Bienvenue Montparnesse (eng. title – Jeune Femme – 2017) OK all of you that still buy into love and Paris synonymously in the Springtime! Even if it is one on a bridge over the Seine with demented ‘clocher’s’ or myopically romantic knife throwers.. Have got a cinematic dystopia ready especially for you! How about a heroine that starts her dialogue in a homicidal frenzy knocking herself unconscious by slamming her head against an anonymous lover’s apartment front door. The romantic sensibility connection doesn’t stop there as she heartily chews out a black African gene’d intern who patiently examines her psychological potential for harming herself. Not one to be deterred by any sort of male influence or not she hurls a bottle through a glass hospital partition to get the plot moving. Of course, in this latest descendant want-a-be of post-modern ‘Novelle Vague’ cinema tradition she wakes up from her metaphorically murderous rampage of the films first twenty minutes to petty thieve another patient’s red winter portmanteau. Off she sprints out into the frigid heartless of unlovely Paris Rue’s where she ‘dérober’s’ her boyfriend’s ‘Felis Catus’ (hint hint!). Ironically the exact same breed of Persian that James Bond nemesis, Ernst Stavros Blofeld likes to habitually stroke. And no! NOT talking about a skinless Dr. Evil type here.
So now for the next sixty minutes, we the hapless, audience will learn the ropes of everything one should not do to piss off the already diffident and emotionally far removed modern French ‘citizen’ while they are trying to enjoy the limited Existential dimensions of their own personal Ennui’s. The stereotypes visited being the morally viscous hotel clerk, the homosexual dance king sexual switch hitter, the hateful emotionally wounded mammon, and of course the vengeful lesbian ‘ancien eleve perdu’. Those famous very French ‘paroles d’force’ of ‘mentor’ and ‘méchant’ are liberally spewed. At least they didn’t play the Marseilles! But on the positive side she makes her own penitence to fabled romance in going through the motions of trying to re-enliven a dead plant by carrying it to more accessible sunshine and getting a crappy job to become one of the underwhelming ‘travail filles’ in the modern Americanized mall. All this despite, as her mother puts it, “You’ve never done anything in your life!” One particularly charming moment being when she breaks into her mother’s house and plays clinging vine on the ‘escalier’s’ banister. In the meantime, she manages to connect with a well dressed cynical African immigrant father who she attempted to piss off in the movies first reel but then attracts in midstream as the mall’s security guard. As usual, having that old politically usable Left wing, ‘malediction d’être noir’, he turns out to be the film’s only stand up guy! Yet even he cannot save her in the end from that curse of Feminism called, “l’attraction pour le mauvais petit ami!”.
Yes, that’s right! The guy that she has been pestering throughout eighty minutes of non-stop personal mental trauma dialogues shows up to whisk her away back to his own personal version of l’Grand Palais des Champs-Élysées. The place that she faked her way into to get that magic shoulder bag that has provided her with at least twelve or more outfit changes throughout the entire film. And of course, having railed to her mother and friends about the potential rights of poor dissolute infants still baking in the womb to have the chance enjoy the tyranny of a loveless indifferent world, she flushes it at the abortion clinic. Score one in the fight to keep of Planned Parenthood safe! Except after a late night high-rise dinner where she metaphorically rises to lean against the window in an unconscious attempt and further emotional suicide before being whisked away. Yup! Back at Ernst Stavro’s Joachim Deloche’s lair she can be reinterred into the slavery of his do nothing muse. The film’s climax being the less than unexpected gratuitous rape attempt by ‘l’mauvais homme blank’! Third wave Feminists everywhere, “High five!” Now of course, having been ceremoniously inducted into the perpetually hopeless induction of the world’ into the living check by check working underclass, she can find true happiness in solitary mediocrity. The centuries old mythic bane of inherent style, grace and romantic subtlety of Société française now broken at last! So forget saving your pennies and dimes saved from your Marshall’s paycheck that you have amassed to travel to the romantic capital City of Lights! Donate it instead to the Soros’ fund for importing more ‘non lavé‘ African male immigrants to your land.
Er war einmal in Deutschland (eng. title – Bye Bye Germany – 2017) So what brings joy peace and comfort to a true believer? An eternal Jew at heart? And that earthly practice fielding a perpetual God’s chosen people Yiddish soul? Even if they are simply a Sephardic? How about a nice sexy ‘guilt the Goy‘ movie von Deutschland! In and era where most all of the great Cyclopean pillars of that greatest of great modern political tool of the Holocaust have been whittled down to toothpick sized columns. Even by respected Jewish scholars Here is an opportunity to once more reestablish the grassroots perception of these historical contentions back up to monumental status. The Jewish Imperialist war machine of gets to take a big reinvigorating deep breath. And then blow a righteous stinky fart in the direction of the faces of a new generation of currently guiltless Goyim!
