Go round and round the wagon, because you’re the mule tethered to the big wheel.

Shambal does as the crone asks. He always does what the crone asks. She’d be dead soon, anyhow, so what did it really matter? And, besides, her cleft is all that tangibly remains of nostalgia that engulfs him hourly. In an extended adolescence, or a dream, he cannot recall which, he imagined himself at his current age. The term that bounced around in his mind was dirty old man. All his compatriots (that’s what they were, really, as opposed to friends) would have swiftly agreed that his destiny was to be a dirty old man.

Indeed, he is a dirty old man. The catch, however, is there are no nubile chicks about for him to exploit. No, there is only the withered cleft.

Again, long ago, that cleft was magic. He turned to it daily for release. At the time, it was not only release, but a sense of empowerment. He was a conqueror, even if he conquered the same treeless valley time and time again. These days, release is the only valid term. He still likes to think of himself as a conquorer. He even traces that word on the slimy walls of his bathing place at times. It reassures him.

Shambal shared his bodily fluids with other clefts back in the day. He was keen on conquering as many as possible and as quickly as possible. He unilaterally refused to take the slightest glance from the point of view of any given conqueree. He may have lost a bit of his sense of empowerment had he done so. Those ripe clefts so full of the juice of life internally referred to him simply as a skin rod.

His conquests never gave him much of a backwards mental glance.

That is, execpt for the cleft he thought once to be eternal but now squirts lubricant into to facilitate his release. He makes the lubricant in his personal studio or workshop. He renders the fat from the clammy worms that crawl round the perimeter of his chosen homestead. Later, he’d think back on even this as the good ol days as he contemplates rendering the fat from his drooping buttocks for an extended whack session. The lubricant keeps well in the patented cold fusion fridge he himself invented during his fecund youth. Before the release sessions, he places it in another unit also powered by his once famous invention for warming.

What is it to be a dirty old man if the objects that assign you to that category no longer exist in your world? Self assignment is natural, sure. Shambal has always been fond of assigning the term genius to himself even as he has lacked any evidence to convince others of this trait. Thankfully, only he and his cleft are left, and that ragged flesh rupture worships him willingly. Gladly. And, given this current context, a genius he surely is.

Dirty Old Man? Uncertain.

Piebald, ghostly figures surround him in his dreams. Their torsos are painstakingly thin. Their breasts burst from whatever skimpy outfit the nightly hallucination has assigned. The bodies never topple from the weight. Aren’t hallucinations great? Each face is interchangeable, though with distinguishing features always pert with whorish smiles and wide eyes. Shambal loves long, dark pelts to spill far beyond milky shoulders. There will be tender bite marks on a few of those shoulders, incised himself in past hallucinations. Legs are always a tad longer than the arched backs. Overall, the chicks have small frames, perfect for almost instantaneous conquest. One by one, and even in duos or trios at times, they fall to his skin rod.

His own visage vacillates unerringly like two orbits of an electron between his current bent form and the prime of his health. His skin rod displays itself proudly, unchanging, in every scene. After all, that borer of the depths has always been the summation of his personality.

He pushes the spokes of the wheel casually round and round and round. The crunching of machinery below sings to him of their next meal. At times, he wished he were not the mule but actually owned one of the likeable beasts. He’s heard rumours of their continued existence in the outlands. Well, he’d heard of their continued existence what could be several rotations of the second star ago. He loses track of time. At times, he also wishes he could measure time reliably by his releases into the puckered cleft. His mind is still agile enough to recognize that this manner of keeping time would be about as precise as hmeasuring it by his agéd bowel movements.

It occurs to him that if he could subsist without releases for some rotations of the first star, he’d be capable of finding out himself if mules do indeed still exist. He might even be able to procure one.

Hrm, he thinks. Life without the cleft for such an extended time? It’s a contemplation of perdition. The cleft is his soul. He’d not lose it. Little does he know that when the cleft does loose its empty skin bag to the void, he’ll make the journey. Furthermore, he’ll never return. The cleft’s resting place, to be dug by Shambal’s own personal excavation robot, will never be seen again by anything approaching the sentience of a humanoid.

One of the slipping points of a relationship, methinks, is the point a couple reaches at which they simply accept each others’ gush of erroneous data. I see now, in magnificent hindsight, plenty of places in past shindigs I stopped attempting to, as the trollops say, put my mates in their places intellectually. In part, I knew they resented me taking the role of the teacher. EVERY girlfriend / boyfriend / wife / husband / stoat does. Managing the vast, grey area between instruction and kind correction is not a task for the weak of skeletal infrastructure. Therefore, many of my bunghoneys have fallen astray.

