#DISCHARGE Massacre Divine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lotrewrite · 8 years ago

Text

Well, here’s my comments! Feel free to message me with any questions or for clarification of anything

Overall, this is really solid you guys.

The biggest issue is just fleshing some of the episodes out a bit. Character arcs are nicely done and the character stuff is spread out surprisingly well. In general, I think there’s a little more focus on Mick and Len than the others, and Amaya could probably be given a slightly larger role, but overall I’m impressed. Writing a team and giving them all equal focus is really hard. I’m so excited this is already so good

(Also like three of these episodes are set in times/places related to special interests I’ve had over the years so if I start getting caught up in historical details that’s why)

I haven’t looked at other people’s feedback yet, cause I didn’t want to be influenced so sorry if I’m just repeating stuff

LOTREWRITE: Yay, more comments! Sorry about the delay in posting these, all!

Episode 1:

- I love the opening sequence with Kendra A+

- How has Nate’s pencil lasted so long? It has to be at least 20 years old, right? A pen might be more plausible but have the same basic narrative effect. If you’re keeping the dog tags bit from the original though it might be best to cut it the reference to it being from his grandfather entirely or have it be a replica or something. Best to focus on a single sentimental object.

- The banter is flawless and in character. Nice!

- Thawne’s explanation is a bit of an infodump. That’s gonna need to be reworked into more of a dialogue, at the very least. It would probably be better to show it somehow. Maybe show the Black Flash appearing a few seconds after Thawne leaves, then disappearing just as quickly? Darhk can research it on his own and then explain it to someone later, for those viewers who aren’t familiar with the concept from The Flash.

- “Damien Darhk?” Stein asks. “As in –” “The man who murdered your sister,” Rip says. I assume we’re talking about Laurel, but this makes it sound like Darhk murdered Stein’s sister.

- “I never did” Talk about OUCH. This is amazing.

Episode 2

- Some clarification on when and where “the infirmary” is would be good, as well as what Jax and Stein’s history here is, but I figure that will be added as this is fleshed out

- Same with “decision makers”

- I vote yes on “not drinking and driving” quip that’s excellent

- Bambi is adorable

- Make sure when you’re researching the crusades to look at things from multiple perspectives. This seems like it could very easily fall into a very generic “Good Christians” vs “Evil non-Christians” crusade narrative and that’s… less than ideal. There was a lot of politics surrounding the crusades, even if you’re just focusing on the Christians. That might also help provide a motive for your dissenter? Someone who thinks these soldiers should be back at home looking after things there instead of invading a foreign nation to secure power and riches for the church? Someone who’s been convinced that the crusaders have no divine right to this land and that they should leave it to the people who actually live there? Could maybe be a place to start setting up some doing what’s “right” vs doing what’s supposed to happen conflict? This is obviously just an outline so maybe you’re already planning something like that but I figured I’d mention it

- I’m a fan of Bambi not dying

- I love Firestorm as an angel that’s an amazing idea in so many ways A++++

- Mick roasting a T-Rex with his gun heck yeah

Episode 3:

- I love Sara’s canary pendant

- Continuity issue: in episode 1, Mick punches Rex and that’s about the extent of their interaction. Not much of a basis for the trust he seems to be showing in this ep.

LOTREWRITE: Possibly we could make it more explicit that Rex noticed that the bomb the JSA were tracking was discharged harmlessly after Mick said he went after it, thus the trust?

- Yay for bi Sara!

- The Sara and Amaya scene sounds like it’s gonna be so cute

- Ray’s speech to Nate about heroism is really solid

- I see now why it’s a pencil, but I’m still not loving the idea. Does it just magically never get not sharpened? Has Nate never noticed? Does he sharpen it and lose tiny fragments of the spear every time? Am I being too nitpicky?

- Love the mention of non-fighting military personnel

- Mick is starting to feel like he’s taking over the story a little too much here maybe, especially considering that he’s been the most major character in the previous episodes as well, while Jax and Stein seem almost nonexistent. Nate could probably have a little more prominence given that this is his big reveal episode.

Episode 4

- Might want to give a quick rundown of some basics about Chernobyl in the finished episode for audiences unfamiliar with the history. I had to look it up because I thought it happened years later and was very confused.

- Give some reason for why Stein’s actions were changed from the original timeline. Is Darhk’s presence there already changing things?

- What do you mean by Jax can “safely detonate” the bomb? Is there some reason he and Stein can’t Firestorm up and transfigure it? I don’t recall Jax being a particular expert in bombs previous to this.

- The Stein and Clarissa storyline is very very good

- Sara and Mick (not) talking about their shared grief Thank You

- Sara seems rather quick to trust Eobard. She knows it’s a speedster who killed Rex, right? Nevermind. She still seems very quick to trust for a former assassin.

- Maybe avoid Eobard villain monologuing? He has no reason to.

- Doesn’t the Black Flash only come after the speedsters, not anyone whose death is changed by time travel? iirc, both Cisco and Barry’s mother were brought back to life by Barry changing the timeline at one time or another and neither were targeted. There may be extenuating circumstances I’m forgetting though…

- Sara and Laurel’s storyline is really touching and sweet

- LISA!!!!!!

Episode 5

- I’m loving the mix of historically accurate costumes and especially Mick

- Crew interacting with Vikings is great and in character

- Jax and Gunlød’s relationship is really cute

- The funeral for Len and the others they’ve lost is fantastic

Episode 6

- Eobard and Darhk banter already sounds like it’s gonna be great

- How’s Lisa getting in? nevermind, that’s answered

- The image of Len doing anything “emphatically” is kinda cracking me up. A look or something would probably be more in character.

- Vampiric octopuses omg please have a flashback here

- Building of tension for the break-in is excellently done. A bit cliché, but in a good way.

- Lisa’s fury is great.

Episode 7:

- Oa?

- Independence Day banter is really fun

- Lisa/Cisco scene is YES

- “justified” I see what you did there

Episode 8:

- Remember to introduce Constantine etc to audiences who might not be familiar with them

- Are you going to show Mick vanishing or just have him suddenly no longer be there? Related: does he leave and then get beaten up or get taken out while with the rest of them? Does the audience know he’s telling the truth or will there be some room for them to wonder?

- HARLEY/IVY YESSSSS

- I’m assuming Booster is Booster Gold, yes? Do we get him in this season?! Okay coming back, we don’t. It’s a nice shoutout for those who know, but the prominence it’s given implies it will be relevant.

- Clarify who Resurrection Crusade are

Episode 9:

- Sara’s disguise for the Christmas party isn’t specified

- This might be an issue with the original version of the episode as well, but the colonies were in open rebellion against the British crown and GW probably wouldn’t expect honorable treatment or a prisoner exchange if captured. He was openly committing treason in the eyes of the British army.

- Ray navigating with one boot is hilarious and wonderful

- Would soldiers from the pre-telephone era be able to adjust well enough in one night to work with a comm? Guns they at least have experience with. Tiny devices that let them talk to each other through long distances might be a bit pushing it. Or I might be getting too nitpicky.

- The whole massacre plot needs some work tbh. How does Jax and Amaya knocking out a total of three soldiers stop a full massacre? How many were there? How did the soldiers feel about it? Sneak attacks on innocent (white) civilians weren’t really a common part of warfare at the time. Some or all of the villagers would have supported the British or at least pretended to. Not to mention the British soldiers were probably occupying the nearest village. Village sounds really feudal I’m thinking town might be more appropriate okay I’m definitely getting too nitpicky

- End scene is great

Episode 10:

- Ray’s pirate persona is gold

- Why do they ask Jax for his name first? (or do they?)

- Foreshadowing Rip joining the other side? Neat

- Looks like this just needs more details for the climactic battle then you’ll be good

Episode 11:

- The opening is so good

- Adorable engineering duo yes good

- So does the Greenpeace member know about the explosion? How?

- This episode feels a bit short? It’s focused on a single plot that gets resolved relatively straightforwardly. Maybe add subplot(s) and/or throw a wrench in things somewhere?

Episode 12:

- A little hard to follow at first but I think it’s supposed to be

- Does Mick say “who’s Grace?”? That seems to imply that he recognizes the other names.

- This has the potential to be really creepy I like it

- Can Rip be incorporated into this somehow? Or not necessarily be incorporated as the character, but at least mentioned? It feels relevant, since he had the closest relationship to Gideon

Episode 13:

- Could Legion!Len’s reveal be moved? If he’s not heavily involved in the Legion’s main plot for this ep, the previous ep would probably work better with a single big reveal (that oculus!Len is not just a hallucination) rather than two back to back. There could be mentions of a new Legion member (Darhk and Eo discussing Legends in Argentina “We’ll let the new guy handle them,” following orders from him, etc), without Len being revealed until he’s revealed to the Legends, or the end of this episode.

- Really good moral quandaries here.

- You could probably do something with the fact that the team (presumably intentionally) imitates oppressive government agents to get away with kidnapping, even if it is for a good cause. That’s gotta make them uncomfortable. (Mick seems like he’d probably be the most chill with it, Jax seems like he’d be really uncomfortable, and I could see Stein going either way.)

- Maybe include one or more OCs or historical figures in a major role to add a human element to the conflict

Episode 14:

- How does Rip find out? Does he already know?

- So is the thing on the throne not the spear piece?

- Tudor jewelry would probably not involve wood. They were big on showy jewels and metals. Maybe it’s in a fancy locket and rumored to hold part of the cross or something? You could have Anne make some sort of joke about how it’s probably fake. Artifacts like that were very common and almost never what they claimed to be.

- Henry’s feeling a little flat here, but that might just be the outline format

- This is another one that could use a subplot or two

- MICK BURNS DOWN THE GLOBE I LOVE IT

Episode 15:

- I like the option of Hex reacting badly to Rip

- Carter and Kendra cameo is really neat

- Continuity error: Len leaves and then says something in scene 6

LOTREWRITE: Len probably shouldn't leave since he has a big leaving sequence in the next episode

- Lots of good stuff here

- Make sure Lily stuff lines up with the following episode

LOTREWRITE: Lily should probably show up and have the argument with Stein in this episode, since the next one is very crowded

Episode 16:

- Make sure Lily stuff lines up with previous episode

- Bart Allen is from around this time period too. Can he cameo somehow?

- I love this entire concept

- All the hostages taken are women. Is there specific reasoning behind this? If not, maybe reconsider hostage choices

- So Lily is volunteering to be a hostage, not switch sides? That was a little unclear.

- I love the Monty Python joke. But it might be a little too anvil-y? Maybe change the wording from “what is your favorite color?” to “pick a color”?

- How are the trials being administered? Verbally with spoken answers? Touchscreen? Fancy buttons?

Episode 17:

- Cameo suggestion: A young Selina Kyle. The joke is that the found family she’s talking about consists entirely of cats. This can either be revealed to Jax via innocuous comment that wouldn’t make sense if referring to a human (something about litter boxes?) or revealed to the audience later when she looks at a picture in her wallet or something.

- I love Legion!Len being fed up this is a Good Scene

- The Legends make him cake aww

- That ending man

- Another episode that could use a bit of fleshing out. A little focus on what the other Legends are doing specifically might be enough.

Episode 18:

- Love the cold open

- Kendra cameo!

- Why would putting Ray in a toga convince the guard to let him pass?

- I’d add a subplot or a lot more happening at the gladiator fight. Does Darhk attempt to cheat? How does Sara counter that? Is she tempted to kill him? Maybe she could have a scene before or after where she talks to someone about her past with the League of Assassins and how sometimes she still has to fight those instincts? Even though she saved Laurel, he still almost killed her and Laurel is still almost completely out of reach for Sara so there’s got to be some pent-up anger there.

