d1rtyf1lthy

Alison's birthday is on the first of August and so we need a drinkies in celebration! Look at me getting around to posting about it!

WHAT: Alison's and kind of my Birthday Drinkies! With cake and drinking and all the usual things we people do.
WHEN: Friday, 31st July (Probably don't show up before 9)
WHERE: LFoD of LFoDiness.

I went cold last night. For the first time I didn't fight it. I let it all in, people's dissapointments, their fears, hatred, lust of result, disgust of being played, by me, you or a larger cabal.

My feet began to tingle, legs numb, I felt it working its way up my chest until finally I drift. I even had it to where the heart beat so shallow that I grasp for air. It was sweet, the first peace I'ld had really since I've been alive.

No.

No war.

No cop outs.

Your karmic hells motivated by weakness in will or lack of direction will follow me no more.

We're through.

The laws of memory are subject to the more general laws of habit. Habit is a compromise effected between the individual and his environment, or between the individual and his own organic eccentricities, the guarantee of a dull inviolability, the lightning-conductor of his existence. Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit. Breathing is habit. Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits, since the individual is a succession of individuals; the world being a projection of the individual’s consciousness (an objectivation of the individual’s will, Schopenhauer would say), the pact must be continually renewed, the letter of safe-conduct brought up to date. The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day. Habit then is the generic term for the countless treaties concluded between the countless subjects that constitute the individual and their countless correlative objects. The periods of transition that separate consecutive adaptations ... represent the perilous zones in the life of the individual, dangerous, precarious, painful, mysterious and fertile, when for a moment the boredom of living is replaced by the suffering of being..

-Beckett

Classics Karen Likes:

Pride and Prejudice
Emma
Northanger Abbey
A Tale of Two Cities
The Three Musketeers
Les Miserables
The Iliad
The Odyssey
The Frogs
Lysistrata
Most of Shakespeare's plays, except Titus Andronicus and A Winter's Tale, and the ones no one has read like King John because I also haven't read them.

Classics Karen Doesn't Like:

Mansfield Park
Juvenal's Satires, the ass
Everything else Dickens wrote
The entire catalogue of the modernist novel

It seems to be included on the Likes list, one should include 1) humour and/or
2) swordfights, yo.

Also! I got to make the donation to the Alannah and Madline Foundation! Behind the cut is proof of the collected donation. A number of people redeemed their pledges by donating separately, so the total of all donations was actually $1 381.

To me, that is big person money. Thank you all very much for taking part, and I'll be doing it again next year for sure!

( Donation number stuff )

I clear a space to write, for you, to you, against you. You are the measure of my abilities. I reach for your exactitude, your ambition, your folly. You are the tide mark on the bridge, the level to reach. You are the face who always avoids my glance, the man who is just leaving the bar. I search for you through the spirals of all my sentences. I throw out whole pages of manuscript because I cannot find you in them. I search for you in small details, in the shapes of my verbs, the quality of my phrases. When I can write no more because I am too tired, my head aches, my left arm is cramped with tension, and I am left irresolute, I get up, go out, drink, cruise the streets. Sex is a brief gesture, I fling away my body with my money and my fear. It is a sharp sensation which fills the empty space before I can go in search of you again. I repent nothing but the frustration of being unable to reach you. You are the glove that I find on the floor, the daily challenge I take up. You are the reader for whom I write.

-- Hallucinating Foucault, by Patricia Duncker

Drug Has Potential to Slow Aging -- rapamycin

Летний режим работы - ON

Эх, Галька... ;( Мне не хватает тебя.

When she says margarita she means daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again,"
she means, "Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window."

He's supposed to know that.

from When a Woman Loves a Man, David Lehman

This one time, when shopping, all the lights went out while I was in the very inner part of the store. It was fun. The power came back within the minute, though. I loved it. Could have been a problem if the blackout lasted longer though....

I went to see Moon tonight with lameautarch. It is definitely a mindfuck. Also, serious science fiction fans will enjoy it. It's vaguely reminescent of 2001.

I hadn't heard of it before today, but it seems to be getting good reviews.

The Glass Heart
By Jack Liberty [2nd Draft]

To know of the heart to crave the heart. This is the curse on our unhappy fraternity. It is strange that such a symbol of purity and release should have given rise to such a terrible history of murder, theft and betrayal.

