS...BUT THE MISERY, THE HUMILIATION, THE DISGUST, THE UTTER REVULSION WERE MINE.

I GOT THEM FROM BLAMING MY PROBLEMS ON OTHERS.

IT WAS A TRAIT THAT KATHLEEN AND I HAD SHARED, BUT SHE WAS DEAD AND THERE WAS NO ONE TO COLLABORATE OR COMMISERATE WITH ANY MORE. A PART OF ME WAS GONE, FOREVER.

I WAS CONFRONTED WITH THE PAST, WITH MY GREED, MY HEARTLESS AMBITION, MY EXCESS.

WHEN I SAW HOW WRONG, HOW TOTALLY WRONG I HAD BEEN, WHEN I REALISED THAT ALL THE BAGGAGE WAS MY PROBLEM, THAT THERE WAS NO ONE TO BLAME --

I THOUGHT ABOUT BLAMING GOD FOR A WHILE. IT SEEMED UNFAIR. GOD HAS TAKEN ENOUGH ABUSE, I THOUGHT TO MYSELF.

GENERATIONS UPON GENERATIONS HAVE LIVED WITH THE SPECTRE OF DEATH'S INEVITABLILITY. WHY SHOULD I BE THE FREAK? THE OPTIMIST? JUST LYING TO MYSELF. IN COMPLETE DENIAL OF THE WAY THINGS WERE, AND WERE SUPPOSED TO BE.

OR SOMETHING.

I FOUND MYSELF ATTEMPTING TO CHEER MYSELF UP. I MANAGED TO DISTRACT MYSELF...THE MISERY CAME BACK WORSE THAN EVER. AN URGE TO PUKE OVERCAME ME WHEN I THOUGHT OF ROMANCE. WHAT A WASTE OF TIME, ROMANCE.

but what else was there to live for?

live for a fragile dream, so easily shattered...

WHEN I LOOKED AND SAW THAT LIES WERE EVERYWHERE, THAT LIES HAD CREATED A CAREER FOR US, AND THAT A PORTION, NO MATTER HOW SMALL, OR THE TRUTH, OF TRUTH, WOULD ALWAYS BE OMITTED...

"WHAT IS TRUTH?"

WHAT I LOOKED AND SAW THAT LIES WERE EVERYWHERE I HAD TO ASK MYSELF WHAT TRUTH WAS.

I HAD ASKED KATHLEEN SO MANY TIMES, AND SHE HAD ANSWERED IN MANY LOVING WAYS.

BUT SHE WAS GONE AND I WAS LEFT TO ASK MYSELF.

OH, WELL. I GUESS I CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH.

&


THE SOUL'S INFANCY. I WANTED TO SCREAM IT OUT BUT IT BECAME CORRUPT. FOR AWHILE I CELEBRATED. I FELT THIS GREAT LOVE FOR EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE. IT FELT GREAT FOR AWHILE, BUT I COULDN'T ENJOY IT ALONE. AND I LOOKED AND SAW THAT I WAS SURROUNDED, EVERYWHERE I COULD POSSIBLY LOOK, BY PEOPLE AFFLICTED BY THE SAME SADNESS. BY THE GRAVITY, THE SERIOUSNESS OF THEIR SITUATIONS. THEY WEREN'T IN LOVE WITH THEMSELVES, THE WORLD, ANYTHING. THEY WERE JUST VARYING SHADES OF UNHAPPY, VARYING DEGREES OF MISERABLE. AND GUILT STARTED HAPPENING TO ME MORE AND MORE.


eventually i felt like it was all crashing in on me, like i was being hypercompressed, imploding.

HOPE? HOW COULD I HOPE? JUST PRETENDING THAT THERE WAS A BEAUTIFUL WORLD BECKONING WITH HAPPINESS AND FREEDOM FOR ALL.

but all over the world were hatred and death, fear and unbearable misery.

