1
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: DEAR PAESOR
« on: Today at 02:31:47 am »
The one in the lower left is perfect.
News:
OK fuckers, let me out of here. I farted for you, what more do you want from me? Jesus fuck.
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The one in the lower left is perfect.
2
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: PICS VIII: 10% LARGER THAN PICS VII
« on: Today at 01:52:47 am »I think they probably went crazy after seeing this:
WHAT IS THIS
WHY DO WE LIVE IN THIS WORLD I LOVE IT SO MUCH
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.
3
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: DEAR PAESOR
« on: Today at 01:49:51 am »
I don't even know what I'm doing with this anymore.
HEY IS THAT MY DRUNK BANANACOSTUME FACE FUCK YOU GIVE IT BACK
4
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: PICS VIII: 10% LARGER THAN PICS VII
« on: Today at 01:48:37 am »I think they probably went crazy after seeing this:
WHAT IS THIS
WHY DO WE LIVE IN THIS WORLD I LOVE IT SO MUCH
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.
5
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: OPEN BAR: 50 Shades of Chronic Liver Disease
« on: Today at 01:23:20 am »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.
6
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: OPEN BAR: 50 Shades of Chronic Liver Disease
« on: Today at 01:11:05 am »That's exactly the kind of cheery thought I stayed up until 3am to hear. Thanks, EoC.
Apologies.
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.
7
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: OPEN BAR: 50 Shades of Chronic Liver Disease
« on: Today at 12:58:12 am »
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 slide is completely black.
I think writing existential horror is fucking up my brain because that is the scariest goddamn thing.
9
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: Yesterday at 11:59:35 pm »
To Jeremy and Rosa,
Colombia is fine, very fine. I’m 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 isn’t done here. When I get back we’ll have to get some drinks.
Your friend,
J.
Dear Liz,
Thank you for letting me borrow the book. It’s been an English language companion with me these last few weeks when I find myself so badly needing one. I can’t 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 I’m home.
Yours,
J.
Dear Mom,
I am enjoying my vacation in Colombia. On the front of the postcard you’ll 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. I’ll be home soon and will see you then.
Sincerely,
J.
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.
Always,
J.
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.
XOXO
J.
Lex,
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 – it is a great country for horses.
J.
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.
Colombia is fine, very fine. I’m 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 isn’t done here. When I get back we’ll have to get some drinks.
Your friend,
J.
Dear Liz,
Thank you for letting me borrow the book. It’s been an English language companion with me these last few weeks when I find myself so badly needing one. I can’t 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 I’m home.
Yours,
J.
Dear Mom,
I am enjoying my vacation in Colombia. On the front of the postcard you’ll 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. I’ll be home soon and will see you then.
Sincerely,
J.
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.
Always,
J.
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.
XOXO
J.
Lex,
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 – it is a great country for horses.
J.
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.
10
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: Yesterday at 04:28:43 pm »This thread is a thing of beauty.
I'm having a blast.
11
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: Spagbook
« on: Yesterday at 03:27:51 am »Necrowhatnow?
Sounds like I could help.
http://www.principiadiscordia.com/forum/index.php?topic=36321.0
12
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: Spagbook
« on: Yesterday at 03:20:18 am »Ah Ikea.
I love their cheap furniture.
Like the Misynskru cabinet, and the Shösdurt sofa.
But their glassware is awesome. Especially the Warpnkrak and Chiptuth.
I wish I was this good at making up deity names for Necronomicoin.
13
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: AMERICA, GETCHER AMERICA...
« on: April 15, 2014, 09:37:02 pm »http://thinkprogress.org/justice/2014/04/15/3426702/militant-former-sheriff-planned-to-put-women-up-at-the-front-if-violence-erupted-in-ranch-showdown-with-feds/
PR GENIUS!
THIS IS SURE TO MAKE THOSE OTHER GUYS LOOK LIKE MONSTERS
14
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: A new currency.
« on: April 15, 2014, 09:27:13 pm »
It was easy it seemed so easy. The guy spoke English, great English. I felt like I hadn’t spoken in years. I can’t remember what was in the shop. I bought something. I bought something and I understood what it was, and what it cost, and I paid for it. I forked over a few ten thousand peso notes and the man shook his head. He started talking and I understood him, understood perfectly, felt like a fucking economist at the end of the exchange.
I woke up in Cali. A week ago, a ten hour drive ago, a tricky few hundred kilometers ago. I was on the pull out bed in our hosts’ fine apartment. Across the cold marble floor the huge sliding doors were open to the balcony and the curtains, great sweeping translucent white things billowed lazily inward. My father was in his favorite spot, leaning on the balcony railing overlooking the twisting city sprawling out onto the mountainsides.
He was young again, the huge man, young like I remember him before the trip. I knew it from a dozen paces away that he was young, his legs less worn from carrying out the giant frame for sixty long, long years. I knew without seeing his hands that all ten fingers were curled around the railing, that last digit I’ve never known him to have, recovered from his Air Force days, recovered from the roadside in Germany after the truck rollover. He was well rested and slept like he used to before the barracks fire and the charred men made him a light sleeper. Dad.
And with one step closer to the balcony the hallway and the living room and the dining room and the balcony sped past, a blur of speed. Cali shone in the sun and then sparkled with the million lights of a city night and then I was in the finca again.