It is all here! Concentration camp lagers! Perpetual ‘never trust a Jew‘ post war societal prejudice! Dumb young ‘shiksa’s‘ that will believe anything. Persistent ethnic shibboleths trying to hide the ‘incontrovertible’ fact that ‘they all did not know!‘ Resentment for the American victors for not saving that long figured fabled six million with bombs! Personal recollections of senseless brutalities committed by sadistic SS Obersturmfuhrers. Kristallknachtted former family businesses now vacant echoing vindictive ‘temples‘ to the German people’s hatred of the Hebrew garment businesses. And no! The long failing gas chamber myth and ovens debate freshly recidivised through highly believable anecdotal testimonies. Look with awe as their small ‘grupke’s’ mischievous doings righteously burn down a NAZI newsstand without the blink of an ‘eye for an eye’! Whoops! Der daily Zeitung says a Jew was killed sleeping inside. Whoops a fellow Jew and the most pathetic of these macher’s hangs himself in full Talmudic restitution. Ooops! It turns of the mortally toasted Hebrew was in fact a Gestapo Jew killer hiding out. What a shame that the biggest schlemiel of the sales force wasted his own precious God given guilt on nothing! It makes one proud and even feel sexy to see the amount of Chabbadnic pride within this auditorium as the great old times of postwar guiltless victim hood is stirred up once again by these onscreen lovable righteous ‘latkhhn‘ mensch! The unspoken chorus within this mostly ‘kehile‘ audience singing along, “Hitler is dead but we’re not!” But not Donald Trump. Not yet! “Hey look there’s a pathetic face-licking three-legged ‘harug’ hound!”
The best part of the films protagonist’s ‘schmegegge‘ is that he get to ‘schtuppe’ the American Jewish female Lieutenant who is persecuting him by tapping into her own family guilt in the end. Well, wherever. Mein Gott it gives on un ein kleines ‘kishe’ to see all these other ‘gannif’s’ in the dark now trembling again in collective guilt yet once again. That special gift that keeps on giving! “Hooray for Hollywood!”, und unsure Film mythos von Otto Schindler! And! “Next year in Israel!” “Hashem yinkom domom for those four thousand Jews that stayed in Germany after the war as stated at film’s conclusion. Now they now CAN tell their children those exact same lines as stated by the movie’s main character. That they all stayed to remain a perpetual pain in the German Goyim’s ass! The only thing better that one can think of is Merkel singlehandedly wrecking two millennia of German cultural identity. Mazel Tov!
Talk was after all, simply talk. You could hear it everywhere. The expressions on their faces were immediate. No talking! “At least not to me.“, he mouthed to himself silently. Was it punishment he was after at this latex date? Three movies, all in a row! All in foreign languages. Some amenable to understanding? Others harsh to the ear. Standing in a line that steadily grew with the next one. Jostled like a piece of furniture in the way. Now and again a glance more oft a glare. Waiting patiently within a row of self-conceited others whose personal barb wire fancies would not even allow a random smile or a simple, “Excuse me.” He could just imagine the scene in that post-apocalyptic scenario some three days after food deliveries had stopped. Supermarket shelves bare and a body here or there thoroughly trampled upon. Teaming rats in a sewer might be be kinder? It was that reprehensible cynicism of his again. Something that he excelled in. Karma doled out for past failings? Perhaps he was in a hall of mannequins and maybe even crazier, he was one too. “That old TV series episode.“, his mind’s rejoinder. You wanted contact with someone? Then use an email to the palm of their hand! He did! But only in the occasional corollary some old men’s magazine. Those times when he had sunken so low that he could no longer grasp the possibility of the feeling of human flesh anymore. There was no warmth there. Only humiliation. The faces of these ghouls reminded him of cartoon demons. Frozen smiles and carnal carnival expressions of unwholesome glee. Vampires with gaping lips, fleshy pink orchids, and lipstick red slits. All salacious in their goal of swallowing men whole. Hate of his sex personified, “What a terrible thought!” Reality breathed with an equally horrible pestilent breath. It was started and ended in the exact same way over those too many years of unhappiness. Kind, thoughtful, giving eventually descending to shicker’d, schmuck’d and dumped. Even when he had done the dumping! Karma realized. What was the purpose of struggling so hard to save that amorphous soft spot trying to survive deep down? He felt naked when the hate left him. Ashamed when that false sense of power slipped away like a thin blanket onto the bedroom floor on a freezing Winter’s night. Naked and alone. It didn’t take much for him to see that he counted for naught on the scales of humanity! In this he knew he was not alone. The world sucked. “But why torment yourself jumping from one sinking ship to the next?“, he dimly mused. Only to watch another empty stranger across the room slowly drown with him? He was kidding himself. He was far past being a kid now. Nothing good was going to come of all this. Settle down and remember those bits and pieces of the past. Or not! Just go older and emptier every day. Just like everybody else. The talk went on and on and on.