SURROUNDED AND NEARLY OVERWHEMED BY GUILT AND FEAR I SEARCHED FOR A CURE.

i thought about THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS and i imagined a cure for the self loathing that i saw everyone in, writhing, suffering, hustling. I WAS TALKING AND TALKING AND THINKING AND THINKING AND WORRYING AND WRINGING MY HANDS AND GRITTING MY TEETH AND SWEARING AND GRIPING AND I -- i was tired of wishing that i could shut it all out, but i couldn't. it had become a part of me, like the past becoming the present.

FOR SO LONG I HAD CONSIDERED THE EVIL IN LIFE SOMETHING OUTSIDE OF MYSELF, TO BE DEFEATED.

FOR SO LONG I HAD BELIEVED THAT LOVE WAS THE SUPREME FORCE IN LIFE, STRONGER THAN ANYTHING.

HOW COULD I COMBINE THESE TWO ELEMENTS -- LOVE AND EVIL? UNSPEAKABLE BLASPHEMY. SELF-QUESTIONING, BY GRIM NECESSITY, BECAME AN INTEGRAL PART OF MY PROCESS. AS I CONSIDERED THE SERIOUSNESS OF MY INTENT I REALISED THAT I HAD TO SEE IT THROUGH!

BECAUSE ONE PART OF THE STORY THAT I HAD BURIED, THE "MONEY SHOT" IF YOU WILL, WAS THE LOSERS' SCENARIO.

EVERYTHING BEAUTIFUL ABOUT EARTH DESTROYED BY THE SCORCHED-EARTH POLICY OF THE WORLD'S LEADERS. A SWEEPING DEARTH, AN UTTER CATASTROPHE THAT I SAW AS OF COURSE, UNNECESSARY, BUT WHAT A CLIMAX TO A MINISERIES TO SELL TO THE NETWORKS?! (THE ORIGINAL NOTION.) TOTAL, ALL OUT NUCLEAR WAR. NO SURVIVORS. THE END OF ALL HOPE, NO CHANCE FOR A FUTURE. THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS? WORSE THAN THAT. THE FALL OF THE EARTH, AND THAT IS WHERE KATHLEEN AND I HAD ENDED IT. HOW LONG UNTIL mother earth RECOVERED? FROM SUCH A PAINFUL, PAINFUL WAR?

SOME NEW FORM OF EVOLUTIONARY WILL BEINGS WOULD PERHAPS BEGIN RISING TO REPOPULATE HER, BUT FOR HUMANS, THE END. ROACHES, OR CATS...I COULDN'T BEGIN TO IMAGINE IT. SO I CONSIDERD THE ENDING OF THE STORY... THE WORLD AS I KNEW IT COULD DEFINITELY USE A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER. BUT I WAS HAVING TROUBLE SEEING THE PATH FROM THE STALEMATE THAT I PERCIEVED TO THE BEGINNING OF THE NEW CYCLE, A CYCLE OF HOPE. I WOULD STILL LAY DOWN TO SLEEP AND WISH THAT THE FLOOD OF TEARS WOULD COME. INSTEAD, ONE, OR A TRICKLE.

I WANTED TO SCREAM.

MY LIFE, I FELT, MY SALVATION WAS IN THOSE TEARS. I BEGGED AND PLEADED WITH MYSELF TO LET GO AND CRY. BUT SOMETHING WAS STUCK. A CLOUD OF DISILLUSIONMENT HUNG OVER MY HEAD.

AS I FACED THE POSSIBLITY THAT MY DESIRE WAS FUTILE, THAT MY GOD INTENTIONS WOUD WIND ME UP IN A HOTTER HELL THAN THE ONE I FELT I WAS ALREADY IN--I DUG MY HEELS IN ONCE AGAIN. THERE WERE NO BOMBS DROPPING OUT OF THE SKY OVER MY HEAD.

IT WAS APRIL. THE YEAR WAS 2001.

I HAD TO KEEP TRYING!

&

"YOU NEED MONEY TO SURVIVE! YOU NEED A JOB TO LIVE! FREELOADER! PARASITE!"