Consult any history of the heart, a few folios published by obscure vanity presses and collected only by private collectors for their own inscrutable purposes, and you will find the same tale:

In the previous age of the world, the Buddha-to-be Avolokiteshvara had finally reached the end of his time as an incarnate being, even as a Boddhisattva in the Pure Land. He stood at the gate by which he could pass into "release without residue". But the gate was narrow, and when he tried to squeeze through, he would not fit. First, he took off his clothes, but even naked and sandal-less, he could not get through. Next he took off his arms and legs but even so the gate was too small. He shed his loins, his abdomen, his torso and his head, and each time, he found that the gate too narrow to let him pass. Finally, only his aura of grace, concentrated in his pure and compassion-filled heart, was left. It was filled with the accumulated good karma of his many lifetimes of saintliness. Its bulging virtue would not allow Avolokiteshvara to pass through the gate into release. Even this too must be discarded by the Buddha-to-be.

As his heart tumbled to the ground amidst all the rest of Avolokiteshvara, he stepped through the gate into release, where all time is an opalline lotus of instants, and attained nirvana. The heart vitrified as it was abandoned, turning into a flawless glass heart that lay ignored until long after, when a peasant found it amongst Avolokiteshvara's bones and other relics scattered in the grass.

This is the pre-history of the heart, of its time in the world before. Its first appearance in a modern sense, its emergence into history, is after the first Opium War in 1840, when a Sir John Heston serving on the H.M.S. Furious, a British frigate stationed out of Hong Kong, claims to have found it on a Chinese pirate hulk, its crew having murdered one another while at sea. Sir John's diary, preserved in a private collection, is the earliest record we have of the heart's curse. He records that upon first seeing the Glass Heart clutched in the fist of a Chinese corpse he was seized with an urge to possess it, an urge so strong that the poor British lieutenant hacked off the hand with his sabre and stuck the bloody appendage still clutching its prize into a pocket for later examination. His fellow crew, occupied with treasures of a more base nature, failed to notice his vicious desecration of the corpse. He reboarded his ship with them, keeping the existence of his prize a secret as his fellow crew boasted of the gold and silk they had recovered.

The remainder of his diary until his murder in 1841 is most curious. At first a record of his love for the heart, within a few days, less than a week, he grows to loathe it. He cannot bear to look at it. He cannot stand to touch it. The mere thought of it almost seems to cause him pain as he writes of it. But, he also cannot bear to be apart from it. The record of his thoughts on day 10, when he attempts to leave it in his sea chest as he performs his duties, is nearly unreadable, scrawled as if he was torn between terror and jealousy. On days 61-62, when he misplaces it, his diary is filled with paranoid rambling, lists of possible locations with each ticked off as he searches them, excessively complete lists of possible thieves amongst the crew and their motivations for theft, of crew members he come in contact with may have seen it and desired it just as he does. Most interesting are a series of marginal notes that mention his relief at being rid of the heart, at having freed himself, even if only accidentally. By day 63 he has found it and the journal returns to the swings between hatred and desire for the heart.

Alas, Sir John failed to keep the heart a secret. His gardener murdered him in 1841 and vanished with the heart. Authorities never found him, nor Sir John's diary (You may guess the circumstances of how I read it yourself).

This first story sets the pattern for all the other stories of the owners of the heart. Each time, the previous owner is murdered (in one aberrant case the former owner survived but was imprisoned as a lunatic), the murderer flees with the heart, taking or leaving behind a copious body of personal writing indicating the former owner's alternating emotions of aversion and desire.

It is these unhappy seeds that have sown future sorrow. To read these writings, diaries, rambling notes in the margins of other books, in one case a piece of graffiti sprayed onto an alley wall, is to be struck with the desire to possess the heart oneself. Even knowing, as one quickly discovers through even cursory research, that possession inevitably brings despair, the urge cannot be overcome. You must have it. Perhaps you fantasise that you will be the first, the only owner to overcome its curse. You will appreciate it as these others, these fools, could not. Your love will redeem it. And of course, one discovers that this is a lie. A self-serving delusion. You come to hate it, just as all the others have. Your love is no more redeeming, no more pure, than theirs.

