bleedingtom

I am in the shadow of a great villian. A monster would be too simple a name, for nothing is so in this world of ours. No monsters, no saints, no holy, no blaspheme. Heroes and villians breathe here. I am neither, and claim to neither. I only want to be forgotten. I only want to fade. I have no desire to live. I am the post orgasm deppression of an adulterer.

Yet, I see that villian toppling down, down, into a rabbit hole dug by deafining silence. A villian, and hero, exist only in the jeers, cheers and twinkling eyes of the many, and they no longer look. Not a peep. Not a peek. The villian of a thousand nightmares washes down the spout. I can't let heroes be proud, so I must strike at them. Not their flesh, or riches, but just the senstive ungaurded saint spots. They will feel the pinch and penetration and surely, ill fall and perish by boredom, too.

I see a vision of Feminists acting no longer as liberators, but as dictators.

All the interview subjects in the movie anyhow, were one faceted boobs. Jafar from Alladin had more depth than anyone appearing in the film. Any conclusions to be had are based on my own comparisons with real life, and that maybe gruel thin, but I'm alive, and I am social, and realize that even the most repulsive of people have no reasons, only impulses. The film did a poor job of showing men in any color except for vile or pathetic. Sex obssesed pops up. All the while, the main character comes off as a heroine because she has been victimized by a man's changing heart. Isn't it a cliche that women don't know what they want? so, if a man changes his mind, its brutal but a woman's mercurial whims are graceful and endearing?
Men have been forced into an equality war, and the ego of some force them to soldier on against the women. The libido as well. Some men probably only like to be on bottom because that way, the woman is in charge and they can feel free of classic male oppresson. Bah and thppth, and repeat as nessecary. Women and men are individuals and to treat them as a group is a trap that will have you apologizing for clitorial circumsision, or witch burnings. This mindset won't leave any breath for life, or love. Some men will act as if their cocks are clubs, and some as millstones just the same way women act as if they deserve free drinks or pretty gifts while others wear burkas or sing of chastity and hate themselves.
the film also touched about class, economic class with a topping of racism for a breath of fresh liberal guilt as well. Pah. Boring a hole into that little claptrap of americana is only too easy to do if one ever picked up a history book outside of middle school to realize that every race has been enslaved. The greeks did it, the romans did it, the english, the irish, the portuguese, the islamics, and egyptians, probably the jewish culture too.
I did appreciate the lead singer of Death cab for cutie portion of the show, for it was odd and touching, and left me in awe of a mystery of life ill never experiance or solve.
This film wouldn't have bothered me if the writer of the novel wasn't so worshipped. As if his words weren't fiction, as if his work is symbolism and subterfuge but truth. He didn't give a unique view, just a tired tirade of feminism and flawed humanity. Ho hum. I wonder if some no name actor had adapated it, if it would've gotten money tossed at it. Or, if the writer hadn't of kicked the bucket. Same stories, different backdrop, and overall, it was better than seeing some ex mtv alumni action or college comedy flick, but at least I would not have to know someone will believe themselves enlightened or educated for seeing the american pie sequel.

What if the devil is not angel, nor beast of the fiery pits? All of dante's shameless artistry aside, The devil is a sticking point for most Athiests. Some athiests use the folklore of the infernal to merely make christians look like fools, and diminish any intelligent moral decisions. (As if mistakes actually indicate intelligence, which they don't. Mistakes indicate levels of competency.)
The devil of which I speak is not the conglomeration of a thousand religions swallowed by the church and their need to ridicule what they fear, but a personification of evil and destruction of a massive scale.
It is the devil of lies, of corruption of flesh and souls that I speak. Don't look for further meaning of souls here, I don't know if they exist and am not well versed in spirituality to define them. I say souls to name the identities, the morality and likes, dislikes, friends the whole of a human's identity. The devil that seeks to change us, from within by poisoning us with an apple (pomegrante) is what is at front and center. Christianity, the menagrie of people that encompasses comes from innumerable tribes, cultures, and was really effective at incorporating those disparate elements of cultures into a loosely homogenous faith. The dark ages sought to standardise these struggling differences in practice, in faith, and even the bible itself. As soon as it did, the reformation occured which shattered uniformity once more. I say christianity worked best as a loose group of people who used jahweh like esperanto was intended to be. A meeting point.
The mythology differed, but almost all the groups who christianized (westernized) had fears, and morality they wished to be protected and propagated. Should they become diluted, or destroyed, the culture would end, and indeed it would be a mini apocalypse. So the wisest men put forth a devil, a djinn, a boogeyman, who was the archetype of diplomatic evil, a conman of epic proportions, because while all feared subjugation through force of arms, the less intelligent were unaware that subjugation could be a voluntary act of the uninformed and weak. This devil could bring about apocalypses by making men weak through fullfilling their desires, by granting their every wish, so instead of becoming strong by struggling towards their desires, they would be fat dullards who were in no shape to defend their land. (Culture) pain built men, while pleasure weakened them. This devil wouldn't chop off heads, but give it and give it freely so that the men no longer desired their cultures women. The wise men gave a name to the realization that true death was that of an entire group, and that the smartest of all adversaries wouldn't use an arrow. He'd give it an angry man so that in his angered weakness, he'd kill.
This devil was man in its baser states, in his weakest roles. If all is pleasure, than nothing is accomplished. Men will keep on humping and impregnating women but produce no grain (or happy meals) to feed said children. This is the devils work, a worthless lot of men so drunk on pleasing themselves that they venture nothing, and make nothing. Surely an evil to be avoided.