"HOW DARE YOU SUGGEST THAT SLAVERY BE ABOLISHED??

&



why should i pretend? I just can't get in step with reality, i just can't get in step with the truth.

capitalism is beautiful! Wonderful!

It's God's Gift to us all. I'm just a 'have-not' jealous of the 'haves'...that's it.

(by this time all my savings were depleted, and of course i had not been adding to them, i was mourning, not working, at all. i had moved from our beautiful old house to a horrid little tenement in the west side. it was filthy, i lived alone.)



I JUST NEED TO LIGHTEN UP. CAPITALISM IS SUCH A STRONG FORCE...A MORAL FORCE! WHY HAVE I BEEN KIDDING MYSELF ALL THIS TIME? YES...EVERYONE SHOULD LOVE MONEY!

KATHLEEN WAS INSANE. MONEY IS THE REAL ANSWER. EVERYONE MUST ACCEPT THIS. AND FOR THOSE WHO DENY THIS SACRED TRUTH, WELL, THERE'S JUST NO ROOM FOR THEM IN A TRUE REPUBLIC, AN IDEAL CIVILIZATION. CAPITALISM CAN'T DESTROY THE WORLD. NONSENSE! WHO WOULD SPEND MONEY?

and money is the real meaning of life. THAT'S WHY THE WORLD'S RELIGIONS ARE POWERLESS TO STOP IT!

It was the spring of 2001 and one day i was so tired of holding in my frustration and rage that i had a minor gall bladder attack. it felt like my abdomen was going to implode; it felt like there was a black hole in my gut.

&


I THOUGHT ABOUT THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS ALL THROUGH THE LONG HOT AND LAZY SUMMER. AT THE OUTSET I THOUGHT THAT THE ANNOYING LITTLE CAPITALIST INSIDE ME WANTED TO PITCH IT AS A MINISERIES, SELL IT, MAKE TONS OF CASH... until i realised that it was not about the Prime Movers. It was about cleaning up the mess that they had made with their tyranny, their wastedul rule of the Earth.

It was amess. It was such a mes sthat it made me sick... AND SLOWLY THE BARRIERS BETWEEN MYSELF AND IT -- faded --

AND I WAS SUDDENLY A MESS, REFLECTING EVERYTHING THAT THEY PRIME MOVERS DENIRED AND REFUSED, PRIDEFULLY TO ACKNOWLEDGE.

IT WAS AS IF I HAD SEARCHED THE WORLD FOR THE SOURCE OF THE BULLSHIT THAT TORTURED EVERYONE AND FOUND MYSELF, AND COULD NOT TOLERATE IT. NO MORE!!

I WAS CAUSING PAIN AND FEELING PAIN
AND HAD BITTEN OFF MORE THAN I COULD CHEW THERE WAS LITTLE I COULD DO. I HAD BEEN SO FULL OF BULLSHIT AND LIES FOR SO LONG THAT THE TINY TRUTH WITHIN ME PALED NEXT TO THE TOWERING SIGNIFICANCE OF MY IGNORANCE. I COULD PRETEND THAT UNCONDITIONAL LOVE COULD SAVE US ALL FROM HORRIBLE DEATH, I COULD REPEAT IT OVER AND OVER TO MYSELF, BUT IT WOULD JUST FAIL. I WAS OVERWHELMED WITH MY OWN GUILTY DISHONESTY AND NOW ALL THE TUTH IN THE WORLD WAS DAMNING ME TO A HELL I COULD NOT ESCAPE. I LIVED IN IT AND SAW NOTHING BETER FOR ME WHEN I DIED.

A PRETENSE! MY IDEAS THAT UNCONDITIONAL LOVE COULD SAVE ME, SAVE US ALL...WOULD JUST...

SO I KEPT THINKING ABOUT THE FALL OF THE PRIME MOVERS.

I JUST KEPT IMAGINING THIS BEAUTIFUL WORLD WHERE EVERYONE STOPPED RUINING THINGS.

