Life's a helva gumdrop, you know ?

Wednesday, 26 June, Year 11 d.Tr. | Author: Mircea Popescu

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Above : because the gumdrop on top, see. Makes perfect sense, if you know how to think about it.

Bellow : pork chunk on beans, cooked lengthtily in cast iron skillet, one of the specialties of this Serb's place. Very nice place, really.

Continuation : So what you do is get a side of pasta with it, of course.

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Above : Matyas Templom in Buda castle. You've probably seen it before.

Below : Teh Országház, from a safei distance.

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Above, as well as below & following : various bastions, towers, constructions and architectures, plus things etcetera.

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Above : for sale, iron baby shoes, never worn. Totally not medieval spreader bar for choir boys or anything like that either.

Below : Cluj-Nápoká, seen from Belvedere. Remarkable what the Hungarians do with the same it, when they're the one running things. Wouldn't you say ?

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Above & below : wet slut carrying trayful o' water. Clean, cool waa-aater...

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Above : General plan of Budapest suburban cathouse. This is what the pornoi dwelling looked like, in antiquity. The Temple of The Readily Fucked generally lay on the outskirts of town, in an abandoned lot or decrepit garden, collapsed cellar, something like that, with debris both textile and infantile scattering and billowing freely in the wind all around.

Below : clearer detail, with exposed pussy eminently visible.

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Above : the Pishtar Gate.ii

Below : Evgheniyu de Savoja. This guy's everywhere, I swear.

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Above : detail from one of the better and maybe even noteworthy Hungarian paintings ever produced. There's a very narrow supply of these, notwithstanding the Hungarians themselves would love nothing more than to have [had] classical paintings, and so much so they actually dedicated a large and elaborate museum to the preservation of the putative remains of such a thing.

The contents are saddening -- they're not actually bad or anything, most of them are quite good, such that'd make the glory of a provincial country house or municipal council meeting room anywhere in the world (except, of course, for urban Europe). But they're not great.

They're second class, they're the products of moderately talented, dedicatedly industrious hands. The whole thing's nothing but, an entire building dedicated to exposing the ultimately failed attempts of people who tried their very best, gave up what might've been respectable careers in commerce, civil engineering or hair dressing in exchange for a life's work's worth of fine arts products, such as'd have been in time produced by the daily toil of respectable inkeeps, wholesale grains merchants or well meaning dentists.

This, incidentally, is what the Internet has permanently destroyed : it no longer pays, now, to be a mediocre but Hungarian painter, or music maker, or anything else in that vein. Back in 1819 a second hand tenor, or sculptor, or anything else, seeing he can't even dream of making it in Florence, or Milan, or Paris, still had this open avenue, to move over to Budapest or Warsaw or whatever patriotic yet marginal subculture, learn their language, and be, rather than the starving third hand in an urban hair salon, the eminent and respected first (and only) town-trained friseur in a rural settlement. That all's gone now, yet the fundamental problem with the "be great or go home" paradigm is that... well ?

Obviously it favours to the point of outright demanding it a sort of effortless success, an untrained and untraining achievement, key words effortless and untrained. There obviously can't be such a thing as noteworthy human industry or artifice without toil, and so in undermining and undercutting the branch of hard-won mediocrity supporting it, the postmodern snake managed to drop itself to the very ground. If it's not worth it for mediocre people to toil a lifetime to produce the inconsequential tokens their shoddy, insufficient and ultimately unblessed nature permits, why'd it be worth it for the gifted to put any work into anything ?

There's just no way out of this, a global village means no town, and no town means no art and no meaning ; the marketplace of abstracts, in permitting everyone access to information, therefore drives a rebalancing of activity and effort, resulting in the strict impossibility of financing (ie, self-justifying) the sort of effort that previous centuries had available : those who put in a hundred thousand hours over thirty years to be mediocre painters go back to trading cattle and cutting hair, and those who put sixty or maybe even eighty thousand hours over fifty or sixty years to be exceptional painters satisfy themselves with 20% of the products for less than 1% of the labour.

If actually given the choice, what'd you prefer : working an hour every other week and in exchange being the best trumpet player of your generation ? Or working ten hours each and every day and in exchange being the best trumpet player of all time ?

And what if your generation conventionally re-arranges history to pretend no other generation even knew what the fuck a trumpet is, and gives you the other title by default, since the dead can't point and laugh anymore (especially if the ears of the living are well split by overloud, poorly done trumpeting, such that they no longer hear the dead laughing) ? In the end, how much do you care to actually matter, as opposed to merely vegetate ?

Looking at the financial data, not that much, really.

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Above : the angelmaker's glasses, resting atop the religious work she's perusing as the babes cry for hunger. Look it up, it's a whole thing. Name the painting/author while at it, why not, it'll benefit you more than anything else you could now be doing.

Below : stupid cunt observing competent whore, with the precise air of needing a good beating before even starting on the path of comprehending anything before her eyes.

Who's gonna provide that beating ?

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Above as below : Hungarians.

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Above and below : fucking, in wood.

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Above : insulating element beard guy.

Below : "Hungarian" painter who's eminently Transylvanian and his work, a "hungarian" scene from Transylvania. You can tell, can't you.

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Above : courtly sluts. Could be worse, I guess. Incidentally, the Hungarian women are terribly misrepresented in this "fine art" bullshit -- I've never seen as many dressed hunhussies in my entire life as I've seen in this supposed "exhibition". Where the nude Hunnies at, yo!

Below : stein. The agate's a nice touch, don't you find ?

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Above and below : if you look closely, you can see the atrocity that post-war "reconstruction" actually was. Observe the differences, individually, observe the loss of elegance, of balance, of beauty ultimately through the socialization of form and structure.

I daresay the bombing did less damage than the inept "reconstruction" afterwards, and the important point is rather how the story was handled, specifically that before I pointed it out, you had no idea Europe was trundled over roughshod by an old woman holding a whitewash brush. Yet it was, and yet you sat there thinking they "fixed". No, they did not fix -- they destroyed. Systematically, evidently deliberately, and as universally as they possibly could, they destroyed. And after destroying, they went and stole the having destroyed, there you sit, a poor indian, your forefathers' legacy diverted from you, and yet you think you owe the despoliers for having despoiled.

What say you, Octavianus ? Is Brutus a good man ?

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Below : it's time to end, and go to bed. Have a very strange, misproportionate drawing on a wall at a cafe that wasn't capable of calling me a cab, and then goodnite!

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———
  1. A parliament is that terrorist institution which, for as long as it's in session, ensures no citizen can rest assured of his property or his person. []
  2. S-o suit Pista pa call si-o sunat-o pa Ishtar
    Sham diri diri dam Shangri-la.
    []
Category: Zsilnic
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