2019.10.21 05:06 PandoraSymbionte disappearing boy
'Transcreation' part of the opening sentence in Panta
"But I'm just a kid..." opening sentence of a story. "It was just a little mistake" as the ending sentence.things are hollow, people on the street seem to be fading, but it is you that is disappearing, never on sight.
Hemlock has partial micro-convulsions from time to time.
Attack metamodernism for what is seen as 'capitalist analogs'. We need a plural culture tobetter transform our current capitalist state. Metamodernism risks commodifying plurality in little boxes of ambiguity and irony cycles, hollow layers that need to be peeled then covered with something else.
How to incorporate Lethem's concerns in 'The Ecstasy of Influence' into the twin stories ( Panta and Gargantua)?
A theme: Slice of Life in the 21st Century
The night is viewed as the time and place which and when things from the Day transformand transmute, commute and dance more freely. As Joyce dissolved and amassed his previous epic of the day in a long night and book, Finnegans Wake, a kind of fall, I want to dissolve and amass my services creating researches and articles in a virtual kind of night, in which I’ll be able to transmute and transform their form and content to fit a larger narrative. Yeah, I wish.
Nameless thief: a bag of wonders, a box of Pandora, my personal patchwork of themes,characters and styles as particles colliding with each other. An immanence of transcolliding fictions, a maze of affects. The little book of the arrival, the first happening, the creation myth of our universe. Here I’m to transform my library in a story, a bizarre tale of a night without light but the moon’s. My Silmarillion.
the light running through nothing to hit him in the face
Drown yourself in meaning, without silence, make noise until you die. Then silence.
light metamorphosing into sound
I feel my time flux through the floating flame of an uneeded candle that repeats dancingwith its sisters, beating hearts of light, of syncopated difference. They jump in the air when I close my eyes. They are as free as I am not, traveling back to hit me in the face.
smitten with spells and wrath of gods - modern and old alike - they transform himchaotically, agonizing he pleads.
In the emptiness of a mealtime thoughts coalesce and crystalize, a mirror is held to the void's facemaking it recognize its own present as a sphinctery push between past and future ,- where it is made clear that this voice echoing around the head, through and about it, has a misfortune of not being enough anymore, as the voices of parents wheren't a long time ago - the cocoon breaks to reveal something new forming and already festering, enclosures enough in the past, like the prescriptions of mothers and fathers, weren't for a long time, as the inner voice that assumed thereafter, aren't anymore -, enough, that is.
He grew up cultivating an affect for those not-so-rare moments of movies when a character, most notably the protagonist, imagined in some Christian way of the good samaritan, acts selfless and seems so nonchalant about it - as if it is something natural to them. He grew up trying to find the right spot to act in the same manner and feel a mirror to the world, someone not preoccupied with his many thought pattens but with acting right, cutting the chase. He saw many opportunities and acted accordingly, but something they don't teach you in the movies is that time is a differential: differently from those characters, who do something and months pass on a blink and they seem to not have changed a bit, when you do something selfless, you are faced with the passage of time until you begin doubting your actions.
Here comes THE IMMANENT OCTOPUS OF PRAXIS, watch him go, look at him
a little monster that feeds off of sperm lurking in the corner of your room
Parasytes that come at night, enter your open snoring mouth and chew the insides, causing mild pain and a bloated uvula that may incapacitate speech.when an apocalyptic-proportions catastrophe comes out, has to, because of the sedentary ways he was living, become more accustomed with 'real' life by rationalizing his time and rate of 'exercise' - imagine how I would have to think if aliens or zombies invaded my city out of nowhere and I was living like I am/was in the year 2017.
She rather dreamspeaks sometimes
Matter of a moment. A second. An encounter. One charm.how morbid how lovely
Continuously echoing Hemlockfestering growth of a structure
like chemotherapy: it's poison, but can help against the cancer.
