My Thoughts are of Great Value to You

KELE BINDU

lokifreign — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 18:19:38 GMT

A more striking man never existed in our ranks. The eyes that looked simultaneously away from, as well as directly at one, the long blonde hair tangled into barbarian’s twigs, the long and crooked teeth that menaced one whenever his queer laughter erupted, well; lesser individuals could not long be in his company without feeling a creeping chill across their backs and necks. There was an element to his manner that suggested he might be capable of all sorts of mayhem. Of course we who surrounded and cared for him knew he was of the gentlest sort, despite his cavorting and his threats - a kinder soul has yet to walk among our numbers, my sacred family. That he was a rare creature was plain to all that knew him, though who could lend credence to his bizaare claims of nonhuman lineage? True enough, his biceps seemed to attach at a lower point on his forearms, and beneath the bulk that was his chest there were legs altogether too short. I happen to know that beneath his beard of dark gold there hid a jaw that was all but chinless. His brow was prominent, also. I suppose it’s not wholly out of the bounds of possibility that what he proudly declared could be so; post-cognitive science has yet to unravel all the mysteries of human origins, and recent theories do cautiously flirt with the notion that some genetic intermingling may have taken place in dim Paleolithic times. Medium and Seer alike avow that other species of humans still walk among us, hiding from the sins of Homo Sapiens’ ancient wrath. Who is to say what might not be? Perhaps we were visited by a Monster, an ancient Beast, a miniature Giant. Often he would smile broadly after accomplishing some feat of strength or agility that he was no human, and he would trumpet off about Neandertal being the lost race of supermen that vile and lowly Cro-Magnon destroyed out of superstitious fear. Certainly none could challenge his physical prowess; why, I once saw the man clinging to the top of a scaffolding (none too secure, mind you), holding a eighty pound beam in one arm - by its end - and leaning out as far as he could go to drop it into place! He forgave us, he said, for our trying to erase his ancestors; all the same he was here to show us that his kind could not be extinguished. And yet he has been taken from us, O family, he is gone from our arms if not our hearts! Lo these many years and still we congregate to weep for him, for we love him still. His was the power of commanding the best possible effort, that we might not be too horribly outdone by him. Let us remember his passions, and strive to honor his memory, for he has joined the ancestors and moves now only in the dreams of our witches and in the lands of our dead. It is for him this day that I move in the living world, for him who cannot I do the things that he enjoyed, for him whose prayers are over I pray, and keep fast the sacred rituals he held dear. Here I can feel the breath of his wings brushing my face, and I give my dreams to take with him. May his soul ever color mine, may my thoughts never abandon him, may my heart listen to his wisdom as it speaks to me from his home in the forever sky.

everthang's fine

lokifreign — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 03:47:49 GMT

working really hard trying not to tank out EDIT: This entry has been modified by request; thank you for your patience

random snatches

lokifreign — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 21:45:49 GMT

it comes in a special package with colors that will sparkle and shine I'd give you some of this one to try but I'm afraid this one is mine ______ Some people eat cabbages others prefer chalk Some people ride motorcycles, while others must walk. ______ Why do you want your children to be slaves? Why do you tell them Jesus saves? If you really trusted God so much, you wouldn't be in such a rush to send your children off, for nothing, to their graves. ______ All covered in wine, light slips through the treeline, suffering quietly, aching with misery, and, soon covered in rime, the sun dies, laughing, lightly, and in the quiet after, we're happy. So, furthering, run. ______ Ich bin komplett, vollkommen und dynamisch, ewig, sofortig. Ich weiß alle. Ich kann nicht verstanden werden, umgebe alles, ich kann nicht beschrieben werden. Ich weiß alle. Ich bin hell und ich bin der, der allen Schatten wirft. Ich bin die Ursache der Änderung und das Ende der Zeit. ________ the light the light it was always there in your fingers, everywhere even at night you can feel it in your hair and in the air it's cold and bright you feed u- pon it it is your right _______ non può essere confutato. non può confutare. non indicherete che non è così, non indicherete che non è così... forse è così. ...non può essere confutato. Ich habe, entschieden entmutigt nicht zu werden. Ich habe gegen das Werden entmutigt entschieden. Ih fahre fort! Lo prendo indietro; lo prendo indietro. _______ Verzweiflung.... hanno sapien. (¡aber nicht die Schmerz verstehen können!) ... il timore e la speranza - verschwunden. (spariti!)

two awesome things in one short period of time

lokifreign — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 09:21:23 GMT

No really: actually awesome. So, my wife got hired for a party at this weird looking tapas place in the Cheshire Bridge area of Monroe, a rapper was having a birthday. (He was pretty cool, too, btw; 'plush blue' I think? I'm not really all the way hep with the things the kids are a-hoppin' to these days - in my day, all musicians wore eyeliner and had tall hair and we liked it that way) 1) the drummer bailed at the last minute, so I hauled my shit out there. I made a hundred dollars an hour for my trouble. (yeah; you read that right - I tapped on things I would have tapped on anyway, except with fabulous babes in tight dresses at every turn being jealous of how hot my wife is, and got a fucking massive wad of cash (cash) for it at a very posh party that I enjoyed muchly) and 2) at the end of the night, Chuck D came over and talked to me and 'milla, and said in the course of conversation "you two are married aren't you?" How did he know? I asked him. He said he could just tell. Totally sweet guy. (yes) I sort of knew from the Criminal Records days that he doesn't like to be gushed on, so I waited until long after he was out of range to grab honey and shake her and say "holyshitthatwaschuckmotherfuckingd"

Benjy

lokifreign — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 06:46:30 GMT

I can't believe I found this. It was a whim. I was listening to it while reading your blogs and it occurred to me: I want to share this tune of Benjy's with you, so here it is: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Ej49SyNW1E GREAT song. The best Benjy stories never made it into this doco. I don't really care for the movie, to be honest, I guess, because I knew him and his druggy habits fucked up a few of my friends. Not that he was the sort to really intentionally hurt folks. He would suck you off for speed, though, so... that's friendly, I guess. I never really loved Benjy - I'd never pretend that. I didn't really even like him. It's not *about* that. I'm amazed at who is alive, and who is not in prison, these days. Another truly amazing Benjy song is "I Don't". I listen to that one and actually fucking *freak* out sometimes because it's so goddammed poignant, Benjy, you asshole, that's how fucking good a song that fucking is, you ugly dead old cocksucker. Wish I could see you play live, but I guess that's all done with.

Thank You!!!!

lokifreign — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 07:03:43 GMT

All of you who said great things to me on that last one and in PM - thank you. It *does* mean a lot. An awful lot. Some of you... gads it means almost too much - it's not safe! how much it means! oh jeez! - but really: "thank you" is inadequate. Tell me what I can do for you.