Episode 19:

- HI YES YOU’RE INCLUDING MORDRED LET ME LOVE YOU

- I can tell that you know your Arthurian legend or at least did some research this makes me so happy the Camelot episode was disappointingly generic in the official season but this is so much better

- MICK AND MORDRED TALKING ABOUT BEING TRUE TO YOURSELF I HAVE ASCENDED

- Yeah sorry I should have more constructive criticism but my brain kinda just starts screaming in delight at any mention of Mordred so just know that you did a good and there aren’t any glaring plot inconsistencies

Episode 20:

- Snart is totally dedicated to his theme enough to take Antarctica let’s be honest

- I believe there was a reference in a much earlier episode to Harley and Ivy both not returning someone’s calls. Did Harley do something to get back into the Legion’s good graces or…?

- Ted Kord :D

- This just needs more detail, in non-Len-related scenes in particular, which will presumably come with the full thing

Episode 21:

- How is Rip rescued?

- How does Ray contact GL and SS? Also, being in space shouldn’t keep them from being influenced by timeline change, since they’d still be within the bounds of time

- BATFAM!! (I was gonna say that it was surprising no one changed things to keep them from being vigilantes, but that could be because they have secret identities and none of the LoD knows who they are) (Also are you going to include Oracle? You might be able to tie her into Ray’s character arc, since she’s a superhero who not only doesn’t have powers, but is physically disabled.)

- How are you showing the spear going “fuck this“?

- Wait is the implication that pre-doomworld didn’t have Batman or was pre-Batman? Because the gameshow ep mentioned him in one of the trials

- I’m not sure about Sara being the one to throw Mick out. She is a former assassin, and she gave spear pieces to Thawne to save her sister earlier in the season. Seems like she would be among the more lenient. There should at least be some clarification of why. Maybe she’s upset because she was forced back into being an assassin?

Episode 22:

- “proper Time Master captain” ouch

- Sara’s scene with Laurel is lovely

- Why would Ray blow up if he touched the spear?

- “He holds up Cisco’s communication device with the” Finish this sentence

- LEN!!!

- This is a good ending

3 notes · View notes

silent-strategist-blog · 8 years ago

Text

Reversals of Fortune, Part 3

Everyone covered their heads and dove to the ground at the sound of the first cannon volley. The sound of explosions and crumbling buildings was deafening. Alphonse looked out from the tower and saw that the exits to the College had been sealed by infantry, and archers were firing volley after volley of arrows into the courtyard filled with students. Looking up, he could see the purple dome of the arcane oubliette. They intend for us neither to walk out nor teleport away. We’re trapped, and unarmed.

“Alphonse, we must away! We must preserve the College!” Vyrelia called from the doorway.

“Our compatriots are being slaughtered in scores in their attempts to escape. Shall we join them? Perhaps we’d be better served hiding in a storeroom.”

“We will get to the stables and release the gryphons. If enough of them are scrambled, the odds of being shot down will decrease substantially.”

Alphonse nodded to her in answer, but when he ran from the room behind her his heart did not follow. He expected to die here, and while he’d struggled for months with detaching himself from the world, he no longer felt the strong desire to stay alive.

When the two reached the courtyard they found themselves tripping over fallen comrades; student, strategists, and teachers alike were being massacred. Twice Alphonse was nearly struck by arrows, but in a few minutes they’d crossed the besieged courtyard and made it to the stables. Across the way, Alphonse could see that the towers were being targeted and each cannon shot brought them nearer to collapse.

“Time to fly, Alphonse! Get on!” Vyrelia called.

He ran to her gryphon and climbed on. Several other students had followed them in and were mounting up as well. When finally they were all prepared they charged from the stable doors en masse. It is an impressive sight Alphonse thought. He was a bit surprised at himself for thinking such an odd thing while almost certainly flying to his death. This is our final flight. The War College of Boralus dies this night.

For many, it was. The archers quickly noticed what was happening and concerted their efforts to take down as many gryphons and their riders as they could, and soon the air around him was full of arrows. All around him, his fellows and their mounts fell back to the earth.

He heard the hum of an arrow near him, like some enraged hornet, and saw a blur as it shot no more than an inch past his head, and found its target hard. The Headmistress must have died instantly, because she made not a sound, her grip on the reins loosened, and she fell backward into Alphonse almost knocking him from the beast’s back. He grabbed desperately for the reins and managed to catch them, and as he dangled from the side he looked down at his Teacher, watching her fall.

Still the arrows were coming after him, and hanging as he was from one side had caused the gryphon to begin spiraling downward. He had to right himself mid-fall and spur the beast upward again, spending precious seconds in the hail of arrows. His odds of survival were quickly decreasing, and it seemed each vicious missile inched closer and closer to him.

His gryphon was shot right as they breached the oubliette. Alphonse felt the energies of the ley lines return to him just as he felt the gryphon beginning its final descent. He jumped from the beast’s back, held his staff out in front of him, and teleported himself to splash down in the bay of Boralus, several miles away.

Alphonse stood on the deck of the cruiser Wavecrester. He was almost never needed above deck, spent most of his time in his quarters staring at his empty books and meditating, but he still enjoyed coming up to feel the breeze and smell the salty air and watch the horizon. He’d received news from Kul’Tiras from contacts within the Marines. The Monetarists and Legalists had eradicated the Strategists of the War College, and presumably none had escaped. What set of circumstances led to such an unnecessary waste of life? What cause could the Monetarists have had for putting us all to the sword? He didn’t know anything about the situation, certainly not enough to divine the root causes, and so he felt there was no use dwelling on it. Detach yourself. Detach. The College is gone, and you died that night. Do your duty here, now. He chanted it like a mantra Detach. Detach. Detach. Chanted until the word lost all meaning in his mind. No brilliant insight came to him, and so he left to go and stare at his books.

He picked up “Way of the General” and stared at it absently. When he opened it, for a split second, it showed him a picture of Vyrelia and many others assembled around a table. He scarcely had time to process the image before it vanished. His eyes widened.

“It was my daughter and her faction. They saw that the Monetarists were recentering the country’s wealth on themselves and their private armies, and the Legalists were decentralizing power. But they could not think as deeply as they saw, and their solution to the issue was fatal. They sabotaged the relationship between the King and the Legalists, and thought somehow that such a plan would close the door on the issue forever. When the King was killed, the Legalists and Monetarists seized on the moment and the ascendancy of a notably weaker-willed King to take their revenge without consequence.”

Alphonse could not see the blind old man, but he could hear his voice clearly.

“I suppose if the Strategists could not foresee that their actions were leading to their own demise, then perhaps it is for the best that such individuals were not trusted to advise other institutions,” Alphonse muttered.

“Ha! Just so. Well said, Headmaster. It is important for you to see in this way. You’ve been letting the memories of that night and your remorse weigh your heart down for too long. The past serves only one purpose: it tells us what may come to pass in similar situations, or if we behave in similar ways, as things which have happened before. It is a history book to read, not a life you can return to and live in. Stop wasting your time trying. Detach yourself from those desires.”

“I think that’s easier said than done, Master Wallcroft, but I am trying.”

“You may call me ‘Teacher’, Headmaster.”

“Very well. How are you speaking to me, Teacher?” he asked, quizzical but not caring to look around again for the source of the voice.

“It’s a good question, but I haven’t got an answer for you. Meditate on the books. See past the most immediate truth and most immediate solutions. Think abstractly.”

Ten years passed before Alphonse was discharged. For his significant contributions to various campaigns around the globe his discharge was called ‘honorable’, but it was clear he was dismissed because of his alcoholism and his recklessness with his life and the lives of his comrades. Even though a missive arrived for him inviting him back into the service when the Legion launched its assault, Alphonse was unconcerned and elected to stay in his new home. Every day he walked from his rented room to the library in Stormwind Keep or the Mage’s Tower. At lunchtime he’d head to a tavern, drink an unseemly amount of wine, and then go back to his aimless studies. When the sun had set he would travel to the Cathedral Square and sit down, meditate on his textbooks, and watch the crowds.

His boredom with existence was suddenly interrupted one day with the sound of a sharp grunt of pain and sudden exclamations near him. He looked up and beheld an armored man who’d shoved a dagger into his side. He knew this one. The man had introduced himself to Alphonse the night before as the Highlord of the Argent Crusade. Apparently now the paladin was exhausted with life. Somehow, I sympathize with the fellow. But this is a foolish way to go about it. He directed his curious gaze to the women fretting over him. One among them, a young girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty or so years old, scrambled to heal him. In answer, the knight told her to go to Hearthglen and join his Order.

Surprisingly, the antic (which the Highlord called a ‘test’) seemed to have the desired effect on the young woman. Alphonse looked at her quizzically as she stood and walked near him. She spoke with him briefly, asked if he would come along. He insisted he was only a scholar and had no place in a military order. She gave him a look that told him she remained unconvinced.

“If the rest are anything like he is, you’re going to have your work cut out for you,” he warned in a sarcastic voice.

The priestess answered, but even as Alphonse squinted to focus on her words, he couldn’t hear what she was saying. He could only see her polite smile and a few nods of her head. Instead he heard his Teacher’s voice echoing in his head: “You mistake sarcasm and wit with enigmatic thought. You’ve mistaken disconnection from the world with suicidal behavior. And you’re mistaking your distaste for the Highlord’s behavior for interest in following them north. It’s time you pick yourself up and walk a new path. You’re so close. So close.”

Alphonse had to shake his head to clear the echoes from his mind, then realized it must have looked like he was shaking his head at her (probably) affirmative answer.

“Well… Travel safely, Priestess of the Argent Crusade.”

She answered him, but Davrin Wallcroft seemed intent on deafening Alphonse with his cackling and vague advice.

“In time you’ll follow her north. When you do, seize the opportunity to rebuild yourself anew.”

“Must I drink to silence you?” Alphonse grumbled, trying to do so under his breath so as not to look like an insane man. He rose and retired to his room early.

#tales #backstory

2 notes · View notes

thelordismytreasure · 6 years ago

Text

3 Experiments performed; 1) March ’65 - March ’81, 2) 4th quarter of 2009, 3) 2/17/’15 - 7/5/’15 (as related in the following letter to Kay Stelter of Die Zeit newspaper. Results: 1) successfully predicted results; 2) more timely result than predicted; 3) the last did not produce the predicted result.

