I'm sitting, comfortably, on purpose-built easement for whose construction not merely man laboured, with both hands and thought, but also both tree and beast had to die. My dorsal comfort's worth all that ; and as I'm sitting I will write. There's music in this room, not terrible, not great. Most of it I've never heard before. "Is this the first time, in however many years, you get to play your own music, ambientally ?" I inquired, and "Yeah, does it botter you ?" came the retort. It doesn't bother me ; it is a novelty but I am not yet quite old enough to protest novelty on that basis alone. I never was quite young enough to reject the unknown for being unfamiliar and thus scary, the substance of infantile nightly terrors ; with any luck I'll never get old enough to dislike the new for being unheard of. Who knows...
What I've written so far I've also thought through in this room ; but what I'll write from now, the introduction exhausted, I've actually thought in a different room. Mere moments ago, yet far away, a room with a great view, a room on whose windowsill little curious birds of salt-and-pepper habits and long, curved beaks come to strut, and hop, and then take flight again against the incredible backdrop of what, some other time, lying down cuddling after a happy, Beethovenian beating was established to be the greatest view in the world, for its verdant, perfect green spotted in isolation by great scarlet reds, and wonderful sunny yellows, and in the distance the blues of distance, on peaks and clouds. The best view in the world, declared, a notion striking -- yet dutifully, patiently examined, "would it be better this way, or that way", in the end my conclusion falling pregnant, all-conclusive : that indeed the only improvement to the view itself would be taking it in lying on a bed with naked female forms recently beaten, who had reveled in it and are revelling in it, their pleasure in the pleasure of pleasing usage, the pleasant "please!" on the cross, the yoy of joke, the joy of yoke, the...
In that room, where there's a large magical mirror capable of depicting, to quote,
Mi creda, la scrittura crea fantasie, immaginazioni, bugie.
I'm now yet more seated in another room ; for I went to obtain the quote, and so I sit properly, in leather chair upright, behind a desk, at a proper machine, and I continue writing what I had started before, thinking what I had thought before. In that other room, half hour ago the room, ten minutes ago the other room, now the third room, there's a magical mirror capable of depiction just as soon as you stuff the magical "HDMI" snake in the proper hole, providing proper connection with a properly maintained recipient for Platonic ideals.
In that room there's also other things, it's functional, like all other rooms, compartments of the mind in the age of reason : the room for playing music, the room for tanning flesh in pretty hues of pink, the room for silent hums and kilowatts' worth of electrons being beaten into approximate shapes, an ethereal royal jelly beaten out of them, mostly, somewhat... As I write all this the music, audible still as a faint glory through the walls and over the distances, has turned to chamber music. I've not said a word, I've not willed a thing, circumstances coincidentally flow in their own way, and well...
What do you suppose you'd do, if you had a room for the purpose of torturing girls in it, with the whip and the flail, the belt and the ping-pong pallet, the fusta and the faja, the cat-o-nine-tails an' the vina de bou ? You'd torture girls in it, right ? And on its magical mirror hung on the wall you'd play... what would you play, a selection of footage of tortured girls, right ? Others' girls, unexamined, outright ; but if you examine it then your own girls, of course, it's more luxurious like that, more... rounded, superior. More like MP, indeed.
It's not been used in that way, nor for that purpose, in days. In days. Today I played a Lina Wertmuller filmi on that monitor, something including footage of a working abattoir (the captive bolt gun, and the bovine assholes flayed, very sexually on display, and such preoccupations with denudación, dénudation, the peeling of the last skin)... I've just been asked if my slave that's been slaving by the stove may serve. I said she may, so I'll be going now, to yet another room ; but upon my return perhaps I... how did that quote go, "we'll see if what I've found is still worth a damn to either one of us". Something like that.
I've had, if you care, another daring lamb curry. Today I've had Spanish salami omlette with a side of red snapper with pasta in white sauce and shrimps for breakfast ; and lamb in a curry of sweet potato on sofran'd pullao, with its raisins, for lunch. And lassi. The one who's put it all together never read Andre Breton, and was very hurt by discovering she can't name the surrealists. She'll probably be positively livid once she reads about it here, especially coupled with going through and looking at pataphysics and Tzara, and notice both Bunuel and Dali in the lists, and remember, faintly, vaguely, thereby infuriatingly of discussions on absurdism, theatre and the point / art of living that we've carried, now and again, over the years.
I do not always torture the girls in the dedicated room ; sometimes I watch obscure Italian cinema instead of trite Bangbros on its magic wall of displays ; I've fucked the cook last on a dinner table across the house from the kitchen she worked in, splayed there on display, her clit played with while she came almost against herself, kissing another girl ; and... well... My slavegirl's bosom's nothing like the Sun.