Chez Nous (eng. title – This Land Is Ours – 2017) A very dishonest film. From over the big muddy in the kingdom of EU a portion of the Western section of Europe once known as France. A place that has known constant conflict since the times of the Roman’s invasion by Caesar’s legions in pursuit of the Helveti. Moors of Islam threatening to overwhelm Europe en masses since the battle of Tours and Charles Martel. Vikings navigating up the Seine to plunder Paris. Constant conflict with its Anglo-Saxon/Norman neighbor on the island to the north. The continental wars of succession, French Revolution and its Napoleonic aftermath. On and on through the massive blood letting of World War I and a crushing defeat and collapse in the subsequent followup in 1940. France is quite literally soaked in blood and conflict. Is it any wonder that the country along with its continental neighbors are Left leaning Socialist with a marked natural adversity to being overrun by cultures of the ‘other‘? France, after such incessant conflict now in so many ways being a Socialist paradise in terms of its current management style of government offering unlimited bread and circuses to an unending flow of all manner of immigrants, legal or not. This charitable sentiment despite this host nation having endured many extremely violent national incidents of extreme terrorism from directly attributable to many members of the indigenous population dispossessing foreign constituent of primarily Islamist’s. A religious centered culture historically based upon extremist views of persistently diminishing the place of women and violently disposing of infidel populations.
The film director, Lucas Belvaux, commences with a montage of forbidding scenes of a working class area settling finally upon a farmer stopping his tractor to dig out un-detonated artillery ordinance from an otherwise quiescent farm field. True enough the topic that this fill promises the audience is about the political powder keg of the latest threat to its indigenous culture. Funny thing? Though from the moment on, the filmmaker’s camera follows the protagonist through a jungle of numerous anecdotal situations demonstrating hair triggering Right wing behaviors being ever present, and always painted darkly in an extremely pejorative light. Yet on the other side of the scale, only six separate incidents are shown where that ‘other’ that everyone in this seemingly racist paradise seems to fear and resent is portrayed. Sure we hear the same old cues here and the sound byte the modern issues on the order of faltering economies and cultural stagnation. A metaphoric terrain not unlike that initial scene of the farmer’s field heavily laden with un-exploded time bombs. But are we the audience allowed to see the invading culture in detail? The less than lovable set of conflicting values and respective prejudices that nearly all the irate ‘natives’ within this town seem obsessed with? In the paucity of few vignettes, the same scourge that is sand in the oyster of the culturally triggered townsfolk are characterized as simply pathetic tin can stealing homeless couples, mischievous spray paint tagging teenagers, male dominated Halal abused housewives, and a second generation Leftist stigmatized daughters. Surely not enough reasons by a long shot to justify the overreach of heated emotions of fear and anger leading to townie violence? The director’s scenario offers absolutely no speculation in terms of the larger national ruling politique’s Globalist agendas and how they might be leading to an overall malaise that affecting all sides involved. How ironic that the national anthem of les Marseilles has so confiscatory sets of interpretations?