It’s easy to note that accepting the flaws of your sack-sloth’s logic can be eventually a binding factor. I say it is a slide into inertia. And inertia is the particular driving force in the majority of gongbashes I have observed during my eternal time in this evaporating universe.

I mention the pivot simply because I reached it in my relationship with Marisa sometime recently. I’d say within the last few months, at most. She rattles out lectures as the teacher she once was and always will be interiorly. Facts are thrown like darts by a blind, drunk bolivian. Sure, some hit a mark, but many are rusted (antiquated) or fractured (simply untrue). I let the projectiles fly. And I shall continue to do so until the final scene and anti-climax of this bopadittle.

I’m sitting in the same place I did yesterday. Today, flames from my right reach their red paws in my direction but never quite fulfill their threat to scorch. The expansive room is empty excepting the crowded furniture. Ha. The furniture is a good analogy of the clutter the agéd accumulate.

Note to self: configure the bluetooth keyboard I am using to type this garbage to create accented characters. Don’t think about it now, Bobbus. Do it later. Push it from your mind.

Note to self: On the readthrough to correct spelling errors, I came upon my note to self and adjusted my settings. All you who nestle with barnacles would approve.

One detrimental thing at a time, you jaw-whore.

Clutter can replace lost lives. Children depart. Relatives snuff out. They can even snuff themselves out. It’s all the same to me. The grand accumulation is inertia itself. To weigh oneself with material bounty is a disease. I’ve been told that each cup, each worn sofa cover, each circular stain on the woodwork and each blackened smudge from the aforementioned flames tell stories. They are the phrases and paragraphs of a novel. The house might be the binding or the cover.

Let the flames claim their ancient words. Let the flames consume the book. Begin anew.

The importance of preservation is baffling. Is it a case of nostalgia? Is it personal? Is it to pass on to progeny? It’s both. The family cannot die! NO NO NO! Many tales of yore spill fears of families being snuffed out.

I am the last of my line!

Let the flames consume. Begin anew.

It’s blood curse. Especially since the dismemberment of the family unit, a process that has eaten away at cohesion decades, the chance of birthright-death has increased. I applaud this procession. MARCH ALONG THE ESPLANADE AND LAY WASTE TO THEIR GUMMY GLUE!! The unravelling leads to a greater cohesion, and one of much more importance than limited genetic pegajosidad. Why do people look at me so strangely when I mention to them that we are all the same species, anyway?

It fact, the books that detail the progression of our species are fundamentally flawed. They focus on clumps of our species divided. Factions warring. The trappings of illusory cohesion are tantamount in western education. Like the chunks of debris in my mind, closer examination could always reveal the slender threads binding seemingly separate masses.

Fighting the gravitational forces of said masses is a lifelong struggle. To form oneself into a binding element can be near suicide and is rarely beneficial to the individual. I’ll leave it at that before I go off on a parallel tangent concerning the merits and demerits of different types of pegajosidad. And then I’d be forced onto an orthogonal path with respect to obsession with pure forms and black / white. Gurgle.

The strength of family pegajosidad is very apparent to me in Spain. It could be I’ve simply stumbled on a hellishly insular group of humans and it is not, as the apes say, the norm. As the mollusks say, the deep end submerges me. I resist, as I always have, but the liquid’s need to subsume will ultimately have an opposite effect.

Let the flames consume. Begin anew.

I sat at this table last year writing. I believe also the year before. It is long and wooden. It can seat twenty or more humans. It those cases, I wonder about those crowded out and their feelings of exclusion. I, for one, am crowded out even when six or seven sit at the table. I’m only on the inside when I am the only one. Like now.

Repeating conversations about the drudgery of working life fill my ears. Not exactly at this moment, I say, but at many others during my existence in Spain. I understand the sentiment. I, too, have lived a life of drudgery, but only intermittently and only for short periods of those intermissions. I was trained up as a child to enter a life of drudgery. It was to be my destiny. I avoided it. How did I do that, exactly?

I achieved an unspoken goal by being a fuckup.

Being a fuckup is, unlike the waves of words preached at me during youth, quite productive. I recommend it to all. I’d never force someone into it, though. It is a state that must be approached in sheer solitude. My parents are certainly not proud. Especially my father.

My connotation of fuckup is perhaps not along the lines a upstanding human might recognise. Such upstanding humans at times look down with scorn or pity on those they deem losers. Ah, the downtrodden! Their long noses bead on their points. They are beads of acrimony.

