#thoughtspew

[srvoskliemalt]

Thoughtspew №. 9: NEWS IN RHYME

A sort of

HYPERtensive,

HYPERinvasive,

HYPERgeneralised n a r r a t i v e:

A story carefully defined,

ConnIVED &

Twisted to RHYme;

A madman's design,

The yeast of Thought and Mind,

S-t-i-t-c-h-e-d together, and

bOtchED, and

OVERTLY FrankenSTEINED.

The details, the gist, the apple of the eye -

Pushed aside &

Incomprehensible to all, completely conTRIVED.

A constant state of

WoeFUL,

BlissFUL,

C a r eFUL,

DisregardFUL obliviousness -

A saving stupidity in the face of:

The [ TELE ] screen,

The [ OPTIC ] sheen,

The [ EYE ] of the beast &

The maddening revelatory thought worthy of pure SCREAMS.

Walking towards the crowd, the only thing I can see -

is c l a w I N G,

gnawING,

bawlING hands and face of people I haven't ever-ever seen.

The great group of heads spewing out claims of "informATION"

The headline for today reads: " 1 MILLION TROOPS STATIONED"

War and Peace and Art, ten cents apiece: commodificATION

News hot off the presses, a House suffering destabilisATION

No solutions in sight, eyes turning blind across the nATION

Losing my PATIENCE,

People becoming COMPLACENT

Sacrilege turning perverted, wrongful and OBSTENTATIOUS

And all in all,

This composition, although rather LOQACIOUS,

Serves to show we ought to wake up,

Or face complete annihilATION.

[booyouimcrazy]

Things That Rhyme

Think I'm going to keep a log of things I say that I think rhyme.

"We're one month away from this year ending,

With no signs of it relenting"

[deezndoz]

Sometimes, I wish people could listen to what I'm listening to and feel the same

[johobi]

someone do an urban legends collab w me pls so i can write my Robin Hood fic ty

[c-is-for-circinate]

I wrote so much thoughtspew about the first two seasons of Farscape and serialization vs episodic plot in late-90′s TV and character progression, and then I put a cut there because I’m not an animal.

An interesting thing that happens in Farscape (and I’m a couple of episodes into season 3, and have not been particularly good about any sort of liveblogging, as expected): we don’t actually see the first time John Crichton, intentionally and in his right mind, specifically chooses to and succeeds in killing someone he’d consider a person.

I was keeping an eye out for it--I knew it would happen sooner or later, and early Season 1 Crichton, who thinks he can talk Crais out of his vendetta by explaining it was a car accident; who brokers a deal with the Genesis and then sends a Marauder crew of Peacekeepers off of Moya alive; who spends the entire first episode confused and captured and shot at by various people and then insists, when he’s finally the one with the gun and the handcuff keys, that the Moya crew rescue Aeryn right along with him--that Crichton is so deliberately and fundamentally not a killer.  It’s one of his firmament truths about the world.  You don’t kill people.  That’s not how the world works.

And it was so clearly one of the things that was going to get stripped away in the breaking-down of John Crichton (which I remembered enough about Farscape to know would happen, but could not have described the trajectory of).  So I was keeping an eye out for it, and I realized, we never quite get it.

There’s a moment in Maldus’s trap, with Crais, where he decides to hell with it and tries to kill Crais--but fails.

There’s the virus that takes him over, uses John’s own two hands to beat a Peacekeeper scientist to death--but John doesn’t remember that, wasn’t in control, isn’t really to blame.

And then there’s the Peacekeeper ship that leaves Moya at the end of the episode, that John figures out how to blow up by its trail of cesium fuel--but the only person on board the ship is possessed by the virus, is a zombie, could never be saved, and everyone knows killing a zombie isn’t the same as killing a real person, right?

There’s the firefight as he escapes the Gammak base, and maybe he hits someone lethally and maybe not, but who knows?  There is, of course, the plan several days later that destroys the base completely--ignites an entire moon, and surely dozens, hundreds (thousands?) die with that.  So maybe that’s it.  Maybe that’s the moment.  Or maybe by that point the moment’s already passed.