Email in the Mornin

lokifreign — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 13:37:48 GMT

I've been getting spam from a slew of political parties since '97; the GOP has some pretty spiffy email. Today I got one from John Cornyn, and, since I'm trying to stay out of things here on fuckmyheadlesscorpse.net for the time being I decided to vent my daily surfeit of poisonous frustration over just how willfully sucky this nation has become in the past 20 years on him; it was a long mailer that he sent me, and a form letter, but I happened to have his direct addy up at the Criminal Pervert Factory we all work so hard to prop up like the fucking Queen. I sent him a shorty; if he doesn't block me, then it's ON. I've been around this ride once or twice in the past; the way it generally works is that his secretary will send me a form letter thanking me for my input and directing me to exciting new venues of GOP moving&shaking innovation, then I write back explaining how all those things are lies and that I am not fooled by peanuts tossed at PR, and there's a short exchange in which I reveal that form letters make me turn from a dapper little Banner into a lumbering grunting Ferigno, and so I'm hoping that (as it did with Chambliss) progress at least to the level of me being able to fire off oone sanity-restoring tirade of unmitigated venom and rage. Here's the opening salvo in response to Mr. Cornyn's spam: >> hahahahahahano. If you wanted my support you should have saved us seven years ago, GOP. You're a spineless pack of appeasing self-serving liars and perverts and I won't entertain one single more lie from your collective mouth. The *only* consolation left to me at this time is that at least *one* branch of your shamelessly criminal cartel has finally been discredited by its rampant and ungoverned misdeeds. Let's at least cling to our shared hope that soon, your "blue" counterparts will be shown to be exactly the same danger as you pose, you greedy, evil, child-murdering bastard. May your career from this point be either a dismal failure or a bizarre miracle of personal transformation. Shame on you; X << Doesn't really do any good, but it *feels* good. It's like picking a scab.

Explain it to me.

lokifreign — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 04:48:22 GMT

I'm not some kind of freaking mind reader. That idea spread because I picked up on some body language one day and people just like to blow things out of proportion. So clue me in. Why is it so important? I used to know or something but then I forgot so as my friend you should step up and fill me in so I can stop feeling as if there was a discussion I was assumed to have been privy to but in fact never was, if you see what I'm saying here and I think you do.

Time to Wake Up

lokifreign — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 15:15:12 GMT

HEY. AMERICANS. This is the eleventh hour and all of us are being bundled up and shipped off to the slaughterhouse. Wake up and look at what's being done to you. Obama isn't going to save you. He has made it eminently clear. Corporate control of the populace is being completed, and very few of you have opposed it at all; most of us have been slaves all our lives. We've been asleep; lulled into complacency and complicity by crappy circuses and overfed on shitty, sugary bread. Look away from the stupid circus, put down those nasty sweets, finally, and stand up, clear the cobwebs, and look at the writing on the wall. Are you ready? Are you brave? Or will you treasure your chains while the plantation overseers brand and sell your children and your loved ones? Stare down the barrel of the guns being aimed at the civilian populace with some kind of samurai bravado and hope that one or two of us getting killed can help spark off an actual American movement. If you can't do this - then feed and abet someone that has the fiber. Get me? Be a revolutionary. Quit doing what these child rapists and mass murderers that overthrew your country tell you. If you obey them, you become a force for child rape and mass murder. Don't do that. HEY; So-called "police": are you going to arrest your siblings, your children, your neighbors - are you going to brutalize them on the say-so of scum in suits that treat you like a dog on a leash? If so, then you're a coward and a traitor, no American at all. Are you ready to shoot us all down, now? So-called "soldiers" - have you gotten weary of the lies they use to trick you into becoming a brainless murderer? Or are you ready to forsake the American people to the monsters that turned you into a thug and used you to *destroy* freedom? Are you willing to destroy America at their command, the way they ordered you to destroy Afghanistan, Iraq, the whole of Africa? Are you proud of having been taught to hate your neighbors and kill the defenseless? If so, then you're a coward and a traitor, no American at all. Are you ready to shoot us all down, now? The government of the USA is nothing but a criminal cartel. It is uselessly corrupt and its current form is unsalvageable in its venality. The law is now a tool for theft, the military is a kennel of wardogs used to rape and murder and despoil, ***these wars were a filthy evil lie from the start and they have always failed and they are a failure right now.*** There was a blip of "Hope™" - hey, I let myself fall for it for a day or two myself, in all the hullabaloo - but it was a lie - manufactured and sold like candy. The post election fog-clearing really showed that so called Hope for the cynical trick it always has been. The cartel that seized control of this nation is nothing more or less than a violent and unethical gang, and they certainly aren't planning to Change it now. No help is coming, no restorative magic will be worked, no salvation is coming from on high, and it never has; Mr Obama has already made "his" plans quite clear - he has no reason to believe that anyone cares, or has the energy, or retains mental facility and fortitude to recognize what's been happening. So, fucking STAND UP. Quit believing that comforts and gewgaws are all it takes to turn you from a fierce and potentially super-dangerous creature into stupid overfed cattle that daily push their trusting children onto the conveyor that leads up to the slaughterhouse. Grow a garden. Raise animals. Stop driving. Reduce your use of resources drastically and keep looking for ways to do that, all the time. Each way you learn to limit your consumption strikes a blow at the forces of oligarchy. Why else do you think they keep hammering away at the idea that "decrease in household consumption is destroying our economy"? Is it really? Or does it keep money out of the pockets of the very crooks that deliberately ruined this economy? Was it us not buying from Wal-Mart that ruined the economy? Who really ruined the economy? You, or Presidents, Senators, officers of the United States? All of them bought and paid for. All but the very fewest of them willing to steal our money and dare to blame you for it being gone. Do you care if 'Wall Street' stops trading futures? You should want it to - the simple fact is that what's good for 'Wall Street' is bad for those that must work to live - IE all but the very very few of us. Read up on the Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act, NAFTA, and the recent history of banking, investment, and insurance - then look up the the Fairness Doctrine, the Glass-Steagall Act, the Bank Holding Company Act and ask yourself what happened to the world around us once they were thrown aside. ¡Destroy Wall Street! and the criminal cartels that prop it up by depriving them of *all* your money. Stop forking it over. Don't buy *anything* from corporations that ship things in from somewhere else. *Learn* about who is selling what you buy, and if you see *any* connection to agencies or people that seek to weaken and enslave you and yours, *starve* them, don't buy from them. If you work for them - *quit now*. You will be facing hardship no matter what you do. So why not make it count for something? Time to take the reigns and stop pretending that you "have to" enslave yourself in support of an enterprise that actively destroys your people and heartily steals from you while chaining children to the wheel and poisoning us all. When these corporations started demanding our billions and whining to the cartel that they were going under, that was our cue to laugh and take heart - and to steel for the reprisal. Were at a crucial point - no more resting and waiting; there's no time and you're under the gun. It is far past time to seize power, in the finest and noblest American tradition, and put it where it belongs, in the hands of all of us. Anyone who urges you to accept the dominion of criminals is wrong. I agree with those who insist that "changing the system from within" is a necessary first step - I would argue, though, that that has been going on for long enough, and that any time spent on further prolonging this timidity and failure is wasted. "The system" can't support its parasites. The parasites must be excised. If "the system" deserves to survive, it will do so much more ably once those parasites are starved and shaken loose. Take entertainment, solace, love from one another, instead of corporations. Enrich one another, serve one another, fight for one another! http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=ELryvqsvpZM Sing along!: Don't believe them for a moment For a second, do not believe, my friend When you are down, them are not coming With a helping hand Of course there is no us and them, But them, they do not think the same It's them who do not think the same! It's them who do not think... They never step on spiritual path They paint their faces so differently from ours And if you listen closely That war it never stops! That war it never stops! That war.... Be them new Romans oh, Don't envy them my friend Be their lives longer Their longer lives are spent Without a love or faithful friend All those things they have to rent! All those things they have to rent! All those things... But we who see our destiny In sound of this same old punk song Let rest originality for sake of passing it around Illuminating realization number one: You are the only light there is For yourself my friend You are the only light there is For yourself my friend! For yourself my friend! For yourself, my friend. For yourself, my friend. There'll be no saviors any soon coming down And anyway, illuminations Never come from the crowned Illuminating realization number one: You are the only light there is For yourself my friend; You are the only light there is For yourself my friend! For yourself my friend! For yourself my friend! For yourself, my friend. For yourself, my friend.

