Some other mornings, however...

Apparently there's this emergent new kind of Trilema article whereby... how shall I put thisⁱ. Some mornings I wake up with an erection, and I go inside a bedroom. A girl's sleeping there, cuddled within herself, breathing evenly under the sheets. My penis is dangling, in her face. She wakes, and it's the first thing she sees. She starts, and then she curls in a feline smile. And then we fuck, and then we talk, and then she gets in trouble, and then she learns things, and then she's exhausted, and then she goes to bed. By herself, I mean, though sometimes they sleep together generally everyone's got their own bed what the hell.

Some other mornings, however, I wake by myself. Though I'm not really "by myself" in any common sense, not this time. All the girls are about, sleeping their slavery, dreaming it, breathing it, nearby. I could have my choice, for any reason or by no reason at all informed, whichever way I please or not care to notice. The ancient hope and desire of mankind, to have your choice to have your way. Yet I do not want my choice, this morning ; I've apparently awoken before the Sun rose with an erection of a different kind.

So in the darkness I sit, and I write -- though by now it's no longer dark at all, but plain daylight ; and moreover we've said good mornings. But I am still in bed, and writing, something I almost never do ("Hey, bring me the power, would you."). They've things to do, some aren't even up yet, for having had a difficult day yesterday, though it started well, but then it took a decided turn (while the day before was even worse, it started poorly and it continued with eating dogfood and being angry and punished terribly and just getting worse and unfoldingly worse from there) ; then again that's life, isn't it ? It is ; and then you die.

They do, and so do you. Not me, so far ; and once I do... well, once I do there won't be any mornings, neither like this nor definitely like that, and so there's nothing there to write about. Is there something here to write about ? There's apparently this emergent new kind of Trilema article whereby... there's nothing there to write about. It's new in the sense of different from all the other ones that weren't there to write about until they were written and so therefore became something ; because it is the unique curse of being the only font of thought that what you do may become a point, for others, but it never has a point, not for you. There's gotta be a first point, right ? So then there is, if there must be thus it is. This is it ; and what is it about ?

Hannah is leaving, even. She has things to do. She looks like a million bucks in her tight outfit, a look she's earned, by a million beads of sweat, slaving away at the gym ; but she is sad, overwhelmed, exceeded perhaps. Supervising workmen is growing ever more tedious an activity as the years go by, in direct proportion to the ever diminishing ability, competency and general savoir-faire left in the ever-draining pool. At least if it were quantified, and it drained away in headcount only ; but sadly with every workman lost to stupid the remainder grow dimmer too, somehow. Come to think of it, perhaps a swamp'd be a more adequate denominator. Whatever it is really has very little in common with a pool -- unless of course what's contemplated's the stagnant water where life supposedly begun, lo all those years ago, and apparently's quite in danger of readily returning, say tomorrow. Or the day after.

What shall I do today ? Perhaps I'll play ; maybe I'll write. I write like I play, which is to say playfully ; and I suppose in fair honesty I also play as I write, which is thoughtfully you could call it, I suppose, though for me it's not thoughtful in the usualⁱⁱ, reflective sense. A signal processor's definitionally bereft of state, as opposed to a von Neuman machine ; and similarily my thoughtful activity's not ruminated, like apparently everyone else's. Nor is this accident in any sense deliberate, it's not a construction of refinement (also known as stupidity, for what else could it ever be), I just...

The great advantage of defining corectness as simply "what that guy does" is that whatever he does will actually be correct ; the disadvantage's the same. The available alternatives are to give up the notion of correctness altogether, thereby reverting to the sad but natural state where it's hard to learn and easy to forget (and ships are but boards, hence all the talk of swamp) ; or else to try for yet another instalment of socialism, whereby you sit in the same swamp but -- and here's the cleverly ingenious bit of sheer ingenuity (and did I mention genius ?) : you pretend like the state's satisfying your needs.ⁱⁱⁱ Trying to pick a better one won't do anything, because there isn't a better one nor are you equipped to actually establish this point (or any other, for that matter, but why depress ourselves), and so...

We're stuck with each other, and in our respective positions. It's simply the human condition, and it admits no solutions (in being no kind of problem), hence literature (and the temptation to "realism", or "meaning", in literature, quite exactly like the temptation to honesty in politics^iv) along with every other kind of pretense -- expensive, and improductive, especially when prosecuted on the ever-shifting basis of no formal familiarity with the underlying truth of the matter^v.

1. To "put it" is yet another construction that means to fuck in Romanian. Aren't you surprised ?

   Da' macar i-ai pus-o ?

   I like it, myself. Not just the fucking, I mean the expression ; it suggests to me, on the solid basis of lengthy experience, this particular form of the activity whereby a great whore (this discusses her competency, she's great at fucking) with a great ass (this discusses her endowments, she's that kind) either lays in bed on her back or I suppose on her knees, and you take this mataringa, a superlative erection almost to the point of it becoming painful, and you just lay it on her cunt. If she's on her back it just ever so slightly parts her (very sensitive, by the way) labia, but it's not in by any degree, it's just close enough to rub her slick ; if she's on her knees it just ever so slightly parts her (pink, and pretty, and delicate) netherlips, but it's not going inside, in fact it's not even on any kind of practicable direction, just like in the movies. It's a cool, pleasant, breezy late morning, she's hornier than a harpy from hell, her cunt's willing the damned thing to fuck her already, her whole body's sucking you in somehow, metem-tele-psycho-kinetically, and...

   Asta se cheama ca i-ai pus-o.

   The whole thing originates, I suspect, with one of them "secret" stories of Ion Creanga, the one where the girl young wife claims it feels like Ionica's buttering her up inside.

   Cum o puse, cum se duse... [↩]

2. That important reference still MIA ; I wonder where the hells it went, after having just spent another tiresome hour digging through the pile for it.

   Meanwhile it's been found (with a little help from my friends) :

   diana_coman mircea_popescu: eh, nu stii tu sa cauti! poftim: http://trilema.com/2020/forum-logs-for-07-apr-2017/#2265605

   [↩]

3. Hey, it worked for women all these many years, why shouldn't it work just as well for you too ? Aren't you a woman anyway, kinda ?

   So then! [↩]

4. Or impregnation in copulation, or cutting one's own neck with one's own hands more generally speaking. Just like the temptation to push the eject button while watching a movie -- suicide's an uncommon event lots of ruminators disproportionately preoccupy themselves with. How about yourself ? [↩]
5. You understand both the meta ridiculousness, as well as the very direct danger to be found inside interaction with fiction naively, as if it were factual ; yet just as you prosecute fraud and apply warning labels you also think "this film was based on a true story" spicy, rather than plain old dumb. Yes ? Well... [↩]