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Messages - Eater of Clowns

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Literate Chaotic / Re: Unofficial What are you Reading Thread?
« on: Yesterday at 10:59:50 pm »
Oil! by Upton Sinclair

Just as with The Jungle, he starts with a smooth flow technical horror and emotional investment. I love the clear way he describes horrible things, and you can see him smirking.

But then he wanders off into Socialist La La land by the end.

It isn't the subject matter, it is the way he presents it. It's just I don't think its age is excuse enough for the hamfisted wayhe shoves his best loved political ideas into his stories like so much spam.

His endings SUCK A CAN OF MEAT.

Have you seen There Will Be Blood? It was based on Oil! and I've been curious since I first saw it how close an adaptation it is. I really enjoyed the movie.

Today I found out that my proposal was accepted and I'm presenting my poster on the 7th, and also that I am being interviewed for a Ford Foundation scholarship. 89 interviewees, 50 awards. So nerves, many anxiety.


I was greedy and you are in danger because I was greedy. If only I knew what I was greedy for but everything is fragmented, my memory and thoughts a thousand little coins in the pocket.

The rapid tour of the country went on. I gave up my attempt at even minor communication in Spanish. The coin for butterfly rolled away from me, the coin for lightning spent. Words were more a part of me than I ever realized.

We were in a swanky little establishment called 1492. Itís at the T in Bogota, a night life spot where the elite of the city walk around in clothes worth more than my car. It was Friday. The beautiful people would be out all night. I would not. I wanted to shove away the agua con gas and the guava barbecue chicken wings and the grilled meat skewer stuffed plantain and run, and keep running, this drawn figure shoving through the immaculately tailored suits and stunning dresses and the perfect caramel skin beneath them, past the mall with its shops so exclusive I didít even recognize them. I wondered if they accepted Necronomicoin.

But I couldnít abandon my hosts, my family, not now. I was in no condition to fight whatever was coming. I had no idea what was coming. But I knew something was, and that was more than they did. If I could warn them, maybe my stupid mistake wouldnít get them, what? Killed? Devoured? Torn within and out by small bleating horrors?

Whatever I got out of that shop, it hadnít done anything to assuage my writhing intestines. I was making my way to the bano through a sea of blazers and little black dresses. I wasnít even safe on the toilet.

Sleep was the worst, since the shop. However I wound up in Bogota, it wasnít a dream. This was the first place since we got here that I had a private room. We were ten floors up, not far from the top of the building, with a view of the city stretching out from our perch on the North side. The US Embassy was a few blocks away and I thought about going, that maybe this dissociation with reality would abate once I was on home soil. Past that, the mountains. The cursed mountains.

Before Medellin, before the shop, before the self puppetry Ė yes, that was how I came to Bogota. I was already there. Before that, there were the mountains. Iíd been drinking glass after glass of aguardiente when our host in Cali invited me to his morning bike ride. Four in the morning, up a mountain. He was coaching me, keeping me going the whole way, but I kept finding myself veering off to the side of the road. The side of the road was a sheer drop with a flimsy barrier that I would certainly sail over. I focused on the pedaling and the water, on talking to Arturo and I still inched closer to that precipice. Something was off with the mountains before anything even went truly wrong.

Rather than sleep Iíd been staring out the big window and seeing the stars for what they were. Enormous things burning away and they were painted on the belly of a vast, sleeping beast, all of it an illusion of depth so perfect that humanity couldnít see the difference. I would keep trying to bend my eye to see the trick of dimension but we arenít built to understand it; we are too small. Still I tried rather than sleep.

With this and with whatever illness Iíd contracted here I stumbled past the glittering tables in 1492. A few people couldnít help but stare and I couldnít blame them. Here I was with the gall to ruin their dinner.

I sat down on the tiny bowl and buried my face in my hands. I drew them slowly down, pulling my features across my fingertips and stretching my eyelids and looking up across from me for the first time. There was writing scrawled in huge letters on the wall, such big messy words.

Befriend The Thief

Pity The Ledgerman

Beware The Debt Collector

Things are a whole lot better than they were a few weeks ago.
I am around good people and they have a kid and both the kids get along.

Had a renter drop, but may have another at a higher rent by today.

So far my business is not tanking horribly, I probably won't get shot in the near future, and my kid and I have a friendly home.

I was worried for a while there.

Hey Alty!

These are good things.

Thank you, LMNO. Other than my disbelief, I just feel terribly for the family. They've had a difficult few years.

It looks like someone uploaded a few photos, though, so the webpage is at least less awful.