The lassi's still with me ; so is the other, the first room, remembered in its function, in its use, historical and present. As I take yet another sip I think yet another thought : at some point the room was equal to the house, and the bed stood as lit de justice popularized, the nexus of family. A rich Florentine merchant blessed by the Gods and the flowings of ewes on his domain with yet another cvasi-human reproductive pair (the thing to be latter deemed "the basic cell of society") would add another bed to the only room, hence all the bed curtains on period beds (though they did take on a life of their own). But then popularization ever flew, and so the room became just part of the house, and soon enough each family crammed up in much less space on the same lands the Florentine merchant once walked would get nevertheless "their own room" (and in due time "their own house", a foot away from another's same "own"), and then it became insufficient, each family member their own room, and then even more room for individual activities : a living room to live in, a drawing room to draw in, a bath room to take a shit in, a walk-in closet room to be gay in, there's rooms and rooms and ever-rooms.
People's expectations, the denotative nominations never quite work out, proof being that nobody really ever lives in the living room ; what you'd think goes on and what actually goes on never matches all that well -- take for instance the general civilian expectation enslaved girls are bored : do you know what the foremost complaint (if we can call it thus, which I much doubt) of the actual girls actually living that life is ? That they've no time to be bored! Not phrased like this, but think ye that every week, once a week, she makes her schedule for the coming week ; yet not once has it happened yet her day even just once looked like what it had been planned to, a few days, less than a week ago. Not once ; there's the pull, the constant, pullulating pull of life always upon her, drawing her to and fro, the rarest, the most unlikely wonder an undisturbed moment, alone, by herself, to fill of herself, in her own way.
This is a problem, and I've taken measures, but mind for the benefit of learning from actual experience : the way to Amanda's not through building an Amandaroom ; the life of the mind's nothing like what you thought it would ; and now let us together so prepared take a good chomp out of straight insanity :
Maybe Songsmith really will make everyone's life a musical!
You think I'm kidding ?! Click the link!
Imagine now, if you would, what'd it be like if your life were a musical. Inane notions of Cosmo Kramer, he who "speaks the languages of all children", unexamined nonsense knotted like spaghetti in a hipster doofus skull, leaving hard sauce on destroyed strainers all around. The Italians don't speak, they sing to one another, imagine if you please your life as a musical.
I've taken some time to write plain notions in proper verse, occasionally. Now and again. I'm really good at it, according to they who love me well (quelques petits morceaux très estimés par ses amis -- sa v-o zic si-n franceza ?) but I don't do it all the time. Yes, I know you've noticed a certain... novel approach to prozodic phraseology, so to speak, since then. Fuck you, the words read all the time. Quite a different standard, quite a different bar.
Yes, the girls are my slaves all the time. Iconic moments of this perpetual, universal, generalized state of being could be me beating them, them kneeling, there's a whole list. Yet I do not beat them all the time. They do not suck my toes all the time, nor is this possible -- when would they suck my cock if they sucked my toes all the time ?! They sleep. They do, I occasionally but rarely will wake them up. Yes, I'm a poet all the time ; nevertheless my ordering coffee does not come out in rhyme. Except when it does. Which is eminently not always. The same's the case with everything : yes we live pure art ; that's what we do, every moment's existence is, liberated from the "rational" alternative, therefore an existentialist manifest and nothing short of artistic perfection. It's very demanding, it's very tiring, it's not something that's easily, or readily, accessible even to the talented, such as my whores.
Sometimes they sleep. Sometimes they look back over five weeks worth of notated planning, schedulling and projection only to notice they never managed to do the one thing they kept promising themselves they'd do because one now we were making a human pyramid, the other now Master fucked the cook on the table, this other now impending disaster required a cork so and so, of exacting specifications most precise which someone had to fetch, a life unfettered comes with some fetters of its own. Not that anyone's complaining, through my voice or through their own ; but the truth of the matter's that the art of living comes at odds with boredom, which means specific things : if Master can at any point make any decision then nobody can at any point make any future promises. It's either one or the other, both can't be had, they're not of the same plane.
The life worth living is, in the end, very much different from any kind of life as might be imagined by the naive (because the naive aren't at all alive, that is the very definition of that term) ; but be that foregoing as it may there very much is, there absolutely exists an alternative to "reason" in domestic affairs, a practical alternative that allows itself be lived. It's what we do ; it takes new, selected new girls years to catch on, to learn enough of the complex, endlessly complex canticles and curlicues of the dance that the whole manicomio starts to make sense, such as they dare try their own figures, their own independent movements in the whole.
It's not exactly easy, being the height, the definition of artificial ; but, in earnest examination... what else is there ?———
- Tutto a posto e niente in ordine, 1994 oh oops, I mean 2014 or rather 1944 by which I mean 1479. Same difference, in the end, with a bunch of... whatever. [↩]