As Scott Hazle said once, as recorded in the Three Subject Quotebook, I like to lose. And Matt Stapp: I’m not a winner. I’m a loser. Shut up. I once aspired to write a long form piece (that is, a concept album) entitled Nobody Loves a Winner. I no longer have aspirations. Well, not in the usual sense. Any reader of these entries would certainly know that by now. Either that, or they’d be pummeled to death by their significant other by now. Pummeled?? But, why? Because by reading my scintillating script, they’d be infected by fuckupedness. Moreover, they’d watch the infection bloom and cultivate it to reap the bounty of discarding a life of drudgery. Up until the point they are pummeled to death. Significant others in search of security unilaterally shun any fuckupedness leaking into their relationship.

I say fuck um.

At times, I admit that I must remind myself to appreciate how different my life is from most. Christian should do the same, and though he probably wouldn’t immediately classify himself as a fuckup, he’d with time grow affectionate of the term. He has also kicked a life of routine into the ditch. He’s left it far behind. I have a feeling it may have been what his father also wanted for me, but certainly not the life that his father, himself, ever led.

So I have dedicated these days to appreciating my life as a fuckup. My days in Spain progress as surely as they come to a close. I’ve passed the peak, as it were, and am descending. I am still content, but even unconsciously forge my own path time and again. I tire more rapidly of hours I feel wasted with useless chatter. I am more apt to unseat myself from said table and create obvious exclusion.

I have things to read. I have things to create. I have music to listen to. I even just have things to think about. I dislike missing chances to analyse the spaces between chunks of debris in my mind. When I look close enough, I always find the slender threads binding them.

Spending time with others is not always a waste. Though these words infer it, It has not been my intention in writing them. However, the obligation to remain in a conversation beyond the period of fecundity out of mere civility is absurd. I suppose I don’t like to just shoot the shit. Fuck um.

I am frightened by how humans shrink into worlds smaller and smaller as they grow older. Marisa did mention to me in the car during our drive to Fresneda that she’ll be one to have projects large small and everywhere inbetween rolling along until the day she looses her empty bag of flesh to the void. I appreciate this attitude. I am exactly like that. So is Christian. In this way, we are fuckups. (Christian and I to a much greater degree, however.) We are not satisfied by oozing away hours, days, months, eons and millenia in what I usually term as vacuum time.

It’s vacuum time again, Pumpkin! Get thee in front of that television before I thrash your behind with this cinder block!

Most of these projects and / or hobbies never arrive at a concrete objective, though an objective or two may have been in mind initially. If objectives are important, then the point is missed and one should rather impale oneself on the engorged cock of self-importance. Yes, I’ll write it once again: The journey is always more important than the destination.

I’ll raise a crusted cup clutched in my withered claw to that, jaw-whore.

Sergio sent a simple, mostly repeating electric piano motif to the Whatsapp group GOLD GUNNERS. I am a part of this group because I have been helping (I use this term very loosely) Dani on a film project to be submitted to somesuch contest later this year. I am an actor and a proofreader so far. A chance that some of my music will be included in the final product is also possible.

Sergio sent a simple, mostly repeating electric piano motif to the Whatsapp group GOLD GUNNERS yesterday afternoon. After years, I began using Pocket Band again. It’s ancient title is ULoops. I began composition of a piece sitting on Soundcloud at this moment in 2011. Pocket Band is basically a loop editor. They loops can be arbitrarily complex, but they are firmly bordered from one another. No overlaps are allowed, as far as I can tell. In the aforementioned composition, this limitation is particularly obvious. No matter.

I took Sergio’s motif, extracted a small part, and had Pocket Band repeat it nine times. Each set of three were plastered with different effects. Beneath rumbled and buzzed a sound generator with far too much LFO. This morning, I used Audacity on Galictis-vittata to overdub minimal guitar picking and scraping.

The GOLD GUNNERS applauded the result. Christian even muttered something positive under his breath with enough force for it to splatter spittle on the keyboard, sending me a message with blessings.

How long has it been since I’ve actually sat down and composed something? I reckon January of 2014. That’s over two full years, you lazy cunt. And I still feel excitement, joy and a fantastic wetness in my knickers. This morning saw me go through eight or nine pairs of undergarments.

Sergio sent two other rather crude acoustic guitar meanderings today. I plan to pick and scrape over one of the two tomorrow morning. The objective, however, as always, is to NEVER do the obvious. Therefore, firstly, anything resembling soling is right out. Repeating patterns of atmospheric pattering.

That’s where’s it’s AT, jaw-whore.

Shambal was in the kitchen that day. He’d peeled seven rutabagas. The discarded rind scattered itself around his bare feet. In ancient times, those times when he could actually see his feet, he enjoyed tactile sensations. One could say he had a foot fetish. One could also say that he just loved roughly hewn stone floors touching his soles.

