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spiderswithtits · 6 years ago

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Complexity and Depth

Caustic was a man of science. He considered his desires and goals in life to be simple - only those who couldn't understand him thought he was complex. It was such a shame the common man was too dull to see this. Oh, what a lonely life it was to live to never have someone grasp the thoughts in his head!

Until, for the first time in his life, he found someone who he couldn't understand.

Words: 2252 Chapter: 1/1 Language: English

Fandom: Apex Legends

Rating: Teen and Up

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category: Other

Characters: Bloodhound/Caustic | Alexander Nox

[Link for AO3 listing!!]

Alexander Nox was a simple, simple man. If you asked him what he wanted in the world, well, his answer is simple. He’d say that he wanted to work! He was a man of science! He was a man of innovation! He was a man who saw the world and decided that he could make it better, that he could grab it in his fists and twist and pull it into something with purpose! Something that could make it… Make it so much more. Alexander wanted to tear apart the world brick by brick and relish in the knowledge that he was the only one brave enough - smart enough! - to do that.

Alexander was a simple man with a simple dream.

Many of the people around him didn’t understand this. Certainly, he spent years trying to tell people about the vision he’s had in his head, through press conferences and academic papers, then through cold hard facts - but it didn’t change the fact that his so called ‘peers’ couldn’t understand what he was saying. They couldn’t understand the beauty of breaking apart life at the cellular level and having that control. No, they were afraid of it - what spineless insects - and they cast him out. Frightened by his dedication, they turned from him and he spat on their ‘morals’ and their ‘humanity.’

How could any of these moralistic sycophants ever understand him? None of them were intelligent enough to be on his level, not while they still tittered and fussed over the lives of the ‘innocents’. In all of his years in independent study, Alexander has yet to find an equal. Until… now.

Caustic was the name he used nowadays. Or, rather, his code name. All these brutes playing their games with their bullets and their arenas had one, so he had to play along. It fit, well enough. Poison gas was caustic after all and what else would he use to fight? His fists? Pshaw! Caustic did its job as a label for the unwashed rodents who he called a ‘team’ to use and it struck fear into the hearts of those he fought against. Except one.

Bloodhound.

Or, Blóðhundur, as they called themselves. Caustic spent a night after their first encounter to look up the language they used and he memorized the Icelandic spelling of their name. What was he, some sort of ingrate? Of course he’d familiarize himself with it! But Blóðhundur…

It was a name that kept him awake until the early hours after a day of killing and dying in the ring. Even now, as he sat in his room with a lukewarm mug of coffee and his pen scratching softly on his journals the hunter wouldn't leave his mind. It wasn't the noise of his competitors yelling in the common rooms down the stairs that kept him up - except, perhaps it would if he heard the familiar clip of a voice cutting through it, light and clear and trilling with praise for their Allfather.

Perhaps that would be preferable if he could hear that. It would break him out of this - this circle of insanity where he could do more than write and write and think! Alas, there was no flesh and blood Blóðhundur there to draw his attention, just the one that he scribbled into his journal. Caustic was a man who kept his notes of the things he wished to figure out and they were his newest study obsession.

Oh, the things Caustic could say about them! The things he's recorded and wrote down! Where does he start? Should he go back to his first entries on the day that they first put a knife into his throat? The very day where he found a lone, injured crow among the dirt and rocks of the arena, crying for help? He meant to help it, of course - it was a bird and if it's wings were snapped, the kindest thing to do was release it from life and use it's death as a study. Caustic never got far on that, no, not before they happened.

He's heard the stories of the sterling Apex champion but he had yet to meet them face to face, so he barely knew what was going on when they attacked. How does one describe it? The way they slipped around him like the gas he controls, like the Grim Reaper themself? How he tried to swing his gun to follow but they slid like a breeze behind him, then there was a gust of wind against his leg as they snatched Caustic by the hair on his head and swung up and then there was metal in his throat and he was staring at sky? How they looked him in the eyes while he lied there, dying, as they crouched over his chest and whispered in his ear, “Only cowards and the honorless kill the helpless. If you wish to end a life, do it with pride as they fight for it. I am ready for my end. Are you?”

I am ready for my end. Are you?

With that line echoing in his head, it turns out Caustic was not. When the electric shudder of the Apex resurrection machine that built him from the cell up faded, the memory of Blóðhundur didn’t.