That's the book that Ayn Rand would have written, practically did write. But--Atlas Shrugged was about the separation and ascendance of the Prime Movers, the money making and engineering wizards of finance who created their own Coventry and thus engineered the fall of society by withdrawing their input.

But that was not my scenario, and I was not writing a love letter to economic greed, selfishness, or the allegated meritocracy that Atlas Shrugged was. Why? Well, Atlas Shrugged never happened. It was an almost complete work of fiction. Unlike what you are reading now. But like Ms. Rosenbaum said in her introduction, Atlas Shrugged was about real people. It was allegorical. As allegorical as The Fall Of The Prime Movers largely was, and is. It was about real people. Archetypes, amalgamations, but she was inspired by true life examples. But those real archetypal persons were running the world I lived in, where Rosenbaum and Kathleen, my wife were both dead.


There was no utopia of capitalistic geniuses ensconced away from the world that parasitized them, quite the opposite.

The Prime Movers were and are a tiny minority or rich and heartless people who controlled the world I lived in and were and are bent on killing, in no uncertain terms. Presidents, business leaders, economists -- all shared in this tiny minority of despots, this ten percent who seek sucessfully to control thirteen billion plus humans. Atlas Shrugged was about people who turned their backs on other people and their feelings, out of a sense of being more right. The Fall of The Prime Movers was not about turning away from those dark emotions, but transmuting them. There are indeed human hearts there, and they are broken human hearts. The Fall Of The Prime Movers was about acknowledging those broken human hearts and all those stifiled dark emotions, and transforming them. Transmuting the grief and pain and longing in the business offices and in the hearts of the Chief Executive Officers.

TRANSFORMING THE GRIEF AND SADNESS AND WOE IN THE HIGH SEATS OF STATES AND NATIONS -- WORLDWIDE. TRANSFORMING THE FROZEN, SAD AND INJURED LITTLE INNER CHILDREN IN THE HEARTS OF THE PRESIDENTS OF THE WORLD.

When I was debating this in my head, the vice president of the United States was famous for having what my grandmother, god rest her soul, would have called 'a bad heart'.

He'd been in and out of surgery since being elevated to public office--how could love affect him? It was about transformation; it was about the possibility of transforming these war-bent and crippled military and political figures into people who loved themselves.

I did my time in the battle lines against oppression, greed and tyranny. Oh yes, I did!

I chanted and carried signs and risked arrest and marchied with many other bright-eyed and strong-hearted individuals in the name of freedom. I had to be exhausted at the end of the rally, at the end of the long week of marches, shouting and rallies, and have my vibe totally shattered by the sound of my brother in arms screaming "The only good cop is a dead cop" before I realized that it wasn't even that I was on the wrong side, but that there was no right side to be on, that the cops and the protestors were the same one serpent of competition and the urge to demonize another, biting its own tail in a pointless loop of 'you're wrong-I'm right'-ism. I got off the train paralysed with pity for my fellow human beings, I saw something that few ever see, the true spectrum of human capability. I was done fighting.

Besides, these stock villains of futile Feudal culture have had their asses kicked for too long.

In popular culture, American style, they could all be broken down into the caricature of Snidely Whiplash, sneering malevolently and twisting a waxed mustache. Their position as bumbling, obvious bad guys who get routinely beaten down by obvious heroes, day in, day out, in movie after movie, series after series was making lots of Hollywood moguls rich behind the dreams of avarice but it wasn't saving our planet.

It was just a broken record that I had contributed to, and I was glad that I had no teevee anymore, because there was the evidence of my guilt, skipping like a broken record.

I sat there, a retired screen writer, penniless, broke, miserable, listening to the world news reports on the radio.

I missed her but there was no act of revenge that could bring her back to me. She was my love and she was gone, gone, gone. What did I do?

