Intro : Trec astazi ignorat prin lume, dar trainic las in viitor
un semn, o glorie si-un nume acestui imbecil popor!
As lobbes aptly points out, there's a public/private symmetry in the natural workingi of the Republic : as there's a part public so there's a part private. Yet... they work out exactly the same. Because what else is there ?!
I am aware that systematic pantsuit practice has enacted a seeming barrier, some kind of insane division, between like things. This is, perpetually and universally, the necessary, the quite strictly unavoidable premise of pantsuitism. As the little spurious strip of fabric's necessarily there between the legs to have a pantsuit in the first place, just so universally and everywhere imagined little divisions, powerless and insubstantial "perfect walls" separating this from that. Hydrogen atoms individually wrapped, don't you know, so there's no such thing as a Sun. What, there's a problem with imaginarily colored bits ? "Inappropriate content", don't you know, the end of the world will come through my consistently systematic practice of wrongly mixing thingsii. Precisely in the same exact spirit, "abuse" -- understood as proper use of the body.
I am aware, and I commiserate. I went through two decades whole, and halfway through a third, lulled by the firm if unexamined (the firmer for being unexamined) belief that hitting a woman's the worst possible course of action, universally, generally, perpetually. How had I come to such idiocy, strictly opposite to actual reality ? Doubtless the same way I had come to the conclusion anyone involved in any sort of road event's a sort of social pariah, unfit to sit at the table withiii : by suffusion, by social osmosis, by hearing my derpy grandmother talkiv, by who knows what else. How are received ideas received in the first place ?
'Tis said that science is properly speaking the only model of life within the world. The difference between life seen and unseen, between existence public and private is not, as the enemy would propose, substantial, nor is it formal. The difference between the seen and unseen part of the Moon's at no point anything to do with the Moon at all, but entirely a discussion of relative positions, of organisation without, never within. As external context moves, the very same selenar landscape may appear to outside examination lit or unlit, visible or "hidden", but this has entirely nothing to do with the astral body itself. Lobbes' Symmetry is in fact simple identity, there's nothing else there, Mircea Popescu the lord of the Most Serene Republic is entirely and exactly the same exact Mircea Popescu, the owner of his slavegirls, the Master of his harem. That he may opt to publish or not publish so and so fragment of private life, that he may choose to privatize or publicize has little bearing -- there's still not two of him, but one, quite indivisible.
Now let's take a moment to look at the title. Its directly obvious meaning would be something like "a dollar's worth poet". Some kind of jobsworth, is the idea, "you're getting so very muchv for so very littlevi". A sort of pretentious, invidious modesty of ourdemocracy "troubadours", the "I can't believe it's not butter" velveeta kind -- it was even co-opted as such by some of the usual suspects. Yet its original context is a line in an (otherwise very weak) Caragiale poemvii that goes "Cochetele dispretuiesc pe-un franc poet", which would say "adult women despise the honest poet". It all rests on the reading of the word "franc", it can either be taken (quite superficially) to mean "unit of account", or else it can be read (as it happens, correctly) to denote something quite like what "frank" means in English : unpretentious, unpretending, plain and simple.
Women have no use for boys -- the circumstance whereby boys pompously call themselves "great guys with a great sense of humour" today or "frank poets" a century and a half ago notwithstanding. The hand holding no whip is of no further interest, girls need what they need, and that's the long and the short of it.
Whatever they might tell you they want, whatever it may be you tell them they want, girls need what they need. Whatever they may say, whatever you may think, nothing else's any good.
Outro : Multime bruta si ingrata, cu-a mea cintare nu putui
in viata-mi sa te misc o data, si-odat-o sa-mi ridici statui.
- Practically, in the systematic if unavoidable destruction of the sordid misery that is the "equality" dragon by the ordinary if unyielding life of the most serene saint George.
There's no such thing as "a star" conceived apart or indifferently of the reduction of hydrogen atoms into helium and beyond ; nor could there be. Pretense as to a (wholly imagined) universality or eternality of supposed (or supposedly perceived) "independence" aside, the very word "star" is simply a name given to the very process of that reduction -- from less to more, and thereby from nothing to something, from chill to warmth and thus from Kelvin's necessary and eternal silence to everything worth the mention, and to anything worth a name.