Times did come, however, when a sliver of rock loosed itself. Usually this happened hear the narrow gaps between stones were mortar had compacted itself, retreating further into the flooring. He loved to howl in three precise tones when one a sliver jammed into his bare skin. The tones, translated to notes, were e, f and gis. Upon many occasions, and especially when a slice of stone was jammed into the sole of his foot, he considered writing a ditty, or even a quartet or symphony, using the three tones as a basis. A wealth of chord sequences including them played in his mind time and again.

Now that he is sessile in his bed, drained of filth by tubes to nether places of his land, he can precisely complete this pagan desire. Why doesn’t he, then? Because he is a jaw-whore. That is the sole reason.

Rutabagas were always one one Shambal’s favourite fruits. As a youth, he plucked them from low bushes and from hedges along rock walls separating his pig-land from one of the neighbouring. He’d stash most in his capacious waist-pack, but since they were fresh, he’d reserve one for immediate gobbling. The sensation of juice trickling from his lips, down his chin and neck, along his forested chest and pooling in his navel always soiled his knickers a bit.

As the hardened fruit boiled in this favourite pot atop the plasma-stove, he considered his earlier actions

He had flayed the skin from the feet, buttocks and head of his true love, a Bolivian chick he’d grown tired of during the past months. She had been a squeal in bed, and that had enticed him initially. He’d never been one to think too much before taking the plunge, so to speak. His vast satisfaction in disfiguring her in the wee hours, however, proved once and for all that the bad had profoundly outweighed the good.

The corpse was in the walk-in fridge. It’d keep for days and his supply of lubricant would allow for necro-shagging until he had the gumption and prowess to lure another tart into his lair.

Good luck, Shambal!! We’re with ya!

But then again I wonder if what we feel in our hearts today isn’t like these raindrops still falling on us from the soaked leaves above, even though the sky itself long stopped raining. I’m wondering if without our memories, there’s nothing for it but for our love to fade and die.

I am in the midst of reading The Buried Giant by Kazuo Ishiguro. I delight in, apart from the story itself, his diction and syntax. I usually read each paragraph at least twice to drink in first the meaning, then to allow the structure to solidify. Ideally, I’d like his semantic and syntactic forms to germinate in my own writing. I’ve never been much on learning by osmosis, but giving it a try is better than having your femur shattered into fragments by an angry chick on a motor-scooter. Or so they say.

In fact, I have come to a conclusion many times and usually during lapses into states of depression that I am incapable of learning by osmosis. A better term may be subconscious learning. I prove myself wrong time and again. An example today was deft fingular movements about the fretboard of my pig-nose. They came without thought. I’m not referring to muscle memory, however, as that is truly the result of the opposite of subconscious learning. I write now of choosing particular tones depending on backdrop. My mind is better and better at expressing itself tonally without my conscious interference.

Motor memory is engrained by pattern memorization. Parts of my mind are programmed to repeat patters in certain contexts. Those patterns are played out by my fingers on a guitar. I wonder if, isomorphically, they could also be played out in other means. A portion of my subconscious could be writing this now using the structure of a guitar phrase translated to the syntax of an English sentence. I would never know in the moment, might after careful cross-analysis, but most possibly not even then. As the untamed beast within Shambal’s finicky hypothalamus says: We are much more than our obvious conscious self. Accessing that great veiled monster beneath our everyday façade is only possible by indirect means.

So what if our feelings in the moment are like those raindrops? They are an imprint of something past. If the storm is capsule of time during which something ocurred, important or not, the splatters from salvaged raindrops lurking heavy on tree leaves paint skeletal patterns. Like a portrait is a two dimensional representation of a human in a phase of a four dimensional existence, the impressions are ultimately false.

But they are simply all that remain.

I also write of memories in Martenblog. Those stories are a sketch of a great, colourful, lost season of life. Especially from pattering words, the reader paints the majority him / her / itself with impressions from the present. More accurate, some say, are video takes of life-scenes. What do they not capture? Internal life is never captured by video the way it is in writing. Perhaps I videotape every scene in my existence for one year. Following, I overdub an omniscient narrator, delving into details of every situation. Long pauses occur frequently during which narration carries on over a still frame. He weaves the internal story for the viewer during these stases. The resulting product would span a century.

The internal life is ultimately lost. To express it is futile, for its complexity is beyond the grasp of our narrative abilities.

Ishiguro allows a very complex story to unfold by focusing on subtle simplicities of certain characters. These characters are always everymen, though that is often not obvious initially. Their experiences during a story that unfolds beyond their control, the nuances of their thoughts and especially their remembrances hover perpetually beneath the straight river of storytelling.

