The Moral Issue at Question

Already the witch had gone to look for the boy; some of them were happiest sitting and thinking while the others were content to try and appease the Giant with some other sacrifice, "to ease the Giant's simple sense of justice" they were content to offer the life of the person with the shortest straw. Still, it may be better to sit and hope that maybe the Giant would simply decide to leave them alone. So long as I can avoid giving myself up to the Giant, they each thought, all is not lost.

Not being the sort who knew their fate, each failed to appreciate the positional universality of the individual's crisis, combatting to survive along with others. All alone in a search for vitality and all together in a humanistic inevitability, they all stood for those moments in ignorance of how much they all shared in these moments. The Baker tried very hard to ask as many good questions as he could think of. Nothing was the question to save the day. Questions could not combat the Steward's high ground as one in the service of a King.

(Song about Giant's best interests sung by the Steward)

Returning with the young or otherwise maturing lad, the witch tries to serve him up, but those opposed overpower her, as she no longer has special control of elements. In the struggle, the witch manages to immitate Jack's voice, calling out for the Giant's love and affection.

The Giant's familiar attatchment to the boy rushes back to her. Sadly it does not compare with the love she has given her husband. Love from Giant to Giant is quite a thing you must understand. Jack, as the Giant saw with her ill-seeing pair of eyes, had murdered her husband and scampered off like a mouse. The Giant, in an attempt to squash the lad's voice, landed her foot right on top of the young man, his mother, the witch, and others who were close by.

Left to look over their good fortune, the "de jure" innocent bystanders picked up and moved on with what they had. It merely cost a footscrape on a tree, the loud voice echoed throughout the land, you may do your best now to live safe.

Though the Giant's grammer was below their own, they did as they were told.

Shadow Bags

You can't write anything new if you're high. You can't write anything high if your family reads your blog. You're entitled to nothing, but seem to have something at the very least. The need to rhyme must not always be fulfilled. Happy torture is inferior to sad play -- to disagree, simply put, misses the mark. Develop a relationship to happiness and sadness in the large scheme. You should find the best results if you pursue rather than look for methods of differance, meanwhile feeling responsible for the torture of the world. What torture there is does not have to occupy your mind. "That's what the Tyrants want me to think." Either get on a plane, raise/give money, or make an emotionally accurate and stylistically immediate film about questions.

To go or not to go

As you all know from Mr. Nietzsche (yeah right) the Christian religion was born not out of love but out of resentment. Mr. Nietzsche, it was very important that you became an idiot. Lest we forget the young Tom Riddle and his vicious obsession with telling the truth. Nietzsche, your truth was truth, but it was always yours. Nietzsche as Voldemort or anti-savior doesn't account for his non-violence-- rectified, of course, by the National Socialists clever manipulation of what Nietzsche, dead and without voice, confirmed as an ideal.

America used it too, but radicalized it with a colorful outfit, spontaneous flight, and super strength greater than any in the DC Universe, save (temporarily) for the mysterious ogre, Doomsday. In other words, what Germany fell victim to in the form of a politician, a young group of Americans fall victim to every week as readers.

New words Old words

Twiller -- Now why have I derived some pleasure from typing that. No reason that it should not be a word. This world of ours is complicated enough so that we can infuse new meaning into whatever we choose. Is the tower of Babel a phallus, much like that which has been erected by modernist thinkers, some language of symbols recognizable to everyone? Modernism, though, is about looking back and painting what you see. The Pen(is), nothing new.
Vandenberg writes that on the board a lot, but when I was a sophomore I wrote that several times into my notebook sans parenthesis: pen is pen is pen is pen is pen. I felt like I had cracked a code. By now, the representational meaning of anything should be under question. Never before turning back again, once or twice. The pen and the penis share for the artist or critic, man or woman--as far as what either actually means.
After all, meaning is found in dictionaries. Agents of Diction. Dick-shunaries. Get thee to a Dick-shunary.

Baby Cracks Man Cracks

Thatsly unh fistly, herebother inerus dedrimate slack toorn faetherles winterbottom. Haveswallow horklebarries unh jam squig longforth. F'maltuous wigbirs. Yuckling however. Hindulated severally, notwise expectackled, soundwissickal gyriupwarddling yelp.

Timmering atrofor onside uvly parch. Setwith precrackt dan yar, pale twas. Op forted ra'lhs tord crocked conpav'hs. "Nuffingscreamin. Eerfingsite." (Nigh wee twas, shlapthappelled formtwisser. Furr theesu goot ur goots.)