I am, as you may already have guessed, the current possessor of the heart. I remember the long hours of research, the search to discover the identity of its then owner, the hunt to track him down. He knew, just as I did, that others were searching for him, and he had taken precautions. I remember training myself with a discipline and seriousness I now find impossible to pick locks, fire a pistol, to creep silently, to infiltrate and kill. I remember dispatching his guards, one by one (he had three, all victims of the heart, though not as my quarry and I were). Only three, I remember thinking with relief. My own heart had no room left for compassion in it, only the terrible need to have. No one, not even I in the years I spent discovering the heart's history, have ever counted the deaths this need has caused.

I did not surprise him. How could I? To own the heart is also to possess the knowledge that it will one day be taken from you by another. He sat with dreadful calm as I advanced on him. He would not reveal its location, even when I threatened him with my pistol. I shot him mechanically before searching for it. He surely hadn't hidden it far from himself, and even that separation must have drawn on all his reserves of will. His face in death had a calm expression, relieved. Mine was a monster's mask, frantic and contorted in a mirror on the wall. I found it, of course. I cannot describe what I felt then. It remains the most powerful emotion I have ever felt. I fled so that I would not be discovered and, more importantly, the glass heart taken from me.

In time, I too came to hate the heart. The remorse for the murders left me despondent. The intensity of that remorse is the particular effect of the curse on me. Even my guilt must be understood through the lens of the heart. I did not redeem the heart. I damned myself. And yet, I cannot bear to be separated from it. It remains the token of my doom, of my insatiable craving.

I have come up with a plan to free myself. Not to give up the heart. I cannot. I want to die with the heart. To be united in death and yet be beyond any emotion. I will throw myself from a high cliff into the ocean, the heart clutched in my hands. I will take this essay and all the other writings I have collected with me. I will not record where, which cliff, which ocean. I will hide all traces of my existence, my journey, my destination. No one will find me. The heart and I will go. I must do this. I must.

End.

sabahat escaped excorcsm.
sabahat was the devil.

they keep telling me that they're sincerely possessed and nothing stands in their way.

i'm not chemically imbalanced just because you want to start the apocolypse against me.

via maratguelman

Очень трудно оставаться спокойной и вежливой когда даже начальница не выполняет свою работу как следует!!!Козааа долбаннаяяяя!

i'm telling my psychiatrist and reporting this all as it comes. i'm going to be that schizophrenic friend. my mom is a nigger mutant... and i'm just the little mermaid--a girl they excorcsmed here--who is not her daughter... she could never have children... she was a possessed cyclone... and raped time spiritually in excorcsm... AND KEEPS TELLING ME THAT SHE EXCORCSMED ALL OF MY FRIENDS... AND KEEPS STALKING THEM SPIRITUALLY IN EXCORCSM--- SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS---maybe we could get a telepathic radio and stalk her on googleearth.

SHE'S AN EXCORCSM ON HERSELF AND THAT'S WHY SHE'S A CYCLONE--

I've been driving for hours,
it seems like all my life.
The wheel has become familiar,
I turn it

every so often to avoid the end
of my life, but I'm never sure
it doesn't turn me
by its roundness, as women have

by the space inside them.
What I'm looking for
is a rest area, some place where
the old valentine inside my shirt

can stop contriving romances,
where I can climb out of the thing
that has taken me this far
and stretch myself.

It is dusk, Nebraska,
the only bright lights in this entire state
put their fists in my eyes
as they pass me.

Oh, how easily I can be dazzled--
where is the sign
that will free me, if only for moments,
I keep asking. 

( ”Read )

you can't talk for the antichrist.

sabahat had sex with demon mutants inside of her head and honestly turned around to me completley possessed and asked me why i wouldn't either.

i stopped and stared,
shame on me for being so foolish.
in trying to avoid it,
it became obvious.
therefore, i'm sure i bring unwanted
discomfort to her line of work.

i attempted to force myself to stop, but it looked bad.

I go to movies or church sermons,
I stare at those for a while.
I need to force myself to mature,
even if i feel sick to my stomach.

no needs to care, because my problems will remain mine alone.

My life needs new meaning without harm others.
However, i end up an enemy to all
good things in this world,
although I long for love worth dying for, worth living for.

it's how they saw god.. that made god the antichrist. when they are intellectual they are antichrist.

they're stalking the antichrist and think that they are intellectual. i guess i am the antichrist that sees themselves in everybody. they say things like, "i'm trying to steal your right to be the antichrist" but they can't. i still am the antichrist---and refuse to be intellectual with anyone. i meant completle warfare :) toodles.