Consider then that given this fact in terms of the screenplay that this film is a vehicle of Leftist propaganda. Nothing surprising in this present day and age of incessant Globalist NGO managed Cultural Marxist harangues indicting every opinion beyond those supporting their own agenda. Again something that currently is infinitively much more easily distributable than another cinematic corollary to the overtly Christian religious Passion of Christ. The Left has always been an apt pupil in stirring up public emotions over reason by wrangling cinematic tales supposedly taken from real situations. The long list extends from so-called masterpieces like Battleship Potemkin, Casablanca and Schindler’s List. And all not without that over the top pronounced degree of hypocrisy in forgetting the facts of the actual history they pretend to draw from. Something unconscionably destructive given the facts of the fractious nature of modern day political realities. The term, hypocrisy, comes easily to mind in their framing of good and evil. Consider for a moment that in the case of French cinema’s Battle of Alger’s (1966), the last exclamations of the besieged indigenous populous aggressively excoriate the invaders and states that their consistent violence against same has guaranteed the departure of the European (French) invaders. The bad people are cast of course as the completely unacceptable culturally destructive post-colonialists immigrants that have no right to existence within universally Islamic North Africa. OK, point taken! Why then should the indigenous members of this movies rural French community be any less outraged or politically active? Where is the very human foible of demonstrating all too human flaws yet ultimately expressing them in a much lower level of collective violence? Again the filmmaker refrains from vindicating any fears of his villainous Right wing populists expressing a profound self-imposed professional ignorance of any cause for suggesting the same. Is it the filmmakers duty to be completely true to life? No, not if the film is intended to be out and out unilateral propaganda. Consider the two separate Birth of a Nation films, some one hundred years apart? Their content and intent at diametric polar opposites. The blatant dishonesty comes when the film’s creator disavows that his production is not blatant unvarnished Left leaning propaganda designed with a political purpose in mind. The usual subtlety of metaphor that French cinema is so often noted for reverts instead to fielding every possible cliche in the cartoon characterizations of an unrepentant venal French Middle class.
The very fact that the film was released in theaters throughout France to be viewed two months before the French presidential election in 2017 exposes it to be of that same class of film designed with a specific agenda to affect public opinion. Alexander Nevsky from Eisenstein being an example of the1938 pre-game warmup for Stalin to help mobilize patriotic sentiment for an eventual sneak attack against Germany. One that was later trumped by the actions of Hitler in 1941. Interesting enough that this particular six million dollar production against populist right wing sentiments only earned three million in ticket sales at the box office. Obviously, stirring up an equally unpopular sentiment within an audience that certainly felt criticized by it. But the sheer fact that the Globalist candidate in the pocket of the international bankster’s won handily shows that it did its job well in guilt tripping. The finals scene where the heroine (plot conveniently) finds her former skinhead (NAZI) boyfriend’s I-phone contains previous snaps of him before he swore off his repugnant views at play abusing Arab immigrants leads to a less than unexpected unhappy ending. That current signature talent that the Antifa minded Left has showcased of late in headlines as of late. A violent out of control outburst of the protagonist’s non-stop physical aggression on her boyfriend. The final thought from the filmmaker left to you the audience being, “Once a racist, always a racist!” Sending the message to all PC fellow travelers that it is better to just beat the crap out of anyone you disagree with under the pretext of them having opposite and unacceptable perspectives. A nice productive message. Bienvenue dans la jungle!
See film discussion by others at: https://vimeo.com/262672773
Maybe I will go downtown to see a movie?
Taking the next to the last seat available in the downtown coffee shop. Two bovine suburban princesses asunder forth to the counter before me with attitude aplenty as I survey the terrain. Too big for any useful work beyond pulling a horse cart in cinctures naked. Forty five minutes until I need to unpack myself from this toadstool and head off to the movie theater to view the night’s feature. The stench about the place was becoming overpowering. When space is at a premium there is little if anything to say. I move a small table so that the woman that sits down next to me has a more convenient place to put her beverage. She jumps up forcefully ignoring the gesture as if I have the plague. Let no good deed go unpunished! Youthful female arrogance as usual with one ear adhesives to the smartphone. When will all these broads wake up to find they have gotten brain cancer? Mean spirited and uncaring they will never bare children. This species will simply die out! This time not likened to my own bygone era when that misplaced illusion of brotherly love held sway. What fools we all turned out to be! The overbearing system never changes and never gets punished and those at the controls never are held to task. Only the fools that they run into the ground without thought or mercy. Their powers based upon constant intrusion.
Black urban culture is a culture of hate and resentment. A cult of anger and violence and a determination to keep things that way. It is a locked cell with a pile of stinky tennis shoes and no laces. Only ones will to stay the same and hang one’s self. The urban scarecrow arrives fielding the darkness of his aggression as his only currency. Ask to leave as a non-paying customer and he ultimately wheedles a fresh cup of coffee from the expected bleeding heart liberal who shells out for it from out of her purse. Lo that this same woman should one day in the future turn a corner in the dead of night to find this same character in the mood for any act of similar reciprocal grace! “Gimmee yo purse bitch!” The world is so unfair. The world made intolerable by those who must make things worse around them to make themselves feel better. A strange form of equanimity? We all suffer together except this time I make you suffer a little more. So let the show begin as the world is a stage and this coffeehouse is ground zero for the same old tired black bullshit of “Gimmee gimmee!“, or “I’ll make you all feel bad!” The Afro Hobo departs but leaves a chill all around making the coffee cold.