Well, you've never seen The Fall Of The Prime Movers on tv, and you never will. I don't talk to Norm or any of the other heavies I once counted as friends in the entertainment industry; I pretty much keep to myself. Call it a time capsule; maybe someone will dig it up long after i am dead of liver failure like my real hero, Charles Bukowski. Ayn Rand was never really my hero. I admired her thought processes while seeing the obvious gaps in her logic. Bukowski became my hero slowly...I had to drink my way there. Or here I should say. Both are of course as dead as Dosteyevsky now. But now Bukowski is my hero, not really for his writing (although i love his short stories and his telling, deceptively stark poetry.) No, I love drinking now, and screw Rand/Rosenbaum, whatever and who ever Ayn really was. I love drinking, now, and I love Kathleen, god rest her. And I love being retired. I love unconditionally as i rest here in the chair of a retired proletariat, I love unconditionally a woman who went out of her mind, ranting and raving about something that was too huge for her to sell to Hollyowwd. i love her like there's no tomorrow. You bet I miss her! But I will never be a Marxist: socialists are as humorless and brutal as capitalists, and the dictatorship of the proletariat is only necessary in the jaundiced and bloody eyes of those who would claim the deposed tyrant's throne for themselves. It continues to prove itself true this day, in the highest seats in the land. The president of the United States is the dictator elevated to near absolute power by the sweat and toil of the American proletariat, and Karl Gustav Marx was too seduced by his own inductive reasoning, and his own desire to influence future seats of power--the worker's rebellion was already the aristocracy, the proletariat dictaor, the Teamster Strongman, and anyone heartless enough to take the life of another in the name of land grabbing... Marx' social science is the science devoid of temperance that Albert Einstein warned us about. Dwight Eisenhower tried to warn us about the pernicious evil that the Prime Movers arrogant Capitalists that they are -- truly represent.

And he was correct, subjectively...and perhaps Eisenhower, military man that he was, saw something that Ayn Rand, in her breast-heaving naivete, could not see--that the greed for control and the lack of concern for human life that the Military-Industrial Complex represents is capable of annihilating the entire country.

I of course could give two shits now. If the state smashes itself so be it. I cannot waste my breath, I have too many cigarettes to smoke before I die.

But Lucille Ball is dead, Milton Berle is dead, Groucho Marx is dead, Robert Heinlein is dead and they're butchering his novels with cudgels and truncheons, Elizabeth Barrett Browning is dead...many of the great ones are gone. Anne Rice, meanwhile, is a rich, rich woman--i hope her dinners are ever warm in her belly! But the greats are dead and gone. Kathleen's gone too. And I love her so much more now that she's gone, as tragic as it is. And she shares billing rights on the Fall Of The Prime Movers, and so it, like her, will never again see the light of day. This is the love that I feel; a love that is content to let things unfold and just be. If they were to abandon their posts, abandon their weapons, and fall, weeping, overcome with a love they have never felt before, on their knees, to the Earth they suddenly recognize as Love, and Home and Mother, well, that will be fine. But I am done attempting to profit from their evil. I will not see one red cent of profit.

"Not one."

Thanx. But your story's not in french anymore. You can post it somewhere else on the site.

Parce que vous avez tout lu?
*tend à Mr Edward un grand verre d'eau et un cocktail Valium-Tranxène-Lexomil*

chauderlos said:

Parce que vous avez tout lu?
*tend à Mr Edward un grand verre d'eau et un cocktail Valium-Tranxène-Lexomil*

Click to expand...

Non, justement. Ces posts ressemblent plus à du spam très personnel qu'une réelle volonté de proposer un quelconque dialogue.

Spam très personnel?