It didn't stop there. That was just the start of his obsession and if he flipped further through his books, there's plenty more notes. Does he start on the days after that, when they repeated the same Apex rounds over and over for a proper ranking, his spine sizzling with electricity after every resurrection from the Apex machines? Does he talk about the numerous attempts he’s tried to get revenge on this masked ghost of the arena? He was aggravated from their first encounter and he promised himself he'd take them down personally after all. How many times Caustic has placed down a trap and waited for the chance to capture this bloodthirsty creature? Too many, he’d say. Too many that went too south, that cost him entire games because this hunter navigated each of his traps with ease.

They outwitted him. They knew what he was doing before he could even do it. Whenever he tried to take them by surprise, they met him move for move. It took awhile for him to admit it, but eventually, he had to.

Caustic sighed as he tossed his journal on his desk. What a pain. It's been too long since he's had to taste the sting of defeat this often and it bitter on his tongue. But, just like any other issue in his life, he couldn't simply fume at it until it went away, could he? No, he was a smart man, he's figured out how to force the cells of the human body to forcibly tear themselves away from each other! A single clever human in a mask should be much, much more manageable.

Still, Caustic took his secret little moment to breathe before he sat forward in his chair and turned his journal to flip through it yet again to his notes.

Blóðhundur was ruthless. They were vocal and bright about their love of the fight and they were heartless as they stepped off the drop ships. They were a slaughterer and Caustic watched as they once tossed aside a gun and danced through an entire platoon of soldiers spraying blood like an artist across the canvas, like a prodigy of death. They finished with barely a scratch on them and simply turned and bowed to the bodies, no doubt calling a prayer to their ‘Allfather’. A bit… well, primitive, but he could overlook those slight transgressions to instead admire their skills.

They were clever, yes, but that? It was art. Art only one of intellect could do with the utmost confidence in themselves. Blóðhundur was a genius. They were a genius and he would be a fool to call them anything but.

It was… difficult to place when Caustic’s obsession with the masked hunter turned from obsession to adoration. Even now as he looked over his notes he couldn’t see when his writing turned from clinical to passionate. They’ve met many a time on the battlefield but never outside of it. The moment the games were done and the teams were resurrected to filter off to the ranking boards, Blóðhundur was gone. They disappeared like gas in the wind and he was left sitting there, burning with the desire to study, to learn. That was a desire that could only just be controlled by a cup of coffee and his journals where he’d sit and study and plan out his next trap to capture them. It was after the twenty sixth attempt that he had to admit it. He had to admit that they were smarter than him, cleverer, and they barely even gave Caustic so much as a glance whenever they sidestepped his traps or shot them down with a flick of their wrists. Was that where it started, he wondered as he sipped at his coffee, pen tapping against the journal? Was it the fact that Blóðhundur never so much as saw him as a threat that fanned the flames inside of him? Caustic - no, Alexander - has spent so long scoffing at the ill-mannered dolts that sat below him that the moment that he’s met someone who so thoroughly did not consider him their equal, it sends him spiralling?

He was determined to fix that. Alexander approached Blóðhundur like he would any other biological or chemical problem he’s encountered in his life. He’ll bide his time - he’s patient - and he’ll make his notes. He’ll find their patterns, their habits and their quirks, he’ll find their mistakes and he’ll climb his way back to the top of the food chain over them. If he timed it right, he could hunt them down outside of the Apex games and ambush them. Then he’ll be the one who gloats over them as his gas creeps into their lungs and when it looks like they’ve accepted their death … Except, that wouldn’t do, would it? The thought of killing them is a sour thought in Caustic’s mind as he considered his options. It’s a foreign thought, to not simply crush his competition out of existence, but why would he? Would he really want to deprive the world of their slaughter? After all, why would one murder perfection when you can simply let them go? And Blóðhundur, well, they were just like their own little raven weren’t they? He can’t cage them up to study either, one had to let them go free to stretch their murderous wings.

