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blindrapture · 5 years ago

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[three paragraphs from Finnegans Wake, book 1, chapter 3. pages 61 - 64. the chapter as a whole is one of my favourite things, and I have no fucking clue how to talk about any of it. this sequence is a, uh, “narrative block” which I frequently return to.] [bold has been added to emphasize a pattern.]

Be these meer marchant taylor’s fablings of a race referend with oddman rex? Is now all seenheard then forgotten? Can it was, one is fain in this leaden age of letters now to wit, that so diversified outrages (they have still to come!) were planned and partly carried out against so staunch a covenanter if it be true than any of those recorded ever took place for many, we trow, beyessed to and denayed of, are given to us by some who use the truth but sparingly and we, on this side ought to sorrow for their pricking pens on that account. The seventh city, Urovivla, his citadear of refuge, whither (would we believe the laimen and their counts), beyond the outraved gales of Atreeatic, changing clues with a baggermalster, the hejirite had fled, silentioussuemeant under night’s altosonority, shipalone, a raven of the wave, (be mercy, Mara! A he whence Rahoulas!) from the ostmen’s dirtby on the old vic, to forget in expiating manslaughter and, reberthing in remarriment out of dead seekness to devine previdence, (if you are looking for the bilder deep your ear on the movietone!) to league his lot, palm and patte, with a papishee. For mine qvinne I thee giftake and bind my hosenband I thee halter. The wastobe land, a lottuse land, a luctuous land, Emeraldilluim, the peasant pastured, in which by the fourth commandment with promise his days apostolic were to be long by the abundant mercy of Him Which Thundereth From On High, murmured, would rise against him with all which in them were, franchisables and inhabitands, astea as agora, helotsphilots, do him hurt, poor jink, ghostly following bodily, as were he made a curse for them, the corruptible lay quick, all saints of incorruption-of-an holy nation, the common or ereingarden castaway, in red resurrection to condemn so they might convince him, first pharoah, Humpheres Cheops Exarchas, of their proper sins. Business bred to speak with a stiff upper lip to all men and most occasions the Man we wot of took little short of fighting chances but for all that he or his or his care were subjected to the horrors of the premier terror of Errorland. (perorhaps!)

We seem to us (the real Us!) to be reading our Amenti in the sixth sealed chapter of the going forth by black. It was after the show at Wednesbury that one tall man, humping a suspicious parcel, when returning late amid a dense particular on his home way from the second house of the Boore and Burgess Christy Menestrels by the old spot, Roy’s Corner, had a barkiss revolver placed to his faced with the words: you’re shot, major: by an unknowable assailant (masked) against whom he had been jealous over, Lotta Crabtree or Pomona Evlyn. More than that Whenn the Waylayer (not a Lucalizod diocesan or even of the Glendalough see, but hailing fro’ the prow of Little Britain), mentioning in a bytheway that he, the crawsopper, had, in edition to Reade’s cutless centiblade, a loaded Hobson’s which left only twin alternatives as, viceversa, either he would surely shoot her, the aunt, by pistol, (she could be okaysure of that!) or, failing of such, bash in Patch’s blank face beyond recognition, pointedly asked with gaeilish gall wodkar blizzard’s business Thornton had with that Kane’s fender only to be answered by the aggravated assaulted that that that was the snaps for him, Midweeks, to sultry well go and find out if he was showery well able. But how transparingly nontrue, gentlewriter! His feet one is not a tall man, not at all, man. No such parson. No such fender. No such lumber. No such race. Was it supposedly in connection with a girls, Myramy Huey or Colores Archer, under Flaggy Bridge (for ann there is but one liv and hir newbridge is her old) or to explode his twelvechamber and force a shrievalty entrance that the heavybuilt Abelbody in a butcherblue blouse from One Life One Suit (a men’s wear store), with a most decisive bottle of single in his possession, seized after dark by the town guard at Haveyoucaught-emerod’s temperance gateway was there in a gate’s way.