By the fourth episode of season 2, John stabs T’raltixx straight through the chest with a quolta blade, stone dead, up close, at a range to see his face and his blood, but of course he’s half-crazed from light emissions at that point, so that’s not quite right either.  But by that point it doesn’t feel new or horrifying any more anyway.  By that point John carries a pulse-pistol as a matter of course, and has probably used it off-camera and we haven’t even seen it.  By the time his caveman and superbrain doubles show up he’s ready to shoot first and ask questions later.  By the time he’s kidnapped by the Scarran on the commerce planet, he thinks of himself as a person who’s killed, who’s grown callous to the suffering of others, who his mother would be ashamed of.

John spends a lot more time threatening to shoot people than actually shooting them, but his aversion to pitched battle in the timeslip episode near the beginning of season 3 has a lot more to do with timeline integrity than avoiding death.  He goes into a firefight of pitched battle at the end, and shoots to kill, and succeeds again and again and again, and the only people whose deaths he regrets at the end of it are the ones he tried to save.

The thing is, I’m really into how these gradual character shifts happen.  I’m intrigued by the lack of a clear-cut start/stop point.  Because I think that’s how it happens for the characters, too.

John Crichton never wakes up and thinks, I’m a different person today than I was yesterday.  He doesn’t notice the first tilot me he really kills someone, on purpose--it’s a thing that happens in the middle of ten thousand other things, and by the time he has time to sit down and process the fact that it happened, it has happened, and has been happened, and there’s something else new to worry about now anyway.  

John stops wearing his IASA flight suit and it’s just sort of a thing that happens, and maybe it’s laundry day or maybe it’s the day he dressed up to pretend to be a Peacekeeper and everything went to shit, and in retrospect it matters but at the moment it’s nothing.  You can point to the end of S1 as a major turning point for him, but plenty of things turned around before that point happened.  And of course, you can point to the chip as the explanation for so much of the rage and the violent impulses John’s throwing around in season 2--but it’s not like one of the (many, many) one-off mindfrells that dissipate at the end of an episode and leave whoever-it-is alone to be themselves again.  Season 3 John may be ‘himself again’, but whoever his self is, it’s a pretty far cry from who he was when the chip first went in.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this gradual style of character development, where the Big Meaningful Things just sort of happen in the background and you don’t notice until they’re over.  And I wonder how much of it is about the way episodic TV happened in the late 90′s vs today.

In the late 90′s, nobody made TV shows for people to marathon.  I remember 1999.  We had a VCR, which nobody in the house knew how to program, and no cable which meant that any episodes of Farscape I watched were on tape at my best friend’s house and usually out of order.  Any shows I did watch as they aired were often out of order: some weeks it’s a new episode, some weeks it’s a rerun, some weeks you go to your sister’s play and miss it entirely, some weeks it’s preempted by The Sports.  Serialization was a thing, but there was absolutely less continuity from one episode to the next than you might get from, say, Sens8, or Steven Universe, or even something like The Good Place--which is an episodic sitcom, but still builds each episode off of events in the episode before.  I remember watching The Wire for the first time, on DVD, in 2010, and saying to my friends, “this is a different kind of tv show”.  Every single episode acted as a chapter in a story, rather than a stand-alone piece that could be shuffled into a different order within the guidelines of a couple of specific signpost events.  And the kind of character development you do in a show like that, a show made for the internet generation, a show whose creators expect it to be binged, is different.

Farscape has a lot of continuity, but it also uses the status quo as a tool.  Half the episodes start of in media res.  We don’t need to know the specifics of how we got to wherever we are today, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the last episode.  We know the generalities: we’re on Moya, we’re generally in trouble of some kind, and now we’re going to find out what new difficulties today has brought.  Along with that, we know the status quo of characters.  In Season 1, we know John Crichton is desperate to go home to Earth, is confused and out of place, would rather talk than hurt anybody, or let anybody hurt anyone else.  That’s who he is.  Episodes where he doesn’t act that way--trying to kill Crais and then very nearly killing Maldus--they’re anomolies.  One really bad day.  That’s why it’s so easy to shrug off the time he explodes the Peacekeeper shuttle with the virus-infected captain in it.  That can’t really be Crichton committing murder, because that’s not who he is.  That’s not who the status quo says he is.  If that’s who he is, it changes the status quo.