But if Caustic didn’t want to kill them, what did he want? It wasn’t just to study, was it? No, if it was, then the dozens of scribbled notes written in the middle of the night or in the heat of the fight would have satisfied this burning desire inside of him. They were barely even a balm! It only numbed the itch inside of him and as he sat there and thought and thought and thought… He realized he wanted an up close and personal study of the mind. Caustic wanted to feel the hunter in his hands, feel the weight of their limbs and the chirp of their voice near his head again as clear as birdsong. He wanted to hold them in his hands for just a moment, to hear them acknowledge him. He wanted to turn the words in their mouth from the derision he first heard on that first day to something sweeter, something filled with admiration. What an exhilarating thought that was! What a delight it would be to have a moment alone with them, to hear his name on their lips and hear the lilt of curiosity - but not fear, because only the ignorant and the lesser men are afraid when faced with an equal! If Caustic was a lesser man, perhaps he’d be intoxicated on the thought of this fantasy. It was a fantasy filled with the soft sound of Blóðhundur’s hat tapping against a wall as they look up at him as they exchange barbs and witty words in a battle of the minds instead of fists. Could they keep up with him? Caustic’s hopeful, because what a shame would it be if Blóðhundur was just some charlatan who couldn’t tell their ass apart from their mouth. No, they were too clever not to be.

A genius. Perfection. A true equal. Blóðhundur was all of these and Caustic was determined to explore the depths of their intellect and to see how they reacted to his. Blóðhundur was a clever hunter on the Apex fields, but all Caustic needed was one slip up to take advantage of to draw them into his net. He was no fighter compared to them, so he had to rely on his brain that's kept him ahead all these years. If Blóðhundur was clever, then it was time for him to be even more so. How so very convenient it was that he was such a resilient and determined man, wasn’t he?

It was just a matter of time now. All Caustic needed was time and patience and study - of which he had plenty of - to figure out how to catch this little bird of his. And once he did, oh, how he’ll adore hearing them sing for him their song of their people and their mind.

#bloodhound #caustic #caustichound #causticblood #apex legends #calopry writes #I HAD A LOT OF FUN WRITING THIS

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aleesblog · 4 years ago

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Gerald Stern Journal of Neural Transmission supplement 2020