They may have been unscientific but intelligent is a different matter. They knew something of evils of men and made something to scare men away from their beastly instincts.

So when athiests say what god would let a devil exist, say that he made man and then man made the devil.

I for one am an athiest, but I'm tired of the halfwits who don't believe simply because Sunday is their video game day, or whatever else. Morality is an essential aspect of humanity, and without it, we are destined for oblivion. Athiests who are immoral only prove the case agianst them, and drive people further into camps in the shadow of crosses, and spread the hate that christians assume that has spoiled them.

Just don't be a dick, and the world will live as one. John lennon would be sick of my non poetry, but I can't sing. I write and hope my nonpoetry speaks to your soul.

My anus speaks in whispers,
Reminisces of desserts
And qoutes the Bard
"Parting is such Sweet Sorrow"

Ever hear or read Grammarians get into a scuffle? I wonder if their war of the word ever goes hot. Elbows over iambic, punches for punctuation. Its all cute, and sometimes blush inspiring but their jabs really mean nothing to me. I am no harsh structuralist. The grammar doesn't guide my emotions, and not a comma could inspire me to great heights of literature.

Grammar is nothing but bones for meat to move. If there is no muscle, its just unrotting bones that we give to dogs or hamsters. No point in complaining over the verb agreement, when that verb adds to nothing but a grocery list. I'm afraid of 1984 newspeak, but evolving and rotting are two different issues. Nothing but fine prose can make grammar worth a damn. Authors of all stripes are harangued by grammarians in the same way a dog is haunted by the fear of a newspaper to the nose.

Here is to you, free market fools. All your ravings in the pretty shiny future of laissez faire shopping lacks many things, but one thing of import. A sense of historical continuity, and maybe a dose of pyschology if you're as pessimistic as myself.

America had a free market, right before the Great Deppression. People abused the silly systems of capital, and many died, starved to fdeath in fields that used to be their own. As banks tightenend their grubby paws on wallets, throats and pinkerton began to use bullets to solve labor disputes, the free market died. All the rockefellers did was murder the free market, as FDR instituted his new deals to pull people from directionless spin of bankruptcy.

Death squads in America: the history of Pinkertons detective services. I'm sure that has a publishable ring to it. No free market can exist without the intervention of force of arms. Go ahead, you tits, cry for your free market that costs blood, and air, while ignoring the ghosts of the 30s. Let's ban booze too.

Pumpkins, skulls and a diabetes. Ahhhhhhhhh! Halloween. Music that is as trite as it is scary, yet something so heart warming it can't be captured in just one night. Keep your decorations up. Instead of the homogenous grass, and circles of shrub debris, skulls and witches slammed into trees. Strobe lights, jack o lanterns, flickering gaslights, chainsaws and screaming banshees. No martha stewart harvest crap apply. Candy corn can stay home too. Fuck that carnuba wax and crap, its poison!