A theme that permeates the majority (if not all) of his novels is slow awakening. A plain amnesia inhabits a protagonist and his / her / its view of the world and of his / her / its own existence changes significantly during the course of this awakening. It is an awakening of memory. Pieces lost resurface first individually and without context. Slowly and at times without the reader immediately noticing, these pieces connect. But they do not always connect in satisfying or immediately obvious ways. I find Ishiguro’s mastery of this technique truly marvellous.

The creeping culmination of subtleties finally creates a mass of wonder. Opinions regarding results vary widely, I am sure. I mostly do not hang out reading reviews of his or of other authors’ works. I do recall Renata telling me, upon handing me my first Ishiguro novel – The Unconsoled, this novel is very unrewarding but I cannot help but feel it is a work of genius. I see her point to an extent. The Unconsoled is built upon a series of bizarre anti-climaxes. It is also my favourite novel.

I shall continue with The Buried Giant in some minutes.

I began reading an article on gynocentrism and was inspired to cough out a few paragraphs. I am yet to complete the article, but shall soon after typing a bit.

I have often faced White Knight syndrome during my life and hold it in high contempt. The kind of sexism it brandishes is usually beyond reproach, especially in the repellent nation in which I was raised.

Still, I have always found traces in myself. I was, after all, raised in the south of a nation-state discriminating against yet at the same time placing women in positions pristine. The thought of matriarchy can make men cringe, but their fundamental selves feel the pull of motherhood stronger than any ambition. This discludes, of course, psychopaths such as your humble narrator.

I’ve spent stretches of accumulated time holding doors for random females over years. This time is dead time in my life. It can never be recovered and had no positive effect on neither me nor said females. Holding doors is a simple example. The curious reader will explore his or her own imagination to conclude other enlightening analogies.

Were anyone to ask my advice, I’d promptly state that ignoring any female in the immediate proximity that is not a pervasive factor in your life is beneficial to mental stability, general happiness and blood pressure. Hustle away from there, chap! Don’t engage in sexism!

Most white knights I’ve met are pointedly shitty people. They will slough away any other pressing matter in their immediate surroundings to rush to the nominally needed aid of some wench. I use the word aid rather magnanimously here. These fetid specks of fecal matter discard their regard for anything except gaining favour of the LADY.

Shambal contains no part of this trait.

Christián, being raised in the states by a despotic mother, exhibits portions of this malady often. His death will be welcome.

How do I avoid backsliding into white knightitude? Firstly, I must be observant at all times of my actions towards others. I shall treat every human previously in my midst, in my current midst, and in future midstes equally. A splendid way of achieving this is by envisioning each of them as an identical, squirming maggot. In this fashion, I’ll never block the path of either a prim and spritely businessman or a lumbering and perspiring baglady attempting to hold open the door for some high heeled tart. All maggots. All equal.

Secondly, I shall round them up and place them equally in cells surrounded by electric fences. Each cell will contain between seventy and ninety-six maggots. I’d really like to have each cell filled by an equivalent number, but even my gracious and unprejudiced eye cannot overlook variations in maggot-girth.

Beneath the morass of maggots will be fresh soil to be churned. Future orchards flourish thereupon. When a maggot churns soil, that maggot is of the same social class as his numerous neighbours. In the uniform swath of aromatic peat, envy is impossible.

The cells will have no communication. No internet is possible. If two nation-states are oblivious of one another, neither can have a wish to claim the other’s soil. This model is of a multiverse. Simply a multiverse of orchards, i realize, but a multiverse just the same. I, as the overlord, will watch contentedly as humanity churns to create beauty.

And fruit.

Fruit to feed my fetid face.

Since the world worships at my feet, and among the masses of said word is the lowly Christián Newman, I’m creating this entry to let him enjoy the easy benefits of Hexo and get his BLOG back online for easy access by the remains of the steaming pile of masses. Christián is currently using Windows, so here we go.

(Hexo)

Install Git for Windows, ya doof.

Even a less intellegent rodent than Christián can accomplish this feat by clicking on this link. Being a rodent, Christián also knows how to double click on the .exe once his machine acquires it.

(this)

Any request the machine makes to add something to your execution path, ANSWER FUCKING YES.

I went through this mortally wounding ordeal on Marisa’s box a few days ago and found that the git installation includes a fairly usefull bash shell. Christián is advised to use this during later steps in the process of which I am currently expounding. That is, he should use it if it automagically adds Node.js executables to its PATH. If this is not the case (a case I cannot verify at this moment since even my godly state is denied knowledge of the password to Marisa’s laptop), the rodent that is Christián M Newman can use the shell provided with Node.js. But I am getting ahead of my deific self.

I pause to sneeze. A few of my worshippers are covered by a sticky film. They sigh with pleasure and shall ever refuse to scrub it away.