Gerald Stern was a doyen of clinical neurology of international repute who made numerous significant contributions to neurology and the field of movement disorders. His early life and career in neurology have been documented in other published eulogies (Lees 2018a, b; Quinn 2019; Lees and Ockelford 2019)—we would urge you to read these as they tell a compelling story of his upbringing, his entry in to medicine, and the start of his love affair with clinical neurology that contains object lessons for those about to embark on a similar voyage. For those of you who never met Gerald or heard him speak and have not read any of his numerous publications, you should indulge yourselves by reading one of his later works (Stern 2011) or the Stanley Fahn Lecture presented at the MDS meeting in 2010 in Bue- nos Aries which you can watch on YouTube (Stern 2010) and an interview carried out by Niall Quinn (Quinn 2010) following that presentation. Then, you will realise what a master of the English language he was, his intellect, his ability to dissect and analyse complex areas of neurology, and how he used his wit and humour to entertain an audience. Gerald showed boundless enthusiasm for clinical neurol- ogy and was beloved by his patients who adored the time and patience which he showed in trying to understand their problems and to treat them to the best of his ability. Such was the respect of his patients that two apparently penniless, little old ladies left him substantial legacies with which he funded his research. Famed for his tact and diplomacy and courteous manner, he was sought out by the rich, the famous, Kings, Presidents, and Popes for his clinical skills. Asked why he preferred to practice private medicine rather than aim for a chair of neurology, he responded in typical fashion ‘My dear boy, I couldn’t possibly afford to be a professor’. A pioneer and a non-conformist—some would say rebel—he was involved in the earliest studies of L-dopa in Parkinson’s disease and subsequently in the introduction of dopamine agonist drugs, notably apomorphine and bromocriptine. Probably, he would have been most proud of his contribution to the introduction of the MAO-B inhibitor deprenyl in to the treatment of Parkinson’s disease, which included being his own guinea pig for testing the safety and effect of the drug—unthinkable in the modern era. Less well known is Gerald’s love of science and laboratory-based research which was fostered by periods in his early career that he spent in USA and in Paris. He must have been one of very few clinicians who subscribed to and read Nature and Science on a regular basis. Enthused by articles that stimulated his imagination, he would be immediately on the telephone to discuss the details of the experiments or he would buttonhole people at meetings and have long conversations which showed the depth of his knowledge and his deep understanding of the relevance to clinical neurology. He would enthuse and even cajole his basic science colleagues in to action to exploit these latest ideas and to translate them in to practical solutions for his patient population. Gerald always described himself as ‘a simple clinician’, but those who worked with him found that he was far from that and including him in the basic science team raised novel ideas and concepts that his lateral thinking brought to the table.Gerald was involved in early studies on the function of the substantia nigra and sub-thalamic nucleus inducing electrolytic lesions in primates under the tutelage of Fred Mettler at Columbia University in New York. This formed the basis of his MD thesis which he wrote sitting on a bidet in a former bordello in Paris. He later forged long-term relationships with Professor Merton Sandler at Queen Charlottes Hospital, London studying catecholamine metabolism and, subsequently, the actions and metabolism of deprenyl. He then became fascinated by the potential for curing Parkinson’s disease through the use of foetal cell transplantation and in many respects was a pioneer in this field enabled by another long-term relationship with Professor Harry Bradford at Imperial College London. One of us (PJ) has personal experience of how Gerald never let an unsolved problem rest. One of his earliest studies, in 1963, was in to the cause of nigro-pallidal degeneration in horses induced by the ingestion of the yellow star thistle. Gerald tried unsuccessfully to induce the same degenerative process in both rodents and primates convinced that there was a specific toxin in the plant that had relevance to human disease. Some 30 years later, when MPTP was first coming to prominence, he related these studies to me, and after reading his paper, I was sufficiently convinced by Gerald’s enthusiasm to go back to the problem. Together with a Swiss phytochemist, toxic components of the plant extracts were identified as sesquiterpene lactones (Cheng et al. 1992)—although it still remains a mystery as to why only horses are affected. In his professional life, Gerald Stern was, by nature, a quiet, generous, and unselfish man who gave his time freely to others and was never one to seek the limelight. In fact, many will remember him because of the patronage which he showed to young neurologists and scientists encouraging them to greater things through his enthusiasm for the field. A gift that is not as common today and for which we are poorer. One of us (PJ) will be forever grateful for the support and encouragement that he received from Gerald in the early part of his career—everything from listening my woes to constructive criticism of my work to bombarding me with ideas to ensuring that I took the right path to achieve my ambitions. He was a father figure to many, but never took the credit for doing so much to advance the field of movement disorders in the UK and on an international basis. Perhaps,in these young people, he recognised something of himself and saw their struggles as the ones which he himself had had to overcome. One or two final quotations personify Gerald and his personality. ‘Surround yourself with clever young people who are more industrious, more imaginative, more intelligent than yourself’ and ‘Be nice to old ladies’. Rest in peace dear friend! References Cheng CH, Costall B, Hamburger M, Hostettmann K, Naylor RJ, Wang Y, Jenner P (1992) Toxic effects of solstitialin A 13-acetate and cynaropicrin from Centaurea solstitialis L. (Asteraceae) in cell cultures of foetal rat brain. Neuropharmacology 31:271–277 Lees AJ (2018a) In memoriam: Gerald Malcom Stern (October 9, 1930–September 9, 2018). Mov Disord 33:1831–1833 Lees, AJ (2018b) Munk’s Roll vol. XII, Royal College of Physicians, London. https://history.rcplondon.ac.uk/inspiring-physicians/geral d-malcolm-stern. Accessed Feb 2020 Lees AJ, Ockelford J (eds) (2019) Remembering Gerald Stern. Virginia Keiley Benefaction, London Quinn N (2010) Interview with Gerald Stern, Buenos Aries, MDS Archives. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EST-Otslc8g. Accessed Feb 2020 Quinn N (2019) Gerald Malcolm Stern: 9th October 1930–9th Septem- ber 2018. Mov Disord Clin Pract 6:9–10 Stern G (2010) Stanley Fahn Lecture, MDS Meeting, Buenos Aries. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0_MZWVK3mE. Accessed Feb 2020 Stern G (2011) Why catechol? Mov Disord 26:24–26 Publisher’s Note Springer Nature remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.

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coldlipsmag · 7 years ago

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PHONELESS IN BERLIN

Words: Kirsty Allison

All photographs by Martyn Goodacre, except images of Danielle De Picciotto’s art, and Alexander Hacke’s studio…and the portrait of Morgan, by Kirsty.

Clouds’ shadows camouflage the sea. Sardine boats dodge the lifeboat wind farms. I jet-trash over last night’s cab, and the phone left on the back seat.