A new conundrum! Typical White males transitioned into blatant faggotery in dress and overt mannerisms. Strange female hairstyles and flowery blouses. The swing into decadence with earrings and tattooed rhinos. These are the creatures that the blonde haired blue eyed young misses feel most comfortable to be about. Ready to take orders and respect the choices of their clothes closet. And perhaps if not watched to try a few things on if their female companion is not looking. The digital readout on the register ticks off the time. Zero hour approaches in this human zoo. My ass seems to slide off this seat on time. I walk out after a quip that exposes the fact that this flaming Liberal Berkeley franchise still retains colonial vestiges from the Dutch and a fellow by the name of Major Dickerson who is the only person mentioned in the shop to have their own blend. The three noble ‘darkies‘ sorting coffee beans in Africa as pictured on the menu must be slaves on his plantation? Or someone’s plantation! The biggest black slaveholder in Antebellum North Carolina having been one very ‘black‘ and heartless, William Ellison. So much for the tissue thin legacy of PC! Now the whites have become the slaves! Slaves to black guilt and slaves to fiat currency compound interest bearing Jews. The world as I have said is unfair.
The film descended into two and a half hours of seemingly meaningless chaos as verified by the passing outburst of another stranger. She gave me the time and I realized that I had barely enough this remaining time to literally run across town to catch the last train. I run as fast as my old legs will take me. Though more like a fast sustained walk I must look like a madman? Down the dark avenues and empty plazas. Occasional beggars now more aggressive at night darting out a pace or two shaking their McDonald’s cups at my prospective paths. “Help me out fella!” “Give me some money to get me something to eat!” “God bless you!” The night is a jungle combined with an insane asylum. My lungs burn from the exertion the cold air swallowed making me wonder if the mounting pain in my chest is my heart on the edge of exploding. The steeplechase continues passed empty modern stained glass and steel office towers and almost vacant hotel bars. The city is rolled up for the night. I huff and curse my way forward block by block loudly lamenting the red lights and traffic momentarily blocking my way as the intervening minutes tick down. The last inner corridor entered I limp forward up the ramp and to the ticket booth where charity prevails and I get my ticket. The run down the quay all the way down to the front of the train now awaits. I dart passed others walking the same way on my mostly crippled legs.
Finally! Finally. Finally at rest realizing that the recent cloister of my life has robbed me of the need or the ability to travel at night at the edge of failing strength. The proof of my advancing age in the descent of weariness now endured like crowned steel and cuirass. Imminence of mortality now a factor in the struggle to continue to live on. Simply a matter of will and desire alone. The world is a stranger now and I to it. Beauty is to be suspected and fidelity an un-provable concept. The train slows to a crawl and then to a full stop. The fates are throwing their dice again to see if I should make my connection to the final scheduled bus of the evening far ahead. My lifeline hangs in the balance of those minutes being wasted standing still. The delay trying in every way to chip away at any remaining sense of security. Another dip seems inevitably waiting ahead within another bath of unforgiving frigid atmosphere. That connecting bus to my stop to the boon of a mostly cold apartment and gathering what heat can be found under boreal bed covers. The train resumes.
Like a WWII paratrooper I stand ready in the door until it slides open and I fling myself forward into another mad dash to nowhere. Like a halfback I weave around other passengers just ahead skating around other weary pedestrians in the long narrow corridor sloping down some half a block long. Out the doors and lost once again within the nights forging forth to a bus stop trying to race my fate. All for naught as there are no buses in sight. The timepiece on the old ornate clock hung upon the disused store building stating ten minutes till the next scheduled arrival. I stare forth down the avenue into the myriad of blinding headlamps passing by trying to spy a configuration of three tiny yellow’s. All sorts of confirmations and conclusions drawn as my failing eyes convince themselves for a moment then are rebuffed by the fact of the apparition of hopeful illusion. Near and far, again and again, I play the fool. This tiresome game of the eyes leaves the id to ponder what sort of mischief the night is capable of. Dark figures come up from the other direction behind one. I turn with care as they pass so not to be caught unexpectedly unawares. The wild notion of some fiend appearing just behind me awaiting to foster a devilish surprise so that they can dart off back into the limbo of dark night bearing my soul. Circumstances being what they are, the bus arrives late.