March 4, 2015 Herr Kay Stelter Leiter Kultur- und Politikveranstaltungen Zeitverlag Gerd Bucerius GmbH & KG Buceriusstrasse, Eingang Speersort 1 20095 Hamburg Deutschland/Germany

Dear Kay, I’d like to alert you to my investigation of the evidence that I am endowed by my Creator with certain inalienable rights, among them, Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. I began my investigation in the early days of March, 1965, when I offered my first experimental hypothesis along the aforementioned lines to the President of the United States, LBJ, in a letter. In it, I informed the president that I had agreed to provide the service which both the federal government of the United States and the state of Minnesota had solicited of me through the teachers these two groups compelled me to attend. Their instructors had asked me to get a college (hochschul) degree in a field other than in music or drama, suggested to me as the ONLY way by which I could earn enough money, through subsequent employment in the field of that area, to pursue a career as a singer or actor. I informed the president that I owned my time and had replied to my teacher, Mr. Huberty, in agreeing to provide the service he requested of me, (presumably on behalf of the government that compelled my attendance to him,) that I would require a leading role in a major motion picture prior to delivering any further service, as an employee, in the type of field of training that was being suggested to me and which I was agreeing to study. My experimental hypothesis, then, was to suggest that it would be evident that Our Creator endowed my right to liberty from the abuse thereof by Our Government under the terms of both the federally-mandated Selective Service Act of 1964, which had the effect of compelling me to attain admission to college subsequent to high school graduation by posing military service as a draftee into the Vietnam Conflict as an alternative, and the terms of the state of Minnesota’s Compulsory School Attendance Act, which posed jail for my parents as a consequence of their failure to cooperate with the state by sending me to school, IF, (as a consequence of the government’s failure to pay for the Service it had solicited of me through my teacher, the Service I had, just then, agreed to deliver in order to gain the MONEY suggested to reward my Service by my teacher, the Service I expected that I would be able to deliver to the government and will have, by my twenty sixth year, delivered to the Government through my graduation from college in a field other than in music or drama,) I FAILED TO MAKE A PROFESSIONAL DEBUT AS AN ACTOR OR SINGER, AND IF, AT THIS FUTURE DATE, (about 1981,) THE PRESIDENT SUFFERED AN INJURY CORRESPONDING TO THE INJURY IT WAS CAUSING ME THROUGH ITS VIOLATION OF MY GOD-GIVEN RIGHT TO LIBERTY, HERETOFORE DESCRIBED! My prediction was born out when John Hinkley, Jr. shot President Reagan in March of 1981. My second experimental hypothesis exploring for evidence that Our Creator endows me with an inalienable right to liberty from the abuse, thereof, by Our Government, predicted a major loss to the government IF my case was removed from criminal court to probate court upon the day of such an order by a judge of Hennepin County District 4 Court. I informed half a dozen local “news providers” of my hypothesis in hand-written letters sent from the Hennepin County Adult Detention Center, My prediction was not born out when the anticipated order was made, however the Fort Hood, TX Massacre of 2009 occurred the day before the potentiating event of my hypothesis happened. My third experimental hypothesis along these lines was contained in a statement I authored and which was appended to my attorney’s petition to the Anoka County District 10 Court requesting a Review of the Revocation my Provisional Discharge from Commitment. Here follows that statement: “Tuesday, Feb 17th. O8-ICU, HCMC, 701 Park Ave S, Mpls 55415 For the Judge of Anoka County District 10 Court, et al. This is the statement of Karl Leonard Meyer supporting my request for the review of the revocation of the provisional discharge issued by HCMC of myself from civil commitment. I disregard the provisions and their requirement that I report to HCMC’s “Compliance Center” in view of the fact that my right to liberty is defended by Our Heavenly Father in a self-evident fashion, information I have taken pains to develop and disseminate since I first sought to inform this question from March of 1965. Our Creator, not only endows my right to liberty from its abuse by our government under the terms of Minnesta’s {sic} Compulsory School Attendance Act, from its abuse by the members of the American Psychiatric Association here at H.C.M.C. protested by myself and six other champions of justice, (collectively we term ourselves ‘the Magnificent 7 Petitioners’ in our petition to the Minnesota Office of Health Facility Complaints,) and from its abuse by every member country of the United Nations lending its voice to the U.N. Declaration of Children’s Rights, which in signing, agrees to violate a child’s right to liberty and the pursuit of happiness by instituting her education by means of force, Our Creator endows Our Right to Liberty from its abuse by the monied elite which have the means to win election by virtue of their popular support as expressed by their campaign war chests and the tally of votes in their favor at the polls! ‘By what evidence can we believe this to be true?,’ you may ask. As a scientist researching questions of Justice and Natural Law, I offer the following experimental hypothesis: Should the court violate my right to liberty by allowing my detractors to return me to captivity for violating the conditions they determined to require from me under the terms of my Provisional Discharge, it will be evident that Our Creator endows my right to liberty from this abuse if the Chief Executive Officer of the state of Minnesota, Governor Mark Dayton, is observed to die within the term of my captivity under the Order for my commitment, that is, by July 5, 2015. Shall we do some science? Sincerely yours, Jessica Joan Elise, a.k.a. Karl Leonard Meyer” Now that I have familiarized you with the history of my investigation of a Divine Source of Justice Protecting me from My Government, I’d like to advise you that, tomorrow at 9 a.m. Central Time, I will be examined by Jessica Miles who will report to the Anoka County District 10 Court her opinion as to whether I have a mental illness and whether, due to that illness I pose a danger to myself or others. Hers will be the second opinion offered to the court pertaining to its consideration of a .17 motion for the dismissal of my civil commitment by the court offered by my attorney, Ron Greenley. The opinion of the first examiner, that of James Gilbertson, did not favor me. Court will convene sat 10:30 a.m. to consider both the respondent’s motion for dismissal of my commitment and the Petitioner’s request for the Court’s Authority to forcibly impose treatment upon me, towit, a Jarvis Petition. At this time, I will not offer an experimental hypothesis suggesting what evidence may reveal the Divine endowment of my Right to Liberty from its further abuse by the court in the event that it rules against my motion for dismissal of commitment and/or for the Jarvis Petition of HCMC. I invite you to take note of the court’s action pertaining to my liberty, tomorrow, or as soon as it may rule in the aforementioned matters, and to see whether, in your opinion, any event occurs that may indicate Our Creator’s endowment of my right to liberty from the abuse, thereof, by the Anoka County District 10 Court and its advisors, officers and co-conspirators. Thank you for your patience and kind consideration, Kay, of this, my advice and invitation to you.

Sincerely yours,

Karl Leonard Meyer, (having recently filed in Anoka County District 10 Civil Court for a name change to Jessica Joan Elise.)

#seeking evidence of god

0 notes

irinache · 8 years ago

Text

Jean Genet

was a French novelist, playwright, poet, essayist, and political activist

Jean Genet (French: [ʒɑ̃ ʒənɛ]; 19 December 1910 – 15 April 1986) was a French novelist, playwright, poet, essayist, and political activist. Early in his life he was a vagabond and petty criminal, but he later took to writing. His major works include the novels The Thief's Journal, and Our Lady of the Flowers, and the plays The Balcony, The Maids and The Screens.[1]

Biography

Early life

Genet's mother was a prostitute<Genet's Biography> who raised him for the first seven months of his life before putting him up for adoption. Thereafter Genet was raised in the provincial town of Alligny-en-Morvan, in the Nièvre department of central France. His foster family was headed by a carpenter and, according to Edmund White's biography, was loving and attentive. While he received excellent grades in school, his childhood involved a series of attempts at running away and incidents of petty theft.

After the death of his foster mother, Genet was placed with an elderly couple but remained with them less than two years. According to the wife, "he was going out nights and also seemed to be wearing makeup." On one occasion he squandered a considerable sum of money, which they had entrusted him for delivery elsewhere, on a visit to a local fair.

Detention and military service

For this and other misdemeanors, including repeated acts of vagrancy, he was sent at the age of 15 to Mettray Penal Colony where he was detained between 2 September 1926 and 1 March 1929. In The Miracle of the Rose (1946), he gives an account of this period of detention, which ended at the age of 18 when he joined the Foreign Legion. He was eventually given a dishonorable discharge on grounds of indecency (having been caught engaged in a homosexual act) and spent a period as a vagabond, petty thief and prostitute across Europe—experiences he recounts in The Thief's Journal (1949).

Criminal career, prison, and prison writings

After returning to Paris, France in 1937, Genet was in and out of prison through a series of arrests for theft, use of false papers, vagabondage, lewd acts, and other offenses. In prison, Genet wrote his first poem, "Le condamné à mort", which he had printed at his own cost, and the novel Our Lady of the Flowers (1944).

In Paris, Genet sought out and introduced himself to Jean Cocteau, who was impressed by his writing. Cocteau used his contacts to get Genet's novel published, and in 1949, when Genet was threatened with a life sentence after ten convictions, Cocteau and other prominent figures, including Jean-Paul Sartre and Pablo Picasso, successfully petitioned the French President to have the sentence set aside. Genet would never return to prison.

Writing and activism

By 1949, Genet had completed five novels, three plays, and numerous poems, many controversial for their explicit and often deliberately provocative portrayal of homosexuality and criminality. Sartre wrote a long analysis of Genet's existential development (from vagrant to writer), entitled Saint Genet (1952), which was anonymously published as the first volume of Genet's complete works. Genet was strongly affected by Sartre's analysis and did not write for the next five years.

Between 1955 and 1961, Genet wrote three more plays as well as an essay called "What Remains of a Rembrandt Torn into Four Equal Pieces and Flushed Down the Toilet", on which hinged Jacques Derrida's analysis of Genet in his seminal work Glas. During this time, Genet became emotionally attached to Abdallah Bentaga, a tightrope walker. However, following a number of accidents and his suicide in 1964, Genet entered a period of depression, and even attempted suicide himself. [2]

From the late 1960s, starting with an homage to Daniel Cohn-Bendit after the events of May 1968, Genet became politically active. He participated in demonstrations drawing attention to the living conditions of immigrants in France. In 1970, the Black Panthers invited him to the USA, where he stayed for three months giving lectures, attended the trial of their leader, Huey Newton, and published articles in their journals. Later the same year he spent six months in Palestinian refugee camps, secretly meeting Yasser Arafat near Amman. Profoundly moved by his experiences in the USA and Jordan, Genet wrote a final lengthy memoir about his experiences, Prisoner of Love, which would be published posthumously.

Genet also supported Angela Davis and George Jackson, as well as Michel Foucault and Daniel Defert's Prison Information Group. He worked with Foucault and Sartre to protest police brutality against Algerians in Paris, a problem persisting since the Algerian War of Independence, when beaten bodies were to be found floating in the Seine. Genet expresses his solidarity with the Red Army Faction (RAF) of Andreas Baader and Ulrike Meinhof, in the article "Violence et brutalité", published in Le Monde, 1977.

In September 1982, Genet was in Beirut when the massacres took place in the Palestinian camps of Sabra and Shatila. In response, Genet published "Quatre heures à Chatila" ("Four Hours in Shatila"), an account of his visit to Shatila after the event. In one of his rare public appearances during the later period of his life, at the invitation of Austrian philosopher Hans Köchler, he read from his work during the inauguration of an exhibition on the massacre of Sabra and Shatila organized by the International Progress Organization in Vienna, Austria, on 19 December 1983.[3]

Popular culture appearances

By proxy, Jean Genet even managed to make an unlikely appearance in the pop charts when in 1972, David Bowie released his popular hit single "The Jean Genie". In his book Moonage Daydream (2005), Bowie confirmed that the title "...was a clumsy pun upon Jean Genet".[4] A later promo video combines a version of the song with a fast edit of Genet's 1950 movie Un Chant d'Amour (1950).

Death

Genet developed throat cancer and was found dead on 15 April 1986, in a hotel room in Paris. Genet may have fallen on the floor and fatally hit his head. He is buried in the Spanish Cemetery in Larache, Morocco.[citation needed]

Genet's works

Novels and autobiography

Throughout his five early novels, Genet works to subvert the traditional set of moral values of his assumed readership. He celebrates a beauty in evil, emphasizes his singularity, raises violent criminals to icons, and enjoys the specificity of gay gesture and coding and the depiction of scenes of betrayal. Our Lady of the Flowers (Notre Dame des Fleurs 1943) is a journey through the prison underworld, featuring a fictionalized alter-ego by the name of Divine, usually referred to in the feminine, at the center of a circle of tantes ("aunties" or "queens") with colorful sobriquets such as Mimosa I, Mimosa II, First Communion and the Queen of Rumania. The two auto-fictional novels, The Miracle of the Rose (Miracle de la rose 1946) and The Thief's Journal (Journal du voleur 1949), describe Genet's time in Mettray Penal Colony and his experiences as a vagabond and prostitute across Europe. Querelle de Brest (1947) is set in the midst of the port town of Brest, where sailors and the sea are associated with murder; and Funeral Rites (1949) is a story of love and betrayal across political divides, written this time for the narrator's lover, Jean Decarnin, killed by the Germans in WWII.

