The badger-squirrel and other stories

Motto : Luna strălucește ca o lampă mare,
Revărsând splendoarea-i până-n depărtare.

I don't know there's anything worse than Caragiale's poetry. It's the strangest thing, the guy's an excellent writer -- but he's not aware of himself. Transparently, he's not secure in his domainⁱ, and that very sorely limits things.ⁱⁱ

The tiny bit quoted's an eminently terrible figure : not only is proposing the moon as a lamp rather taxing on any writer's creditⁱⁱⁱ, but then he goes on to plainly contradict himself in the next line. No, lamps don't light very far, that's part and parcel of both why lamps are lamps and why they make dubious metaphorical stand-ins for the moon. Yet this evident difference could be traded upon^iv, the space of the abstracts evidently permits it -- I just did it -- and language in turn would perhaps allow itself to be convinced into co-operating. She always does (for me). But he doesn't trade on it, he prefers to turn his back, like any subservient fucktoy, he'd rather take it in the ass on the quiet than face it and make a scandal of it.

Which is the problem with his poetry throughout, he's in all places resoundly like those nigglets in the restaurant concerned whether the waiter's validating their role of restaurant patrons or not, and trying to scry and divine the matter from signs and guesses. The story's in an article somwehere, or perhaps a comment, but I'm not going to go looking for it because who cares about some insecure nigglets ?

Yet that's how he sounds, like a kid "doing credible things" within the adults' earshot ; like Samuel Clemens writing for his wife's morning censorship ; like he does things such that "none could accuse him of not having done". He rhymes with a dedication better suited for ploughing the field, all the while entirely discounting aliteration and asonance, rhythm and elegance^v, everything and anything that's good, substantially good, or at all worthwhile. He never brings, as the girl said -- the inept, spurious girl, scar tissue where factory leadership used to be -- never bringing anything to the table.^vi

Anyway, moving on : badger-squirrel.

Park subjected to demented arachnid's attentions. They made the spiral already, the mothership's landing next.

Male gaze, illustrated. Nobody can quite sum up the courage to talk to them, but that's okay anyways. What'd they say ?

I confess I don't readily understand the role or usage of the artefact depicted. Why did they attach a cheap motel safe to the pole on which the taxi stand is advertised ?

Cheap food. Not for you, of course ; but cheap for me nevertheless.

Und sollte mir
Ein leid geschehen
Wer wird bei der
Laterne stehen...

1. Probably the sad fruits of a life lived very much like our good friend Liviu Constantin (manowar-something, nowadays again not-writing-anymore at opencube.ro) : from clueless, careless adolescence to obidit young adulthood, nothing but the sad, embittering experience of being time and again, regularly and predictably defeated by the organized female herd.

   Actually, to be fair : after the malexperience of a (second) divorce there in the link described, the fellow escaped to a better farm, where the claponi such as himself are more humanely kept. Not substantially different, just, more in the trough. He spent a while very vocally lording it over all the remaining rotards, left behind. Then he... well, had some problems, and had to return. Very quietly, really, but believe there's nothing wrong with him. He just has problems. Then went back, with some derpy chick a good two decades his junior, whom he very loudly proclaimed some kind of superlative womanhood (thereby also justifying him, as per usual) yet never exposed her. Shockingly enough, as a complete surprise nobody could have predicted, she kinda... well, you know. Then later they broke up (ie, she discarded the husk, moved on to another nut) and he... hm. I think he's a Bitcoin expert now (which he obviously calls "cryptocurrencies", for the obvious reason). Just like the other one.

   What I'm saying is that while the female lines involved in these tiresome (and tiresomely common) dramolettas are despicable without remainder, it's not altogether clear to me that the whole problem isn't entirely driven by the remarkably weak quality of the poor-misfortunate-abused-and-oppressed male involved. After all, it's well known cell defects drive apoptosis and weak manhood ablative response. [↩]

2. If you're not familiar with the difference between secure tyranny and insecure tyranny, think about it. Why do unpopular regimes organize a repressive apparatus ? Because they're secure in their power, or because they fear they might not be ?

   Fear's generally the driver of the most regrettable parts. [↩]

3. Yeah, I could do it, of course I could do it. I can do anything, but that doesn't help him -- he's not me. He's very wealthy, of course, certainly, independently and solidly wealthy in the metaphorical sense here contemplated. Yet he still doesn't have my credit. [↩]
4. And has been. [↩]
5. Whoops... I did it again... I played with your words... and thus made them mine... Oh baby, baby... you could have done... so very much better... in listing some things. Who the fuck cares how much better a list your list've been ? Nobody wants to fucking read lists, those cracked idiots lied to you. [↩]
6. You know, it doesn't have to be much, sometimes all I bring is a strip of leather. It doesn't have to be anything in particular -- it just can't be nothing at all. [↩]