Votre bonté vous honore, pour ma part j'hésite encore entre diarrée ou vomi, n'ayant pas réusi à determiner - et n'en n'ayant qu'une très vague envie, préférant de loin humer un Haut-Brion, une jeune femme parfumée au Shalimar, un ris de veau aux morilles ou un mignon minou - par quelle extrémité de l'individu ce torrent sortait...

naked throbbing envy is obvious in english or in french.

yeah, like the whole world my story is not all in english. what if francophone and english speakers interacted, separated and came together in the context of the plot? envious undertalented shits would have to fuck off, instead of calling a real story "spam" out of the impotent jealousy of people who should get a life, instead of resorting to lame, geek, head games. mad?

anyone with a backbone would be mad. as it were, i posted the entire tale in the english speaking format. then i went back and made changes AFTER taking it all down.

being a fleshy being instead of a ROBOT vainly trying to get a life out of the ekings and gleanings of the art and energy of others -- i can do that.

so: you can say something nice, or you can BE A PUSTULENT ROBOT and show sneering dislike for what you do not own merely because you didn't think of it.

go! post away. but you must have had to skim through that really quickly before arrogantly posting your b.s.

a great many artists get turned off of attempting to do more than journal their dreams by precisely YOUR (notice - no names here) sort of cruel and venal attempt to break others down happens.

it's the sort of anti-intellectualism Dadaists complained about. we shall continue to. Now: if you wanted to make some sort of critique that was thought out and made out of choice and consideration rather than overt and pukishly disguised malice -- that would be different.

you could message me directly instead of doing your best to take away from the art that has already presented itself in a tiny, flaxxid way.

but you have fun.

chauderlos said:

Spam très personnel?

Votre bonté vous honore, pour ma part j'hésite encore entre diarrée ou vomi, n'ayant pas réusi à determiner - et n'en n'ayant qu'une très vague envie, préférant de loin humer un Haut-Brion, une jeune femme parfumée au Shalimar, un ris de veau aux morilles ou un mignon minou - par quelle extrémité de l'individu ce torrent sortait...

Click to expand...

est-ce l'envie simple, ou la psychopathologie plus complexe du misogyne, le hater de femme qui veut toujours baiser ?

ce qui s'est composé ici est simplement une élégie pour le féminisme des années 90 et une plainte au sujet de la mort dans la culture de l'inspiration artistique. de telles plaintes ont été déposées en années de Dada d'apogée où elles continueront pour être faite -- mais ils obtiendra à travers où elles sont nécessaires les la plupart -- à l'endroit où l'homme qui aime l'art et la femme est crié vers le bas par l'homme squeeling de porcs qui veut simplement que un morceau d'âne et pour lui puis ferme vers le haut ?

un tel mâle ne comprendrait pas mon roman, comme il excorie de tels mâles.

I've been pondering for a long time whether to answer cataleptik messages or not; with a side question: if I am to answer, will I do it in French or English?

Et finalement j'ai décidé de répondre, mais en français - après tout, nous sommes ici dans la partie française de Lit.

Oui, je n'ai rien compris à vos messages, cataleptik. Le premier, passe encore, et d'ailleurs j'avais répondu, plutôt gentiment. Les suivants... je les ai survolés, ou plutôt j'ai commencé à les lire, sérieusement, avant de renoncer. Incompréhensible, décousu, copié/collé vraissemblablement, traduit maladroitement avec l'aide de Babelfish ou autre traducteur automatique - pas mal pour quelqu'un qui abhorre les robots -, un galimatias, un salmigondis verbeux et filandreux, un accès de psittacisme , un amphigouri d'une abbyssale laideur...


J'ai beaucoup apprécié votre sortie sur le mysogyne que je serais selon vous, le "hater" de femmes... Moi qui au contraire, les adore, les admire... A noter, en passant, que je me suis bien gardé d'insinuer quoi que ce soit au sujet de votre sexe, d'émettre la moindre suggestion quant à votre appartenance à l'un ou l'autre genre.

