I'm by the pook. Pooo. Poop. God damn it. I'm by the POOL ; though apparently touching the proper button to produce an L's too challenging under the prevailing circumstances. My hands aren't exactly shaky, but...
Anyways, getting back to the pool. Ah, you would like to see it ? Fine, why not, let's do just that.
The camera happens to be right here anyways, owing to... well, frankly, I brought it to enjoy the remnants of last night, such as they remain with the camera. The remnants of last night such as they remain with me are mine, in my mind resplendent ; I have no doubt that the remnants of the same as they remain with all other participants are sore, scarily, pleasantly so, like tissue well stretched, musculature rarely used if perfectly formed and for usage long awaiting, thoroughly employed, exhausted, worn.
It was simply fabulous a superfuntime, or however you express such exquisite, superlative delight in this language unused with either breadth or delight, let alone the two in combination. Dth, Ght, what the fuck nonsense gibbering is this even supposed to be ?! Do you strange folk of the inconsequential persuasion share amongst yourselves a hatred of vowels or is it just your teeth grow out like rabbits', so far out of your mouths soon enough anything beyond a raspy hiss becomes untenably impractical ?
It does rather seem I'm spending an inordinate portion of my time on my back, alongside cement holes filled with tepidly warm stagnant water. This I grant. I also hear it's not something commonly done among mankind -- but then again... I suppose pretty much everything else I do is at the very least uncommon (to pass in silence over the "often enough -- never done before at all" lobe of that clause). Supposedly everyone on planet Earth's on average living off a dollar a day, or thereabouts. If you add up all the whole world's headcount, then divide by it the total aggregate productivity (a sum of GDPs or whatever else you prefer to use) divided by the daycount in a year (365.25 will serve for a close enough approximation) you get something like one, which, incidentally, isn't even at al surprising. It is a rule, after all. Did you know ? Yet admire the wonder of rules : whether you knew or did not know, most numbers start with one. 1 I mean, the numberal one, not the indefinite pronoun one. Ah wait, you don't even call the non-pronominal one a numberal, do you. Why not ? It's digital but numeral ? What the fuck's a numer, holy shit, each of your flangy appendages's a digit and a numer's what ? Just look at that misery, what the fuck's a s's anyways! Hiss Teria's the only possible name for you lot of hissterriers.
Nobody else has any women, by the way. Have you noticed this ? I bet you must've. Does it suck ? I mean, I know they don't, now as they didn't fifty years ago. Meanwhile reconstructed failure, inconsequential nothingness, you've reverted to the mean. My youth's work gone out of your lives as quickly as you had pretended it was part, twenty, thirty years ago. As quickly and as insubstantially. That's fine, that's quite okay : it was a lot of fun to do it in the first place, I've no compunction doing it again. Unlike the first time around I absolutely do not need you for anything this time, anything at all.
Oh look at that! A crow's taking a bath!
I share my watering hole with the birds of the sky (which are indeed abundant here ; and fascinatingly... damn, I'll pass in silence over their ornithological glory lest they take over again and I don't get to talk about anything else but birds... not that I actually ever do anything else, come to think of it. Though I believe you might (and otherwise should agree) the fleshy bird between the thigh... fuck me, all this is happening inside a paranthesis I'm never going to be able to naturally close now). You've got to be firm! You've got to be desicive, if you're ever to get
anywhale anywhere in this writing business. Which you aren't, of course, but be that as it mia. Mae. Meh.
What was I saying ? I shan't look up and read, that's fo' damn sure! Though it's right there. I'm a writer, not a reader, and besides, the challenge to remember's fun, in its own way... I think it might've been something about cunt. Cunt or the fucking of cunt, or if not of the cunt per se then the fucking of something at any rate. Something's not quite the word for it, though, it's not a thing, it may be an object but it definitely is not a thing. Objectifying the female's one thing ; but thingifying the female's not the object. Actually, I object to the reductive view, even if I make them my playthings, we play together, and it's fun, and besides... a plaything's specifically not a thing, either. Much like wordplay's not a word, but a play, and not with words. The only reason wordplay's a... thing, is that it is not a thing, and not of words but of the au-dela of words, which... what is it ? What's the thing standing behind words ? Sense ? Meaning ? Rhyme ? What's the thing standing behind the thighs, that spreads them wide ? Not a thing, right ? Well then, through practiced exertion we agree, they aren't things though they may well be ojects, even when they're playthings, which yes they are as often as anyone will give them half a chance to be, meaning me and nobody else but me because... well, you don't know how to play, my dear playboys that indeed are boys, entirely inadherent to any kind of play.