“She had many suitors I noticed as I hurtled along just above her gliding up above in thin air. The gentlemanly thing was to step aside. She was a Diana bold a and free! “– DREAM
Confessions of a xenophobe. [random image montage of various figures espousing their doctrines on particular types] Defined as someone who sits there and breaks down all the reasons why one cannot get connected to someone else from a foreign culture. A treatise that is excruciatingly detailed noting every objectionable characteristic both male and female and listing them as reasons why it would be inauspicious and possible self-destructive to mix and mingle with anyone who was of a foreign background. There was something very ugly about this. But is a very odd way very convincing. Leaving one with a lasting sense of total ambivalence.
He moved away to the outer reaches of the far Western suburbs of the city. Moving out there with his new girlfriend leaving his mother by herself alone in her house [a one story 1930’s vintage white wood sided house]. Though he had moved on he still had a bedroom back there along with some other things. He wasn’t quite sure where his girlfriend had found their new residence [another smaller one story late 1930’s vintage house]. The street name and address were not immediately apparent though he moved furniture back and forth from his vehicle. Feeling a sense of trepidation he called on the phone to let her know that he was OK and perhaps comfort her in his absence. To his surprise the unexpected voice of a maid answered! She told the man that his mother had gone out. [the man’s worried face] Something that was very uncustomary. A horrible feeling came over the man that something terrible might have happened to his mother in the interim. [the man stares at the station wagon’s open gate parked not the street]. The man was now at the mercy of both his girlfriend and whatever fatal news that might come to the fore about his mother’s demise. He turned back from the street with his phone in his hand and walked over to a metal desk. The one side being more vertical than the other due to a metal attachment that effectively destroyed all its usefulness and utility. Though his girlfriend and some other acquaintances did not seems to take notice of this, he vowed to trim off the offending section of the desk and restore it to functionality.
There was a run on gasoline in the late nineteen-forties. A line quickly forming about four old style yellow gas pumps before an old ramshackle building. A red car trying to turn about to align with the pump in a space just vacated and another speeding up from a distant entrance far behind. The man imposed his large sedan betwixt the two and allowed the red car to continue the arduous maneuver. Another turbaned man dressed in the Middle Eastern garb of a Sultan detrained from the parked auto and bowed in thanks to the man in the sedan and prepared to pump his own gas. The aggravated driver left out of this arrangement behind the sedan swinging around still tried to impose himself between the two. The sultan motioned to the side of the building and several men in fez’s appeared and dragged the interloper from his car as he loudly protested. At the sultan’s direction this offender was bent forward and his head was unceremoniously lopped off. The sultan turning back to the man in the sedan so as to reassure him with another bow with a wave of his hand with a “Salaam Alecum!”
The man now back at home in his old neighborhood had heard that his parents believed to be deceased were staying at his cousin’s house just across the border of the next state to the north in Wisconsin. Just above the first county but not as far north as Milwaukee. He wasn’t quite sure how to get from my current destination to the appropriate route going north since it had been a long time since he had gone up to that area. He started out on foot down the street but soon magically transitioned to an automobile by the crossroads. He arrived after some time navigating the roads by dumb luck. He found a factory on the same property that his cousin owned under a company name that his father had once held title to. An ad agency that his long deceased father was once the head of but had now defaulted to this relative. Entering the establishment and walking through the workshops in back he was shocked to see his elderly mother working away unhappily at a bench before long rows of tables beside other workers. The item before her that she painted was a mediocre example of production glass. Something far beneath her station as an accomplished artist of many decades in her former existence. The work of the day requiring these items to be covered with an industrial gesso in different varieties of garish colors. Something of an exercise that had the quality of mere finger painting to it. It was hard to imagine anyone being anxious to purchase the final product? The expression upon the man’s mother’s face betrayed a sense of profound unhappiness suggesting an perpetual awareness of having tumbled back down to a much lower rung in terms of any regard for her inherent talents. He was simply a guest in his cousin’s house. Not an interloper but certainly not much more than an itinerant poor relation. All he could do was to find some place to lay down and rest.
Many might wish to think that they have full power over their lives. Especially after their physical manifestation begins to waver. A sense of desperation sends them running o the technological and mechanical to cure or compensate. Better to take in the vagaries that are subject to chance. Circumstances not unlike spitting upon your own grave. Years of making fun of the shortcomings of others. A theory claims that the ever refreshed ‘modern world’ is built upon a foundation of cliches industrially embedded within rock hard publicly distributed fantasies. A knowledge of the progressive language of film seems essential to deciphering the same.