Libre à vous de continuer votre dissertation. Ce forum n'est pas une démocratie, mais il y ressemble de prime abord. Faites, faites, mais ne comptez pas sur moi pour continuer à vous lire. Pour ma part, contrairement à ce que vous pensez, j'ai une vie, plutôt bien remplie, merci, et lorsque celà ne suffit pas, j'ai une imagination débordante. Certes, ce qui semble vous chagriner, mes fantaisies sont plus remplies de soubrettes accortes aux charmes mutins, de Saint-Jacques au truffes et à la fleur de sel accompagnées d'une Château Carbonnieux 1999* ou de soirées confortables en compagnie des Variations Goldberg et des oeuvres de Messieurs Drieu La Rochelle, Vivant Denon ou Balzac; plutôt que de m'infliger les atroces souffrances que la lecture de vos oeuvres me cause.

Et, comme le faisait remarquer avec sa concision et sa justesse habituelles Mr Edward, il existe quantité d'autres endroits où vous pourriez laisser livre cours à votre grandiloquente logorrhée.

Je vous prie de croire, Monsieur, en l'expression des mes plus respectueuses salutations.

ou:

Je vous prie d’agréer, Madame, l’hommage de mon respectueux dévouement.

antiintellectualism ? le fascisme peut être condamné en nouveau siècle simplement parce que les fascistes ont une faiblesse que leur episteme ne leur permettra pas de voir.


les fascistes doivent s'interdire d'admettre que n'importe quelle autre manière de voir ou de penser pourrait être meilleure. ceci crée la grandes insuffisance, inefficacité et perte dans les cultures fasciste-dominées (qui sont presque toutes les cultures politiques dans le début du siècle 21 sous le fascisme temporel grégorien) vous riez du fascisme temporel grégorien ? comment savez-vous que c'est l'année, date, le jour que votre calendrier indique ?


êtes-vous assez chanceux pour avoir la même religion que pape Gregory, qui a choisi aux dates éliminées des calendriers officiels ?


l'inclinaison sidérale de la terre étant ce qui était alors il, Pâques était une date de décalage dans les calendriers. Gregory le pape a enlevé des jours du calendrier. juste enlevé leur. effacé leur, épongé dehors le fait qu'ils s'étaient produits. cela a pris 300 ans, rudement, pour que cette falsification de calendrier s'assortisse vers le haut à travers l'Europe. le calendrier de douze mois, avec ses noms après les empereurs romains longtemps complètement, qui jamais n'ont longtemps donné une merde au sujet de vous et de moi comme personnes vivantes après julien, octavian, augustus et le reste de ces ceasars -- peut être une forme de fascisme.


Le LOKI lui-même peut être crédité pour le fait que partout les personnes de la terre célèbrent Frigga un jour, Thor quelques jours plus tôt et Wotan le jour avant cela. Avez-vous vu ces dieux étranges n'importe où sans compter que les bandes dessinées traditionnelles populaires ? Leurs noms dicteront votre arrivée à l'emploi, que vous aimiez votre travail ou pas -- ainsi il pourrait seulement être drôle pendant quelques secondes. le fascisme est un système qui les besoins de mentir à lui-même et à ceux qui feraient son os cassant le travail -- ou pour citer le megaindustrialist fasciste Barack américain Obama, "le lifting" lourd


Vous dites que Barack Obama n'est pas un fasciste, il est un grand intellectuel, un Vaclav brown-skinned Havel?

Bien, je dois revenir pour travailler, maintenant.


C'est le jour de Saturne. I désolé can't continuent.

Naturellement, le Hellenes classique sont la culture dont les gens modernes dérivent le nom de Satan -- de Saturne, la déité qui a dévoré tous les dieux d'enfant jusqu'à ce que l'un d'entre eux l'ait frappé vers le bas. Et c'est le même conte pathétique des cultures indigeonous envahies et faisant coopter leurs histoires religieuses et watered-down et ayant les noms changés, la même histoire que les Natifs américains, les Celts, beaucoup de cultures asiatiques et africaines savent, de l'envahissement, dominé et faire demonized littéralement leurs vieilles religions prisées -- mais les bonnes parts que les envahisseurs gardent, qui est pourquoi les chrétiens viennent à où vous devez tuer chacun jusqu'à ce que les gens crient le " L'OH, JÉSUS-CHRIST QUAND IL FINIRA?"

