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Frodo Ran [Feb. 28th, 2009|07:41 pm]
[Current Music |Leonard Cohen - Old Revolution | Powered by Last.fm]

My landlord won tickets to see Weird Al for this song, but I think it is all of us who are truly the winners.

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Lost [Feb. 25th, 2009|07:27 pm]
I just reformatted my computer, but forgot to back up all of my bookmarks. You guys know me, what kind of sleazy things I'm into, etc. Post me some rad links so that I'll be able to remember what it was I used to do on the internet.
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Mirror & Scarf by Edmond Jabès [Feb. 17th, 2009|01:20 pm]
[Current Music |Charalambides - Voice For You | Powered by Last.fm]

"We will gather images and images of images up till the last, which is blank. This one we will agree on."           -Reb Carasso

Mardohai Simhon claimed the silk scarf he wore around his neck was a mirror.

"Look," he said, "my head is separated from my body by a scarf. Who dares give me the lie if I say I walk with a knotted mirror under my chin?

"The scarf reflects a face, and you think it is of flesh.

"Night is the mirror. Day the scarf. Moon and sun reflected features. But my true face, brothers, where did I lose it?"
At his death, a large scar was discovered on his neck.

The meaning of this anecdote was discussed by the rabbis.

Reb Aphandery, in his authority as the oldest, spoke first.

"A double mirror," he said, "separates us from the Lord so that God sees Himself when trying to see us, and we, when trying to see Him, see only our own face."

"Is appearance no more than reflections thrown back and forth by mirrors?" asked Reb Ephraim. "You are no doubt alluding to the soul, Reb Aphandery, in which we see ourselves mirrored. But the body is the place of the soul, just as the mountain is the bed of the brook. The body has broken the mirror."

"The brook," continued Reb Aphandery, "sleeps on the summit. The brook's dream is of water, as is the brook. It flows from us. Our dreams extend us.

"Do you not remember this phrase of Reb Alsem's: 'We live out the dream of creation, which is God's dream. In the evening our own dreams snuggle down into it like sparrows in in their nests.'

"And did not Reb Hames write: 'Birds of night, my dreams explore the immense dream of the sleeping universe.' "

"Are dreams the limped discourse between facets of a crystal block?" continued Reb Ephraim. "The world is full of glass. You know it by its brilliance, night or day."

"The earth turns in a mirror. The earth turns in a scarf," replied Reb Aphandery.

"The scarf of a dandy with a nasty scar," said Reb Ephraim.
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Memetime [Feb. 3rd, 2009|05:03 pm]
Because who the fuck cares if this means I'll never get into another rating community.

You are The Magician

Skill, wisdom, adaptation. Craft, cunning, depending on dignity.

Eleoquent and charismatic both verbally and in writing,
you are clever, witty, inventive and persuasive.

The Magician is the male power of creation, creation by willpower and desire. In that ancient sense, it is the ability to make things so just by speaking them aloud. Reflecting this is the fact that the Magician is represented by Mercury. He represents the gift of tongues, a smooth talker, a salesman. Also clever with the slight of hand and a medicine man - either a real doctor or someone trying to sell you snake oil.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

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(no subject) [Jan. 26th, 2009|05:36 pm]
I'm sorry I'm late. I don't know why it's so hard lately you two, I mean, you try to chase them but there are maybe close to a billion it seems and they go all at once in at least so many directions. You end up with great handfuls of nothing to show for it. You wonder is it focus you lack? No, it is that it is their nature to avoid. You can't pin down nothing, nobody can. You don't want to catch them anyway. If you can catch them they'll make you eat them. Numbers, gentlemen. It comes down to nothing but the numbers for them said the Owl. Funny that, how they teach in school that it's the opposite. Numbers.

And it is on that point that we can clearly agree. As I state in my latest pamphlet, We will suppose the means of sustenance in any country just equal to the easy support of its inhabitants. The constant effort towards population...

Oh come off it Robert drolled the Fox no one wants to listen to your dismal science this soon into the morning. Punctuating his points languid spoon swoops just removed. China cup of black tea. Robert why do you twitch fingers in the jam so all the time. You should try one. Glass dish full of white squirming. He lifts something by a tail and delicately and it's gone.

Bad table manners is when you regurgitate them whole but the Owl though quite affected knows naught of this. And dabs at the corners of his beak with a corner of the linen tablecloth.

I remember the first says the one with spectacles, the Fox. He says I could hear them in the wall it sounded like popcorn next room popping so I got in there and had my way. Confinement helps but Owl I guess you never took well to small spaces.