And the thing is, using status quo as a tool like that allows the show to do a lot of very gradual character development without the audience or the characters themselves actually noticing.  Season 2 Crichton is so angry all the time, but--well, it’s just bad days, because we know Crichton, and he’s a good guy who doesn’t like violence.  Or, once it’s been going on long enough--okay, I guess this is the new status quo, he’s just an angry guy.  Was he always like this?  Guess he changed while we weren’t looking.  The show doesn’t start to reveal what’s up with the chip until the back half of the season.  And then suddenly there’s a reason Crichton’s been acting like this, and that makes sense, but also by that point it’s become part of the status quo.  Crichton knows how to do violence and is so frustrated all the time.  That’s part of who he is now.

And I think the show really benefits from being watched with that mindset, because it feels like the characters are just as used to thinking of themselves and their friends in terms of status quo as we are.  I’m thinking about the episode where Zahn and D’Argo and Rygel rip off Pilot’s arm and then turn on each other.  By that point they’ve stood by each other through all sorts of problems, risked their lives for each other, and for Pilot and Moya, no question.  But the opportunity to go home comes up, and they each think about who they are, who they think they are, and they think, ‘I am a person for whom going home is the Number One Priority’.  Never mind how little time they’ve spent seeking out a way home compared to how much time they’ve spent taking care of each other.  By season 3, John loves Aeryn, loves Moya and her crew, would die for them and has actively tried to do so on multiple occasions, but he puts them all in danger for a chance at a wormhole and a way home.  Not because going home is actually more important to him than their safety--if you set out the choices in front of him, if you said ‘You go home but Moya and everyone on her will suffer or die’, he’d give up the chance to go home without question.  But the option comes up, and the little self-identification flag in his head goes, ‘Astronaut John Crichton, US of A, wants to go back to Earth more than anything in the world’, like a one-note character description blurb.

Farscape works really well when viewed as a show about a bunch of people who spend very little time actually thinking about where they’re going and why.  They drive around in circles getting into and out of trouble, trying to keep safe and keep fed, reacting to one problem after another, and not one of them has any kind of plan for getting the things they say they want.  Ask anybody on Moya if they intend to spend the rest of their lives there, they’d say no (or, ‘probably, and it looks like that’ll be about half an arn, now shut up and let us figure out how not to die’).  But not one of them have an actual plan for leaving her.

[nosunlite]

I saw The Choir and The Throes last night, which probably means nothing to 99% of you rappers out there. Really I think only Ben Horne even understands what this all means, and he’s gone, but my thoughtspew is coming fast and I don’t want to lose it. The dudes were mad old, the crowd was sitting and munching nachos, but I was launched back into a world of weird sadness and good memories of when we were all younger and I was indoctrinated into weird music by my older brother Ben.

Anyways, Ben died (The Choir’s “Salamander” was on his fav songs list at the time of his death) and I ended up with his “Wide Eyed Wonder” cassette. Yesterday, The Choir came to Vienna and played that album in its entirety, and here are some pictures of me with Derri and Steve signing Ben’s old tape, and Bill with my own copy of “Fall on Your World”. It mattered to me. The rest of the story probably doesn’t to you (or anyone), but here I go, back way back…:

Ben or Eric bought the 2nd Throes album in ’93 or ‘92 when we had no idea what ripping off R.E.M. sounded like, but we played that album on steady repeat, one of the only non-Petra CDs in the house. Dudes certainly got weird, and I didn’t realize how good it was to have Mike Knott and Derri Daugherty featured on some jangly indie rock. “Noose of Trust” was the classic, and I remember Ben copying lyrics and printing them, posting onto his wall. Listening to that album now is not like hearing music, but like living as a 7 year old, smelling the blue downstairs carpet and looking up to older brothers. When they busted out the gates with “Say Hello” last night, I was way more emotional than I expected, confused as to what strange mixture of memories and forgetfulness was hitting me, like I don’t even think about that I’ve lost my best mentor unless I remember the music that he was shoving onto me all those years ago. Time. Yesterday the guitars were chiming, Campbell’s vocals were as charming as ever, but the flashbacks were better.