SCHONEFIELD AIRPORT

“Yes,” with an ‘of course’-face, “It has all the streets on it.” The tourist board office give me a map with the VisitBerlin travel card – 41E for 6 days, generous. I like free travel, and I like maps. Not Maps that rhyme with apps. I see the island of West Berlin – I put all the streets in my long black woollen notebook pocket.

U-BAHN/S-BAHN

Map in a glass cage – no index – I’ll take a photo – look at it when I’m moving – I can’t take a photo. My cogs shift from the cybernet dimension.

Alone. Letting go of my infatuation with being monitored, I feel an analogue glitch, a slip of fortune as I enter the low-rise city, uninterrupted with pings.

A watch. I could buy a watch – to tell the time.

I could walk rather than do the connection.

THE HORRORS / Synästhesie Festival / Volksbühne

“The people putting this festival together told me this granite floor was from Hitler’s Bunker,” says Anton Newcombe of the Brian Jonestown Massacre and A Records, DJing in the green room, two floors of sweeping staircases up in the People’s Theatre of Mitte’s Rosa-Luxemburg Platz – once the centre of East Berlin’s GDR.

“Do you believe them?” I ask, of the 8MM Bar promoters who put the festival together. We consider the plausibility, the Nazi star, in dirty creams and blood reds.

Mark Reeder later confirms it to be from the Nazi Vice Chancellor office. And of the cenotaphs stashed beneath the KuDamm – the Nazi spikes. Close enough. Anton is a hero – DIG! the film he stars in aside spars, The Dandy Warhols – an essential on the rock n roll rites-of-passage Reading List. Between his selection of classic psychedelia: “I was born in 1967, in California, of course I’m psychedelic”, with highlights such as Fabio Viscollios 7”, he sets the record straight on all kindsa connections that zip around my references of the night – the stars that guide us, the magnets who form us.

Arrival in Neukölln

So 90s, no blue arrow locator. Without the digital psychographic veils of my screen, the meaning of wrong direction changes – I love to travel, to feel on top of the globe, wherever you walk, with only the weight of the identifiers you carry.

Natural order leads me to Stroke Order – my faux-god-sista, of the Sacred Sound Club – her haus is pink. Y3 shoes, high ceilings, dribble shower, CK mirror. She’s a costume designer for films, but has been hiding out here for a year. Making minimal techno – using autonomous sensory meridian response samples – sounds that turn us on.

Our mothers are pretend godmothers to me and her. She grew up in Vancouver. Dad is a motorcycle racer and ballet dancer in Japan.

Synästhesie Festival / Volksbühne

CAMERA take to the main stage of seated theatre hall. Brutalist fractal collage films of matrix shifting cities, juddering with intent. Projections of you watching me watching you – perhaps being shot live in the auditorium – full scope. Beaming around the physical force of a standing drummer triballing out for a 20 minute set on a bass drum, snare and cymbal. The centre-piece. Astral simulacrum to The Egg who I played with earlier this year. The standing drummer keels in sweat, throws a death white sheet over the drums as though he has beaten them dead, only to dampen their noise, and continue hitting and hitting. Keys, 2 x guitar, sitar bass, different genereration radical on sax – elf dancing.

I’m reminded of the need for parameters – the ones we invent to live inside. The significance of numbers plays on the screens – another hallucination. A replacement for seeing everything through snapshot Insagram lens. Abandoning our digital religion – is so FKK (freikörperkultur – the GDR East Berliners act of rebellion was to strip on Sundays around the lakes – to rip off the communist soaked nylons of identikit clothing*). So naked.

TANGERINE DREAM

A violinist in black – modular synth Memotron on one side – a bank of other buttons on the other side. One life. One nerve shatters and then rest follow. First they twitch, and glitch the matrix…

I catch a bit of THE PINS – all girls – superhot, riot grrrrl electronica.

THE HORRORS

Violent Lenin Uber Alles track shatters across the increased scale of the stage for this headline performance – punk anger of East Berlin, red deco chandeliers of alles Ku-damm Cabaret glory. Waiting for Faris Badwan, the singer who I first interviewed for Dazed and Confused, making a film about his illustration – and exhibition, I wonder about the symbolism of genre/sound/music/art as signs of the times – about resonance – of what we are creating and producing – of X Factor sounds as the capitalist panacea – of our art resonating our environment – or us gravitating towards it. Stroke Order making techno in Berlin.