Today in Comparative English, an advanced master's degree open to all even if impenetrable for everyone we've learned there's two functional types of aglutination in English : the descriptive, translating factuality, regrettable as it may be (like playboy, for playboys are indeed just boys) and the putative, translating fancy, desire, perhaps the speaker's unfulfilled frustration (like plaything, for playthings are not things but rather the aposite of things).
The beauty of it is, of course, the leisure. The undisturbed time by the pool, if birds come to dip they come in love, worshipful, ready to serve if any service's required and otherwise ready to not get in the way, at all. It's irreplaceable, far from a matter of dollars and cents as it could ever be, precisely orthogonal. There's two things that make kinetic threat remarkable, sufficient mass and sufficient speed, together, jointly. Extremely fast microscopic, subatomic bullets hurl through space all the time. The record holder at this time, were it as inconsequentially light as say an eyelash (but with its record speed somehow maintained)'d have torn such a hole through the very Earth as to turn it inside out, transform it from a sphere with oceans on the outside and molten iron on the inside into a long tube, water inside, iron glazing on the outside. Counterwise, the record holder for mass, ah, why bother with this all. Suffice it to say one needs the both, to get anywhere's not enough to have the social relations -- all sorts of poor inept nobodies scattered through the stone-age tribes still left upon the earth own women, slaves & all. But they're too poor to matter, their inconsequential concerns, practices, notions naturally bereft of any posible mommentum. And those who are too rich to still do anything, entirely incapable of meaningful relations. It's not that they have slaves, god forbid, they have nothing, nothing at all, not even themselves. Superficial pretense, far, remote, so very distant from any kind of anything the supposed, presumed, putative wealth finds no purchase, entirely incapable of engaging anything to drive anything to anything. A world of spare engines, and isolated gearboxes -- the better the more drastically, pointedly isolated. A world that's convinced itself (though it dare not admit it to itself) the only means to survival's paralysis, inaction, self-denial. Absence of action, and therefore meaning, and therefore self. Not unselfishness, not selflessness but actual unselfitude.
So here I sit, admiring the battleship that's me, at rest, the morn after the day. The grandiose atomic-powered ice-breaker, after having broken unspeakable, unbreachable, uncharted widths of ice, at rest by warm water, looking back over the experience of catastrophic functioning of the natural functions of cataclysm. Did you think there's clism in cataclysm by coincidence ? Did you suppose spelling one with i-macron and the other with u-psilon changes every...thing ? Covers the tracks, nobody could ever figure out they're just the same damn thing turned this way or that by how the isolation needs of self-terror and ashamed fear might dictate ? Truly ? Tell me, whatever else is, just as "obviously", not the same ? As doubless, as undiscussed, what else isn't the same, women and horses, bleeding and life, what all of the many different categories, love and inqeuality, pain, usage... why don't you make a list, sometime ? "All the same things that I can't face together" or something to that effect, enummerate all the different, absolutely and undiscussably different "lobes" of undisturbed identity, indistinguishable but by special you. One day you'll die, and so will I ; imagine how very different we will be then!
There was a film made recently, by the USG Agitprop department. They call Mosfilm "Netflix" now and nobody can see past this absolute difference, I'm sure. In it, the distant, hallowed ancestors of what today's pantsuits imagine they inheritedi, were "contrasted" with the same contemporary pantsuit's chosen imagine of evilii, a sort of charicatured US president cast as a presiding judge ; a historical shyster of dubious reputation and even more dubious personal history elevated into a substitute father-figure. The problem with actual history being, of course, that part and parcel of his ridiculous antics in actual court, the shyster pointed out to the actual judge that "his who's who entry is three times as long". They had a wikipedia before wikipedia, the tards, what did you think ? Teh judge retorted, quite frostily, that "hopefully you get a better obituary than mine", which is indeed indomitable : whatever inept monkying the subhuman horde manages to shit in its palms and throw about "at everything", Hoffman still gets the better obit, for what can you possibly retort to that ?