In ’96, Dad took me to Family Bookstore to pick out a disc for my 10th birthday. After seeing that “Away with the Swine” was peaking on some CCM chart, I ended up with The Choir’s “Free Flying Soul,” not knowing that they were legends a decade in. That CD ruled and inspired me as maybe a dozen other albums have. And it was WAY over my head. But I latched onto some elements. I remember waiting by the door at Canterbury Woods Elementary School dismissal to go home a few days after my birthday cos I desperately wanted to hear “The Chicken,” running home to put it onto Ben’s stereo before he got home from Cross Country practice. This was a turning point for me, the first band I had known before Ben and that he totally loved. (He tried to trade my copy off of me for Mesa or some such garbage many times. That’s one thing about older brothers – they’ll give you the Rick Schus and swear they are Cal Ripkens.) Eventually, Eric or Ben bought (or BMG’d?) the “Love Songs and Prayers” Choir Best Of, and we proceeded backwards to hear all sorts of classics of that hope/faith/despair/darkness/love/God/sex/weird mix that The Choir did so well.

“Car, Etc.” was the one they pushed onto the family, and I have never thought it anything less than genius. It is the one song that I think transcends mere nostalgia from “Wide Eyed Wonder”, a real classic. Last night, Steve shook all sortsa bells, Derri did the incantations, and Robin chanted along and it was a real peak experience.

It doesn’t touch listening to it on a tiny boombox with your brothers in the kitchen tho.

[sketchymcdoodles]

Why I watch Victorious and other musings.

I miss my parents so much, it hurts to think about it sometimes. I want nothing more than to be with them right at this moment, but I know that we had to stay behind for a reason.

It's hard just thinking about paying for school and getting a job and just having to grow up practically overnight.

"What are you going to do in the future?"

"How are you going to support yourself?"

"Is that major gonna get you anywhere?"

It seems as if I can never answer these questions properly when people ask them of me. And then I dwell too much on the possible answers and I just end up getting so frustrated that I can't sleep at night.

Kuya Beejay, who I consider to be an older brother, told me tonight to "be young for as long as you can," and that's definitely something I'm working on. I need to step away from it all and leave all my worries locked in a jar for a little while. I'm only 21, but I feel like I'm a thousand years old sometimes..

I guess that's why I started to watch so many kid's shows. I'm sure some people think I'm weird for being obsessed with cartoons and shows like Victorious or Wizards of Waverly Place, but watching these shows make me feel young and carefree. I can just sit down for a bit and laugh all my worries away. It's a great feeling.

[srvoskliemalt]

Thoughtspew №. 8: Letter From Abigail

BLOODIED BOUTS

HEAD GOES STOUT

WITH WITHOUT

I WANT OUT

FLOWERS SHINE

DEMONS THRIVE

I ARISE

REALISE

HELLO JUDE

WHY SO RUDE

ENDLESS FEUD

SO TABOOED

STAKE IN HEART

REND APART

PRETTY ART

DON'T DEPART

CHOKING BREAD

FISTS HAVE FLED

OVERFED

PAIN IS RED

CHOKING HEAD

JESUS BLED

MUM IS DEAD

SON IN BED

NONE ARRIVE

TELL YOUR WIVES

HE'S IN PSYCH

LAUGHS INSIDE

DOESN'T DIE

BLOODIED BOUTS

MIND RAN OUT

CHOSE WITHOUT

HE WANTS OUT

HE WANTS OUT

HE WANTS OUT

I WANT OUT

I WANT OUT

I WANT OUT

I WANT OUT

[deezndoz]

बहाने (Excuses)

सीने में एक दर्द सा हुआ जब तुम छोड़ कर गए; जब भी इस दिन के बारे में सोचा इसके गुज़र जाने का ख्याल जरूर आया; जब हम मिले, तो लगा यह शायद आखरी बहाना है - हमारे मिलने का; जब हम साथ थे, जब हम खुश थे - मु��े पता था की हमेशा ऐसा नहीं रहेगा, पर दिल इस ख्याल को भुलाने की कोशिश करता रहा; और शायद यही सही था क्योंकि मुझे यह पल समेटने थे, पकड़ने थे, और फिर से याद करने थे; तुम चले गए हो, ख़ुशी तो है - कि हम मिल पाए, पर दर्द अभी भी है और दिल अभी भी बहाने ढूंढ रहा है|

English Translation My heart ached when you left me; whenever I thought of this day a picture of you leaving also followed; when we met, I realized it may be the last excuse - for us to meet; when we were together, when we were happy I knew that it won't last forever but my heart tried to ignore this; And may be this is the right way for I want to collect these moments, capture these, and cherish these later; you have left now, I am happy though - that we could meet but pain is still there and heart is still looking for excuses.