tSChNSv3.1 [the more time passes, the less unusual it becomes]

lokifreign — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 06:33:18 GMT

Ye Shadow Cast, Haz No Soarse v3.1 by, rtens crruthrz You’ll not understand. for mine was an instrument for turning need into weakness, weakness into advantage. This isn’t a pursuit that many are forced to consider. You know I was a sanctioned social sycophant at the time of the profession's tentative sanction, and will at least endure, if not understand and optimize, if not rush ahead and upward with this polydemical essay to recontextualize it for whatever social leverage. My *hopes* are that some enclave among your scriber-base will be able to interpret what I tell you, in a secured space, and then comprehend it strongly enough to safeguard my viewpoint for posterity, of whom I can only beg exemption for my inadequately cognitive verbiage. You, now, know more than we, then, could. Firstly, [Suscipience I’ll confabulate by way of stating that] I have been commissioned to provide this autobiographical report, and so it is not [only] narcissism that moves me to account thus for the events of my past life, but rather simple workmanlike eagerness to satisfy my employers. Secondly, I feel strongly impelled to advise others that my condition is impossible to achieve in modern umuns, and with good reason. No one should ever ennvee this mode, nor seek to emulate it. It stems from essential infirmity. For me then, before, it is the horror, of thin lines of grey, of neutrality-destroying negg-enntruppy, on which we now focus. Perhaps from time to time I would also be assaulted by a wafting stray gradient; it might creep across surface in a frontal diffusion from neighbor-art, I might forget to abort an automatic rendering, or bee subject to the effects of a nearby public property. This is the nature of my compulsion, it is the germ of the reason for opting to remain within this *coolness*, this blessed nurturing blanket which silences all value. You’re not wanting it. I understand, take no offense [it is right to be repelled]. Naturally, convention still makes multiduplications of me - I could always revert, but I tell you truly that I dare not. That’s first claim for someone like Veir, and shem was an umun that would capitalize fully on such a trend; anyway, it’s this dynamism that gives signification to my unusual existence. From the blue down to the brown, it was everything in definition, and nothing about thee arm. I know it’s unintelligible, but endure, you will understand more easily if you enter the flow: Many in my clutches have jabbed, that, and this at me, too say, “Thee arm! Thee arm!” but I maintain always, always, it wasn’t that. To my virtues be kind, dear clutches. Veir always fancied shemself my nemesis - it was not a relationship I chose, but I indulged dilligently, for Veir was charming in clever ways. Shem would make absurdist remarks such as “I have learned of interesting ways to use Social Spending to my own advantage.” Hah! You do not understand the wit, you have no reference with which to comprehend the avonnt gardizm of the times. Shem may as well have declared “I have learned how to utilize oxygen for the purpose of respiration.” Veir was a sort of scandalous satellite to our nests. Veir often followed me for drama’s sake, shadowing me across junkets or what have you, and so could have sifted up a trope of my designs in any number of formats - I don’t intend to denigrate myself with proofs or creation tabs, because it’s not my way. I never minded that Veir took the arm; I was actually quite flattered that it should be my creativity and originality that Veir decided to plagiarize. However, it’s important to understand the nature of this intellect, the texture of this character. There is no possibility that my designs had become morphogenically active, and so it was shocking when the arm appeared in realtime before I ever finalized it for fabrication and registration. This is meant to give you an inkling of the sort of thing Veir turns shem’s strange talent toward, the talent that led to my peculiar confinement. It amuses me to turn my mind in, upon itself, and think what I might feel, if I were another, about such a situation - Veir behind wan in every tunnel or strand, smiling, smiling, cataloguing one’s neuroses. Of course such childish behavior is quite illegal, but in our clutches we tend to view that sort of thing with rebellious tolerance and humor. Veir’s antics were a fertile soma, and shem would often freely market various dark modes of expression among us at suitably exclusive social media. We savored every novel discomfort shem inspired in us. When shem took this inordinate interest in the specifics of my personality, I was honored, and took great care to arrange my jaunting in such a way as to afford shem every possible opportunity to observe them without being arrested - it was in fashion in my clutches, as I have said, so spare me whatever befuddled gaping - but my pleasure strained after a time, for Veir was attending me too closely, pushing me into settings that played on my unpublic fears. Photonic filtration/interruption. Shem detected a trace of a quaint phobia motherthree had drawn up in her youthful days of vintage psykonnic reconstructiviszum, and since it rarely came up I kept it as a badge of conformist individuality. Didn’t I tell you our nest is dissident? Veir seized on it but misread its negligible symptoms, and my narrative is thus informed. Softness and shimmer is the raster along intracommunal levels which are amber with ovals, and every day I would have cause to visit it. There I would find cunning constructions meant to hamper the flow of light, but it seeps, it reflects, and this I know because of my elective affliction (growing with it caused primitive physiosemiotic learning - I’ve been very sensitive to the most my newt refractions since childhood). You see, this is where Veir’s misstep was positioned - shem never thought to give accordance to a subtle lifetime’s effect on nuances or thetic portrayal. Shem’s analysis of my weave was too crude, shem acted too hastily on an unverified assumption: silently I was labeled “sciophobe”. It’s not difficult to run how this hypothesis might survive preliminary scrutiny; wherever a faintest shadow appeared I’d be excited, a shrewd observer could record how I’d crane to find the offending light source and fixate upon it. Within the second iteration I had sloughed into a field of stark kawntrasts, and Veir derived enjoyment most uncivilized from observing my attempts to alter this environment. A moment beat by, most dramatic. I could not control the light. My annoyance reared stressful all in one quick try at egress, my heart felt that sick hysterical pain of fear - my eyes were trapped! This went beyond any realistic notions of style. I looked about pitifully for a few moments, then murdered myself, shameful head held low with a sneer such as from a vile flavor, and though the act was disgraceful it showed Veir the extent of my willingness. I would obviously have no compunctions against killing shem, if the opportunity arose. Unfortunately, it also clearly demonstrated the compelling power of my defect. I couldn’t suffer the milieu at all once I perceived zero outlet from it. So, as in some demented old fiction, the game was afoot. My enemy’s understanding was incomplete, and that was the weapon I intended to use against shem. At first, as with the emulation, plagiarism, shadowing, there was a renewed element of adventure, and again, as then, once novelty had faded it was merely frustrating. Veir showed an alarming disregard for discretion, so that I was forced to be on alert at all times, ready with a masturbatory array of polite malfeasances to both hide my growing instability and diffuse the ripples of restraint and bemusion that would inevitably ensue after one of shem’s increasingly innappropriate displays. There would be a levitating shade, trailing wherever I jaunted, nimbly interposing itself between my face and whatever lumens happened to shine brightest toward me. That might be augmented by polarized null-lasers, dithered to half-diffusion, trained on me from various angles at unexpected vantages. There would be cunningly simulated environmental ray systems, poised to appear as some natural reflection from an unseen luminosity, that would shift and rotate to catch me at every possible orientation as I passed, or fled. Then whole flocks of shades, then the oribital projectors, then the automata, the stressed and disturbing artwork mailers, the oneiric subliminals - soon it was plain Veir would risk anything to direct funds and energy toward