Install Node.js, ya drip.

Having leaped the first hurdle on the bombshelled path to stickin’ it to the listless internet empty and bereft of a BLOG by Christián M Newman, the rodent that is he scurries in oval and trapezoid patterings to celebrate an initial victory. He places his paws once again upon the keyboard of his machine, and installs Node.js from here.

(here)

Any request the machine makes to add something to your execution path, ANSWER FUCKING YES.

Install hexo, ya noog.

With this installation, the rodent notices there is a command-prompt-type thinghie. It loads the Node.js environment so it is not required to do bullshit Windows PATH orienting. Rodents hate that shit. I did mention earlier that Git comes with a command prompt shell, also. As of this paragraph, I still do not know if it automagically loads the Node.js environment, however.

First he tries the Git shell utility. The rodent finds it somewhere in his well-organized start tab. His paws flash over the keyboard deftly as he types node. If an error occurs, he kills this shell utility and opens the command prompt that comes with Node.js (also found in his well-organized start tab).

However, if, within the Git shell, the command node gives Christián Michael Newman (the rodent to which I refer) another prompt, he continues with the Git shell. He hits Ctrl-D to get back to the normal command prompt.

Either way, the rodent (who is the Christián Michael Newman to which I refer) points his slightly bulging eyes at the rectangle of the command prompt. It should indicate where he is within his directory (folder to you Windows-lepers) structure. Something like /users/dickboy. He enters the following with sweaty, trembling paws:

npm install -g hexo-cli

Create the BLOG, ya squelch.

Christián, a rodent, dreams up a name for the directory of his BLOG. This name is unimportant. It is just a place to keep the bloody thing locally, you shaft! Don’t sit there fucking deliberating it!

hexo init THENAMEOFTHEFUCKINGFOLDERYOUCUNT

Casually, the rodent follows up with cd THENAMEOFTHEFUCKINGFOLDERYOUCUNT. He then either types ls or dir depending on which shell or command prompt he has chosen to use (Git and Node.js, respectively) to see the files in his BLOG directory. Of course, being a rodent, he also checks it out in Windows Explorer, which displays for him the files also in a non-finicky manner. Christián sees the two files _config.yml and package.json. These files are important, my furry friend.

That being said, replace them with this “_config.yml” and this “package.json” with whatever means you know to replace files. I could explain how to do it simply from the command line, but that would just not be very GODLIKE.

(this “_config.yml”)
(this “package.json”)

Now get your penis out of that goat!

Back at the command prompt (and making sure he is still in the THENAMEOFTHEFUCKINGFOLDERYOUCUNT directoy), the rodent happily enters npm install. Shit occurs. When the shit ocurring finishes occuring, Christián Michael Newman (a cute, furry rodent), installs a new theme by doing the following:

cd themes
git clone https://github.com/hexojs/hexo-theme-light.git light

If this part does not work, the rodent sends a message to the DEITY that is me and tells him immediately.

If it does work, the rodent backs up one directory (folder - yeah, yeah) with cd .. and starts his BLOG server: hexo server.

Once Christián M Newman (a rodent) goes to his browser of choice and thurks to the parenthesized link, he will contact the HIGHER BEING that has written this.

(http://localhost:4000)

(http://localhost:4000)

I watched The Lobster last night whilst lying in bed with Marisa. I’m fairly certain that I enjoyed the film much more than she did, though one is never to know exactly the thoughts, fears, delights and scandals of a woman, exactly. Regardless, I did watch The Lobster last night.

In fact, our taste in film is very divergent, as it was with Jana. I tire of endless realism in the same way I tired of Renaissance paining and its anal-retentive need for precision. During the opening minutes of the film, Marisa began asking questions concerning the reasons the people were in such an environment and what forerunning elements might be. My reply was to dismiss such details as irrelavent. The characters have been placed in this situation by the writer. Let’s see how they cope with it. For me, it is the immediacy that is important. Any historical discourse as to how on earth did we get to a state like this in our culture / society means little.

I am reminded of a brief conversation I had with Christián once concerning the film The Road. He asked me to muse about what may have happened to the world that left the father and son in their situation. My reply was similar to mine to Marisa. It is not important to me.

Relationships often sink to a point of lowest common denominator. One central point of the film is that for a relationship to be healthy, both parties have to have a similar affliction. For example, Colin Farrell’s character is myopic. The film states that it is his defining characteristic. His ideal mate has to also be myopic.

One of the first scenes, confusing at the time, was of Colin sitting on a sofa communicating (italicized since the method of communication in this film is staggeringly stilted) with his wife, ex-wife, or soon to be ex-wife. The line he speaks that resonates through the remainder is Does he wear glasses or contact lenses? All relationships most strongly bonded by a lowest common denominator.