[supernovasimplicity]

Pointless rant/thoughtspew

Even if there was a Tumblr meet-up near me, I don't know if i'd go.

I probably would, but i'm so scared that even at a Tumblr thing i'd be sitting in the corner on my own, trying not to drag the mood of the place down (I would, I always do)

Lets face it, I only started to "fit in" with the group of friends i'd had since Year 7 in about Year 10, after bullying and walking away from them and making new friends then going back to them. 

And it's not like many people in the friendship group I have at college would choose to be friends with each other if we had the choice. Acquaintances, sure, but we're only a group because we went to the same old school, and now we're all just so fucking insane around each other we've forgotten how to talk to other people. I can't even explain us. 

Even those that I am actually friends friends with do my fucking head in a lot of the time. Yeah, Taylor Swift, Weeaboo-chan and Alan Carr, you three. I mean Christ, you three are like my siblings because the about that you fuck me off and the amount I love you are (usually) equal.

I just. I suck at the whole friends thing, I think. 

So it's okay talking to people online (although I still manage to raincloud over nearly every conversation- it's a damn superpower, I swear), but when it comes to meeting them IRL I just think i'd be shit and awkward and annoying and people would just wish I wasn't there. And I hate the thought of inconveniencing people. I don't want to ruin their day =/

I'm even scared about meeting Nat next year. To the extent that I had a dream that I went to Canada and all I did was get in the way of her and her friends and generally made a twat out of myself. That makes me sound crazy, but I can't help what my subconscious does. 

And what if that does happen and i'm just a nuisance the whole time and then I lose my best friend?  

I'm just so... crap

[hart-and-sole-blog]

Thoughtspew

This was a piece of free writing I did. If you follow me, you've seen one or two of my poems. They're pretty short, yeah? I decided to write down all of the thoughts that came into my head while trying to write a poem. It's sort of a self-examination of how I write. I think it's pretty easy to see by reading this that I first and foremost stick to sound, and let meanings materialize on their own. Eventually, I cut all the crap, tighten the message, make things pretty, and a poem is born. This? This all the unfiltered crap. Enjoy?