Fifthly, how parasoliloquisingly truetoned on his first time of hearing the wretch’s statement that, muttering Irish, he had had had o’gloriously a’lot too much hanguest or hoshoe fine to drink in the House of Blazes, the Parrot in Hell, the Orange Tree, the Glibt, the Sun, the Holy Lamb and, lapse not leashed, in Ramitdown’s ship hotel since the morning moment he could dixtinguish a white thread from a black till the engine of the laws declosed unto Murray and was only falling fillthefluthered up against the gatestone pier which, with the cow’s bonnet a’top o’it, he falsetook for a cattlepillar with purest peaceablest intentions. Yet how lamely hobbles the hoy of his then pseudojocax axplanation how, according to his own story, he vas a process server and was merely trying to open zozimus a bottlop stoub by mortially hammering his magnum bonum (the curter the club the sorer the savage) against the bludgey gate for the boots about the swan, Maurice Behan, who hastily into his shoes with nothing his hald barra tinnteack and came down with homp, shtemp and jumphet to the tiltyard from the wastes a’sleep in his obi ohny overclothes or choker, attracted by the norse of guns playing Delandy is cartager on the raglar rock to Dulyn, said war’ prised safe in bed as he dreamed that he’d wealthes in mormon halls when wokenp by a fourth loud snore out of his land of byelo while hickstrey’s maws was grazing in the moonlight by hearing hammering on the pandywhank scale emanating from the blind pig and anything like it (oonagh!oonagh!) in the whole history of the Mullingcan Inn he never. This battering babel allower the door and sideposts, he always said, was not in the very remotest like the belzey babble of a bottle of boose which would not rouse him out o’ slumber deep but reminded him loads more of the martiallawsey marses of foreign musikants’ instrumongs or the overthrewer to the third last days of Pompery, if anything. And that after this most nooningless knockturn the young reine came down desperate and the old liffopotamus started ploring all over the plains, as mud as she cud be, ruinating all the bouchers’ schurts and the backers’ wischandtugs so that be the chandeleure of the Rejaneyjailey they were all night wasching the walters of, the weltering walters off. Whyte.

#the language in this book is goddamn magical.#each word took like an entire day to compose and it shows.#and there's so many narratives! narratives within narratives! between narratives! above and below narratives!#like! forget the notion that there's a rest of the book. try following the basic narrative syntax of these paragraphs.#even just one of the narratives about the altercations between two guys. or a guy and a woman?#try to *identify* anything. it's not a prank. it's not a challenge. it's a puzzle.#a poem-puzzle made out of puns.

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richmegavideo · 6 years ago

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My Horrible Records Time Capsule, Subtitled: Crapsule

Cuing up "That Smell" by Lynryd Skynyrd

Related to Elements: Crate Digging, DJ, Underground

Every evening as I descended the basement stairs on my way to my nightly music-listening ritual in the man cave, I'd be forced to ask myself "What is that God-forsaken, moldy-ass smell? ...And why are the stairs squishy feeling?" I knew the answer already, but I was afraid to look and find out. I ignored it until the smell became unbearably strong and it was obvious at that point it was time to act for the health and safety of my family.

So after a little liquid bravery on a quiet Saturday morning it was time to bust out the power tools and demo some basement walls! After a little sweat and a lot of noise I found a hidden crawlspace right next to the basement steps where the smell was emulating from.

IT WAS ABSOLUTELY NASTY! As soon as I removed the paneling hiding the hell hole, the smell rushed out of there and grabbed my nose hairs. Thankfully my family was gone for the weekend and luckily I had a dust mask to help at least keep some of that death out of my lungs. Well now I did it. I just created a huge job for myself, but it was one that couldn't be avoided any longer. I knew looking at the hole what I had to do. It was time to man up and seal this place up properly. But only AFTER dealing with the mold that came courtesy of the dumbassery of the previous owner of my house. I've watched enough Holmes on Homes on TV to know it needed to be "done right the first time or not at all!" Don't worry, I'm not going to go through the entire child birth process, I'll skip right to the baby.

Removed the nasty, poured concrete, sealed with Dry Lok Paint, insulated properly!

Long story short, after a lot of work the smell was finally gone! Now I can seal this up properly and I'll know there will be no problems with moisture or moldy insulation again.

Water Tight, Air Tight, Sealed Space = Time Capsule

Before I seal this small crawlspace up behind walls for "eternity", I knew I had one chance to leave behind a permanent message for future archeologists or pissed off home-owners. Something that I can leave behind that represents my lifestyle as a human being. After pondering a while on the dilema with a few beers it hit me, "Duhhhhhh, RECORDS!!!" Records Last Forever! Well, they do if stored andor played properly, and this was now the perfect sealed-off from the elements environment. But there's no way in hell I'm going to leave behind any of my cherrished records! Even some of my crappy records can still be sold for cash, so I couldn't just throw in random crap that some people would enjoy. I had to choose the most horrible records I had. Stuff I'd have a hard time selling even if I wanted to. I had to choose records that were horrible quality pressings or massively overproduced or just terrible music. So I chose 3 records that represented all of those qualities and gifted it to the future inhabitants of my little corner of Earth.

Time Crapsule: The List! My 3 Worst Records Left Behind in No Particular Order

Relax! It's the Mexican Pressing

1. Devo ‎– Freedom Of Choice "Libertad De Eleccion" LP (Warner Bros. Records) Mexican Pressing 1981 Look, I LOVE Devo. It pained me to even THINK about dissing Devo in any way. But this pressing was not their fault and if anything it probably pissed them off more than it did me. I actually bought this record earlier this year from an online seller. It was never the best album they did but it was a Devo album I didn't yet have on wax, still sealed for only 6 dollars! What could go wrong with that deal!?! Well, I guess I didn't pay attention to the "Mexican Pressing" footnote on the product listing.