The futurism of white noise perfection – the dystopian values, four albums in from when I first met Faris – he was maybe 23 then. Unsure if he was going to carry on at St Martins art school. By the time I interviewed him again for Vogue, he was not going back.

And here, seated in the very front row – I witness the evocation of destiny – he’s become less of the shy frontman, but someone who is commanding the respect of the universe – he violently whips the mic lead – he hails the pulses of front row screamers, bonding their necks with rubber wire – he in black PVC – guitarist in red lipstick – beautiful rockstar boys. Lyrics are lost in the Elritch reverb – Faris is crown stealing. Volatile black energy of goth industrial – contemporised by Tom Furse – and his techno pyramid synths. Ice sweat dripping Hackney vampire bassist Rhys Webb. Faris has become storming iconic balearic, striding over theatre seats, in smart city shoes. It’s cosmic goth, it is power – it is owning the depth of Poe hell to Blakean heavens. From voyeurs to submission, the audience leave satisfied.

WEDDING/NW multi-cultural reaches of the city.

Fire station studio. Danielle De Picciotto walks us across a courtyard in twilight. Pyramid of flowers, split by stairs to a below-sea-level, waiting buddha, draped with beads. Left and right basement of Californian security doors, co-joined studios, His and Hers. Drums on the male side, Alexander Hacke, Einsturzende Neubatten – poles of metal to hit. Next door: paintings of black and white folklore S+M dolls with tripped out wings, and photograph reflections. Hers. With tea. Laughter. Discussion. Love. She is love.

***

Lost – ghetto kid guides me and Stroke Order to the ambient dinner in a bar beneath a block in Wedding: soundproof triangles of three-tone pastel shaved hardwood. Clean vegetables, and a series of performances from three post-Akai-ists. Poetry, soundscapes layering paranoic schizophrenic voices – a DJ girl in from Seattle. The residents, ex-pats, from across Germany, and the world – carrying less ego than London. A wholesome intellect carries through, it gets lost in the whirl of London survival. I think back to hanging with the man commonly known as Rodent, the Sex Pistols’ sound tech – he was saying everything is lost in our digital times – the lack of ability to hang out together, they had to live frugally, himself in the studio of The Clash. The intensity of art. It’s easier here. To get involved in your creativity – away from the grab.

SUNDAY

Home jukebox, coffee, and Okay Cafe cinnamon swirls at Jason McGlade and Anne-Cathrin Saure’s (the art director/photographer, and designer of Cold Lips II, and co-createurs of the Shedville font). They moved back here recently – but Jason’s back and forth to London, working on an incredible analogue Polaroid project.

Stroke Order and I head out to Berghain – but instead collide with a very old friend who’s been living in Thailand for 14 years – Martyn Goodacre. He took the most iconic picture of Kurt Cobain, and many more. We tried doing music together when we worked on magazines. We go to a bar, meet with a midwife – talk about the horror show of birth, the guidance into the world, policed by the womb and the channel to birth and the rejection from the vulvic eye. The propulsion.

MONDAY MORNING COMING DOWN FROM AN EMAIL THAT IS CHANGING MY LIFE

Space, China – coffee with Mark Reeder. His vinyl of Mauderstadt is out now. I’ve just run a trilogy of stories on him in DJ Mag, explaining his part in Berlin, from being the Factory rep in Berlin in Joy Division days, through to putting on punk gigs in East Berlin, recording the music in gay bars to play to New Order – thus Blue Monday – and since, from inventing trance music with his label MfS – getting Paul van Dyk on the map – he’s the man. His uniforms. Rare light.

“Danielle [De Picciotto] and Katia – Love Parade would never have started without them.”

[Love Parade was the street party that began in the ecstatic reunification of East and West Berlin. The wall came down in 1990. The old GDR was a wild land. Read Danielle De Picciotto’s Beauty of Transgression for more…or watch Mark Reeder’s B-Movie…and his forthcoming E-Movie.]