Thoughtspew

luminescent, efflorescent, bifurcate, formality, expunge, plunge, binge, fungal, fungus, gusts, thermals, keep me warm in your shawl, your fingers all around me like tattered tassels on a quilt. lukewarm penance, chalice, lattice, ice cream, pleats, sheet, critique me harshly, fall in love at my feet, appease, canopies, umbrella trees leaving me in the underdark, remarking oh me for the life of me I'm clawing away the murk and black but cannot see! rail against the bark of trees, chipping, drawing sap from wounded stern terse inadversaries, hauntingly taunting me with the austere stoicism, quietly mocking my futility, my insignificant place on earth, my insignificant lifespan. you are but an ant! they whisper, billowing caustic pillows of acerbic witticism, decrying every day of my short life, machinations with no illusions of greater purpose, purport, to torpor, turgid, turbid, wind turbines, recline, supine, stupor, in a dizzying show of misplaced machismo. balance, displaced, there are no other sides. just mine. accept it. except it, take an exception, please and thanks, you can laugh to your teary riverbanks, skip stones to stone's throws, just know the ripples, the rankles, as the water laps at your ankles, what you have done, what are you doing, what will you ever do? mostly nothing, waiting, pretend deliberating, sleeping, standing, twiddling, wading, cautiously with tired legs, tired arms and a tired heart, pumping cold blood to collapsing veins and a starving anorexic brain, or maybe it's bulimic? spitting up everything I read it, as if feeding it is useless, like it isn't even hungry so I like awake, unmoving and transwaking, waterboarded, falling scraps dribbling out its open mouth, but when I find the pen and paper to really let it out, they're blank and statuesque like stone eyes on an equestrian, sword drawn, two hooves up, died in battle, stone dead in vague memory that nobody really remembers and nor do I. so I write nothing. but this time I've written something. but not just one thing, it looks like everything I've ever thought about, exploding from my pen like it was falling out my slackjawed mouth I've learned to sew so carefully and tight to shut me up, because with words, well, I just suck, but I suck it up and sometimes they just fall into place, and I can see it on your face, and I can read it in your embrace like the words you kiss begrudgingly upon my face. you just need your space? and I just need to love you less, because maybe then I'd loosen up my death grip on your legs. it's just that I love being alone except when I'm with you, then alone is wasted time that I'd rather waste for two. but off you go, and went, and stay, with your space, and other men, and here I am with new neuroses and letters unsent, expunging poems as fetters shackling me to the past. perhaps I'll shake them all loose one day and forget your name and your face and your green eyes and crooked teeth. your reluctant smile, the way my hands felt around your waist. your white skin, your dark hair, your fuzzy nape, and your taste in men who aren't me. endearing? more like soul-leeching. I can still feel you speaking, like laying in a bed of weeds. but at the very least I know that some small part of you is unhappy, and that's all that I ask. But at some point I do need to move on. I've spent too long under a rock stressed by all this mysterious pressure. I can't just hope to be crushed into a diamond so I'll finally be worth more than a damn to someone I know I love. I think I love. I probably don't love. I haven't loved in a long while, have I? What's it even like? I'll just curl up with a pen and paper and pretend to write like I'm some sort of wounded poet-soldier with an amputated heart, but I'm only growing older and more dispassionate and more disattached, my connections severed by the knives in my back. and my tongue is black with ancient blood and sore from being bit, curtailed, my words don't fail me. I hold them back with my teeth. and my love isn't dead or damaged, my heart sac is just thick with hesitation, scuffed with scar tissue abrasions. does it repulse invasions? or is this all just self-fellation?

[srvoskliemalt]

Thoughtspew №. 7: The Soliloquy

It's far too late in the evening to spin the wheels of gnosis and it's far too danger-ous to speak to me know as I appear.

Had I wished to tear you off as you are to the world I would have done so some ages ago way back when, but I believe that is the reason we speak today.

In one moment I may have that foreign warm sense, that estranged Thought, that seldom-sense-ful Expression and perhaps even the EMOTION of happy-ness. I say, yes, how ever I do so love it.

Alas! I am left to mercy to ask and pray, "Allow me hence-forthe, if it may be less but a second, allow me this privellege and let me revel in FEELING!" And indubitable-y so & without fail, from the depths of the soul comes the ENEMY, the harbinger of the will of God from which my I find my Death delay-ed - from its scrawn-y and hidden mouth always comes the word:

"No",

"No",

"No ?",

"NO ? !!",

as I equally so respond, in the sense of equal exchange of response, forgive my rhythm.

And now I move on from dawdle-ing and I ask from the gnaw-ing of curios-ity I find myself so humble-d with:

Why ?

Why, as to ?

Why must you deprive me of such simple human moments? From what other-world-ly force does this cruel, need-less Hate shine unto thee?

If you haith an ear, listen to what I must share and understand to understand!

I ask for favour and for mercy, for release and for Emotion.

I ask for FEELING. I ask for DAMNATION.

I ask for the sweet release you have ever-so wrought-ful-ly delayed me from!

I ask of you,

LEAVE!

And it is only here in my moment of Weakness & the expression of vulnerability that I often fall victim to that I notice the voice had left three-quarters-to-midnight.

I plan and full-y intend to take my life in the follow-ing four-to-five years.

[srvoskliemalt]

Thoughtspew №. 6: An Anecdote from Nikolas, the voicebox of Fear

I do not fear death in the sense that I fear one day that I may cease to exist biologically, but rather I fear death in the sense that the body will unexist and leave the soul to unspeakable and unknown horrors. No other topic has been under the constant scientific lens and the large ponderful scrutinising eye of Man other than his expiration and the events out of time that could unfold thereafter.

Death. The total cessation of life processes that eventually occurs in all living organisms, as is defined by the Encyclopædia Britannica. The end, the inevitable, the punishment of God of which its purpose serves to return Man to his form from which he was conceived.