Someone should reveal the difference between actual imminent danger and simple prejudice! To be aware of that distinct potential for unneeded confrontation? Or just simply habitual avoidance closing down the spirit residing within to avoid the most obvious of consequences likely to occur. An expression of disdain being the dead giveaway that one is of no importance in the greater scheme of things within that other passing universe. The daily acceptance of that of that other passing self-imposed granite gray stony visage. A magnet for the destruction of all things positive in the immediate area.
Both belief and reason are dependent upon the consistency of one’s continuous indoctrination through habitual practices throughout life experience. Walk around viewing life through an electronic keyhole fraught with little games and the hope for constant monitored communication of your audience of online friends and spy the waking world as something remote or even hostile by comparison. Truth to a greater degree is a function of the filtration of daily experiences due to human and the chaotic nature of the setting that encompasses all.
“Help!“, may be expected by all at every level of human kind? One person’s, “Bright beautiful day!“, may be a living Hell for their fellow in the immediate range of eyesight. A concern for that unfortunate that generates absolutely no concern for others at all. Life’s decisions provoking un-revokable consequences no options being seen. The constant recycle of past experiences being taken as a guide for present actions. That inviolable sense of ‘place’ being expected by any species of life. Something to be protected at the peril of one’s life and further material existence. Replacement by another surmising the context of the most basic fear held by any entity. Ever present foreign bodies lurking just out of sight ready to pounce upon the unwary. Engagement to the point of physical confrontation with the worst of their most fearsome imagined rivals at any cost sometimes being the necessary expense to continue as one has all along.
Women being most interest in that man that can most serve to further their inner desires. Security and success as they view it. Perhaps not a good thing in this current time where the signification of earthly power is not worldly wisdom but the constant apparition of raw wealth. A longstanding penchant to test one to determine what level of comfort or its opposite that the brief topical episodes of interactions reveal. Men dressed in blue and red reminiscent of the fact that in popular culture they are the unsuspecting future victims of the movie cliche character of a John Wick. Semiotics in dress and accessory finery a message system thoroughly studied obsessively int he context of the daily mental diversion of popular culture.
“Judge not lest thee be judged!” Prokiev versus Stravinsky, Violin Sonata No. 1 in F minor, Op. 80. Disturbing to the emotions for the fact of its discontinuity. The quicksand of what was once the continuity of conscious behaviors by civilized mankind. Time lost slipping into timelessness returning later into unconsciousness. Mortal journey down the main current flowing from the ‘Ile d’morte.” The convalescence of this battered consciousness to ensue. Life a slip slide into the realm of the mud shark. Half obsessed without he impertinence of one’s own impatient shadow. A full stomach after extended privation seeming to alleviate most problems. Past acquisitions at similar junctures along with the brief passions shared with nameless friends logged into memory coming briefly coming to mind.
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If life is a deck of cards that is sorted and resorted. The same old cards after many years becoming well-worn and too obviously familiar. Only those few winning and losing hands remaining memorable and immediate to the mind’s eye. Some visions and feelings recovered on occasion. Venice beach Sun and the pier. That meandering path through the sand and all the early morning skaters. That old carousel housed within up high. Deep rich black and white overexposed tones lighting architecture no longer standing save in the darker corner of my mind. Stacked away with other memories in perpetual shadow of all things past. That endless ebb and flow of time’s relentless tides. All illusion now as if it had never been. These are the myths that lay at rest in the midst of night. Tinder waiting to be reignited like memory of past souls now departed. All so mysterious. All now gone.
The black woman had convinced the white man to lay flat across the top of several seats on the bus. Though she was not a hypnotist and this was not a public demonstration of her abilities there was equally no malice in employing him as her desk. It was a friendly thing. The two were not exactly strangers and this stunt was a hair brain scheme to travel froths neighborhood to her own so that he might innocuously study the difference in speech patters unobtrusively. The man had the idea that he could learn to speak as she did. To understand her by adopting long vowels and uncertain consonants. He could glean such things from her voice and then perhaps her voice would yield even more information. Maybe even create some form of understanding. Yet what was so hard to comprehend? He wasn’t of that culture or part of that culture.
My friend ‘S’ were in a nondescript section of a bedroom community outside a major metropolitan area with numerous ‘big box’ stores. On the basis of an unstated common purpose we both bedded down for the evening in a parking lot. This was not as unusual as it seemed as many others were taking advantage of the empty space upon the asphalt of the parking lot to retire for the night. Our portion sported the benefit of a desk with a chair that sat abandoned next to us. As I settled down to sleep a wind blew some random candy and cigarette wrappers by. Some of which were gathering around my sleeping bag near my face. I grabbed at some of them an crumpled them up and left them on the back edge of the chair which itself was tucked within the desk’s cubbyhole. Unfortunately with no wastebasket standing nearby to toss them into they would invariably fall back down and drift toads me again powered by the wind upon the pavement. This was irritating me even further.