You know, I fully understand that every generation of kids is going to find some way of rebelling against and offending the previous generation, but this... this is something I was not prepared for.

Game, Set, Match - Youth

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: DEAR PAESOR
« on: Yesterday at 02:31:47 am »

The one in the lower left is perfect.

I think they probably went crazy after seeing this:



Hello, hello under all those identities is there a person there? Kids used to listen to edgy music to bother their parents and now they're sexually identifying as fungus.


Now, now, she has been diagnosed with Anxiety Things.  Which is very serious.  The rest of us just have stress and worry.

Hey I'd have Anxiety Things too if I had to worry about keeping all those masks I was wearing from slipping off and being mistaken for a human being.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: DEAR PAESOR
« on: Yesterday at 01:49:51 am »

I don't even know what I'm doing with this anymore.


I think they probably went crazy after seeing this:



Hello, hello under all those identities is there a person there? Kids used to listen to edgy music to bother their parents and now they're sexually identifying as fungus.


This is uncanny.  I said fuck it and timed the commercials.  They are almost precisely 10 minutes apart (+/- 30 seconds), and there are exactly 1 per commercial break, last commercial, 6 per hour.

The level of saturation is HUGE.  The Koch Brothers must be spending a few hundred thousand in Southern Arizona alone.

That's horrifying. I don't envy you.

It's like standing in a blizzard of shit. 

Is this happening elsewhere in the states?  It must be, though we'd be a heavy target, alongside Florida.

We probably aren't watching the right channels, but I'm not seeing one bit of it.

They're probably targetted ads.

Targetting you specifically.

That's exactly the kind of cheery thought I stayed up until 3am to hear.  Thanks, EoC.



I don't think the writing is affecting you.  That gave me the horrors.

This is what fucking happens when you hire Nyarlathotep as your web designer.

My friend's brother died last Friday suddenly, at home, at 31. The funeral service has a memory book to sign online, which I did, and most of the energy I would have spent on Necronomicoin today I spent on that. They also have a Life Images section. If you click on it, it reads, I shit you not, Slide 1 of Infinity.

The slide is completely black.

I think writing existential horror is fucking up my brain because that is the scariest goddamn thing.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: April 16, 2014, 11:59:35 pm »
To Jeremy and Rosa,
Colombia is fine, very fine. Iím sure you saw on facebook but I am the proud owner of a fancy new hat. It looked pretty normal in Salento and Medellin but I could feel the ire on my back wearing it around Bogota. I managed to find the only shop that sells postcards in the country. Apparently it simply isnít done here. When I get back weíll have to get some drinks.
Your friend,

Dear Liz,
Thank you for letting me borrow the book. Itís been an English language companion with me these last few weeks when I find myself so badly needing one. I canít seem to get a grasp on Spanish. Whenever I think I hear a word I recognize, it hurts, hurts deeply. My mouth is fleshy and cannot form the words and my ears were not made for the sounds that bounce and weave around each other in tapestries of huge knowledge. I look forward to seeing you when Iím home.

Dear Mom,
I am enjoying my vacation in Colombia. On the front of the postcard youíll see a typical home in the countryside (we stayed in a place very similar) as well as the national flower. It is a purple orchid. The roots are deep in infinity and it smells like the dust of the cosmos, the remnants of a planet full of life trod over and devoured by massive uncaring things. Iíll be home soon and will see you then.

Dear Rob,
I am sorry to hear about your grandmother. As you can see, she is on the front of this postcard, holding you up as a baby. I purchased it in a craft bazaar. You will want to make your peace with her as soon as you read this, as international mail in Colombia is uncertain, and she will not be much longer than the postmark. I know, it seems so sudden. The Colombians assure you that Jesus will have her and that is a perfectly acceptable way to not think any further on the matter.

Dear J,
By now the stack of postcards on your desk is ten thousand high. You do not know that many people, J, who are you writing to? Your fingernails are dragging across lines as you scrawl them and they shatter over and over. Your pen ran out of ink a long time ago. Every card you write is the private psychic world of a trapped mind, and in creating them you are their frail and helpless husk god and you will not stop.

The mountains are beautiful here. They are everywhere. There is nothing behind them and if you try to look the rivers stop. Their shepherds through the valleys grow angry and they stop their singing and the absence is a physical thing like the blood in your veins or the breath in your lungs. You really ought to consider a visit Ė it is a great country for horses.

To Don and Kit and Jen and Jerry and Chris and Eva and John,
I am sorry. It goes on forever.
From, J. Yours, J. Always, J.

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