Vampiros, mas vampiros treinados pra temerem a noite. Reciclando seu próprio sangue inexistente enquanto o verdadeiro banquete gargalha às suas costas.Make people notice Hemlock's convulsions. He doesn't, but the reader needs to. And since we're using this, make sure that in the parts where he is most lucid, he'll think clearly enough to make the reader understand what is happening, for example, he'll think about his money problems and his freelance practices, also, we can add character dialogue and interactions when he is convulsing and lucid to showcase the difference (also, more characters besides the rambling Lis/Hemlock would do good and make it more well-paced, not just a long stream of consciousness, else the reader would feel too claustrophobic trapped inside a constant barage of obscure terms.
O canto dos grilos ao meu redor, o cintilar das estrelas na distância, vistas pelo escopo sujo de minha visão míope. Cheiro forte de vegetação, mijo e bosta; produtos bovinos, equinos e humanos alike. Tudo atrás de cercas mal-feitas e desgastadas pelo tempo. O relinchar de um burro ou jumento com um perturbador barulho de arame farpado sendo brutalmente torcido e pisado. Tudo ao meu redor, tudo na distância. Enquanto imagino o pobre animal lutando pela sua ingênua noção de liberdade, minhas pernas dormentes se arrastam pela areia. Quentes, efervescendo em cansaço de um logo dia que passou num piscar dos olhos de um cego. Minhas inúteis pernas livres contra a areia fria, areia essa que não sinto por baixo da sola de meu sapato, nunca senti. Mas que sei, de alguma forma, possuir imenso frio; pelo menos por essas horas. Sozinho, fones de ouvido enfiados até o interior do crânio. Música ambiente alta sob as estrelas à minha volta, como sempre, voltando do trabalho. O pensamento de tirar a música ambiente artificial e simplesmente ouvir o ambiente ao meu redor nem me passa pela cabeça; No seu reino de vegetação vasta, com incontáveis acres das mais coloridas configurações: fertlidade é a palavra de seu Aeon. Sofás, almofadas, colchonetes... todas as formas fofas e confortáveis são os assentos mandatórios do povo; e nem sequer um mendigo vive sobre o chão duro e frio nem sob pontes metalicas mofadas... ...se o Green King me aceitasse em seus pastos secretos, eu não estaria batalhando por significado nas minhas diversas reconfigurações dentro do quarto: onde sentar se não em uma de suas almofadas santas? Mas só tenho esse chão frio e um corpo suando por um motivo que certamente irei inventar mais tarde."
People will be born from giant wombs - collectivelly, somewhat of worshiped. They were initially artificial but being biologically engineered, evolved;
Papel em mãos, deslizando como água. Nada como a sensação de ter riscado todas as tarefas da lista de afazeres diários; nada mais a fazer hoje, resto do dia livre. Que horas são? Posso ter emendado no dia seguinte sem sequer ter percebido mais uma vez (não é incomum). Hoje fiz muitas notas, notas me deixam desconfortável, ainda mais quando são tantas como hoje. Seria isso mais uma nota? Quem poderia ser?
Preso em si mesmo, absolto de pecados mecânicos, um espelho que aponto pra outro espelho: Eu sou o mundo, o universo. Eu sou o buraco negro fora do tempo — Aquele possuidor de tudo, luz e espaço e flutuações quânticas. Tudo é em mim... (This is Hemlock echoing, trying to reach Lis) "E eu não sou nada sem você..." (This is Lis responding) Shut up. (Hemlock responds).
Hemlock is the villain and the goo interactions with the drugs makes him not see clearly focusing too much on himself, but the 'magical realist' side of the story is like a corner of his mind trying to dissuade him from his own narcissism, trying to make him see something other than himself and his own problems.
Maybe we can touch nicely on this with an event happening on the beach, first only mentioned by the scant corner of Hemlock's awareness, but later expanded upon when Hemlock goes to see the suicidal whales dying on the shore (as many people are also there, as previously mentioned).