harrassing me, and didn’t mind that there would inevitably be an audit for such massive and futile expenditure. The first few fingers of desperation began to tickle my gut. I developed several applications for protecting myself, yet no filter could lessen the psychic impact of shem’s unnerving persistence, rather I quickly came to appreciate just how cleverly Veir’s own dark nuances were expressed, in that this attention and esteem for me was an effective component of the overall design. Despite my one advantage - Veir’s underestimating the complexity of my abberation - shem’s never-less-than-total commitment to the scheme molded my peril in far graver a metal than I could have pregnosited. In my leisure hours, it was fascinating to unravel bitter humorous symbols implicit in each new affrontery; Veir had analyzed the social theme of my little clique, and parodied us with ruthless genius. If one was inured to the horror of it - and of its author’s inferred derangement - there was a wealth of wit to be read, terribly creative, underlying it all. Most umun do not carry on thus, and so would dismiss it all, saying “Simply get ye to socionician, erase all the corrupted nodes, discontinue this dirtying convivial practice.” But we are not the norm, we disdain the norm, we actually draw the bulk of our Time on the predication that we develop contraforms to promote dynamism in the spectrum of umun thought. It is our task to remain atypical, and it would have been the height of hypocrisy to go cringing before a socionician. • I thought of ways I might pressure Veir, and cause situations to arise that would create conditions within which shem would not find it advantageous to spend time on merely importuning me - this course mocked me for I drastically misunderstood how much shem was willing to forego and sacrifice to my every inconvenience. Some closer acquaintances rendered me sympathy, but chronic troubles of this sort are never popular, so I shunned company, reasoning that I would reenter public life with the story of how I would overcome this nemesis. • I engineered windows from which I acted on the commercial base and regained some value of Time, and met with temporary success, but eventually my foe would creep back, and neutrality would divide, and my fear would be provoked again, until I would burst out of my construction, only to be greeted by the familiar levitating shades, mobile ray-emitters… [Can you imagine yourselves, in such an environment? Would you ever voluntarily engage in this intercourse without calling to Community Vote? Against every pride, every loth impulse,] • I prepared to conduct myself to a public dormitory. [What was there left for me to do? I needed the simplest of things: rest. I had no option but to offer myself up to the socialist bosom I despised to get it.] • I removed every identifying accouterment from myself, reconfigured my skin to a featureless, raceless homogeneity, as inoffensively average as I could conceive, and outfitted myself with submissive looking togs that spoke of humility and group spirit. Poking outside of the hall that had been my home for so long, I realized I was excited to see how the contours beyond it had changed over time. There were even a few other umuns moving by on various ingenious conveyances; the debris and mayhem I remembered had transformed into a safer but still adventurous environment. Still, I sighed mightily leaving the clutch behind; I knew I’d never see those particular people again, that their changes, should I ever cosynchronize with them again to whatever end, would be so fundamental and subtle that I could never hope to repair my role inside them. I wondered if this was what Veir intended. Soon I had the grim answer, as from above two parabola on crude cable-arms were jerked into position, first one and then the other, by some unseen machinery. Natural solar effulgence was being used, clearly by Veir, to manipulate the medium of reality itself to cause me discomfort. All objectivity was superceded by Emotion, in the form of one omni-faceted explosion. I could not physically adjust, and fell to the ground, unable to activate any protections, left to the mercy of biology for as many as seven seconds. During that eternity of witless eye-drooling and convulsion, I contemplated much, realizing that Veir’s experience had to be far vaster and more varied than my own, more than anyone I could imagine; the aim of shem’s inscrutable ministrations was clearly greater in scope than I could ever have cerebrated. Such a creature Veir must be, a prodigy? Alone cast by sheer brilliance since pre-enfranchisement, wandering the societies of us mere cretins searching hopelessly for equal; did shem think I could ever be a part of such demigodlike games? I hurled myself, I rocketed myself inside once sensate. And played my final tack. It was stimulation of purpose, it was of courageous motive that I was able to achieve detachment again, and reasoned out more of the incredible story as I automatically went through the ritual somata of the sympole/macrinex starter application I intended to use. How beyond the normal pale, how unsettling and romantic! I imagined Veir as shem must have been, emerging from the educational tanks a marvelous genius, discovering with horror the mundanity, the mediocrity of our culture of camerae and indolence. What enterprises shem must have dreamed and then despaired of. What heroic instincts must have been born, and then languished. It was possible shem was some sort of barbarian caught up and reprocessed, with complete and uncompressed umun neural capacity - such had been theorized possible when the nursery-limiters were injudiciously streamlined decades previous. In any case, Veir was clearly possessed of a character that knew many orders of sensory association, and could shift across them, cross-operate through them, at will. Such a being would be a god in a world composed of layered data and mental filters. Veir could page through civilization as if enjoying a novel, traipse along thoughtfastenings that bind the rest of us as easily as we might navigate a city grid. Veir could do or be anything, but chose to observe as a rogue and a spy, and had singled me out. Why? I am intelligent. I disdain the majority of umun enterprises as folly. I seek alternate avenues and circumstances, I manipulate the legalities and mores of the structure of my world to my own [admittedly unambitious] ends. Perhaps shem lacked my faculty of empathic abstraction - it’s clear that the action I eventually chose would never have occurred to Veir, despite such penetrating intellect. Veir seems to have wanted, after all, someone to share shem’s incredible inner realm and wide perspective with, an artist to reinterpret all those worlds, and edify shem about the spiritual implications of modern life. But shem’s affections are too brutal, too discomforting for us mere umun. Shem is something other than umun. I cannot become whatever shem is. My new course would, by design, streamline any disbursement-oriented considerations: I prepared and entered a one-way box of utter darkness. No visible feature would reflect for me ever again, as long as Veir might be in the world. I would live in and learn to operate from pure data alone, I would invent new ambi-sensory templates with which to communicate, and with them adopt a new mantle of pride: one of new affluence and thrift, but of blindness. My first act was to end months of insomnia with a sleep that lasted several days. My second was to inaugurate a method of autocognition that would become a model of efficiency for generations to come. Social status was permanently assured - the older I became, the greater the innate charisma of my choice and position grew. Veir made perhaps an arrogant and lazy assumption that my fear was rooted in the absence of light, but it was, after all, light, with its vagaries of behavior, that disturbed me so. I have not received note of shem, nor come into contact with anyone who has, in any Time for years. Now it is I unfettered, of trepidation, at the cost of an experiential axis most never fully apprehend, never having forfeited it. In sensory isolation I have achieved a kind of bliss, which you discount but secretly wish to pattern. You are, no doubt, inferring much about the psychology of my self-mutilation, but you cannot fail to recognize the dignity that aconformance has provided my creations. You subscribe, after all, to connect with a person you’ve watched inspire schools of imitators; well, I’ll certainly confess it was never my aim to cultivate such celebrity. • Merely to reclaim comfort, or to invent it, I absconded from the world of light, forever.