what the whole thing means, ultimately...
OVEREXPOSURE & june 2010



the first piece i do of AD i am so fucking turned on that i almost have a baby while i am retouching the photo.
burning, just raw. so fuckin' hot that it is worth it to relate the feeling.
also i can't tell where the nice girl in her and the rebel in me begin and end. just awesome,
and there is no doubt that she is also smart...
this is the 21st century. the world's not coming to an end in 2012,
it's always coming to an end, every SECOND things are different than what we knew before

somethings are shit, though, and people who want to choose shit can be allowed to go to THAT party.
hence, what the whole thing means, ultimately...there are so many crappy rags. we say 'exploitative and lame'
and they say 'the only way, the way, tuff luck.' so let THEM eat shit...there are other things to do.
as they said, one man's ceiling is another man's floor. that's a saying that applies to so many things...

the thing about ariel rebel is how purely SMART she is. in a world where most males are quick to say (privately)
that all women are dumb bitches and greedy whores who should shut up and give up the pussy, there are women
who think independently and refuse to do anything that doesn't make them feel comfortable.

the typical griefy loserdude attitude to that is to keep drugs around like some sort of retarded assassin with a poison for every target. people that stupid don't KNOW that they are stupid!

ariel rebel:
i have seen it: over and over and i know what it means. in a real way it was described in one of the best science fiction films about the real possible future: Children of Men with XxxxxxXXXxx and Whatis Name.

Lovely women having sex in pictures, with themselves or with other women. Why? Well, "men suck" if you ask some women who use computers and enjoy sexuality. Pigs. Don't know how to treat women. Sexually selfish...they can do it better themselves.
Worse than grey nano-ooze, nuclear fire or sexual transmittable death curses -- women -- the smart kind -- deciding that they would rather jill off and bump donuts than breed spells The End Of Any World You Had A Chance Of Knowing.

No lie. Penthouse, and 'zines of its ilk cater to a pandering and chauvanistic mentality that institutionalizes the dehumanization and objectification of human beings. If you are about to say that that's dumb and takes the fun out of it, or it's "gay" -- or "unavoidable and just the way it is" -- well, according to a large sector of humanity, you are, wait let me check my notes...


In Other Stupid And Doomed News: the women are disgusted by hearing their favorite body part - and probably yours, as well, used as the core of a curse. As in pussy. As in they like their body part. And use it and won't share it with YOU if you don't appreciate it, Weaselboy Pigmale of Anywhere, Cyberspace. They are for real and some of them travel strapped, as in they will fucking KILL you before you slip roofies in their goddamn drink, dude, and then go somewhere to wait 'til the heat dies down.

You think that they are wrong because you were just gonna give them knockout drugs and "make love with them," right? These women call themselves lesbians because you behave like Human Monsters and they don't TRUST males anymore. (Oh yeah, my dyke friend says for me to call you Pig Filth that she slipped in when she was fifteen. Never again. What does that mean, Weaselboy?)


Other staunch intellectual arguers for feminism are "senior" to me. But intellectual as they are, they realised in the 20th century that the English language was set up itself to trap people ideologically, right down to the rules of Grammar( who probably died sexually frustrated.)
The old joke "how many feminists...That's not funny?" well, we can joke amongst ourselves. What is funny to Howard Stern, we tend to think should be discussed in front of international truth commissions such as took place in Rwanda and South Africa, Germany and other places. What Opie and Anthony think is "funny, bwaah hah hah" we tend to think might be fixed by chemical castration.

People For Chemical Castration's Livejournal
http://antirape.deadjournal.com/

Serious people who think that Opie and Anthony actually should be placed into 55 gallon industrial drums, that should them be filled with stuff like kerosene, or rounds. Seriously, people who view their sort of humor as synonymous with Hitler and Mengele. "We were just joking around..." as the lovely young girls appear on Tyra and other shows and complain of cyberstalking and actual stalking -- and someone decides to laugh -- we have found a name for our pain.