Hemlock is a modern Jonah, only the whale is dead, the fish is rotting on the ground,and its smell, its ghost, is lurking in the shadows, in the corner of his awareness. He has a two-way condition: the anxiety of waiting for that whale to come and the paranoia of suspecting being already trapped inside a dead fish. There is no Whiteness of the Whale, the Whale is not the ghost of anything, it is dead, and its ghost is not white but invisible with momentary flashs of hollowed transparency.
Translators have to make themselves invisible too.Panta is living in Brazil, but he, being a parasite of the English-speaking world, thinks in English admixtured with Br. People around him, at least most of them, talk normally in Portuguese.
Rabid foaming mouth, whirling colorful anime eyes.Sit down!
If you're struck by lightning, you have no choice, there it is all flowing through your body, your bones, your blood. Your brain spasming with the twisting of your fingers and the burning of your pores, scorching hair all the way to your soul and back by the foaming mouth. You can't even scream as your larynx is too hot to work. So you accept, it's the only thing you can do, else you're dying from psychological stress besides the already unbearable physical one. It is after, after you accept it, as well as after it is gone seeping through the ground, that magic first reveals itself real, alive. You learn to see fire in everything, coming from your mouth as you speak and your tongue shimmer's ghastly, burning inside your eyes, bursting to meet other's and from them to yours, everywhere; but again, you have too, else you'll be locked in an asylum. You wake up in the night with images flashing so strong in your mind you think they're coming out of it, materializing by way of fire, exploding from your ears, eyes, mouth, oozing from your nostrils and destroying your skull on their way out. And when everything is fire, you don't know how to feel heat anymore, you're either always very cold or insufferably hot.Hemlock is a metamorph as well as Lis, we can denominate in the text them by this name multiple times, be it one calling the other this or each calling themselves this. Such as "Me, the metamorph" or "You are a metamorph".
Hemlock's hollowed, tired to a pulp on the ground, he moves pryapic as a dick, a vectorr, a Mickey Mouse, being each time more penetrated by everything. It is when you're most gone, blending in the background, that meaning most reveals itself as you yourself, faded, chasing your own tail, blending in the background, disappears on repeat.
It was in his suppurating hate inside that bus, looking at all those people chattering orevicting each other, wanting them all to disappear with the smog filling the smoky grey sky that a foreshadow germinated in the belly-mind of interactions that formed ‘him’. For there will be a time of non-human verbosity, a time of critical access, of epiphanies inside habits and habits out of improvisation. But now, first, the hate has to almost consume him as millions of virtual needles pierce his anxious skin. There, in the future, there is no skin – only the needles. But Samsara is law and you must survive; or maybe die – depends on the view and the date in which karma passes, if it will. Now the needles pluck and the pores ooze prickling goo turning black in the way out like caviar gushing out of a big-ass fish.
He saw no difference in reading or writing. In fact, he saw no difference in creating and consuming. Fucking or being eaten by the maggots. If it exists, it is to be cherished somewhere and to die later, and if it doesn't, it eventually will. No time for fame, prestige or power. He got sick of power from the moment he lacked the choice to be born, when he first realized he was going to die no matter what. It had happened by chance, and he didn't know how he felt about it. Nothing is of anyone, he thought once, nothing is for anyone. We simply are the things we like, we are the things we create and do. We've got only so much time, so let's just enjoy who we are and be until we can.
As if you were a dog, imagine that. A strange hand comes out of nowhere to surprise your ear with the most sweet of warm scratches. It feels good like that. Careful who you throw a bone to. If it still has some meat, worse. If you're going to throw it anyway, at least clean it cautiously.
Can you see the machinations yet? The white cold skeleton, the still meatful skull. Do you want to lick it? Just touch it, maybe. At the very least sniff its putrid coiling
If you leave it unchecked, life will conquer all. It's too expansive for its own good. I find it exaggerated.And I found myself in the center of a hollow pan full of holes.