when the horror creeps in

lokifreign — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 20:47:04 GMT

incorporate it into yourself; embrace it as part of your strength. No one else has had your experience; your perspective is unique. Everyone dies eventually. Don't fool yourself. It can come at any time - but it doesn't matter, because the sun and the light rays were for no one else, no one else, no one else. If not for the end of it, the beginning of it would have been pointless. The period is the point.

last night at around 4:00am

lokifreign — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 18:36:53 GMT

a guy got murdered in my driveway. I was tribing; I heard the shot; it was loud. I didn't call 911 because I hear shots relatively often out here, and arguing and cars screeching tires and that sort of thing. By about 4:30 the road had been blocked off on every side, and I told the scant facts to several cops. They spoke very loudly, so Ludmilla woke up. The first two cops were alright; I noticed the younger one was tearing up a lot, but he didn't look emotional or anything, just had tears running out of his eyes. He may have come into contact with some kind of solvent fumes or something. He had come to my door to back up the cop asking the questions, who was kind of heartbreakingly cute: mexican extraction, that way-too-far-forward hairline, Voice Immodulation Disorder, and huge serious eyes that flashed a beacon of "THERE'S A BODY UP THERE". They were both a little unnerved by me. It's because I'm tall and I happen to be up at that hour, and not afraid of bodies nor cowed by little boys playing at being cops. Welcome to the big city. They told me a detective would talk to me, so I waited up. Eventually I got sick of waiting around so I went outside and hobbled up the hill-part of the driveway to where the cops were. They all paused as if I was catching them in the cookie jar or something; there were one or two cops I recognized - one of them is this inexplicably super-hot blond lady that looks like a skinny version of Euphorbia (you probably don't know her); she looked at me kind of levelly; I don't know what her deal was, really, but she knows who I am; ANYway these are the kind of details I retain, so - a particularly ugly and smelly cop strides over to me with that leather-boy-tough-fag-cowboy walk that some cops seem to think is really impressive, and tried to frighten me with tough talk. I tried not to smirk too directly into his acne-scarred fuckface, and just gave him such facts as I was able to provide. I told him about getting mugged in the driveway last week; he didn't even register the information. He just kept looking at me with a blank and typically redneck mask of hate, a tough-guy shit headed half-lidded glower that blinked in the flashing blues. I looked over at the blond, more or less thinking something like "what the fuck is this asshole's problem?", but her face was inscrutable. She was looking over at us, but also busy with some deal involving a tape measure and a couple of technicians. Asshole-guy told me to wait while he went over to a detective, and I took that time to give the corpse the last human interaction he'd be likely to get in corporeal form: I knelt down and looked into the face to see if I could recognize him at all; I didn't. One of his shoes was off, and his foot was *white*, totally alabaster, which is weird for a black guy, ey. I wish I'd had a camera; it was quite a scene. His killer had shot him in the head. There was a small pond of blood making a small and truculent stream that was eking across the pavement toward the detective's car. Once I'd determined I didn't know the guy at all, I stood back up and looked over in their direction, starting to get a little annoyed. The detective didn't cross the street when the cop spoke to him; he looked up from a clipboard and shouted, "Is there SOMETHING I can HELP you with, SIR?" at which point I meant to cross the street and give him the facts, because, unlike a sack full of fucking assholes, I'm not prone to shouting details of a murder at the top of my lungs in a residential neighborhood at that hour of the morning. He screamed "DAMMIT DON'T WALK ACROSS THERE", so I turned around walked back to my front door (well away from the scene), stood there for a few minutes glaring death and hatred at the fuckers that bust druggies and potheads, and swarm like flies on shit to the *aftermath* of crime, but can't be bothered to, say, send a patrol car past this location *ever* despite the fact that there are violent crimes on this street no less than twice a fucking week since spring began. Officer Bruno, who gave me a ticket for illegal lane change not so long ago, saw me and nodded recognition (he was right to; I was a menace that day). Right then it occurred to me that, without exception, black cops I'd dealt with in Decatur were all cool and stand-up, while the white cops I've dealt with have been, with two exceptions, total redneck dickheads with serious IQ deficits. At around 6am another detective came to the door, obviously sent by the universe to verify my earlier assessment: a bald black gent, totally rocking the "homicide detective" style with shoulder holster, cream shirt, and nice shoes, being cordial and grateful to talk to someone with a brain, clearly. We joked about my race ("I was just gonna write down 'creole'" said he), and I wished him a better one, just like in Blade Runner. Mom's freaking out and says she'll pay for us to move "wherever you want" but somehow that mysteriously involves us putting everything into storage and moving into her basement. While I'm shocked and totally heart-warmed that she'd suggest it, of course I'd rather eat my own eyeballs than move into her home (but, on second thought, her husband does have the line on really amazingly good schmab (but: come on; I ain't moving into my mom's basement just yet - feels too much like the death-knell)). Blargh!!!! Decatur turns out to be five times as crimetastic as metro-Atlanta proper. WTF? And it's always Americans doing this shit, even though this area is at least 60% immigrant settlers and farmer's-market-rescues (fugitives from around the world flock to the Your Dekalb World Farmer's Market because it's a sweet job and there will be at least three other people there that actually speak the same obscure language fluently (a lady that works there told me that it's not too uncommon for fugitives from two entirely different countries to meet, fall in love, marry, and procreate before entirely learning one another's language, which I find ultra-sexy)). The murdered guy was wearing a cool tee; it featured a grande-sized post-Naegle-style bust of a woman wearing a green hat and smiling. His pants were white, but not as perfectly white as his foot.