Authors, wannabes will often ignore the "no unsolicited manuscripts" for several reasons. They often ignore grammar for many other sad reasons.
Many, if not most, writers cannot afford the time it takes to find an agent. They do not just pop out of the woods. If they did, I would be more inclined to take to wearing orange vests and tromping about the woods in search of something to kill. Only I would alter the shotgun to launch sample chapters, summaries and possibly a rare chinese poison that would kill unless they published me.
Also, a goods dose of grammar would do well in a purely economic sense. Publishing is run by English Majors, from editors to copywriters to probable janitors.
The simplest reason, perhaps not the most correct one, is that grammar education is rapidly changing. It has been for at least ten years. It started when the federals clamped down on curriculum creativity. This fouled up most schools plans, and they had to scrabble for the correct way to meet federal standards, and get past the student's prejudices, dull desires, and whatever other obstacles in a young mind.
The schools, decaying and dull, have tried numerous tactics and in my opinon, none have had any positive result. Instead, what the schools require of students changes from year to year. This ends up frustrating the students, as well as spoiling their true grasp of language. This "education by commitee" has made failed experiments out of what could have been future scholars. Instead the digital babies have dropped out, turned on and become semi-illiterate dunces.
Honestly, Los Angeles public education system recognizes Ebonics as a language.


Its all the end result of a system too bent on finding the new cure for stupid. The over focus on children that America seems to have. All of this over protection, and taut umbilical cords still attached is a kind of molestation. Sure, Father Flanagan did it best but this has fucked them too. Bruises are catalysts for growth. Hurt helps, but this drug them all, spank none, fill them up with test information is in error. You all clearly see why.

Why must all movies end with a gun? All the silly silly bam! Bang! Putting a bullet in the build up of thinking. Sad. Sad. If horror has a rambo with a gun, its not horror, its action with less reality.

Am I to be simple? Is that any shame in uncluttered, undecorated exisistence? Is there any capability in me to shimmy down all the exclamations, all the convulated, all the heavier than my own soul problems?

If I choose to eliminate all the world, all those who try to infect me, all those who make my shadow longer and longer until I am freezing to death in my own darkness? Whose should I start with, and who will survive the whittling to simplified life? No one at all.
No one. No one.

Not me. Not my enemies. Not my undiscovered hatreds. Not my family, nor friends and not anyone who could prove useful.

And why should I evaporate the chains and scars? Not for the freedom to pursue hedonistic appetites. Not to feed or acquire addictions, experiances. Its for what if and what could be but will and won't come to me. Simple men have the grandest dreams. The colors in our head exceed what is on this earth for our eyes.

Simple is boring, yes, because the only reason for simplicity is the search for freedom, but in my hands, I will only use freedom to maintain and expand freedom into an void space. The only way freedom exists is in the moments before, and nowhere else. Freedom is potential for order, and nothing else.

No simple. No clear pure life. Not for me, who wants friends, who wants enemies, who wants the order of chaos, not the promise of freedom.

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"I want an unwritten life." Brothers bloom

I love the movie, and I'm not done with it. Hilarious and fattened with random hilarious bits, and than frosted with some of the more poignant lines ever. Royal tannenbaums, meet pahlinhuak, fuck that spelling.

First off, I am writing from a mobile device that has as many problems as a beauty queen finding her first gray hair.
There is not enough drive in me to correct the grammar on a tiny keyboard, though I will try (and fail) to maintain spelling.

I cannot get published because of who knows what. I realize that its not the land of riches, and I don't care. I am not located
Anywhere close to it, and not even allowed to spit on the tall gates, let alone tread upon the streets of gold stolen from the teeth
Of richy rich land's victims but I still desire to be published. I've failed so far, and all tommorows look dim too. I have never been
Able to dazzle others with my personailty, so sheer cult of personality success is out. Despite a few good rounds, I'm not too easy
On the eyes so that crosses off the sleeping the way to the top. Since I have so many stories, and a slight bit of honor in my veins,
Plagarism is out. So, what is left to construct a writing career is a mystery.

Agents, yes, I know. Everyone has asked for money upfront. I can't see a writer being so dull to fall for this little trick. I don't make
Any money, than you get 15 percent of nothing. One asked for 90 percent of all proceeds garnered from extra market income. That is
Far too vague to be allowed, and too damn carnivorous for me to work with. Agent Scrooge, may you rot on the luxuries you've acquired.

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And forget Twitter. Nothing useful can be siad in 255 characters. Bring on the newspeak. privacy volunteered away, and langauge being devolved at the same time. Granted, the safir whorf hypothesis is very limited in its scope of validity, but the general social theory espoused in 1984 is still valid. Leave it to a blind mushroom addict to be listened to, while I am left in the dust of shunned.