I am sufficiency aware of the near connection of these two subjects, and that the causes which tend to increase the wealth of a state tend also, generally speaking, to increase the happiness of the lower classes of the people will not produce much without dressing, and cattle seem to be necessary to make that species of manure which best suits the land into an error if we were thence to suppose that population and food ever really increase in the same ratio.

I'm just so tired of it says the Owl and are we really programmed to do just this? Do you even love it anymore like you did when you listened for the crack of every little bone you broke in your jaws? Or are you just skitter and crawling along like Robert's pocket-watch in his left vest pocket and all the other timepieces crowding towards him if he were anywhere else but sitting across from the Owl and the Fox at breakfast he might think the voices had gotten in again. You can't tell me so Fox. But what ho--

and there is Malthus, his jaws working away as usual but at the breakfast table where he served them just to be to his guests polite and yet clearly relishing it his first taste

--it looks like someone is enjoying himself.
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Night Train, Part 1 [Jan. 3rd, 2009|10:05 am]

Night Train
(and other mostly true stories about me and all of my friends)

Oh man and do you remember when we went with your friends and drove out to that house party out in whereveritwas to crash them hot tub and while you were hottubbin it up I got stuck in the kitchen talking pocalypse to that fat bitch so I drank and smoked until I couldn't hear her anymore and ended puking all over myself up in your car on the way home and your friends were laughing and the snow was dripping away but still crunching little bones under the tires?

and how through Miss Arizona's nameless desert patch between the legs of her mountain ranges the rain froze to the windshield and when we pulled over to piss it out it froze from us dicks and we break it off like arrows to pull it through?

and when we got that redhead bitch drunk on accident and she wanted to fuck me but after we hauled her on our shoulders and she took that black eyed pavement dive right in front of the bouncer in the leather vest and we tried to leave her at daddy's house but he have a shotgun and know how to bury bodies so we end up with her on your bed and I go home and you fuck her and get caught kicked out and she say rape and then later say love?

and when you chased that guy down the streets of downtown for throwing a quarter waving your louis at all the cracked out crack house felons singing california love down that running motherfucker's throat til he turned a corner and we never could decide if he was a faggot or a tard?

and out taking that other bitch you didn't want to fuck but want to put a fist in to that club in the gloomy church where all them kids taking dancing laundromat spin cycles and five dollar drink specials while outside it's coming down and walking back from it and spinning too like them and into the pancake house piling on the vinyl pews and puking them up and the snow built drifts on your shoulders while you sat and steam and smoked and try to remember how to be a human again and remembered what it's like later when that bitch get topless in your studio and jerking pud quiet like while she's humping you in the sleeping bag so close you could've touched her?

and I powdered up the slimy stairs taking knees like church wet with it on my chest and every step a slipping dance halfway backwards you were there carrying things too, some of them mine, some of them other things up on your back in piles and cluttered soot?

Do you remember it man? Do you remember that time?


We were so crazy back then, we all so black diamonds grinning out the eyes like everything we saw was nothing like it wanted to be but us were free and free and wild elephant children to the ankle boots in the bones of our ancestors who didn't have no names but only fire whiskey or long regrets. And who was ever going to say it die but know where it live first? Cause it live in the dick and it live in the brain and it live in the heart and long as it have all three somewhere it live forever and who can't never say it wrong, never say it stop, never say it ever gonna change but changing always and every day and isn't that the way? Isn't it just the way?

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(no subject) [Nov. 24th, 2008|05:45 pm]
Vibration is not necessarily the easiest mode of transporting the voice. If one collects the requisite lungs and readily sacrifices certain morsels of food prior to exiting the safety of the city—heels of bread loaves or the fungus scraped from the end of a frog in front of the point and in the direction of the switch—it is still viable to proceed along their old ways, the horseways, dove-gray, at once proud as a mayor and playful as a fox, binding and bounding across the prairies and fields and as if rock were a flaming hoop leap through mountains effortless, coming out again on the other side without a screech or a scratch, then twisting itself in a clover to burst into four more.

The horse, nearly extinct, may still even be used permitting one can bury deep enough to find the pitch, that which animates the limbs into solid growling motion.

Granting this skill for burying it is only slightly more difficult to simply bury oneself towards the place one wishes to be. This does necessitate commerce with the carpenter, who in exchange for the vehicle used to preserve ones flesh while beneath the surface will accept only fresh oysters in salt-water, neither of which can be proven. Once this task is accomplished, however, the stria become passages, museum-corridors along which one while traveling without time will find the remnants of all which has come before, all which will ever be. After having entered this realm, though, few return intact.