Intestinal Cross-Section for the Mercy Of Wood

lokifreign — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 21:12:34 GMT

It takes nine busy people with tweezers and pliers nine hours before the torso begins to resemble a person again; the table is soaked (antiseptic) and smells mightily. Damned torso never stops talking - not once. The sound is actually coming from me - cliché! it can be a comfort - it's an action of cooperation between diaphragm and larynx, together betraying my animal weakness so clearly as to articulate wordlessly a perfect refutation of all argument against theories of evolution: this is the sound of an Animal in hopeless agony: keening with no definition: the original prayer: "let me die!" There's a bright area. I see it with the insides of my arms since that's where I'm cradling it - this solid light that burns heatless and slow (my body has no choice but to respond with its own temperature, because it equates light with heat it's fooled regardless of my conscious understanding that there is no heat except what my body is making). This brightness is solid, and my body is rather an insubstantial waveform reflecting off of it. It licks space around it with tiny sunlike tongues, but slow. All memories of life are large vague backdrop elements that orbit, with my body, the solid brightness; its movement is slow. One might say it's thorough. Bearing down on it reminds me of a broken tooth. It is just as grimly necessary as the slow tearing of thick scab from elbow to forearm, just as brief a reward as the cold slickness left behind. Relief comes as a flicker between lungfuls of nauseous wet. Damned torso never stops talking - not once. Can't pass out so I'm forced again to acknowledge that 'wet' is just the sound of 'brother ass' whining like a legless infant left on a mountainside - just as helpless, a death just as slow, a death that is somehow less merciful, a death that is at least more familiar and thus somehow friendly. They had to amputate its arms eventually because it would dig at its abdomen - trying, no doubt, to undo those separating walls of skin and muscles to get at the source of its transmission - to get a stab at the enemy - finally! - maybe to cradle, caress... the organs in question maybe being more receptive to direct palliation once freed, maybe feeling isolated or unloved locked away so deeply inside the pit of the body. Maybe the ligaments will relax.

spark

lokifreign — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 21:07:22 GMT

Now; this one comes to Audhumla, but before ash and Elba. The shelf of the ice and its hoarfrost of the poison, had been attacked for many aeons by a wave of the fire, thus deadly gases completely approximately roiled. Since time had exceeded and a drilling had to the left in the world of, to which Audhumla Aurgelmer released, hoarfrost turned to the mud and, heated by sparks by Muspellheim, had turned to a sea. On this sea was Laufey, which was like a woman, and over this sea, there was Farbauti, which was like a man. Many marks, Farbauti sought, to affect Laufey but it was furious, and the world was not restful, and its goal was bad, because it did not have eyes, only a its own, cruelly, rage and an efficient attraction to it that put under it - sumptuously, fruitfully, and redolent with the world first and only the tears of the sea. Its world was dark, without delimitations. There was no side still another another, so that he on, but only one cast part leans back and forth. Of course punctually there were nothing however, so that he finally finds his marking, and Laufey shuddered and and by its inside was split up, which it was risen from an efficient spark even cruelly and fully from the fast rage likes Farbauti, its father, but accomplishes possessed by the form and from the large feeling, like Laufey, its nut/mother, so that it was furious, and in this shimmer, which put up over the old distance, a nut in its core and in this nut was nevertheless the newest blood core there was and thus that core was there, a fire, which was that not like the free sparks of Muspell burned, but by the nut shimmered, which was as hari from Laufey, which was to say that it was like the addresses of a large forest, but distorts you around into a knot and into this knot was to the world again. When shimmering the sparks landed, he came down to the side of the distance, in the hoarfrost into cliffs had above overlaid, those the south confronted and jumped and then it had landed again here much above so that over time a beach had formed, on which it happened so the roots and branches of this new thing strike could and acquisition, which finds is, what her did, the whole while the formed sparks, a constant clay/tone, which was crying and a laughter, and which should become place, in that it publications, an opening. It took its form of the first opening, but, where the mountains of the world were cragged and were in the confusion, this new tooth cave properly and cleans, but song, which against-resounded by them, laughters were furiously with uncomprehending ensure and. In its cave grew a million queue, whose beauty during its time it were incomparable and whose dangerous nature like that was that all would develop to fear it, and each creature, which came in to the mass became in of any dance of this queue, as warning explains and from a lesson. Much wold requirement love for the queue, which never saw it. Its dance formed the echoes, which came from this new opening, and segregated parts away from it from the ears of the creatures, sometimes this part, sometimes, that, but complete sound escaping of the cave never, leaving, which protected its depths, which were the serpent's home.

I made some time to give you this, here

lokifreign — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 21:29:06 GMT

www.xpindoor.com Over to the left on the ning module are 20 or so songs I made between 1995 and 2005; lots of styles / genres represented, and several other fabulous musicians make appearances. Some are acoustic, some are electric / onic, some are tense mixtures, some are 'traditional' to some or other culture, some are spiritual/religious in nature, some were made for theatrical purposes. If you want one/any of the albums they're from, please feel free to let me know. Loki albums usually come with original art and knickknacks of weirdly sentimental import. All of them are basically under the CC Attribution/NoMod/NoCommerce 3.0 license but if you rock and make awesome stuff then let me know and I'll probably grant you a less restrictive license.