Prisoner of Love, published in 1986, after Genet's death, is a memoir of his encounters with Palestinian fighters and Black Panthers; it has, therefore, a more documentary tone than his fiction.

Art criticism

Genet wrote an essay on the work of the Swiss sculptor and artist Alberto Giacometti entitled L'Atelier d'Alberto Giacometti. It was highly praised by such major artists as Giacometti himself and Picasso. Genet wrote in an informal style, incorporating excerpts of conversations between himself and Giacometti. Genet's own biographer, Edmund White, said that, rather than write in the style of an art historian, Genet "invented a whole new language for discussing" Giacometti, proposing "that the statues of Giacometti should be offered to the dead, and that they should be buried."[5]

Plays

Genet's plays present highly stylized depictions of ritualistic struggles between outcasts of various kinds and their oppressors.[6] Social identities are parodied and shown to involve complex layering through manipulation of the dramatic fiction and its inherent potential for theatricality and role-play; maids imitate one another and their mistress in The Maids (1947); or the clients of a brothel simulate roles of political power before, in a dramatic reversal, actually becoming those figures, all surrounded by mirrors that both reflect and conceal, in The Balcony (1957). Most strikingly, Genet offers a critical dramatisation of what Aimé Césaire called negritude in The Blacks (1959), presenting a violent assertion of Black identity and anti-white virulence framed in terms of mask-wearing and roles adopted and discarded. His most overtly political play is The Screens (1964), an epic account of the Algerian War of Independence. He also wrote another full-length drama, Splendid's, in 1948 and a one-act play, Her (Elle), in 1955, though neither was published or produced during Genet's lifetime.

The Blacks was, after The Balcony, the second of Genet's plays to be staged in New York. The production was the longest running Off-Broadway non-musical of the decade. Originally premiered in Paris in 1959, this 1961 New York production ran for 1,408 performances. The original cast featured James Earl Jones, Roscoe Lee Browne, Louis Gossett, Jr., Cicely Tyson, Godfrey Cambridge, Maya Angelou and Charles Gordone.

Film[

In 1950, Genet directed Un Chant d'Amour, a 26-minute black-and-white film depicting the fantasies of a gay male prisoner and his prison warden.

Genet's work has also been adapted for film and produced by other filmmakers. In 1982, Rainer Werner Fassbinder released Querelle, his final film, which was based on Querelle of Brest. It starred Brad Davis, Jeanne Moreau and Franco Nero. Tony Richardson directed a film, Mademoiselle, which was based on a short story by Genet. It starred Jeanne Moreau with the screenplay written by Marguerite Duras. Todd Haynes' Poison was also based on the writings of Genet.

Several of Genet's plays were adapted into films. The Balcony (1963), directed by Joseph Strick, starred Shelley Winters as Madame Irma, Peter Falk, Lee Grant and Leonard Nimoy. The Maids was filmed in 1974 and starred Glenda Jackson, Susannah York and Vivien Merchant. Italian director Salvatore Samperi in 1986 directed another adaptation for film of the same play, La Bonne (Eng.Corruption), starring Florence Guerin and Katrine Michelsen.

List of works

Novels and autobiography[

Entries show: English-language translation of title (French-language title) [year written] / [year first published]

Our Lady of the Flowers (Notre Dame des Fleurs) 1942/1943

The Miracle of the Rose (Miracle de la Rose) 1946/1951

Funeral Rites (Pompes Funèbres) 1947/1953

Querelle of Brest (Querelle de Brest) 1947/1953

The Thief's Journal (Journal du voleur) 1949/1949

Prisoner of Love (Un Captif Amoureux) 1986/1986

Drama

Entries show: English-language translation of title (French-language title) [year written] / [year first published] / [year first performed]

′adame Miroir (ballet) (1944). In Fragments et autres textes, 1990 (Fragments of the Artwork, 2003)

Deathwatch (Haute surveillance) 1944/1949/1949

The Maids (Les Bonnes) 1946/1947/1947

Splendid's 1948/1993/

The Balcony (Le Balcon) 1955/1956/1957. Complementary texts "How to Perform The Balcony" and "Note" published in 1962.

The Blacks (Les Nègres) 1955/1958/1959 (preface first published in Theatre Complet, Gallimard, 2002)

Her (Elle) 1955/1989

The Screens (Les Paravents) 1956-61/1961/1964

Le Bagne [French edition only] (1994)[7]

Cinema

Un Chant d'Amour (1950)

Les Rêves interdits, ou L'autre versant du rêve (Forbidden Dreams or The Other Side of Dreams) (1952). Used as a base for the script of Tony Richardson's film Mademoiselle, made in 1966.

Le Bagne (The Penal Colony). Written in the 1950s. Excerpt published in The Selected Writings of Jean Genet, The Ecco Press (1993).

La Nuit venue/Le Bleu de L'oeil (The Night Has Come/The Blue of the Eye) (1976–78). Excepts published in Les Nègres au port de la lune, Paris: Editions de la Différence (1988), and in The Cinema of Jean Genet, BFI Publishing (1991).

"Le Langage de la muraille: cent ans jour après jour" (The Language of the Walls: One Hundred Years Day after Day) (1970s). Unpublished.

Poetry

Collected in

Œuvres complètes

(French) and

Treasures of the Night: Collected Poems by Jean Genet

(English)

"The Man Sentenced to Death" ("Le Condamné à Mort") (written in 1942, first published in 1945)

"Funeral March" ("Marche Funebre") (1945)

"The Galley" ("La Galere") (1945)

"A Song of Love" ("Un Chant d'Amour") (1946)

"The Fisherman of the Suquet" ("Le Pecheur du Suquet") (1948)

"The Parade" ("La Parade")(1948)

Other

"Poèmes Retrouvés". First published in Le condamné à mort et autres poèmes suivi de Le funambule, Gallimard

Spitzer, Mark, trans. 2010. The Genet Translations: Poetry and Posthumous Plays. Polemic Press. See www.sptzr.net/genet_translations.htm

Note

Two of Genet's poems, "The Man Sentenced to Death" and "The Fisherman of the Suquet" were adapted, respectively, as "The Man Condemned to Death" and "The Thief and the Night" and set to music for the album Feasting with Panthers, released in 2011 by Marc Almond and Michael Cashmore. Both poems were adapted and translated by Jeremy Reed.

Essays on art[

edit

]Collected in

Fragments et autres textes, 1990

(

Fragments of the Artwork

, 2003)

"Jean Cocteau", Bruxelles: Empreintes, 1950)

"Fragments"

"The Studio of Alberto Giacometti" ("L'Atelier d'Alberto Giacomett") (1957).

"The Tightrope Walker" ("Le Funambule").

"Rembrandt's Secret" ("Le Secret de Rembrandt") (1958). First published in L'Express, September 1958.

"What Remains of a Rembrandt Torn Into Little Squares All the Same Size and Shot Down the Toilet" ("Ce qui est resté d'un Rembrandt déchiré en petits carrés"). First published in Tel Quel, April 1967.

"That Strange Word..." ("L'etrange Mot D'.").

Essays on politics[

edit

]Collected in

L'Ennemi déclaré: textes et entretiens

(1991) –

The Declared Enemy

(2004)

1960s

"Interview with Madeleine Gobeil for Playboy", April 1964, pp. 45–55.

"Lenin's Mistresses" ("Les maîtresses de Lénine"), in Le Nouvel Observateur, n° 185, 30 May 1968.

"The members of the Assembly" ("Les membres de l’Assemblée nationale"), in Esquire, n° 70, November 1968.

"A Salute to a Hundred Thousand Stars" ("Un salut aux cent milles étoiles"), in Evergreen Review, December 1968.

"The Shepherds of Disorder" ("Les Pâtres du désordre"), in Pas à Pas, March 1969, pp. vi–vii.

1970s

"Yet Another Effort, Frenchman!" ("Français encore un effort"), in L’Idiot international, n° 4, 1970, p. 44.

"It seems Indecent for Me to Speak of Myself" ("Il me paraît indécent de parler de moi", Conference, Cambridge, 10 March 1970.

"Letter to American Intellectuals" ("Lettres aux intellectuels américains"), talk given at the University of Connecticut, 18 March 1970. first published as "Bobby Seale, the Black Panthers and Us White People", in Black Panther Newspaper, 28 March 1970.

Introduction, Preface to George Jackson's book, Soledad Brother, World Entertainers, New York, 1970.

May Day Speech, speech at New Haven, 1 mai 1970. San Francisco: City Light Books. Excerpts published as "J'Accuse" in Jeune Afrique, November 1970, and Les Nègres au port de la lune, Paris: Editions de la Différence, 1988.

"Jean Genet chez les Panthères noires", interview with Michèle Manceau, in Le Nouvel Observateur, n° 289, 25 May 1970.

"Angela and Her Brothers" ("Angela et ses frères"), in Le Nouvel Observateur, n° 303, 31 août 1970.

"Angela Davis is in your Clutches" ("Angela Davis est entre vos pattes"), text read 7 October 1970, broadcast on TV in the program L’Invité, 8 November 1970.

"Pour Georges Jackson", manifesto sent to French artists and intellectuals, July 1971.

"After the Assassination" ("Après l’assassinat"), written in 1971, published for the first time in 1991 in L’Ennemi déclaré: textes et entretiens.

"America is Afraid" ("L’Amérique a peur"), in Le Nouvel Observateur, n° 355, 1971. Later published as "The Americans kill off Blacks", in Black Panther Newspaper, 4 September 1971.

"The Palestinians" ("Les Palestiniens"), Commentary accompanying photographs by Bruno Barbey, published in Zoom, n° 4, 1971.

"The Black and the Red", in Black Panther Newspaper, 11 September 1971.

Preface to L’Assassinat de Georges Jackson, published in L’Intolérable, booklet by GIP, Paris, Gallimard, 10 November 1971.

"Meeting the Guaraní" ("Faites connaissance avec les Guaranis"), in Le Démocrate véronais, 2 juin 1972.

"On Two or Three books No One Has Ever Talked About" ("Sur deux ou trois livres dont personne n'a jamais parlé"), text read on 2 May 1974, for a radio program on France Culture. Published in L'Humanité as "Jean Genet et la condition des immigrés", 3 May 1974.

"When 'the worst is certain'" ("Quand 'le pire est toujours sûr'"), written in 1974, published for the first time in 1991 in L'Ennemi déclaré: textes et entretiens.

"Dying Under Giscard d'Estaing" ("Mourir sous Giscard d'Estaing"), in L'Humanité, 13 May 1974.

"And Why Not a Fool in Suspenders?" ("Et pourquoi pas la sottise en bretelle?"), in L'Humanité, 25 May 1974.

"The Women of Jebel Hussein" ("Les Femmes de Djebel Hussein"), in Le Monde diplomatique, 1 July 1974.

Interview with Hubert Fichte for Die Zeit, n° 8 February 13, 1976.

"The Tenacity of American Blacks" ("La Ténacité des Noirs américains"), in L'Humanité, 16 April 1977.

"Chartres Cathedral" ("Cathédrale de Chartres, vue cavalière"), in L'Humanité, 30 June 1977.

"Violence and Britality" ("Violence et brutalité"), in Le Monde, 2 September 1977. Also published as preface to Textes des prisonniers de la Fraction Armée rouge et dernières lettres d'Ulrike Meinhof, Maspero, Cahiers libres, Paris, 1977.