"I'm on a Mexican, (woah woah) Radio!"

"What's so bad about a Mexican pressing?" you may ask. After all, they invented the world's only perfect food, the taco, so how could they possibly screw up something as simple as pressing a record? Well apparently they didn't have the speed setting right at the pressing plant that day because this record sounds like the Chipmunks doing Devo. No lie, this thing somehow plays too fast at 33 RPM.

But hey, no problem, I have a deck with pitch control, so I'll just slide it way down and then it will sound normal right? Well it helps a little, but screw that! Any time you have to use your pitch control to make ANY record sound right you are literally bending over and taking it from the record companies. Even with the pitch adjusted the entire thing sounds hollow and without any nuances. This is probably one of the worst cases of quality control I've ever seenheard in all my years of collecting records.

So Naturally I couldn't sell this to anyone in good conscious knowing the look on their faces would be similar to the look on my face when the needle was dropped on it for the first time. I can't pass on crap to others, that's the opposite of paying it forward. Besides, Devo deserves more respect than that. So I whipped it into the hell hole! (sorry, bad pun!)

$12 from 720 records, this was unofficial as all hell, a DJ Shadow boot to boot

2. DJ Shadow ‎– March Of Death / Karmacoma 12" BOOTLEG (Mo Wax) 2005 I love DJ Shadow's music and I love Zach De La Rocha's music so the thought of hearing a collaboration between them was WAY to intriguing for me to pass up when I saw this back in 2005. I'll admit, I knew it was a boot when I bought it, but there was no other way to get that music back then, and, as it is often the case, curiosity killed the cat. This sounds like pure ass. It sounds like it was recorded from telephone and then pressed to record. There is almost ZERO bass, it is muffled, it doesn't even begin to sound good at any point. Even with my EQ highly tweeked it was not enjoyable to play on either side.

As with all bootlegs, the artists on here didn't make a penny off this sale. Shadow himself mentioned it's existence on his website and obviously if it was legit it would have gone through quality control until it sounded great... Like it does here...

The Real Deal. Buy THIS if you want to actually enjoy that song.

Once I bought the Handmade record, there was no way I was going to keep that bootleg around, and I couldn't justify passing the buck onto a fellow Shadow fan even if he or she knew what they were buying. They deserve better and the musicians deserve better. It was clear that this boot deserves permanent dark days in the hole.

3. Natalie Imbruglia ‎– Smoke (Remixes) 12" Promo (RCA) 1998

Horrendous music doesn't even begin to describe this

Why in the name of all that is unholy do I even have this?! I don't even REMOTELY LIKE Natalie Imbruglia so why is this vile record touching my other records? It's not that she's a bad musician, (well yeah, she's pretty horrific or maybe average sounding on her best days) it's that this is an overproduced sounding remix clusterfuck. The remixers didn't even attempt to use her vocal track in a respectful way, in a way that accentuated her vocals, or even left the vocals alone. These songs were all about over-effect-processing trippy-trance sounding beats and basically they were trying to make it get played at some upcoming rave.

I think I bought this on year one of my record collecting days, when I was an utter newb. I clearly didn't play it before I bought it or I would have left it in the store. I'm pretty sure I bought it because I liked some of Rae and Christians productions at the time. Yet even that remix, the only remix I bought it for, sounds abominable. There is literally nothing about this collection of corny, predictable-build filled, and utterly outdated sounding remixes that sounds even remotely tolerable. I attempted to sell it a few times and I got blank stares from the record store owners I showed it to. The last guy I brought it to said "Dude, I have like 5 of those online right now for a buck, so even if you want to donate it to me, I don't want it." I swore that would be the last time I took it home feeling embarrassed and defeated, so into the hell hole it goes with the rest of the heinous archaic black discs!

A Warning for the Future

And now the message. Time to write something that will be my legacy, something awe inspiring... I could leave a written http link to this blog, but blogs are too temporary and who knows if the Intenet won't be directly responsible for Skynet in the future.

Hmmmm....

Ah hah!!!

Sometimes I just can't leave well enough alone

Cuing up Taps

It's the moment of truth! Now it's time to permanently seal the horrible record time capsule. 2" pink foam was cut to size, but not too tight yet leaving room for expansion foam to cement it firmly into place.

Closing the coffin lid on wack records

Lastly I sealed off the capsule forever with Great Stuff expansion foam.

Using expansion foam around all 4 sides for an airtight, watertight seal

That's all folks! Nothing more to see here!

The expansion foam has now cured, the cavity is officially sealed off forever. Now I'll cover it up with drywall and hopefully the next guy won't see it until I'm dead and buried.

And on the day I die, I can do so with a small sense of fulfillment knowing this little piece of history was left behind for future generations to hopefully enjoy hating as much as I did.

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