At one point I made the mistake of handing the recovered flotsam to her which created unexpected ire on her part. She was taking the crumpled refuse from my own had but bucket brigading it back to the edge of the chair where it had just fallen back down again. At one point after this exchange had happened many times I testily asked her why she continued to do that? All I was expecting was that she might put these annoying items in a wastebasket that was in reach from her side. Her response being that didn’t know and it was OK if she wanted to put it back where t kept getting blown off of.
Some writers and poets in addition to their normal power of conjuring words were accustomed to handling their dirty business by calling upon by a sorcerer. Of course that is exactly what happened. And I among others was subject to meeting this person. Which of course had an inherent danger involved with it in itself. The location of this meeting was by spatial reference in a proscribed location in a public area. That might have been a commercial space? That part of the area where the person’s abode was in was not part of commercial space but seemed to be like a regular a personal domicile. A sort of assassin versed in spells. Some one who was a hit man who was brought in to do cleanup work. And in finding out about this person had to listen to their lecture wondering how dangerous to me in finding out about all this stuff?
The setting was a magnificently large open pit coal mine somewhere in the Siberian region of mother Russia. I was naught but another anonymous worker tasked to fulfill his quota of productivity. Being break time I trundled down the spiderweb of steel superstructure to reach the small kiosk of a store at its base that was set up for the convenience of workers who might wish to purchase more cigarettes or other sundry items without leaving the vicinity of the plant. One curious feature of this roughly configured stall/boutique being that each purchase over so many rubles brought a gift of a small piece of ceramic china. A covered cup with an intense pattern of red and green and blue. A design solely found only in the rougher regions of the back country. This incentive being offered and collected to the point that a factory must have been behind their distribution.
The chess game in the warehouse with the traditionally dressed Irish woman and her wool net shawl over her shoulders carried on. The old gal had me in a corner. Five players left on the board. A black Rook and a King. The final struggle coming down to a matter of a single move. Such things are the stuff of dreams these days.
The mechanical beast is more important than any simple human being in the reigning autocracy of a democracy of unbounded profit. That landlord who gleefully invites all the peasants in and then puts bars on the windows and doors after hoisting up the drawbridge to lock them in his castle keep. Modern democracy is just another reference to slavery by the hands of the attrition caused by the division of the wealth of the public trust ceded over to feudal elites. The peasants can work for dirty straw endlessly bending their backs and wasting their strength over the years to build the mental fallacy of a ‘great land’. All so that those mountebanks can infect the seats of power and corrupt its leaders in order to claim ownership by worthless paper and self-serving writ. Where is the backbone of society when every aspect of it is handed to those who are unable to create but only know ‘but’ and ‘sell’? But unable to afford any respect for all the rest who have build those fortresses literally upon their backs by ceaseless labor at constant risk of incessant plunder? This mechanical beast has quickly devoured all the arts of mind and eye that took many millennia to create and define. All to enclose everyone who now have no alternative at the peril of losing any public forum. What fools we all have been over this last twenty years to not see this coming! And now not devote ourselves to not allowing it to continue!
I am a retired school teacher on a very low fixed monthly income who has had a blog on your site since 2013. One that has been fairly well received in terms of a format that focuses non -pictorially based on the power of words alone.
The beginning of this year saw a discreet advertisement appearing to the side at the top of the page. Not thrilling but given the fact of what has been an ongoing concept not annoying Since the 9th of this month I notice that two pictorial ads appear at the bottom of EVERY POST!?!?! This not only overpowers my text but positively kills it!
I know that the Internet has now become an Arkansas land grab for future entrepreneurs to rack up as much money as possible on the way to the ‘eight figure‘ bank account club. Some of us DON’T have those sorts of nickels and dimes jingling in our pockets these days to drop them continuously every month into this Kineoscope of what has now been transformed into a relentless dime museum.
I don’t mind ad at the top and can understand that one must compromise especially if they are not a paying customer. But in this intervening ‘free’ years, I and others like me have brought a lot of value to your site in the way of consistently attracting repeat customers. How about returning the favor a bit and putting some sort of reasonable limit to those of us that just cannot afford to shell out every month!
Scott Becker, Exist Ants