I’m forgetting an important detail. Once of a certain age (never specified) and without a mate, one is placed in a hotel with others in the same condition. Gradiations of this condition do exist, as we see couples in the hotel during the course of viewing, but later find out they are experiencing a trial run as a pair. Therefore, they are being closely observed. After a specified time, anyone who do not find a mate and subsequently prove him / herself during the trial run is transformed into an animal of his / her own choice and released into the forest. There, they supposedly fend for themselves.

The film’s opening is a fixed shot within a car of a woman driving. It is strangely tension-building in its simplicity. She eventually stops, gets out, strides into a field of donkeys, pulls a gun, and shoots one dead. Another of the animals slowly moves over to investigate his fallen companion before the film cuts to the next scene. The situation is never revisited.

But back to relationships: the defining factor of one’s existence.

One female is cursed with spontaneous nosebleeds. A male character (Ben Winshaw) has a limp as a defining characteristic. To gain salvation, he fakes nose bleeds by bashing his head against flat surfaces, slapping himself silly and slicing up his nasal cavity. The hotel establishes that the two have similar afflictions. They are allowed to become a couple. They are married. During the ceremony, the management makes it a point to mention their affliction as source of bonding. It is never clear who the employees of the hotel really are, though one is shown in an entirely different context in the second half of the film. They are, however, the arbiters of the guests’ fates. Again, I am not bothered that their role is not made completely clear. Use your imagination to fill in the gaps, ya cunt!

I see pairing off in this regard as a micro-example of group-mind. When tethered to a partner at all times, your level of awakening is diminished. At last, you are only able to see the world through a filter fashioned by yourself and your mate. The affliction metaphor is apt. Both parties sink to the defining point of each others’ maladies. To use an hick expression: a group is only as quick as its slowest member. The expression doesn’t actually originate from hicks, but from Ancient Greece. Again, when tethered at all times to another, it is inevitable to sink into a morass of duonymity. A couple is only as swift as its dumbest half.

Colin’s charcter, too, attempts to fake an affliction, though one much more complex. He chooses a psychopathic guest. His sights are set on her, so after another guest, reaching the end of her days, attempts suicide from a second story window, fails and lies wailing in a pool of blood on the cement, Colin attempts to garner favour from the psychopath by pouring nastiness on the suffering woman’s plight.

The point is extreme. To be solitary is an affliction in itself. The hotel members go on hunting expeditions with tranquilizer guns to drag back loners from the forest. They gain points extending their hotel stay and their chances of appropriating a mate with each kill. Childish, theatrical demonstrations are given by the management illustrating the advantages of coupleness.

It’s never said outright, but hinted firmly at later in the movie, that the nearby city is filled only with couples (or, rather, families). Solitary hangers-on are not allowed. One scene sees a copper questioning Colin and his (admittedly pretend) wife about papers proving their coupleness. The city is also shown as consumerist heaven. Salvation is being a family and endlessly binging on products, useful or not. These parts are shot in a dreamlike manner to heighten the sense of unreality from the point of views of the outsiders.

When this sort of society comes to pass, as it surely shall, I will be drug thrashing and croaking from my solitary hut on Saaremaa.

Fuck um.

Just earlier, I sent a message to Christián telling him that he is a ego-stroking megalomaniac. I enjoy poking at him about his self-absorbed attitude often. The reason for my abuse is not so much that he really is a ego-stroking megalomaniac but that he is sensitive about it. Jayson told me many times that my greatest talent was making those around me introspect. I’ve always had problems when people around me did not notice their own actions and especially the way they projected themselves onto others. My observation has always been and still is that people in general lack self-observation.

But that was not what I was going to type into this greasy terminal.

I’d not like to think as myself as also a megalomaniac, but I am certainly ego-stroking. I muse to myself many times a day during intellectually idle instants that I’d rather return to activities that make me happy. Activities that stroke my ego. I dislike ego projection and call it megalomania. Introverted ego-stroking is very fecund, however. Were I not to spend many chunks of time every day in pursuit of my own happiness, I’d break down.

I see so many broken men and women! Fuck um.

And I don’t want to break down. Whatever I can say about my mental fragility, supportive or contrary, without following my own possible footsteps I always see receding into the distance, I’d be truly wandrering in limbo. Another discussion that has passed between myself and other denizens of my life is how relationships encircle and prevent one from stepping outside to follow said footsteps. That circle tightens and tightens and finally one loses sight forever of those mythical prints.

Most people inhabit that circle in the name of security.

Never.

Fuck um.