It's funny to watch, by the way, the rare, occasionally but rarely escorted male. His isn't an escort, of course, she's not there to serve, she's not ready to fall to her knees at the snap of a finger, her brain's not on loop reviewing endlessly what the situation might call for her to do to her master's service without him having to issue orders. One time the unhappy male attached to one of these went into the water, to hang out with mine, because he'd have liked to be in the waves and he couldn't get his to do his bidding, so after enough frustration he'd have even settled with distant interaction with normal human females -- however distant's to be seen, and in the water it'd have certainly been. Nicole came to me and I sent her to hit on the girlfriend left behind -- triangulation on the beach! Some other time, a young adult shy beyond clinical relevancy sat her twenty-something ass two meters inside the wake, just deep enough for the waves to occasionally ripple over her thigh, like she were invalid. She confessed upon examination that this is the first time she's out of the house in ten months ; her dutiful nurse/"boyfriend" visibly drooling at the sight of the great breaking waves and our shenanigans among them, yet stuck outside, with her, within tantalizing, unreachable reach of the comings and goings of the world. He couldn't very well leave her there, could he ? He couldn't very well humiliate her for her ineptitude, drive it out of her like men have driven the girl out of woman for eons beyond rememberance.
What men ?! The bois nurse them as their exclusive "amorous" activity. As if they were invalids. By now they are invalids, of course, for the treatment ; the little genuine sexual drive left in them manifesting itself through a strange, inexplicable registration behaviour. The time they should spend worshipping their man is spent either being "shy" or "worried", or else taking self-presentation pictures of themselves, which are visibly and pointedly not for him. There he sits, paralyzed, perhaps at the most enlisted to "help" her take her own, specific, typical pictures. For whom ? "The Internet". "Bitch, what the fuck are you on about ?" never crosses their lips, "take another one of those for not-me, I'm going to step inside your jaw" entirely inconceivable, not merely unspoken but beyond what can be thought, "what the fuck do you mean your existence's for anything besides and beyond furthering mine" meanwhile commented out of their firmware, somehow.
Yet bad code doesn't change the world, erroneous misrepresentation of the facts of life is neither capable of disendowing the facts nor altering life. So there they sit, in stasis suspended, until the children "come", at which point they can truly and finally checkout. "It was all for the children" anyways, wasn't it ? Who can accuse them of it not having been, and do you truly hope to get a better obituary than them ? After all they've made all these children that've never seen them do anything, I don't mean anything worth the trouble of carving in stone but anything at all. What sort of evil expectation'd that be, whereby their children'd much rather remember you instead. What do you mean "the children have no choice, what's to remember of the indistinct, indistinguishable biomass" ? If horror can't be thought, therefore horror can't exist. Isn't that right ?
Yet life goes on ; however bitten or neglected, the apple rots by degrees, and then it's gone. Big or small, a core left or untouched fruit, its wrinkled skin intact. "Intact", there isn't such a thing, everything touches everywhere anyways ; but be that as it may, I shall go for a dip, and mind my day.
- Though absolutely they did not, if the "revolutionary" "civil rights movement" 60s generation were confronted with today's pantsuit alongside that day's "law&order" aggenda they'd probably join Alabama's 1st KKK regiment to fight the pseudoscience club.
Ce nu va lasati eroii sa dispara-n colb de comici ? Din trecutul de marire va privesc cel mult ironici. [↩]
- A ploy that has backfired before, it's truly sad to see whatever's left of "America" (not much at all, for sure) copy Romania, one of the saddest, unhappiest shitholes the world yet ever spawned. You negligible lot'd be way the fuck better off copying anything else, anything at all. [↩]