One may also elect to travel without the flesh; during this process during sleep all fluids drain out the ears, nose, mouth, and naval, manifesting themselves instead in the dream, as a whole, and thus this process has been named bleeding. If any of this fluid is lost, however—drank by another traveler or spilled upon the thirsty road—or if the body cannot be found to be repopulated, the unlucky practitioner is forced to wander without body or destination, wander the earth which has become his body, the specter of death nevermore an affliction but rather a boon, ever sought, by he who has become in this way myth.

But there is no need for this or any line of junction across any two bones in immovable articulation; the hazards of attempting to stitch them outweigh the possibilities; and thus movement of this sort is discouraged, communication it is found better expressed along the traditional pathways: wire, gut, and thread.
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(no subject) [Nov. 21st, 2008|05:18 pm]

He had been at the Spectacle so long he couldn't remember.

Sam the bartender was just asking him how about another drink, when this vampire in a tuxedo stumbled into his shoulder and slurred sorry, let me get this round. Then spun around and grabbed the waitress with a tray of hors d'oeuvres.

On stage a girl was rubbing something in her palm. Direct exposure to its undiluted form causes an advance upon white from each flank, cobalt blue and parchment yellow. It is as if lightning's plasma slowed, liquefied, then further condensed. Powdered milk being its nearest living cousin, if by several yawning removes. Some men sat watching in vibrating chairs.

He spun around on his stool and set his drink on the bar.

All at once he could feel the residue of time on his body where it had built up, layer by layer, a slimy film that he could barely see through. He felt sticky all over and stale buttered-popcorn as he licked his gums. The phantasmagoric bored. I wonder, he said to no one particularly, if there exists a thing called solace. A carved God hung in the corner reproached him, but a flick of the guttering candle flame and it was once again with teeth.

He made to stand but was barred by the passing of a freak and a man who shuffled his sideways way of walking. And I had to buy my own scalpel the freak was saying. I like mine with pepper and bone said the cancer.

Then over the throbbing a man with hooves and a snout shouted “It's my birthday!” and after a cheer, “Unicorn show!” which was taken up by all those there left with breath. The girl had got most of it in her mouth by then and pretty soon the birthday boy had a noose on and a party hat horning out his forehead and somebody with a beard was leading it all fours on stage hooves clacking towards her, and as he picked up his drink his second skin sloughed off and everyone was still shouting unicorn show as they slipped through the hours like they were made of chocolate pudding.

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(no subject) [Nov. 19th, 2008|07:46 pm]
Some tangles are made to be by blade or cunning unknotted, but crawling through your vast terrains one occasions to discover thick cords pulsing unbidden electric, throbbing centres from which errant vines traversed by only those explorers swinging with small knives and fingers subtle in the art of the critical juncture crawl furry spider-legged and -monkeyed. From hidden grottoes deep within wafts the stench of rotting flesh and here are the innumerable strata and caste and classification, a hundred teeming variables lush in every shade of chrome and neon:

Days, light comes down green, but when the day goes out and the howling starts and you finally sleep, what comes down then is a thing that will trade your blood for fever dreams.

And here a rumbling smoky beast with a chattering thing hungry in its skull.

You will never see the big cat, for it has only ever been a myth.

And, look there is the cancer. A sideways way of walking creates slick trails almost impossible for the predator to follow, so in this way too it is similar to the men in suits. Just ever so gently cracking open the carapace one may tilt back the head and lick out the salty organs for sustenance.

And on and on, this animal architecture.

You said you didn't suppose it was really as dense as all that was it, and I said no, perhaps not, but still gripped the chain.

You said stop but meant something entirely elsewise, so I yanked until I could trace the topography of your blades, until Burton discovered hidden in the recesses the White Nile's font and Humboldt's cosmos fell to floor in bits and Speke's rifle misfired and by cannibals Stanley was eaten and returned to the earth as three flower petals, a peach pit, and several sunflower seeds.
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(no subject) [Nov. 17th, 2008|02:24 pm]
There exists a crude instrument with chains and a ball designed to keep your wings in arbitrary positions ill-suited to the species of flight which induce movement. In the throes of this machine your limbs describe elliptical orbits and the remaining limbs call broken triangle sounds of the motor's ragged heartbeat. You will remain unable to but wobble and bend and the patterns of your flights will not resemble constellations, rather grouse and pheasant. One seems to understand the instrument as typically wielded by men in suits which make our eyes squint. We have often sought these men to learn the secrets of what lets the scales settle touching no earth, but in time we realize the answers to our questions lie not with men with instruments, but in the highest levels of towers with no doors, their single high windows accessible only to those whose feathers are not yet heavy with oil and the rust.
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