The new King Crimson album is blaring in my ears through my vastly underrated Bose headphones. Why are they underrated? I was mocked with gentle smirks in that windowed office in Boston when I attained them. What was his name? Ah… Jeff. Wasn’t that it? I believe so. He asked were they the ones about which I had raved, though not with a phrase so eloquent. I affirmed and asked would he like to try them. The augmented smirk brushed me off with a declination and shiny lips. Jeff then turned back to his computers to presumeably work. Now he is dead. Poor Jeff.

Red is completing itself. I listened to the studio version of this track many times during journies to and from Clear Lake from College Station. The purpose of those journeys was to see Marcie, who is also dead. I’d like to think that every person I have ever affected in my lengthy days is now DEAD. Shambal would approve. After the winds ceased in his land, all were truly dead but him and the robots running the market. There he was able to buy imported dried meats, fruits and photos of South-Asian kurvy. I was not intending to be sidetracked by Shambal, however, so also wish him DEAD, though it is not in my power to stop the pulsating muscle deep within his flabby form. That power solely resides in the words I type here, and, if Christián is correct, I, like he, have no control over what spills from my fingers.

The music of this album, in other forms, was soundtrack to the years 1993 - 1994. Most possibly, memories are attached to nearly every song. For instance, now plays Epitaph and I can refer again to the DEAD Marcie. In one very clear instance, I see her maw open and rather than receive a glop of manure begin to sing when Greg Lake’s voice returns after the song’s moody midpoint. She had her good points, I admit. In contrast to other females that I shall not name at the moment, Marcie delved into the music I loved and made it part of her life. She certainly did not do it solely to please me, as did Christián’s DEAD wench Sing. My DEAD girl incorporated my lifestyle wholly into her own. Of course, her own personality was itself hardly a personality at all at the time. She was thirteen when we met. She simply borrowed from me to become more whole. I’m sure she’s shed most of it by now. Well, of course she has since she is DEAD.

There were times when Shambal needed a swift kick in his then honed and muscular asscheeks. As they are now, flaccid and spreading to cover the surface area of the sole room in his hovel, to kick them would require tremendous effort. One must always remember that tremendous efforts are not worth their weight in bitcoins during the winds of spring.

Spring gales had tormented Shambal’s zone for centuries. Unbeknownst to outsiders, he had devised a plan to stop them for good. He didn’t contemplate the ravage this deed would wreak on his land, eventually turning it to mostly lifeless desert. The only thing occupying his mind was the present and alleviation of the continual whistling as air sang through the network of tiny tunnels in the walls and roof of his hovel. Various insects, since the beginning of Shambal’s sessile existence, had contentedly burrowed these musical wood-mazes.

Though also irked by the breezes that fought to topple them, the other inhabitants of the land found their own solace in strolls near to Shambal’s hut. They called it the musical mansion. Like all great titles assigned to famous landmarks, groups of creatures, abstractions and celebrities, Musical Mansion was a misnomer. As stated earlier, it was a hovel, and still is, as far as anyone knows. Also, the music was aleatoric and without apparent repetitious themes, as is the way of natural elements. Rather, so it was to lesser minds than Shambal’s.

With his enormous bottom and expansive brain, Shambal searched the noise-space ages for patterns. He had little else to do. I’d recommend you read his novella How I Shot the Breeze Without Tilting on Tippy-toe. Within is a thorough exploration of the methods of mind needed to amass the quantity of data determining messages in arbitrary weather patterns. I’m sure that your local bookseller provides the tome at minimal cost. That, or you can stand around in the shop and consume it whole with your greedy, bulbous whiteballs while security nano-denizens rip open cell walls of interior organs until you collapse into a heap of bubbling protoplasm.

Delusional, but Quirky was the motto Shambal had dreamed up for himself. Were he an out and about creature, he’d’ve had myriad t-shirts donning it. His motto was accurate. The message he deciphered was simply an echo of words he, himself, had spoken in a different age on top of a hill in a far away land. In actuality, it as probably the very same land about which I write at this moment, pummeled and recreated by elemental forces too outrageous to contend with.

He stood on that hill and thanked each of his serfs (as he saw them in his mind) as one. They were but a cohesive mass, no? Their service and allegiance was appreciated, but it was their time to die. Shambal unleashed fire from all seven of his extremities that seared the hoard to a blackened swath of soil. In actuality, he couldn’t lash out with electric fire from any part of his body, so instead used his thumb and ring finger to first pop open a green, copperish tube, and then to press a button labeled teful. The result was the same. Serfdom became cinderdom.

The obvious parallel was that the shrieking gales were his final words to his ex-minions. Obviously now, any reader can conclude that the great, bleak plain that surrounds Shambal’s hovel for as far as any ogling telefinder can see is the result of the dearth of wind.