"Near Ajloun" ("Près d'Ajloun") in Per un Palestine, in a collection of writing in memory of Wael Zouateir, Mazzota, Milan, 1979.

"Interview with Tahar Ben Jelloun", Le Monde, November 1979.

1980s

Interview with Antoine Bourseiller (1981) and with Bertrand Poirot-Delpech (1982), distributed as a videocassetts in the series Témoin. Extracts published in Le Monde (1982) and Le Nouvel Observateur (1986).

"Four Hours in Shatila" ("Quatre heures à Chatila"), in Revue d'études palestiniennes, 1 January 1983.

Registration No. 1155 (N° Matricule 1155), text written for the catalogue of the exhibition La Rupture, Le Creusot, 1 March 1983.

Interview with Rudiger Wischenbart and Layla Shahid Barrada for Austrian Radio and the German daily Die Zeit. Published as "Une rencontre avec Jean Genet" in Revue d'études palestiniennes, Autome 1985.

Interview with Nigel Williams for BBC, 12 November 1985.

"The Brothers Karamazov" ("Les Frères Karamazov"), in La Nouvelle Revue Française, October 1986.

Other collected essays

"The Criminal Child" ("L'Enfant criminel"). Written in 1949, this text was commissioned by RTF (French radio) but was not broadcast due to its controversial nature. It was published in a limited edition in 1949 and later integrated into Volume 5 of Oeuvres Completes.

Uncollected

"What I like about the English is that They Are such Liars…", in Sunday Times, 1963, p. 11.

"Jean Genet chez les Panthères noires", interview with F.-M. Banier, in Le Monde, 23 October 1970.

"Un appel de M. Jean Genet en faveur des Noirs américains", in Le Monde, 15 October 1970.

"Jean Genet témoigne pour les Soledad Brothers", in La Nouvelle Critique, June 1971.

"The Palestinians" (Les Palestiniens), first published as "Shoun Palestine", Beyrouth, 1973. First English version published in Journal of Palestine Studies (Autumn, 1973). First French version ("Genet à Chatila") published by Actes Sud, Arles, 1994.

"Un héros littéraire: le défunt volubile", in La Nouvelle Critique, juin-juillet 1974 and Europe-Revue littéraire Mensuelle, Numéro spécial Jean Genet, n° 808–809 (1996).

"Entretien avec Angela Davis", in L’Unité, 23 mai 1975.

"Des esprits moins charitables que le mien pourraient croire déceler une piètre opération politique", in L’Humanité, 13 août 1975.

"L’art est le refuge", in Les Nègres au Port de la Lune, Paris: Editions de la Différence, 1988, pp. 99–103.

"Sainte Hosmose", in Magazine littéraire, Numéro spécial Jean Genet (n° 313), September 1993.

"Conférence de Stockholm", in L’Infini, n° 51 (1995).

"La trahison est une aventure spirituelle", in Le Monde, 12 July 1996, p. IV.

"Ouverture-éclair sur l´Amérique", in Europe-Revue littéraire Mensuelle, Numéro spécial Jean Genet, n° 808–809 (1996).

"Réponse à un questionnaire", in Europe-Revue littéraire Mensuelle, Numéro spécial Jean Genet, n° 808–809 (1996).

Correspondence[

edit

]Collected in volume

Lettre à Léonor Fini [Jean Genet's letter, 8 illustrations by Leonor Fini] (1950). Also collected in Fragments et autres textes, 1990 (Fragments of the Artwork, 2003)

Letters to Roger Blin ("Lettres à Roger Blin", 1966)

Lettres à Olga et Marc Barbezat (1988)

Chère Madame, 6 Brife aus Brünn [French and German bilingual edition] (1988). Excerpts reprinted in Genet, by Edmund White.

Lettres au petit Franz (2000)

Lettres à Ibis (2010)

Collected in

Théâtre Complet

(Editions Gallimard, 2002)

"Lettre a Jean-Jacques Pauvert", first published as preface to 1954 edition of Les Bonnes. Also in 'Fragments et autres textes, 1990 (Fragments of the Artwork, 2003)

"Lettres à Jean-Louis Barrault"

"Lettres à Roger Blin"

"Lettres à Antoine Bourseiller". In Du théâtre no1, July 1993

"Lettres à Bernard Frechtman"

"Lettres à Patrice Chéreau"

Collected in

Portrait d'Un Marginal Exemplaire

"Une lettre de Jean Genet" (to Jacques Derrida), in Les Lettres Françaises, 29 March 1972

"Lettre à Maurice Toesca", in Cinq Ans de patience, Emile Paul Editeur, 1975.

"Lettre au professeur Abdelkebir Khatibi", published in Figures de l'etranger, by Abdelkebir Khatibi, 1987.

"Letter à André Gide", in Essai de Chronologie 1910–1944 by A.Dichy and B.Fouche (1988)

"Letter to Sartre", in Genet (by Edmund White) (1993)

"Lettre à Laurent Boyer", in La Nouvelle Revue Francaise, 1996

"Brouillon de lettre a Vincent Auriel" (first published in Portrait d'Un Marginal Exemplaire

Uncollected

"To a Would Be Producer", in Tulane Drama Review, n° 7, 1963, p. 80–81.

"Lettres à Roger Blin" and "Lettre a Jean-Kouis Barrault et Billets aux comediens, in La Bataille des Paravents, IMEC Editions, 1966

"Chere Ensemble", published in Les nègres au port de la lune, Paris : Editions de la Différence, 1988.

"Je ne peux pas le dire", letter to Bernard Frechtman (1960), excerpts published in Libération, 7 April 1988.

"Letter to Java, Letter to Allen Ginsberg", in Genet (by Edmund White) (1993)

"Lettre à Carole", in L'Infini, n° 51 (1995)

"Lettre à Costas Taktsis", published in Europe-Revue littéraire Mensuelle, Numéro spécial Jean Genet, n° 808–809 (1996)

See also[edit]

Jack Abbott (author), ex-convict and author, whose works address prison life (among other topics)

Seth Morgan, ex-convict and novelist, whose book addresses prison life and San Francisco's criminal counterculture

#Jean Genet #writer #philosopher #literature #phylosophy #french #the 20th century

0 notes

savage-kult-of-gorthaur · 11 months ago

Text

UNDISPUTED PUNK-METAL GODS IN JAPAN -- THEIR FIRST TIME ON JAPANESE SHORES.

PIC INFO: Resolution at 2740x1808 -- Spotlight on English hardcore punk band DISCHARGE, photographed outside Club Citta in Kawasaki-ku, Kawasaki-shi, Kanagawa-ken, Japan, during the band's "Massacre Divine" tour of said country, c. early 1991. 📸: Masao Nakagami.

Dis nightmare still @$*!#&% continues!!

Sources: www.flickr.com/photos/goro_memo/5363724805 & discogs.

0 notes

wherestridestheworld-girdling · 8 years ago

Text

The Composite Black ch.1

He crackles with such abominable laughter. Emblazoned on his mulish mask of tapered sinew, hate-hewn flesh folds caked with dust and brusque are wide swathes of topological erosion. This is the dermatological attrition of ghouls and goblins, creatures of depravity and denizens of sacrilege, monsters whose skin weathers and bleaches in the divine of the daylight. His garish façade is the embossment from a nightmare, a face that haunted the sculptor’s sleep, ensnared eternal in gothic stone gargoyles or the twisted grimace of an amputated stub adorning a tortured ashen oak. His wrinkles purse like snake pleats, shivering subtly, coiled around his contemptuous orifices, intermittently blustered about by the intake of his olfactory snot-pits and wreathed around a rancid gyre of dental shards. Pan up but avoid the swallowing riptide of his gawk, those arrested by the shifting guise of his lunatic looking-glass eyes are often burnt asunder in smears of soot. They are eyes of caged aggression, of molten wrath, volcano eyes that sear what they see. The color of spent fuel, of cadaverous cinders, broken glass and smoke damage. Encircling this myopia is the crown-of-thorns of his brow, framing his persona like a band of spear-spiked dagger-tooth crags. These are accelerated geologic processes, flexing tectonic plates which know not the placation of a tranquil lull; their beveled furrows exist in a duality of disgust and mockery. Cast-iron rims lipping twin cauldrons, forever bubbling.

This is a hardened, deadened man whose scars shroud his marred body and mind. Each patch of discolored tissue that tattoos him tells tales, mostly violent and cruel. But the companion text is tenfold the volume, bedecking disfigured corpses strung about his travels. Most he left horizontal but some he let vertical, a fate hardly better. Those who walk the world mangled by the bite of his blade speak a bit softer, keep an eye at their backs, wake sweaty in the night. He is the shade which haunts their periphery, cloaking uncertainty in fear and calling out to them from the shadows. Just a winking remembrance causes the heart to race, the pupils to dilate, and the past superimposes the present. A torture wheel of cyclical trauma, perpetual terror of a deathblow half inflicted. His victims are many; they line cemeteries and bar stools, numb and cold to the touch. Almost as if he burned their spirits on the flaming alter of his own vehemence then let them frost over, a sacrifice to savagery, a vulgar display of power.

No matter. “Let the dead rot and the livin’ scorn,” blistering words from his blistered lips, shaky and sun-sick in the dry heat of the early morn.

“I dare say yer yella hide won’t last til’ noon. Those buzzards circlin’ up there won’t waste a horse’s fart before they’re on ya like the flies, pickin your eyes out, digging through your gizzard. I bet even half past 11 you’ll look even more like a dimes worth of dog meat than your ugly mug does now. Matter of fact maybe when your boots stop kickin I oughta cut you down from that tree and drag your sorry carcass through the mud into town so that the strays can each get a good meal from ya. It’ll be the only good thing you ever did for this town.”

Even as he said this, serrating his speech with disdain, the creases of the undertaker’s neck shook with fright. He felt as he had as a little boy throwing rocks at tethered dogs, hoping that in their fury the stake anchoring them wouldn’t be snatched from the dirt. The evil within this man seemed unnatural, impossible. It was foreign to him, this relentless rage, foreign to this tiny town pitted on the outskirts of dusty emptiness. This tiny town, where Main Street is the only street and whose primary riffraff are a few rough tough cattle rustlers, vagrant out-of-towners drawing from the herd come the fat flock of Spring time. Enter this black frothing demon whose snide grin makes the white dressed church ladies sign the cross, a smirk which consumeth like hellfire, and paradise becomes pit. Anubis had seen his share of atrocities, sights which may have maddened one of fragile temperament. He’d been a field medic in the Spanish war. Seen, heard and sometimes felt the splatter of men being shredded into mincemeat, splayed inside out by scalding shards of metal. He’d repressed much of those wretched memories, loosing them on his past future, which even now harass every moment of absent rest. And the days were not long passed when he’d been called on as the chief embalmer to clean up after a few of the Union’s scorched earth campaigns, burying massacred Hopi women and children, of all the vile things, in yellow-earthen mass graves usually after weeks of decay and carrion pick-throughs. He’d even had to put down his only daughter when her body swelled up with gangrene, but the carnage left by this awful man, this brimstone beast, was the brutality of legend. This was the monster before him, the twisted serpent of the apocalypse, Apep, fettered in maat by Osiris’ noose.

Then the shark put away his sawtooth bouquet, pivoting his rope burned neck in the guillotine of the hangman’s hoop, directing his vociferous focus on another individual from the small crowd of the witnesses who’d climbed the hill to watch this dreadful man’s death. The old Indian woman Xmucane met his fiery craters with her own cataracted pupils, a challenge in defiance, adversaries horn-locked on the battlefield of all space and time. Their concentrated beams of perception met and clashed, smoldering with static energy.