Her lungs probably looked like that lichen-covered wall, all mossy and disgusting, yet somehow inviting, hopeful. She often punched her chest to unglue the phlegm, imagine the boogers falling and sedimenting in the bottom until she could not breath. That was the situation of the forest. But she was not desperate. We were. Run for your lives, we scream everyday, when she patiently tread what will eventually catch us. Our plump lady.
There once was a planet infested with trees infested with humans infested with political issues in the making.
It might be more comfortable to live in the dark. Not to have to open your eyes, adjust to the light. Turn off your lights, sit tight, close your eyes and wait. Maybe put on some music to help. Medicate yourself, self-convince you're not cut to a good life, to endure the struggle. The best you can do is rest there, waiting for the end. It is not really bad, just bittersweet. You had your share, you have good memories. You lived. That has to count for something, right?enhancing transmuting manipulating conjuring specializing doesn't make you special emitting
I just wrote a research brief on how to take care of raccoons, and it was the high point of the night, at least I felt like I helped someone. Better than a market sizing and trend analysis of the lice treatment market.
@@@ Sing all the trees and musks. Lichen, algii and funghi alike. Be alive or no more. Sing now, no more whispers. I am here. I am yours.remonstration
Finally sober of myself. (Seizure, and the blue that is leaving)Story title: Fkoon (The alternative for Spork)
What if the girl cooking across the sreet is somewhat of a witch, at least in Hemlock'sgoggles? How could we subvert the 'witch appearance in magical realism' trope? Maybe showcase more of my culture, Bruxas intead of Witches. Bruciare, coming from brucia, meaning something similar to burn. Bruxa derived from a term that meant to burn before it actually had connections to dark magic. It is as if people wanted to burn someone and later, coming back from the ecstatic stupor, began to rationalize a way out of their guilt, trying to justify their blind rage. This girl is not a bruxa, a witch, but she is a brucia, she is burning. She doesn't have any sign of connection to the dark magics, no evil intent, yet she burns behind invisible bars, as if in an abandoned waterless aquarium close to the stove. Her aura burns, flowing our of her pores in combustion. Phaethon.
Disease everywhere. Even the spork's handles are diseased.
Things that are too true need not be said. Fiction is lying.What is the significance of water to my writing? This theme birthed itself just now while I formulate the beginning draft of my "Floods" essay.
undying sick man
Mickey mouse dick, when you squeeze the mouse so much go pee drink water pee again squeeze water pee squeeze until it becomes Mickey when you hallucinate Disney's old movies. Your dick alive, self-detached clicking eveywhere. (develop this passage).
2019.08.19 23:23 DarthSatoris Reading New Testament For The First Time #4: Baggage City
|Volume||Arc||Page count||Publication date|
|NT4||Baggage City||267||March 12th 2012|
2017.12.10 00:54 Tetizeraz Jecas, preciso da ajuda de vocês. E eu não brinco quando o assunto é copypasta.
Zaporozhian Cossacks to the Turkish Sultan!Alguém consegue encontrar a copypasta traduzida? Pois traduzir novamente seria triste. É isso, abraço aí.
O sultan, Turkish devil and damned devil's kith and kin, secretary to Lucifer himself. What the devil kind of knight are thou, that canst not slay a hedgehog with your naked arse? The devil shits, and your army eats. Thou shalt not, thou son of a whore, make subjects of Christian sons; we have no fear of your army, by land and by sea we will battle with thee, fuck thy mother.
Thou Babylonian scullion, Macedonian wheelwright, brewer of Jerusalem, goat-fucker of Alexandria, swineherd of Greater and Lesser Egypt, pig of Armenia, Podolian thief, catamite of Tartary, hangman of Kamyanets, and fool of all the world and underworld, an idiot before God, grandson of the Serpent, and the crick in our dick. Pig's snout, mare's arse, slaughterhouse cur, unchristened brow, screw thine own mother!
So the Zaporozhians declare, you lowlife. You won't even be herding pigs for the Christians. Now we'll conclude, for we don't know the date and don't own a calendar; the moon's in the sky, the year with the Lord, the day's the same over here as it is over there; for this kiss our arse!