Oh, Taern Falcon of the Shep
How we wept when you were torn
You were swept away,
And your father's mind at the fell,
swept away from the land of the living.

And crack down the man did watch and hear the crack down,
But heard he nothing after, for you had gone.
(He did smile some days, with thinks of little lambs, all their good and goods)

France Joins the Good Fight, once again.

They mean it when they say it. Which means that when they say it, it must be treated as true, to them. If I think that what I think is true while I think it, then (as far as that perpetual "they" can tell) it is true for me while I think it.

While I think it qualifies as a proof, I cannot say of what. It is a comment upon the fleeting nature of truth and the kind of deception that must be tangled with to nab at it.

It is a comment upon a comment upon. Down with a comment upon.

Untitled Independant F---

Not that I'm on a Jesus fit, but here we go. Jesus acts a very good counter-simplification to someone like Freud who has the effect of confusing the intellectual and the body by linking them to instinct and particularly sexual instinct. There is intellectual love (eg. love for reading) that trancends sex and time and not quite the body, but almost the body. Jesus is a tee.

We gotta have sex. The uterus. That's the thing. Now, the question remains how far must we transcend sex to say, "this is better than sex"? I would say 'twere difficult to answer such a question. Still it is repeated on television all the time, "that was better than sex." How many people mean it when they say that?

Deception is wrapping paper and editing equipment. You make due with what you have.

Anyway, as a challenge,


I'm thinking I should burn this wall post. Agreeing with yourself is absolutely redundant.

Following Sandman's apt definition

Miracles were never meant as proof of anything. Reading in a response to Satan about rocks being made into bread: Jesus finds something evil in the temptation to use a strength in order to prove himself, eat something, forget this 40 days business (which was considered loopy by more than one person), and submit to a temptation that has no contribution to love or survival. Jesus had faith that he could do with the things he had been given, out in the desert. Chiefmost in the mind of the author is the fact that Jesus refused to turn rock into bread. Just because he can did not mean he should, let alone at the request for a spectacle by a demon. Forget pride. The man had dignity... something which, as far as I can see, no man really has in the entirety of his actions. That can not possibly be possible...unless. And my dear friends, that is the heart of the Christian church. The unless. "Can I be the man with the most dignity?", the question drives some men who seek to save their souls through perfection. We may as well shout it from rooftops, we still won't get an answer. Or worse, an answer will come in the form of a profound embarrassment. Something which will bewilder your once system of values with a resounding, "NO!"

What I mean is: dignity's good and admirable, but society, law, and the unconscious are, sadly, not measured by dignity. They are measured in Luck, Secrecy, and Ambition. Why must we find Jesus not only to be the Son of God, but necessarily to be the Son of God, performing only the kinds of miracles which have significance to human welfare in their entirety, arrighting Nature to be always God's and to show that the Nature is good? Not all men are well-wishing. Those are men against the nature of man, or misinformed.

Breaking the eggs

I post for post. I miss my homeland. There's nothing in New York but manmade rocks. Low creatures stretching high into the air. Backwards town. Makes my head spin. I never understood why someone would be afraid of Virginia Woolf until today. Tansley, feeling proud, walking next to a beautiful woman, carrying her bag.

Castration anxiety blues

I said cunnilingus today... that was fun. I'd do well to control my rumbles of fury... for persons and for my time ill spent. The same instructor whom I reference in my very first entry, named Anidjar, pointed out yesterday that life is a waste of time. Not so much a complaint or a statement as it is a partial definition. Makes you value what's outside of your control a little more heavily. Maybe it weighs you down.

That's what it did to me. At least it made me aware. Grateful. The Lerner piano can really provide a comfort. I don't know who this is... the musician, the composer. Doesn't even matter.


Corn in my coffee
Baby I got the blues
Corn in my coffee
Baby I got the blues
Clean those motherfuckin' dishes
or I will skimp on yo' shoes (""ForrrreEvER!!!"")

Balls

KCST (King's Crown Shakespeare Troupe) has no space. Fantastic. Well. I can dedicate myself to whatever onstage endeavor I find tasteful. Was hoping to direct a little something something. You can't always get what you want. Somehow the party space and the basement of St. Paul's do not appeal to my vision for the Massacre at Paris. St. Paul's is cool. Too small.

Fuckety fuck fuck.