The words rose out of him and blew toward their mark like a waft of chemical death, “Have you come to tell my fortune grandmother? I should hope that even a blind ol’ witch like you could see the signs of my fate today. Or maybe you’re just so disoriented and confused you just wandered up here on this hill like the geriatric ol’ hag you are. Too..” his lips began to leak a rotten-colored mucus foam as they flapped and pursed and sneered. Spurts punctuated his rabid barks as the muscles in his whole body contracted in spasms of steaming rage. His carapace turned a furious shade of boiled red. “young to die and too old to screw! I’ve seen moldy cow pies that…” a gruff fit of gravelly coughing seized the doomed man so that any further curses became just choking hoarse gasps. Minutes passed and the hacking only worsened until only a few caustic spasms and the muted gurgling of air being forced through thick fluid remained. Suddenly within the leather of the man, the smoke-blackened corridors of his body flooded with sludge, his air passages became expulsion channels for emergency discharge. Prison-food regurgitation geysered up the tunnel of his throat and waterfalled out of the cave mouth. The gastrointestinal flow sizzled down his jailbird stripes in chunks of grey dribble as eyes, nose and gob spurted like drainage faucets. At last, when the conniption ceased, the muscles holding him ridged loosed limp, letting his weight dangle from the rope collaring him for a moment. Coated in perspiration and exhaustion, all that was left of him was the furnace of his anger and a heaving breath. Air pressure writhed against the pressure of the lariat strangling his airway, lungs bursting in heft.

Xmucane was already halfway down the hill, strutting slowly and steadily, never looking back, never uttering a word; she just continued driving her cane into the dry earth followed up by each hoary shuffle step. This repeated in rhythmic synchronicity as her short precise movements churned the declining distance back to town, through glades and gullies, past rockslides and embankments, hugging the curvature of the trail and moving like the passing minutes. Somewhere, there amongst the bramble, a whisking river resided as an auditory undercurrent, a rivulet which had conveyed sediment from distant mountains for hundreds of thousands of years. This is the sculptor who carved Hangman’s Hill from bare plane. It reached out from within the drape of the trees at a spot perpendicular with the crook in the trail of the advancing ancient seer, Xmucane, greeting her with roaring thunder from the mountains. She continued on past the Road to Xibalba, with her descended her daughter-in-law the waning moon, fading into the light of day.

“In nomine Iesu Christi, Deus et Dominus noster, Immaculatae Virginis intercessione ab ipsis Maria..”

In the Name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord, strengthened by the intercession of the immaculate Virgin Mary..

Back atop Hangman’s Hill, at the seat of the execution of this nameless man, the preceding spectacle of grotesque behaviors attracted like moth to flame the mercy of god’s instrument on earth, the surrogate of Papal presence, the local orthodoxical authority of godliness, the Catholic missionary Ruggieri degli Ubaldini. With the bluff as his sandy pulpit he exercised training he’d received in the seminary as a youth. Vocal muscle memory and gospel rigmarole drilled ad nauseam under the oratorical tutelage of the Head Father at the rocky coastline church of San Miguel. He fondly recalled praying to the Blessed Virgin those many years ago on bent knee, tightly gripping the Bible and rosary his parents had given to him, trembling with righteousness in that stuffy old adobe chapel as chartreuse swells of spray crashed against the rocks. There were times of distant recollection when the word of god resound within his mind like vivid hanging melodic lines of Gregorian monks bounding out of mass halls and cathedrals. But with the melting years his faith had become by jaded by dour funeral processions and exorbitant church politics. He clutched his indented Holy Book in one crinkled hand and the other pressed palm forward, shaking with a bit of the hall-hallowed vindication he’d once felt but mostly just the fear of an excruciating death at the hands of this tenuously bound hellion. He prayed as if blacksmithing a suit of armor.

“Mother of God, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beatis apostolis tuis Petro et Paulo, et omnibus sanctis auctoritate officii nostri potentem..”

Mother of God, of blessed Michael the archangel, of the blessed apostles Peter and Paul and all the saints and powerful in the holy authority of our ministry..

“suscipere fidenter impetus propulsare insidias diabolic..”

we confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of the devil..

A light breeze swept the hillcrest. Misty dew-laden air whisped up in thermal currents as the freshly angled sun warmed the valleys of wildflowers and sod below, cycling moisture. The breeze ruffled multicolored swatches of deciduous leaves stapled onto the fronds and twigs of the circular band of white oaks which surrounded the site of the hanging. Then the breeze tousled the silent crowd, flexing hat brims, swaying ties, brushing skirt tails, flapping pant-legs, bringing dusty tears to dry eyes behind the veil of handkerchiefs. Finally the wind rippled into the ganglion of the scene stirring its focal subject. The man’s limp unconscious body swiveled slightly in the stirrup of the noose strung from the single low-hanging splintered branch of the lone dead tree. However most of his inanimate weight remained planted to the earth, supported by locked knees atop an aged fruit box, its paint flecking. A crystalline snail of spittle oozed from the gape of his mouth and was blown and whipped around by the current around the side of his head, seeping into one of the few remaining haggard tufts of bristle on the back of his desiccated scalp.

“Deus oritur; inimici ejus dispersus est et qui oderunt eum, a facie ejus, secundum impellere fumum..”

God arises; His enemies are scattered and those who hate Him flee before Him. As smoke is driven away..

“ita pulsi sunt; sicut exustio ignis tabescerent, sic animam meam in conspectu Domini. Ecce crucem Dómini..”

So are they driven; as wax melts before the fire, so the wicked perish at the presence of God. Behold the Cross of the Lord..

“fugite inimicorum. Leo de tribu Iuda, radix David, qui vicit. Fiat misericordia tua, Domine, super nos quanta speravimus in te..”

Flee bands of enemies. The Lion of the tribe of Juda, the offspring of David, hath conquered. May thy mercy, Lord, descend upon us as great as our hope in thee..

The diminutive old man paused after that line for a dangling moment, taking a rasped breath and wiping the sweat dripping down his forehead with a cross-embroidered handkerchief produced from within the folds of his black vestments. A few syllables still hung in the air, echoes of Medieval Latin ricocheting off canyon cathedrals, saguaro shrines, stain glass mirage. But the point of omni-ocular convergence remained the captive. The small crowd of tense observers were fixated, captivated by the captive, as if the depth of their focus was his only restraints. It had to be unequivocal, this man’s extinction; if even an iota of irresolute distress remained it would be catastrophic to these quiet people and their small agrestic community. It had to be confirmed, the light leaving his eyes, so they could live once again in their accustomed peace. Ruggieri continued..

“Adjutorium nostrum in nobis, quicumque haec legis, Et spiritus immundi, omnis satanica viribus, omnes invadentes infernali, omnia impium legiones, et coetus sectis..”

We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects..

“In nomine Domini nostri Jesu Christi et eius virtute, ut sit Deus et effugare ab ecclesia et ab animabus ad imaginem et similitudinem Dei, divini agni sanguine redemisti. Serpens callidissime..”

In the Name and by the power of our lord Jesus Christ, may you be snatched away and driven from the church of God and from the souls made to the image and likeness of God and redeemed by the precious blood of the divine lamb. Most cunning serpent..

“YEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS?!! You do well to utter such flattery but this meagre title leaves much to be desired by my parched discrimination. My sapless ear has reached but a fractional portion of its full satiation and demons these days just don’t grovel as they did in those glorious days of old, the Fall anew, when plague shadows of locusts and immortal armies of darkness smote the world under my blood blackened banner. Abbadon? Lucifer? Perhaps Wicked One? Or Deciever? Appolyon is what the Greeks called me or maybe you’re feeling particularly biblical, in that case the classic Hebrew is utter elation. Bleed your tribute and yield your dignity, lay paltry and prostrate before the infamous Beelzbub. Nothing says ‘Prince of Darkness’ like a black winged monster that manipulates buzzing clouds of ravenous flying insects. Although my personal favorite is good ol’ Satan, doesn’t the word just remind you of pagan blood orgies and violent fertility sacrifices cast under occult torchlight? Ssssaaataann. It rolls off the tongue, or hisses off if yours is forked I suppose. Let’s all say it together! Saaataan… Saaaaatan…”

“Decipere humanum genus ultra audeas, Dei Ecclesiam persequi, ac Dei electos excutere et cribrare sicut triticum..”

You shall no more dare to deceive the human race, persecute the Church, torment God's elect and sift them as wheat..

“Imperat tibi Deus altissimus, he, cui in magna tua superbia te similem haberi adhuc præsumis. Imperat tibi Deus Pater..”

The most high God commands you, He with whom, in your great insolence, you still claim to be equal. God the father commands you..

“Imperat tibi Deus Filius. Imperat tibi Deus Spiritus Sanctus. Christus Dei Verbum caro factum, imperat”

God the son commands you. God the holy ghost commands you. Christ, God's word made flesh, commands you..

“Your feeble crusader dogma and moral avarice is fetid muck pilled high by sociopathic old men, deceptively arranged to countervail their own perverted chastity and empathetic ineptitude. The theologic doctrines to which you egregiously prescribe, and to which you presume supremacy are just the bones and bits, carrion detritus, convenient canon leftovers that you have culturally appropriated and reconfigured from semi-legitimate religious heritages into a hypocritical, racist and sexist, anthropocentric cult of personality and fanaticism. The tyranny, genocide and mass subjugation performed by the filthy, bloodstained tentacles of your Holy Catholic Apostolic Church and all its puppet entities and dummy financial institutions is as heinous an act of malign villainy as has ever been committed, and it occurs in the light of day, applauded by boisterous mobs of enraptured subjects. It’s commendable, it really is. Such blood-draining callousness, such wanton barbarism, such murked wickedness. We are brothers you and I, legionnaires of death. Don’t you remember? We cut ourselves out from the same womb. Don’t waste your breathe Padre, let us entwine our barbed fingers, for together we can concoct such exquisite chaos and mouthwatering malcontent.”

“Qui pro salute generis nostri tua invidia perditi, humiliavit semetipsum factus oboediens usque ad mortem..”

He who to save our race outdone through your envy, humbled Himself, becoming obedient even unto death..

“Qui Ecclesiam suam ædificavit supra firmam petram, et portas inferi non praevalebunt adversus eam, cum ea ipse permansurus omnibus diebus usque ad consummationem saeculi..”

He who has built His church on the firm rock and declared that the gates of hell shall not prevail against Her, because He will dwell with Her all days even to the end of the world..

“Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te per Deum vivum, per Deum verum, per Deum sanctum..”

Thus, cursed dragon, and you, diabolical legions, we adjure you by the living God, by the true God, by the holy God..

“Per Deum, qui sic dilexit mundum, ut Filium suum unigenitum daret, ut omnes qui credit in eum, non pereat, sed habeat vitam aeternam..”

By the God who so loved the world that he gave up his only son, that every soul believing in him might not perish but have life everlasting..

“Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum eis; desine Ecclesiæ nocere, et ejus libertati..”

Stop deceiving human creatures and pouring out to them the poison of eternal damnation; stop harming the church and hindering her liberty..

“Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis..”

Be gone, Satan, inventor and master of all deceit, enemy of man's salvation..