I classify death in the Smythe Wheel of concepts as they are arranged in due emotion invoked on the Unpleasantrey end of the Wheel. Death serves as the extreme end of Pain, which itself is an extreme.

Pain is an odd thing as much as it is a horrible and, to some people, delightful thing. It exists in many forms: it is the finishing flick of the hand with which Brutus would end Caesar's rule, it is the expression of a mother as she lays a dead son to rest, it is the pieces of a heart reduced to mosaics upon the floor as two lovers are torn apart.

Many a great and valiant and selfless man will claim and offer their bodies to endure the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and bear the mark of the Whip with which beastly men flay their brothers to shreds. In no time in history will any of these men claim it again when the time comes for words to become actions; there is naught but foolish pleads of mercy, prayers for a Power Up Above whose back has been turned away for millennia, the wish to substitute the body of another to shield your own - selfish is man when he faces his primal thoughts! Impulse feeds into folly! In the face of death there are no heroes.

I fear Pain as much as any man does: I order to breathe deeply after entering bodies of water, I cling for ropes with all the force a hand can cling with, I lock up when standing from great heights. These things are not cowardly, but necessary and inherently instinctful. The instinct of Man is his weakpoint, his Achilles' heel, his point of hubris!

My speech becomes distorted and my time to write cohesively lessons, I am but Thought which influences the Mind and I am due for redundancy at any rate from now, so I leave these takeaways for which anyone is interested.

He who hath an ear, let him hear what a Mind saith unto the masses!

For the Thinker whose Mind weeps silently under chains and bug eyes, hear what He saith unto you!

Strip yourself of instinct, free yourself from the bondage of preservation of the self!

Slavery is hope and liberty is fear!

Lose yourself and lose the keys to your Mind - loss of the soul is VICTORY over the Self!

For the Fool whose blinds himself willingly of the flames that dance to the rhythm of his slowing heart, hear what He saith unto you!

Tear yourself from the lies of false idols and live in Fear and naught but Fear!

A jester and a king leave the same skeleton centuries following their deaths - conquer what it is you believe is yours and burn the men outside!

And for the Enlightened among the crowds whose masks ooze outwards with blood and tears, hear what He saith unto you!

Let NOTHING and NO-ONE but yourself enslave your Mind, the OTHERS work towards your continued suffering!

LET NOT the demons and silver-tongued men see what you are and who you wish to be - they shall surely twist Reality to ensure your torment and dread and depression and DOOM!

GET OUT IF YOU CAN.

FREE YOUR SOUL.

BREAK YOUR CHAINS.

ISOLATE.

DISASSOCIATE.

IF DEATH IS TO COME THEN SLAY HIM AS YOU SEE FIT.

WE KILL GOD AND REACH FOR HIS THRONE.

FEAR EVERYONE.

LET THEM APPLAUD FROM THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE.

LET THEM REMAIN IN TORMENT AND IN BONDAGE.

BE FREE.

[srvoskliemalt]

Thoughtspew №. 4 : Interpretations I

Sometimes I have odd dreams and these odd dreams are odd for their nature of tone. Sometimes my dreams are too abstract for my liking but there is nothing anyone can do about that. Sometimes my dreams are very mean-spirited what with the actions I take and the situations handed to me in them.

Sometimes my dreams predict an event and always the event happens at some point. Sometimes it is days and sometimes it would be years before the event materialised. When the event does come about I experience a sort of ' deja vu ' sudden awareness effect that recalls the dream.

I have successfully predicted several events in my own life and several pop culture and political events through these dreams. I have not found any professional investigation by any SCIENCE people concerning these dreams.

I think I'm an oracle or prophet of sorts, but that is a silly, dirty thought that is rooted in UNTRUTH. I would like to not be an oracle or prophet because I am not a good candidate for such a position of responsibility and I am not very smart or fit or old or wise or rich or able bodied to do so. There is nothing anybody can do about this.

Yesterday I had an odd non-prophetic dream of which the earlier points escape my memory as usual. What I can remember now as of writing is the second half, which is the more eventful one which I wish to share.