Response to Alan over something or other, last year

lokifreign — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 13:44:16 GMT

I'm the same hypocrite. I have a mom; I was reared in a condo (to my continuing credit, though, it was in a neighborhood full of dark brown people). I dare to be more or less uninterested in what the political specifics are of whomever wrote this particular piece (it was "Your Politics are Fucking Boring"); I have no choice but to feel same way the writers of these essays feel, despite the first world privilege that, by rights, I should have snuggled into and made a success of by now. I tried to have the same thought process when Z and I were interviewed by the "DECONFORM" kids - it was hard to prop it up, though, when challenged by their scrubbywubby little babyfaces and half-lidded insistence on simply Not Gettin' It. I felt OK about that when I read their transcription of the interview in their zine and they'd enervated my words in the attempt to present their own editorial - "fuckin' shitbags, fuckin' elite, stupid little pissants, won't you be in for an ugly surprise" I gratefully prayed to myself. I think one major difference between my view of myself and the burby boy is that I did the trash eating and desperate homeless / city surfing for a good long time, there, and determined that it actually doesn't accomplish anything, least of all in the combat vs drear; when I posted the essay to a public forum the response to it, the only real response to it, was a guy that's a professing anarchist; he didn't comment on the essay until prompted, but he took issue with the author on her use of the word "dreary", basically expressing the idea that they - everyone and everything involved with the foolhardy preschoolers of crimethinc. - were a let down for him, as well. I thought of this story (you told me it when Zehmyan got the crimethinc book) and thought of the dreary condo I suffocated in as a boy. I hated it! There's no way to emphasize or illustrate that fact adequately - but the hatred was so deeply ingrained and so variously broadcast to every aspect of my existence; I *blamed* people - not consciously, but certainly - for that shit, for making me exist there. Ever. I thought about the weird feeling that swept over me and took control when I realized "I can leave here - I don't have to go to the high school again, I don't have to be here" and that feeling has carried me ever since. It's the only thing I ever made for myself that really changed things. I remembered that, before making the decision, life was basically *one* event that took 15 years to resolve, and about how much more I valued each little experience, every instant of life once I left that condo. I couldn't help but then start to sum it all into larger and larger chunks, and of course what a painful and ultimately empty failure I'd made of trying to be "real" since I came back in from the streets, what a disappointment believing in others had become, what a limited amount of shit I could pull off by myself, how the vitality and promise of the first Daffodil had been reduced to kickass tales of yesteryear for the youngsters. If there had been something for me to read that could have made sense of what we were doing then, everything after 1988 would have been different for me, but I lost the narrative thread of my life right around 1991 and got caught up in the games of pretend that would lead me right back inside, to a safer place (because that's what the girl was all about) that had to be kept more or less free of violent thoughts and dangerous plots and wild animals ('friends'). I had no political feelings at all when I was younger - I think I assumed that it was all bullshit and nothing would come of it. I imagine that, but I don't know, because I honestly didn't think about such stuff at all, not in the slightest. I wish I could recapture that innocent wisdom, because it would be better to live there than in a cage of thinking anything "should" be any different way. I knew the world would be fucked up and dirty when I jumped into it - I was *grateful* and overjoyed that it lived up to its scary promise, in fact. HEY: I don't know if I ever had thought before just now: I was grateful that it was as terrifying and dangerous as I'd heard, that the fucked up shit that I became exposed to was so much more fucked up than anything anyone could have ever warned me about. Crying, insanity, murder, life being flushed down the toilet, starvation - "these *are* real, *not* just narrative elements in the lie designed to keep me passive and busy"; though no words to that effect ever crossed my mind I do think that the feeling of those thoughts was propelling me along, for a while there. While I was out in the danger and rot, having my love affair with fucked up dirty evil shit, I became angry at the society that produced it, and I lost the first smidge of my innocence. Years and years later (pretty recently) I would lose the last illusion of my own impact and ability while on the phone with [Unoi]. We were talking very honestly to each other, and he made the sacrifice of actually listening to me choke out my pain, and he telegraphed it for me by saying that "the last good soul I knew just lost its innocence" and then we were both weeping. Fucked up, to be actually *experiencing* this. This is certainly not the narrative *I* was prepared for, as a child in an apartment drawing a picture of the World as a circle with fifty states crammed jigsaw-style into it. So, what the fuck, Agent Bajandas? Shall we compose a book of essays? Anything other than coming up with enough money to somehow live another month is kind of outside my field of potential right now. Nothing could have prepared me for the grim dreary evil of being unable to deny it. Can we *sell* this jaded understanding that coming from suburban comforts - no matter how bravely and unflinchingly forsaken - will utterly annihilate any hope of fighting the good fight? That insight is an American curse? That there is, after all, no fucking hope at all, not for us, not for anyone? There's got to be a way. Then, some good will have come of it.

Song For Dead Time

lokifreign — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 20:23:29 GMT

Now, the past is untrue, and this breath is a lie, and the sun is an emptiness that burns through the sky, and this ground it will slide down, down into the sea, and when this body dies, no man will ever breath one word of ignorance for me. So, bury your trust beneath the ground with me, and lay your loneliness down for the sun to consume. Now, the earth bleeds cold water, in my open hands, but their bodies bleed poison, and they swallow the sand, and we'll walk to the river, where we will die of a thirst, and my fate, it's no question: every fool he is broken beneath the same holy curse. So, bury your love beneath the ground with me, and lay your loneliness down for the sun to burn to sand. _______ Now, the world has no meaning, and each infant will die, and the faithful must suffer, and the innocent must lie, and the brutal will conquer, so that ugliness can breed, and there's no great certainty except that slaves will never be freed. So bury your riches beneath the ground with me, and hold your ambitions up for the sun to see. Now that fires are dying, and smoke is the sky, and the sea is an enemy, that bleeds where it lies, we must bathe in its shadow, where we'll die of a thirst. Our evening is ending. Our skins will become paper after our lips have burst. So bury your doubts beneath the ground with me, and lay your burden down for the wind to carry away.

It's interesting what one can learn.

lokifreign — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 21:36:56 GMT

I got a tip from a morlock about one of the eloi. Turns out this guy, this eloi, is actually at least three eloi right now, and has been probably around a dozen or so eloi that you, personally, interact with. I asked around, got some other input, did some math, used some apps - you know, I wrote a story about something like this once when I thought I could pay my bills with bullshit the way old "Beer-Shit Bukky" and Hunter S used to - I know, I know, I'm gay for that shit; ANYway: A word to the wise. I won't say I was "totally taken in", because that would be too hard. This is one of those quasi-exotic nutjobs: talks to himself, to the point of serious fights, you know what I'm saying, custom-fitted women's clothes, taking time off from any kind of paying gig to maintenance his weird relationship with himself... the whole nine. I feel sorry for the dame he's got in tow, though: just a normal crazy woman, you know? Funny and sweet but like a wad of silly putty for this schmuck. She's got some weapons, though, of her own: don't count the crazy ones out. Human beings have known since before we were human beings at all that the crazy ones have powers. It took me a minute - that's all - to put 2 together with the other two I was worrying about with this other situation - or at least what I was manipulated into *thinking* was another situation. Once I had the proof, I laughed and saluted my man. Fella: you are one sick motherfucker. But I got you now. To the dame I say, "run". You got a scorpion in your blouse, babe, and it ain't your friend. To the psycho sleazebag boy-eloi I got this to say: don't come around no more, kid. I have your number. Also, Damn you: I curse you with failure.

You (you, I mean, not her) are more insane than I ever could have imagined.

lokifreign — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 12:36:41 GMT

Redux and refocus: Damn you, individual: I curse you with inescapable failure. Everything you attempt will ruin, everything you want will disintegrate, and everyone you love will come to understand the ugly and sad truth of you. Traitors are the weakness of the world. Your remaining existence is characterized by prolonged pain. You begin to feel it now.

Can you get this? Does this work?

lokifreign — Tue, 05 Feb 2008 23:24:09 GMT

http://ax.phobos.apple.com.edgesuite.net/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?i=20941551&id=160740987 If you don't have iTunes click this instead: http://mypodcast.joefrank.com/Winner.mp3 I really really love Grace Zabriskie; she's always so perfect in whatever role she's doing (that's her doing the screaming).

Surgery this mornin'

lokifreign — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 07:54:36 GMT

Everything went fine. I thought I was going to be big mr tough guy and impress the nurses by manly waving away talk of sedation - big mistake. When you're having surgery on your spine, go for the sedation.