Explosively vaulted across the physical and virtuous distance between these two men was a putrid projectile, an expulsion of contempt, a gust its coconspirator. The coagulated salivary squirt was a conglomerate of gastric ebullition, nostril slop, fermented dental scum and various caramel colored pusses and oozes from infected teeth, gums and cold sores. The noxious cocktail erupted in a sticky spray that coated the clandestine breeze, commodiously transporting the range strike to its unsuspecting target. A toxic cloud of insolence and filth assaulted the castigating old man, penetrating his saintly demeanor. It splattered in tobacco tinged splashes across his gold rimmed spectacles, a bit of the acrid pitch inflamed the sensitive peripheral creases of his naked eyes. While most of the foul fluid doused his sun-spotted forehead and drooping cheeks, lathering them in slime, a portion cemented to his short lampshade mustache while another equitable fraction spewed into his articulating mouth via direct oral transmission. Vomiting ensued and part of the crowd rushed over to aid the collapsing Ruggieri until he waved them off, wildly swaying up from his knees with his bible clenched under his arm. The brown old skeleton doggedly rose to his feet and continued the exorcism, shaking in his robes, sweat pouring down the troughs in his face. The nameless man just laughed and laughed, a rapping sound like a fissure tearing open the ground or a mammoth wave slapping a stone shore or a shimmering bolt of lightning shredding the clouds, low pitched and decrepitating.

“Da locum Christo, in quo nihil invenisti de operibus tuis; da locum unam, sanctam, catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam, quam Christus acquisivit Sanguine suo pretio..”

Give place to Christ in whom you have found none of your works; give place to the one, holy, Catholic and apostolic church acquired by Christ at the price of His blood..

“Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine Jesu, quem inferi tremunt..”

Stoop beneath the all-powerful hand of God; tremble and flee when we invoke the holy and terrible name of Jesus, this name which causes hell to tremble..

“Cui Virtutes nomen istud et Potestates et Dominationes subjectæ sunt caeli, hoc indesinenter quem Cherubim et Seraphim..”

This name to which the virtues, powers and dominations of heaven are humbly submissive, this name which the cherubim and seraphim praise unceasingly..

“Dicentes: Sanctus Sanctus, Sanctus..”

Repeating: holy, holy, holy..

“HAAAHAHA HEHE AHHHHAAAAAAAAHAHA HEHE!.....”

“Better save your prayers for decent folk, Padre. This one here is just a few heel clicks away from feeding the worms at the bottom of an unmarked grave. I don’t reckon we’ll hear his sorry squawks when he’s buried six feet under being dragged to hell by goblins and ghouls. Why don’t you give it a rest son? What would your momma say, seein’ you up there spittin’ an’ laughing like a mad-man, carrying on so shamefully, right before you meet your maker?”

“Oh I don’t know if my mother would have much to say in the matter. She sort of lost her voice when I was born, as well as a heap of internal organs. What can I say; I was a very needy, grabby infant. But I’m sure it made for an eventful day for the country doctor at the county courthouse, a birth certificate and a death certificate all in one wagon ride!”

“That’s enough young man. No sense in speakin’ ill of the dearly departed now that my gavel’s swung and your noose fitted. The big judge sittin’ up there in the sky probably has enough scorned testimony marked against your spoiled soul as it is.”

What perfunctory sympathy he usually felt for those he’d sentenced to capital annihilation had completely eroded within the judge at this point, soured in his gut like green meat. This man was nothing to him, horse-shit stuck to the heel of his boot, malted hogwash foaming in the sun. Yet how could ultimate justice still feel so inequitable? Tragic pawns, passive hosts of death reproducing itself. Putting down vile men for vile acts leaves their stench on you, their skin under your fingernails, their curses echoing your ears. After being the eminent lawman, judge and jury with a chrome peacekeeper for nearly twenty years in this township, ghosts with bullet holes in their heads followed Yama around. If he looked over his shoulder he knew he’d see them standing there, garbed in caked blood and charnel dirt, forgotten children grown up. “Another for the spooks,” he’d tell the barkeep each night. With whiskey on his breath he’d sing to the sunrise, silky phantoms surrounding him. “There's blood on the saddle and blood on the ground, and a great great big puddle of blood all around; a cowboy lay in it, all covered with gore, and he never will ride any broncos no more..”

The sun beat down, acquiescing its focal zenith, heightening the midday heat. Its rays dissolved the gruesome gaggle’s shadows like the razing eye of god, whitewashing the hillcrest in solar bleach. High noon aproacheth, the awful hour of death. A brazen beam struck Yama’s copper badge, ricocheting off into the prisoner’s soggy iris, branding it like a blacksmith’s white-hot nail. The scorch only magnified as the lawman took limped steps towards the disheveled captive, his spurs and leather speaking softly. Nameless and noosed, the damned man recoiled at the brilliant bright, squirming in his chains, insulating himself under clinched eyelids.

“The time is nigh, boy.”

From behind the wiry judge approached the town doctor, a shriveled cob pipe pinned under his icicle white mustache and a hand restraining his charcoal bowler against the pull of the wind. His slacks brushed through the ankle-high wildgrass until the accused hinged faintly within arm’s length. Dhanvantari, the wizened backcountry surgeon, reached up as he had at countless executions to examine the machine of death. In a far off lifetime, or only what seemed to have been, Dhanvantari was a merchant ship’s doctor, operating on deck with rusty instruments in turbulent seas, pulling the captain’s teeth by crinkling wicks of sperm oil lanterns, sweeping puddles of blood into the sea. Those decades spent marinering the open ocean made his fingers as fluent with knots and lashings as he was with the braids of the spine or with tensile ligament musculature. This man had lost many lifetimes to the sea, swallowed by brine, swept overboard by swells, but somehow it always spat him back out, after due restitution. How many times had he thought he’d seen the sun for the last time as the waves closed around him and the surface fell away? Six? Seven? Perhaps he was still there now, drifting to the salty bottom and this, an illusion in the last rays of light, an eternity in an escaping air bubble. Regardless he thumbed the noose knot, testing its competence, ignorant of the murdering intimidation ensnared within it. He examined the loop, stretching it across the man’s Adam’s apple in strangulation simulation. By his determination death should be nearly instantaneous with the fracturing of the epistropheus. Dhanvantari removed his hands.

“Whaddaya say Doc? Humane?”

“Too humane.”

“Oh I wish that was up to me, hell I’d have him drawn and quartered already, each arm and leg’d be draggin’ through the desert in opposite directions by streakin’ stallions by now. But I suppose a bullet in the temple would get the job done too. No time to waste with slaphappy daydreams, we’ve got to adhere to the distinguished code established by our competent elect, those Washington monkeys and their executive goon. Is it whats-his-name Rutherford or wha-cha-ya ma-call-it Garfield after the last one of their confounded dog-and-pony-show elections? God only knows.. How’s about we get on with it? Next the accused is to be read their offenses but I’m sure all of us gathered here and now can well attest to the horrendous acts of brutality this man has committed. No sense in speakin’ of such evil since his deplorable deeds will undoubtedly torment our waking hours forever. But I won’t deny the prisoner his last words. Even an infernal devil can sequester some semblance of penitence from the Lord in his last hour if his voice holds even an ounce of goodness. What say you, rogue? Bless thy tongue and utter thy last words.”

“I have nothing to say to you people or your forlorn humanity. I was birthed among you but sever our kinship thereafter. Your bastard race of mutant hominids is the scourge of existence. You ungraciously tout your dubiously predominant intellect with one arm raised in self-admiration while the other quashes down your stricken brother, stepping on his pleading face and bruised throat. You feed each other into the teeth of the meat grinder for a few pieces of silver, sealing the audacity with a smile and a kiss. You’ve the blood of your father Ares and the fury of your mother Lyssa. Such horrific worm-like abominations of filth, I want no part of you unless you’re disinfected, dismembered, dissected and freeze-dried. But you have taught me much, much barbarity. Because of your imprint I am what I am, the distilled essence of your misanthropy, hate tincture. I am the anti-soul, the maneater, the devourer of fire and light, the siren of the necropolis, the falling reaper, Death’s dragoon. I am the one to whom the wolves howl and in my company volts of vultures and cackles of hyenas. Draped in my cape of babies’ bones and crown of thorns I have blistered the nightmares of the fearful since the dawn of man. In my wake spite suicides and human husks, desolation and brimstone. You cannot kill me, I am already dead.”

His taunt a command, Yama reduced him to mindless thrashing with a decisive toe-kick to the fruit box, sending it tumbling off before stepping back and affirming his capital judgement. Gasps ran through the crowd as the knot was tested for capacity for the first time, the charred branch held strong under the burden of the man’s now disintegrating ego. He expended his life force in feral flounders of wild muscle contractions, as if parasitic monsters within him wrestled to escape from their host’s diminishing body, spinning himself around haphazardly like a broken whirligig despite his wrist and ankle restraints. Clearly his movements were involuntary, spastic seizures of shocked nerve endings triggered by raging lightning storms of neuronal firing as distressed organ systems desperately faced shut down and annihilation. His already unsightly appearance became even more revolting in the absence of mental dispensation. Cloudy eyes pinched in their sockets, bulging outward in masses of crimson jelly as the blood vessels ruptured around flaked lids. Indeterminate sloughs of foamy fluids composed of various pasty consistencies, textures and hues leaked from his orifices, drooling off the dripping points on his face like subterranean stalactites. A scarred sliver of grey tongue draped from within his chapped lips. Eventually the jittery agitation ceased and the stillness was broken only by the swivels of his vacant body. His grizzled neck was crumpled in the noose, disjointed disks of irregular vertebrae pressed asymmetrically against the inner walls of his skin in nauseating bulges of obvious malformation.

In the crowd a woman began to wail, her immediate elicit reaction to the majority of external stimuli after such loss as befitting a victim who had been made widow by the now deceased bane. She pulled her black bonnet down over her eyes and reached for her threadbare handkerchief. Now what? A question she posed to herself, the fates, townsfolk, anyone who’d listen to her bereaved sobs. Her maternity scars and her wedding ring were the only remaining evidence of her curriculum vitae, her frontier family and their homestead ambition; stolen like the breath from her lungs. Somewhere along the wagon trail, abandoned in the gutter like a roadside attraction were the charred remains of her Manifest Destiny, a monument of torched wagon frame and scattered skulls. The thought of which drove her to nihilism. But revenge was an opportune emotional departure from the tragedy her faculties refuted as preposterous, incorrigible, a night terror to be expunged by the waking mind and the ascending sun. But confound it! There it was! That dastardly conflagration, a gleaming confirmation of calamity, the boiling skies its diabolic domain and drenched in its glow she simmered in survivor’s grief. Niobe willed the hellmouth open, to stride between its chasmal jaws. Her ample offerings of woe lured the rabid devils and unclean spirits from their untold ethereal realms but on upon arrival she was already of stone. A brooding destitute, an aimless golem of flesh and bone and tears.

From within the congregation Anubis stepped forth to dress and prepare the body for burial, a process which his coarse muscles and tired joints knew well. They were creased by the contour of the embalming tools, sculpted by a mortician’s toil; grave dirt under his cuticles from the raw tomb shoveled out this morning. He unsheathed a blade from his belt, feet advancing, to cut down the inert cadaver from its moored swing. Behind him his comrades held the reins of a bridled burro which had ferried the bound prisoner to this hill in life and would now from it in death. It shifted listlessly in its halter, braying nervously with whipping tail. He approached the hanged man serenely, detached, his mind distanced by the habitual funerary ritual he’d undergone so frequently this past fortnight with so many hideously slaughtered. But at rest his morbid vocation invaded the asylum of his slumber. Within the dreamscape he donned the suit of a jackal breathlessly devouring grisly messes strewn about by Death himself, scavenging meat morsels from innocents slain. But it was over now, the beast was vanquished and this would be his final burial. He extended his arms, blade in hand, to cleave the noose when the whiskers on his scruff spiked straight up.