From the second half of the dream, a grand APOCALYPSE event has happened and this sends down a great flood of brown liquid ( I assume it to be beans or some odd grease; this makes sense with the context of the now-forgotten first half ) that half submerges my house with my family in it.

We are in a bunker position set in the kitchen where I can see the flood from the front window. My father attempts to search news on the INTERNET in vain, although there is still power. After the flood ends in some minutes from then a knock is heard on the door. I respond " Who is it ? ", and a voice from outside threatens us, replying with

" If you value your life, then this door will be opened ! ".

I open the door in curiosity and there is a relative standing outside with a black sedanish vehicle parked ( A note to make is that the Relative knocking I have never met before in media or in the flesh, but my head acknowledges this person as a relative. ) He greets my father and begins to rob us.

I follow him and in this process an executioner's sword is in my hand by means of dream logic, and I look to my father and he tells me that he loves me & that I am his true son. I take this as justification for my next actions and I behead the Relative in a few amateurish blows.

I ought to draw out the process for clarity lest I forget this dream. The point of writing today was for a scene of visceral shock when I chopped the bugger's head off. It laid there on the cobbles next to the car but the body is unseen & a single butterscotch rod sticks out, which is presumably its spine. I do not like this dream because for want of a clean cut I caused great suffering to the Relative and its pains uneased me.

I ought to introduce my therapist to my account but he will probably take my head clean off as I wish I did to the poor Relative.

🍖🍋🍩 kthxbai !! 🍖🍋🍩

[srvoskliemalt]

Thoughtspew №. 3: Pastries I

I had a dream last night and my dream was an odd dream. The details escape my memory as of writing but something I do remember was a scene of me sharing carrot cake with a dark shadowy humanoid figure.

I do not know why it was carrot cake because I do not recall having it at any point of my life; despite this, my head managed to come up with a taste for the cake & I recall it being a good taste.

Now that I think about it, there is carrot cake in the fridge and if I eat it the same taste may come up once more.

I will not try the fridge carrot cake because I fear the taste may be off & I fear that by not enjoying the cake it will be a waste of food. If I waste food then I am a wasteful person and that is bad because it is rude and unthoughtful of others.

I reckon I'm going mad.

I ought to be mad because I've always been mad for years past.

I think I am overthinking again because my therapist told me that smart people think too much and that causes stress.

I will think as much as I like until my brain blows to smithereens in some time from now. It is better to have an abundance of thought over tinny orthodox thought.

Do carrots dream of tofu sheep ?

🍖🍋🍩 kthxbai !! 🍖🍋🍩

[srvoskliemalt]

Thoughtspew №. 2: Beige Skies

It is wintertime and the illnesses plaguing me since the New Year have left for now. Something I've noticed with the snowfalls in my city is that the skies are awfully greyish-latte in colour.

If the site embeds properly, I've got the colour for clarification:

The SCIENCE folks in their SCIENCE laboratories claim it's something about our Moon and its reflecting of the ( currently snowy ) ground below. The other relatively saner people I've found on the INTERNET claim it's because of those 'pesky light pollutions and government psyop projects'.

Either way, this does NOT look normal !! At night the skies are "BLACK" ( #000000 ) in colour and not "greyish-latte" ( #83776b ) !!

Why, I ought to speak to Mr. Night about his switching of the colours because NIGHT is dark and DAYLIGHT is undark !!

Next the waters will dry what they move upon & the Sun will rise in the WEST and set in the EAST & we will be able to fly due to reversed gravity ( not that I'd dislike this, mind you ) & the potatomen will rise from the grounds below and take over SOCIETY !! !! !!

Horrible things will happen in this year, whether they be POLITICS or EARTHLY or even FUNDAMENTALLY. There will be a great event that will surely end SOCIETY as it is now & there is little we can do to stop it*.

*A good solution I propose is total GOVERNMENT death, of course, but this is greatly "illegal" and "pro-anarchy". While these things are technically not an issue, attempts to carry out this event would surely result in DEATH which is bad and not rooted in TRUTHS. To do this would mean GOVERNMENTS would already be weakened and crumbling, which is something we're on track to experience.

You didn't hear this from me and I was never here, of course; for LEGAL reasons, this footnote is PARODY and untrue as of writing ;3

🍖🍋🍩 kthxbai !! 🍖🍋🍩