He realises he’s late for his lunch…

Alone, back on the Neukölln streets, I look into the door of a Moroccan cafe – get called in by a round-faced Muslim woman, grey jumper, jeans – trainers – Tangiers market vibes, enter – beans – good – no English – point at a box – I don’t know if she knows I don’t want a tagine but takeaway – they waterfall me mint tea – the door slams shut. There are stickers on the wall tiles – plastic table cloths. Am I about to be drugged? Locked in – I have few Euros and no phone to be stolen.

I sit, read the Unspoken Berlin I’ve picked up – and wait for either the drugs to kick in, or to relax. Oh, some brot on the table – no it ain’t Gucci Bloom sea hedgehog fennel and jerusalem artichoke, chestnut puree and scallop, purple watercress like the exquisite experience of Lokal where local ingredients will dance on plates for us later – nor is is it as refined as the Techno sauna we’ll meditate in around the bar – but it is E2.50 and beautifully wholesome – the chickpeas are larger than London.

—-

Neurotitan have taken Cold Lips and my last 3 copies of Unedited. Stefi there is lovely. It’s somewhere that’s always called me on previous trips to Berlin. Many putting a film together that became impossible, about Manuel Gottching, of Ash Ra Tempel – and E2:E4 – the most sampled record – inventor of ambient – before Eno, before the HANSA recordings of Iggy and Bowie. I tell Stefi of my gig last night with Whisky and Words at the Keith bar – where Stroke Order – her pals – and Jason McGlade come by – and Mark Reeder. And Rasp Thorne [post coming to Cold Lips soon, or buy the second edition for total spread]- the consumate performer – lighter over here – my lips are still red from the wine. Stephen Crane. Rasp’s performance of Crane. He’s so good.

Everytime I get on a train here the stasi black jacket ticket checkers are on the same carriage. It’s happened to Morgan 3 times in her year here – and 3 times with me in as many days. I am able to fight my usual paranoias from the top of my Maslow pyramid – the email from a publisher – saying he wants to publish my novel – the one I have had two agents hawk around in 11 years – during which time, I have changed, and so has the story. It is the best email I’ve ever had. Here, lying in bed on the Monday morning after meeting with Anton Newcombe and front row for Faris – Faris frow.Two days later, I’m still flying, as I hit EchoBucher, back in Wedding – they’re taking some Cold Lips…I drop into Potsdamer – meeting… No fucking way. Ticket checkers.

Zug Fallt aus!

You have amazing eyes – you look like Madonna said the guy from Milano – I’m hoping he means old skool hot Madz. En route to the airport – delays – nerves shot / triggering towards Parkinsons and spiked dreams. He calmed me – so did the guy who was also travelling to Stansted – as we ran for the plane, and vice versa. Detoxed from the phone, train home, to the temple – travelling with Alice A Bailey. Nanobotic karmic overide. More ticket inspectors – haunted by the stasi – on plane now – could do with some extra O2 from the overhead locker after running in a coat I just bought which I think I may be allergic to. But it’s so warm.

*German born LA-resident, Benedikt Taschen, the art collector and publisher, has directed the content of the new EAST GERMAN HANDBOOK. An encyclopedic collab with Wende Museum, a place of Cold War artefacts in Culver City. It’s a compendium of communist porn – picture-led, masonically-charged graphics of the whole nine yards of life behind the wall – from ideal weaponary to food, fags, appalling vodka, and the requisite communist shit shoes. It’s got 50s utopian vision written all over it.

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vedicvaani · 6 years ago

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Vedic Vaani Lord Ganesha in Resting Posture Hand Painted Murti|God Ganesh/Ganpati/Lord Ganesha Idol - Statue Gift Item|Buy Lord Ganesh/Ganapati Bapa Statue, Murti, Sculpture and Idol for Home, Office

The Lord Ganesh figurine resting posture is made of enamelled metal in white, green, red and gold colors. Keep them as showpieces or present as gifts. Ganesha, the name itself wards off negativity and obstacles from life, is the destroyer of vanity, selfishness and pride. He is always accompanied by wisdom, intellect and prosperity.

Lord Ganesha is known as the conqueror of Obstacles (Vighnaharta). In ancient times, when agriculture was the primary mode of sustenance, rodents were one of the biggest obstacles to prosperity.