The dead man frenzied into rampage by the scent of slaughter, riving the lull, summoned to survive by his colleague in chaos the razor blade. The tumultuous details of the next few moments can scarcely be spoken of, saturated with skirmish vectors and martial artistry but if one simply follows the slashes of the edge, its perforatory operation can be fluently plotted. In one swift motion his blueish corpse-hand swaddled the knife’s pommel, enveloping Anubis’. It then yanked upwards, burying the tip just underneath the undertaker’s chin, tickling his brain like a lobotomist. The next instantaneous flash of dynamism was the stiletto’s evacuation from his greymatter. It whistled as it arced through the air, tearing into the fiend’s own death-paled shatter-boned neck, sinking in and carving in a radial orbit around its circumference. In a splitting second the ruined mort had accomplished a series of obscene acts totally unforeseen, completely against the natural laws while still bound in chains, and as such, the throng was baffled immobile. Aghast with gaped mouth and opaque eyes before such ruthlessness, the man holding the burro’s reins barely noticed as it bolted off. Yama’s hand lunged for his holstered pistol as Anubis finally dropped to his knees.

As the last degree of girth was rent, gravity bisected the possessed’s brainstem, sending his feet to tread the earth and his dislodged cranium to roll it, unencumbering the blood-sprayed noose loop. At this point fright overtook the cluster and fugue became imperative. They trampled each other to flee this undead waif, careening down the hillside, never mind the trail with evil nipping at the heels. But one gallant soul delayed, familiar with the company of demons. Yama leveled his revolver at the headless monster loosing three rounds before it was upon him, lopping off his gun hand, hacking through his throat and spilling open his intestines in one mercurial, clockwise arm rotation of serpentine laceration. Like a tornado it bucked off Yama’s dead shoulders after trailing fingers relieved the weapon from his amputated grip, tumbling acrobatically through the gap between its next kill.

Scrambling to escape was Ruggieri degli Ubaldini, sprawling over his tailored robes, clawing the muck for leverage with gold ringed fingers. A cone of destructive force interrupted the priest’s bumbling with a tremendous boom of sound shattering. The slug pierced his temporal lobe just behind the ear, exploding from the other side in a plume of gore and smoke. Padre crumpled in the dust but his soul soared skybound on angel wings while cherubim and seraphim beckoned him from their hammocks, the clouds. Another righteous crusader of light skewered on the flames of evil and so sealed was his heavenly reward, obedient even in martyrdom to the cult he worshipped. The gates of St. Peter were thrown open upon on his winged approach, the celestial scene frescoed immortal by Nuvolone’s Milanese masterpiece. But the earth claimed his body, to the victor the spoils.

Twin claps of corkscrewing thunder plowed two more inconsequentials, their flaccid constitution summersaulted down an embankment in snaps of branches, dousing the underbrush with their blood. The doctor, Dhanvantari afforded a precarious over-the-shoulder peak at the proximate commotion between labored footfalls, just long enough to see Death’s skeleton-hand reach for his face. And then he was dragged to the frothy underbelly, towed from the shallows to breathless leagues of darkness, to the frigid depths, the domain of the leviathan and its swimming monsters. His cob pipe floated up to the surface like an epitaph.

Last alive was the half-hearted Niobe, tailed by her shadow of mourning. She fled on instinct alone, lusting for a peaceful deathbed to lay her head. She mused macabre that she’d be visited by twinkling visions of her loved ones, at last reunited in paradise after they carried her from her sepulchral bedstead, off and away into the white light. Her wits were unraveled by the poison of this unfulfilled conclusion, drunk with adrenaline at concept of such unimaginable pain of an undoubtedly savage mutilation. The tree line broke and a valley of Spring-bloomed wildflowers carpeted her clambering passage with purple street signs of knapweed and rushpink, golden sidewalks of butterfly weed and bahia, creamy bushels of loveroot and turkeypea. She sprinted through their syrupy bells with hiked dress and tapping laced leather boots, soon slathered with aromatic pollen. Their perfume seeped into her psyche, fumed by her exhausted inhalations, tousling her antediluvian reptilian cortex, the cerebral seat of fear and flight. The flowers drenched her in a calm, resonant bliss which relaxed her gait. Suddenly she stopped. Her shadow had dissipated and she found herself on the embanked edge of the lily field, below a river’s bellowing whitewater scrapped against huge agate boulders. A slight draft swept through the valley, undulating the buttercups and the tassels of her braided hair. Where had she lost her bonnet? She peered down and found it tangled in spines of sagebrush but her reach was interrupted by a blindsiding death. The monstrosity shoulder tackled her while her weight was unbalanced, tossing them both off the ledge of the cliff. It stabbed her repeatedly while falling, madly puncturing her face down to her abdomen with glossy lesions.

The white dashing crests of alpine water slapped the hurtling pair, bowing under their load and momentum. The sacred stream drew them into its clutches, buffeting their languid corpses with jagged rapids succeeding in the thorough pulverization of their now unrecognizable meat mishmash. Hunks of homogenous human peripherals floated downstream like the foodstuffs conveyer belt in a packing plant. A few flesh pocked bones flipped and twisted, arrested by the current as its skeletal companions swept by the festivities, a sanguine parade. Soon they were utterly mired on an outcropping of some rocks, the fisherman’s net of an eddy. Passing nearby Anubis’ knife head embedded itself in the iridescent quartz-spackled river bottom. Fast in pursuit, bouncing and bobbing like lost baubles in the whitewater, the two handcuffed fists of the nameless man inexplicably threaded a chain-link with the marooned blade. That duplicity of hand dangled there for years; shackled, shriveled rotten flesh, palpitating so near the portal to Xibalba. The subterranean aqueduct portion of the road’s journey began only a few hundred yards downriver, where the river water surged under the foot of the mountain. Underground, within its cavernous limestone bowels, the freshwater runoff engaged green, salty aquafers from the distant sea. An apparitional estuary, the nether-door to the underworld.

Unseeing eyes parted on the decapitated head of the desperado, pealing open the world. Though his awareness was distressingly limited, somehow the slurred outlines of shape and form came to mean something to him. A bush. An uncomfortable bush with prickly thorns and homely desert flowers, this was likely his setting, the bramble hemmed the borders of his peripherals like a picture frame. Central to his porthole of vision was the simple sky, an impressionist composition of sowed blots of buttercream and torpid sheets of blue. It was all too much, too weighty, too involved; it swam and swooned before him like a rocking bowl of water, filling him up, pressing him into the earth with its gravity. From his phantom body, he felt each toe, each patch of skin. Though he knew it missing, the nervous signals must’ve disseminated from a source, some sensory connection, or his brain seemed to believe so. The invisible air squeezed his surface area. Tightened tourniquets burdened him like a full body straightjacket or a collapsing cast. “A mountain must have fallen on me,” he spoke without lips a sparse cognition. The clouds seemed to descend from the sky, fused and swirled in milky stripes of fog and spewed into the man’s mouth, nose and ears. It retarded his lucidity and reason, soon laden with dusty dunes of bewilderment. The world was a mirage of dancing light.

Then the dam began to crack. He felt crooked fissures snaking across his skull and body like spreading vines, soon he would rupture and there was nothing to be done. Sure enough the bleeding cracks started to sweat the liquids from his body; blood, bile and lymph, and as they leaked they whispered a static hiss. Gushhhhhhhhh. The noise vibrated through him and up to his ears, he heard it as though underwater; berating, omnidirectional and boisterous. The gashes grew thick in sinuous ropes of entanglement, infesting ostensibly the extent of his being. And through them breached torrents of life-water overflow. The crevices poured out the viscous distillation with the cacophony of a thousand teeming waterfalls. There was nothing but the thunder, no room for anything else. Its density rose past any measure of volume until it overcame him, overtaking his presence by force of will. Suddenly it crescendoed and was gone, dissolving in a fizzle of diffuse ringing. The drainage had stopped as well, he was now presumably empty. He cried out from the hollow of his head but was not heard, his hearing had left him. What reverberated instead however was fear; a ping of hysteria. In absent mannerism he desperately reached for his face and found just ruined fragments, quivering lumps of lips and chin, like crushed scraps of a Mardi Gras mask. Hunks snapped off as his fingertips probed for a landmark, an eye socket, a cheekbone, something familiar to enshrine his ego but there was barely anything left. He broke his pointer finger off at the knuckle scouring a caved in nostril cavity in his mania. “Hell, even the Mona Lisa is falling apart. What do I care?” his internal thoughts illumed apathetically, for his speech facilities were in white corroded shambles. From his powdered granules of ravaged carnage a breath of smoke arose, the rubble dust twirled up towards the void, suctioned into the lofty abyss where it surveyed from above.

Then flames reared up like pillars of plasmic light, engorged by the heat of combustion. Jagged tongues lapped hungrily at the abraded man whose consciousness was amorphous and unsensing, only dimly cognizant of self-presence. An incendiary holocaust raged sensation away. Every ounce of feeling was expunged in a deliberate eradication, neuronal overstimulation to excess until the connectivity wore through and the atomic structure crumbled in fatigue. The heap of blanched biologic matter was scarified to complete tactile stupefaction, unrecognizing even neighboring cells. Then the conflagration expired having extracted the last of its nourishment and his botch of body cooled off.

First the warmth left the deteriorated boneyard of his extremities, vanishing into ice like the last warm days of Autumn, blanketing the plaster hunks of disintegrating anatomy in inches of snow. Next to succumb to anesthesia was his chest of decrepit organs, frozen solid in their collapsed disrepair, forgotten now in the advancing permafrost of numbness. Last was his mess of frostbitten face, abandoned in paralysis, left to entropy. A nearly bare mindscape was the man’s totality now, devoid of light and motion, vibration and sound, texture and touch. His being was only tethered to locality by lingering senses of smell and taste which now dominated his concern. Driving columns of bellowed air churned in opposite directions within lungs and sinuses that he knew were imaginary figments, apparitional muscle memories, repackaged experiential data. Astral nostrils flecked with astral ether intake, sifting its contents. Each unlikely breath was a kaleidoscope of pungent samples comingled from various lifetimes and experiential encounters: a fresh peeled apple, steam off quenched metal, damp mattress body odor, a musty draft from the root cellar, miscellaneous tails of perfume on a street corner, etc. Soon faded had the aromas’ potency, gradually sojourning elsewhere. The circulations of invisible current also ceased and without its tidal oscillation there was stillness. But before its last drags a cloudburst of amber sparks, an eruption of fireflies to festoon the sparse canvas of nothingness. “Where do you lead, oh wavering stars? Abridge this inked abyss.”

That was when an even more extensive purgatory of nothingness descended on his bleak reality of senseless ambivalence. Abandoned in a crawlspace of the universe, dreary anathema, doldrums of inaction, his operative reality was staggeringly reduced to a naked impression of existing, as if lingering on the threshold of non-being. His lifeline was taste; last vestige of a world that had all but forgotten him. His formless presence diffused into the surrounding unknown at uncontrolled random, performing its forsaken duty because the possibility of anything else did not exist. Stimuli drifted in and out of his localized perception like a filter feeder’s chum, exotic glimpses of a fully realized world beyond this low dimension, rationale for perseverance. This continued for an imperceptible interval, perhaps ten thousand years, perhaps a hummingbird’s heartbeat. Over time the meaninglessness came to mean even less to the erratic coagulation of man, now only a remote ancestor of his worldly persona devolved and inbred. It tongued the grey brittle of its immediacy, probing the filth and cobwebs of its hermitage for traces of vim, for even a hint of neurological input or residual aftertaste, anything to subdue the mental paralysis. “I’ve no business left here. Take from me what you will but don’t leave me in this hall of mirrors.” And at long last the candle flame was extinguished, leaving the smoke to dissipate and disseminate throughout the universe, replenishing omission, stuffing lack, becoming again.

$+��8��~

0 notes