There's no such thing as "life" somehow hallucinatorily conceived apart or indifferently of the consumption of lesser forms, and their proper, necessary, desirable and strictly just -- beyond fair, just -- restructuring into higher form. The utmost of bovine existence realises itself in the cow's final sacrifice, and its ultimate achievement of itself among quartered potatoes, carrots, celery root and spices in my Dutch oven.
Just as there is no such thing as existence, besides the name given to the burning of the simple, just as there is no such thing as life, besides the name given to the eating of the cow, just so there is no such thing as life of the spirit besides sexual maturation, properly understood. The very point, the very substance and the only possible realisation of parental care -- realisation ultimate as it is definitive -- is the consumption of the body of the erstwhile girl, the body so long cared and protected, now chained and welted, the body turned by the spirit of the slave hidden within, the body eaten by me and my tools both temporal and spiritual into the woman she can be (and as can be must be).
It's not, you understand, that "Bitcoin corrupted your notions of financial propriety". It's that your notions of financial propriety ran off with Bitcoin, because strictly speaking they had no other reason of existing, and absolutely nothing else to live for. Because there isn't, because there couldn't be, because what the hell else was she going to do ?! [↩]
- Fancy this wonder, when they couldn't discontinue the practice, they discontinued tumblr. No price is too high, they'll cut their own throat alright. [↩]
- Yes, I spent a whole decade, and then the better part of the next thusly persuaded. The confrontation of this particularly firmly ensconced if remarkably nut-flavoured insanity was a turning point in my own mental maturation, because holy hell, what sense does it make and how can I end up with such notions ?
The memory hole effect is not mandatory, you see. It's not automatic, it doesn't "go without saying". It's entirely optional! Nothing forces you to not notice the classes of mistakes you make as classes, there's no rule that every stupidity conceivable must be engaged "on the merits", individually. There's no merits nor any individuality to stupidity! [↩]
- When we were kids, I danced with this red-headed, lively girl, in spite (and quite deliberately to spite) emerging social convention among the kiddy society, that she's "a whore" that "no self-respecting boy would dance with". I can't imagine why such nonsense'd arise among eleven year olds, besides of course the desire to have the mechanism, to put it to work, let's pretend we have adult things as a proxy to pretending we're adults sorta thing.
As an adolescent, she said to me (and I clearly remember it now because look how important it became in this discussion, though it was an inconsequential throwaway remark at the time) that "a man" is always ill advised to hit a woman, because the receiver will never love him after that, nor could. How had she come to such a notion ? How do adolescents generally come to their notions about "how the world is", universally, necessarily, how do the teenage wisdoms form ?
We met again as adults, she drove a thousand miles to show me her cucky husband (they soon thereafter parted), and to see my very obedient slave (I still own her). She was very sad thereupon, deeply and inconfessably sad -- yet I still know things women can't confess, and so here it is spelled out. You, by my hand, clearly see the progression, the necessary evolution, because what's unconfessable to a failed attempt at womanhood a decade ago is certainly not inexpressible to me, today (though it quite was, then). So there it is -- the unhappy story of a girl named Gilda, the unhappy story of a girl but for the grace of me named all your names, all that could ever be or ever were.
It wasn't just my grandmother, or just her, or hers. Stupidity, the lengthy list captured in any dictionary of received ideas, has no specific author. None other than the Enemy, the passively collected work of sloth, envy, pride or simplicity ever amassing over itself since just about forever. [↩]
- Because all ideals are one, goes the pantsuit credo, and therefore you can't have lesser poetry, if it's poetry at all it's just as good as any other. [↩]
- Because those damned other-socialists aren't giving enough to these so-much-better socialists, there's a deep red-blue cleavage in Romanian between the constructive reds and the "mountaineering" blues, it's a whole pile of broadly inconsequential lulz you're not expected to either understand or care about. [↩]
- Caragiale produced no kind of poem besides these, occasional-excellence-in-very-derpy-sauce. Here's another one. [↩]