You Was Born With It

lokifreign — Fri, 11 Jan 2008 03:14:21 GMT

The world is full of predators and assholes. It's my guess that you will have to deal with them at some point. You should be ready for that. We're thrust into a fight, it's a vicious and ferocious contest, from the first breath. We fight it to the last and we fail in the end. My advice is that you embrace the fight, cherish it, and admire it. Admire it's honesty, if you like, or its wild splendor, or its difficult truths. Now, it's a tragedy in this world that the value of advice is severely limited, though. Best that you know, up front, all the same: pain makes sense of life, pain defines life and gives it meaning - maybe if you believe this now you'll be less likely to fear it when yours comes. Perhaps pain will depart you but it will never forsake you. It will never lie to you and it will show you what you need most to know. It's a true gift to be able to recognize its generosity. Pain is better for you than happiness is. Pain makes you a better person if you embrace it instead of fearing it, or hating it in an unfocused way. Those that master pain are more powerful and more important than those that can't, or won't, or never have the opportunity to do so. Pain is the source of reality. You can conquer anything by breathing. It is the stupid secret at the heart of human existence: there is a trick breath for literally every situation. (notes for a sermon; ©MMVII the Right Reverend Freign)

This "Bruce" Guy (If you hate the drama, ignore this shite - if you're affected by it - why, feel free to leave a comment)

lokifreign — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 06:07:10 GMT

Jesus FUCKING Christ already. Look: This "Bruce" is a scumbag. http://people.tribe.net/mystubenmyspec/photos/47ea8b73-d5f0-41ea-8e43-671a3c7a9a39 How many ways do you need it spelled out? He's a shitbag and sleazy little masturbating cyberstalking weasel that makes a program of emotionally leeching from women who are too good-natured and naive to cut him off at the knee the instant his repugnant little Robin Leach shit-eating grin shambles into view. He's a liar. It's clear. It's not a guess or a "vibe" on my part. I've seen plenty. Since so many of you are scared shitless at all the various forms of personal blackmail he's sifted from your injudicious admissions in private tribes, let's just look at a nice little innocuous lie he's guilty of and let everyone do the math: http://tribes.tribe.net/askauntbea/thread/d60bbae0-ab8d-4c89-baab-732c6809185b line item: here the lie is revealed directly: http://tribes.tribe.net/askauntbea/thread/d60bbae0-ab8d-4c89-baab-732c6809185b#8c0f96ae-1163-455e-98cb-3377e2d3748b Apologies (hastily tendered for form's sake) to Aunt Bea and WA, but the time has come. Y'all are sweet - I am not. This skid mark has annoyed me from the first time he pestered me to join his little LOLOLOL forum. He's worse than just a crappy poet and sad-sack little lonesome fuckstick, though. He harasses people - mainly women. Call me what you will; I have an innate violent response to lying rats that harass women. Bruce, you conniving little shitbag: come get me. Find something on me to threaten me with - your attempts so far are merely laughable. You need better ammunition; your pathetic alts and your vomitous poetry won't be able to hurt me, no matter how many weird vague little diarrhea-threats you pitch out. You're going to have to do better. I'm here, asshole; I've got time. What do you have? Bring it. Since, for whatever reason, the moms, secretaries, chatters, LOLers, and office drones your repulsive psyche forces you to try to make toys out of won't do what needs to be done, I will - I'll out you, you asshole. You annoy me. You're a worm, a liar, and a pathetic little shit-tossing monkey. The overworked employees of tribe.net don't have the time to deal with you, apparently, and if they won't delete your account, that leaves me - tireless vanguard of freedom and justice everywhere - with no choice but to squash you like the vermin you so nakedly are everywhere I see you. Tribe.net / Darren / Marcus: Fine, boot me if you feel you must; this bullshit has gone on far more than long enough. Your community has plenty of snarls in the works; you can point any lawsuits the mighty and powerful Bruce threatens you with my way; no problem. This is community business, though, and since you haven't done your part to keep people safe, I'll fucking do it (AS USUAL (SEND ME A GODDAMN CHECK ALREADY)). Ready? Bring it Bruce - or get the fuck out of town. All others: if this man fucks with you in any way - sends you an invite anywhere to anything, tries to talk to you, looks at your profile, thinks your name, walks in the direction of the country you live in, remember the obvious lie: http://tribes.tribe.net/askauntbea/thread/d60bbae0-ab8d-4c89-baab-732c6809185b#8c0f96ae-1163-455e-98cb-3377e2d3748b remember the face of the liar: http://people.tribe.net/mystubenmyspec/photos/47ea8b73-d5f0-41ea-8e43-671a3c7a9a39 and then think of all the people who have "problems" with him (IE claim he has lied about or to them, threatened them, sent them unwanted messages, threatened to reveal information about them, &C ad nauseam) and ask yourself why so many unconnected people would tell the SAME FUCKING LIE (answer: they wouldn't; they're not lying, Bruce is). Eeeeee-fucking-NUFF already. It's over. Bruce is a toxic shit and isn't allowed on the playground anymore. Go, or kill me, Bruce. Bring your man-power. I await your vapid mewling.

I'm allowed to talk this way; they are my people

lokifreign — Mon, 22 Oct 2007 21:38:52 GMT

My grandmother turned 80 recently; I drove to Peoria, Illinois and back over the weekend at that time, which was psychedelic. I made a point of being interested in all the insanely old people that turned out to her party and pored over their pictures which were spooky and cool; she made a big deal out of making a long and interactive speech, part of which involved her naming each person in the room and saying something about them. She's an ex-long-term missionary and a permanent church lady; the speech was her way of saying "check it out: my brains are still totally sharp, you fuckers" which would have been a lot less wearying and would have made me laugh my ass off, but her endless talking was cute and gave me time to mull over how it's a shame that there's so little cross-generational contact and communication in our society. There was an obscure relation to my dead grandfather there, a Bud Harper, that kicked my ass with his green vest and his weird tales of Harpers having paved Peoria and his pride in that. The whole time I'm standing there and smiling-nodding I'm loudly thinking, though, "dude: you drove your doddering crazy old ass three hours to come to this woman's birthday party? And I've never even heard of you?" not in a bad / put off way but along the lines of "wow". I could tell he was a beer drinker and the Methodist church scene had to be kind of dwarfing and unpleasant for him. These were some *ancient* fuggin white folks, though, I'm telling you, a whole room full of them. I forgot my grandmother had never seen my tattoos (oops) and wore this short sleeved button-down pink shirt of my grampa's, light brown carhartts, and combat boots. On the way back while stopping for coffee, I noticed we were in one of the parts of the country where the genes for what I look like come from; it was awesome. Everyone there was me - there was me as an old lady, me as an asshole with vitriolic USA stickers on my pickup, me as a blond, me as a thirteen year old girl. Years ago my crew did a brilliant winter tour of the northern midwest and I got to get IHOP breakfast served to me by a hot female version of myself, and she-me looked at actual-me with a twinkle. Is that sexy or what? Most old people are totally incoherent and functionally insane. I guess I'd forgotten. I'm going to make a point of interacting with them more, though.

got robbed

lokifreign — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 13:57:48 GMT

The hits keep rolling in. Computer, peripherals, keyboards - and all work in music, graphics, animation, and fiction from the past four years - all gone. Wheee