Dimensions: 2.5 inches (H) x 4 inches (W) x 2.2 inches (depth) Weight: 270 grams

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mike2768 · 6 years ago

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Never Undermine The Mice Intelligent Brain

http://bit.ly/1HTKoXB

When comes to the individuals thinking of how many different wise trained smart pets out there living with us? they commonly take into consideration parrots that able to talk back, apes that able to do what humans can do, raccoons can climb and break into the attic, elephants remember especially bad things. Seldom do they ever before think of the little tiny giant home thief the mice that secretly running around our homes at night time? That’s since for centuries the invasive mice abilities have actually been ignored always. The well-known little smart mice have attributes that showed frequently these intelligent characteristics that assist them to make it through as well as make mice elimination as doing it your self oppose to a hiring a professional exterminating company as a difficult task for you.

The Intelligent Trainable Mice

Individuals that have mice for family pets understand just how wise these pets are, as well as actually this knowledge is one factor some gravitate in the direction of smart home pets for friendship to have around. They can show them techniques as well as educate them to identify and also react to hints such as their names as well as to sit up for food. Mice, consequently, are not just reduced upkeep as animals however they are likewise fairly amusing & smart to learn from as well. Mice owners can anticipate seeing a boost in this degree of knowledge as researchers have actually found a method to make mice much smarter. The crucial depend on the control of mixing of the mice genetics. Mice that have actually been subjected to this improvement have actually shown premium abilities in browsing labyrinths, job conclusion, as well as the mice memory ability to scan and remember. Naturally, this is amazing information, but not for home individuals that deal with mice intrusions in their residences daily. Mice are clever and wise, as soon as in the house, they can take a trip as well as trigger damages in its path.

Mice Posses Amazing Investigator Abilities Skills

Mice are smart by the intellect. They have the ability to spot the source of food and also any risk roaming around them very quickly as their feeling of scent and also hearing are super fantastic. Our human odor is specifically valuable to them as they utilize it to stay clear of locations often visited by individuals along with mice catching tools mounted by human beings. In doing so they have the ability to escape risky notification efforts at obtaining them out of danger and survive longer.

When it involves the feeling of hearing, mice are specifically talented. They can listen to nearby sounds that are so high in regularity that individuals unable to hear them. This suggests that their effective hearing capacities can alert them of coming close to a killer like cats or rats that loves to eat them or human being enclosure to ensure that they can turn away and scuttle fast. These acute ears, detects sounds likewise assist them to stay clear of bad choices, that’s the reason make them survive through obstacles much longer, however, on the other hand, they likewise making mice elimination much more difficult to work with especially if you try to do it your self

Secret To Its Encoded Survival Brain

They have superb thinking. This is exactly how they remain on top of the various paths they make use of to take a trip in residences as well as this is why they are so tough to get. When a mouse discovers risk among its paths, it is not likely to take a trip by doing this once again, as it will certainly bear in mind the memorable experience with it. Mice memory additionally allows it to keep in mind the specific family mice in its family members and also in so doing maintains the nesting colony with each other.

Mice Are Social & Team Protective

Mice are very social animals, which is why they often tend to inhabit homes in big teams. To maintain the team with each other they connect by audio along with its path odor. Their traveling sonar squeaks send out messages to fellow mice. As a mouse takes a trip in your residential, it leaves a route of scent that permits various other team mice to recognize where to go or what locations to prevent where the risk impends to the team.

Maximum Residential Mice Control Services Year Round

The smart learning capabilities of the mice prolong their lasting survival, however, they likewise make lots of mice problem services inefficient. This is why Do It Yourself mice removal are usually destined to fall short as soon as begun. Without a doubt, the very best strategy to mice intrusion circumstance is the calling a mice removal specialist company near you. Educated, as well as experienced mice, control service technicians, recognize mice biology, attributes as well as habits, therefore, they are aware of the variables determined below in addition to much more than applying the strategy on your own.

They are likewise observant of the approaches that function in addition to those that do not when it pertains to mice elimination from your business or home. This kind of skilled technique to mice elimination can be located by contacting best rated pest control companies MaximumPestControlServices here in the heart of Oakville, Burlington & Hamilton Ontario Canada is the excellent choice for residential & businesses when it comes to specialty mice removal service due to the fact that their mice inspection methods are superior with in-depth understanding of the mice cycle elimination and successfully servicing happy clients in Halton Region all year round.

Book An Appointment Today With Maximum For Mice Assessment Home Inspection Calling Maximum Rodent Control Specialists Hotlines (905) 582-550 Or (289) 396-5426.

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