The finca, that little sliver of classic Antioquia carved into the mountains above Medellin. The dozen photos of Christ and the Virgin Mary adorning every room and passage were turned around backwards, brown and grey and white canvases displayed in the frames with two holes just where the eyes of the portrait would be and nothing behind them. In the back room Maria and Josefina, our hosts, were each peering into holes oblivious to my presence. Their bodies were slack, as though every muscle limp, like they were hooked to the backwards portraits by their eyes, hanging as fish on a line. In the little garden by the bathroom that read Caballeros the statue of the Virgin was gone but her shape was there in nothing. The sky held a brilliant, huge, white hot sun that hung in blackness and shed no light. I walked up to the next portrait of Jesus and I peered through the nothing eyes and I saw a place I’ve never seen.
It was a spotless and meticulously decorated tenth floor apartment on the north side of Bogota. I was on one of the sofas, fine printed floral pattern rising out of dark wood trimming. My step mother was there and talking to her sister that I briefly met in the States years ago and a man I never met. When the opened their mouths to speak, their jaws and lips and tongues merely hung loose a moment forming no words. The sound coming out sounded like radio stations just missing their frequency. I still do not understand their Spanish.
I pulled my head away from the portrait eye window and the head of my Bogota self moved back. I tried to push myself away from the wall and I could see my arms rising. I was my own puppet. I could picture myself hanging like the other two, a fish dead and drying and staring.
This is what death is. One day I stopped controlling myself directly and became the puppet of a previous me that hung against two eye windows who had himself one day lost control to a previous him hanging from a portrait without eyes.
When I screamed I watched myself in Bogota open wide and wail the only real sound, so much louder and so much clearer than my company. It hurt my ears in Medellin and it burned my throat in Bogota.
My wail subsided and it turned to a painful cough. I checked my pockets. They were empty, but my hand still came out with a Necronomicoin.
It shivered and stretched and I gripped it harder, hard enough to shred the flesh of my palm. I lost control of it and it burst, spilling a dozen more Necronomicoins from my hand, then a dozen more and a hundred and a flood. They clanged to the floor and they never made the same sound twice. They piled up to our knees and they melted through the floor and they rolled ten floors down to the streets of Bogota, more money in this little world of money.
What was it I bought in that shop.
I woke up in Cali. A week ago, a ten hour drive ago, a tricky few hundred kilometers ago. I was on the pull out bed in our hosts’ fine apartment. Across the cold marble floor the huge sliding doors were open to the balcony and the curtains, great sweeping translucent white things billowed lazily inward. My father was in his favorite spot, leaning on the balcony railing overlooking the twisting city sprawling out onto the mountainsides.
He was young again, the huge man, young like I remember him before the trip. I knew it from a dozen paces away that he was young, his legs less worn from carrying out the giant frame for sixty long, long years. I knew without seeing his hands that all ten fingers were curled around the railing, that last digit I’ve never known him to have, recovered from his Air Force days, recovered from the roadside in Germany after the truck rollover. He was well rested and slept like he used to before the barracks fire and the charred men made him a light sleeper. Dad.
And with one step closer to the balcony the hallway and the living room and the dining room and the balcony sped past, a blur of speed. Cali shone in the sun and then sparkled with the million lights of a city night and then I was in the finca again.
The finca, that little sliver of classic Antioquia carved into the mountains above Medellin. The dozen photos of Christ and the Virgin Mary adorning every room and passage were turned around backwards, brown and grey and white canvases displayed in the frames with two holes just where the eyes of the portrait would be and nothing behind them. In the back room Maria and Josefina, our hosts, were each peering into holes oblivious to my presence. Their bodies were slack, as though every muscle limp, like they were hooked to the backwards portraits by their eyes, hanging as fish on a line. In the little garden by the bathroom that read Caballeros the statue of the Virgin was gone but her shape was there in nothing. The sky held a brilliant, huge, white hot sun that hung in blackness and shed no light. I walked up to the next portrait of Jesus and I peered through the nothing eyes and I saw a place I’ve never seen.
It was a spotless and meticulously decorated tenth floor apartment on the north side of Bogota. I was on one of the sofas, fine printed floral pattern rising out of dark wood trimming. My step mother was there and talking to her sister that I briefly met in the States years ago and a man I never met. When the opened their mouths to speak, their jaws and lips and tongues merely hung loose a moment forming no words. The sound coming out sounded like radio stations just missing their frequency. I still do not understand their Spanish.
I pulled my head away from the portrait eye window and the head of my Bogota self moved back. I tried to push myself away from the wall and I could see my arms rising. I was my own puppet. I could picture myself hanging like the other two, a fish dead and drying and staring.
This is what death is. One day I stopped controlling myself directly and became the puppet of a previous me that hung against two eye windows who had himself one day lost control to a previous him hanging from a portrait without eyes.
When I screamed I watched myself in Bogota open wide and wail the only real sound, so much louder and so much clearer than my company. It hurt my ears in Medellin and it burned my throat in Bogota.
My wail subsided and it turned to a painful cough. I checked my pockets. They were empty, but my hand still came out with a Necronomicoin.
It shivered and stretched and I gripped it harder, hard enough to shred the flesh of my palm. I lost control of it and it burst, spilling a dozen more Necronomicoins from my hand, then a dozen more and a hundred and a flood. They clanged to the floor and they never made the same sound twice. They piled up to our knees and they melted through the floor and they rolled ten floors down to the streets of Bogota, more money in this little world of money.
What was it I bought in that shop.
15
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Re: Now that he's fucked off to Columbia, we can finally speak openly.
« on: April 15, 2014, 01:40:28 am »
I feel as though the readers of this thread are getting an unfair picture of me. The matter of being unable to bend at the waist is simply structural integrity - if that part of me pivoted, I would collapse upon myself and be unable to stand erect. Frankly I don't know how the rest of you manage it, bending as you do.
And as for the mirrors, well you're the strange ones, looking at yourselves in them and having someone else look back at you? That's purely terrifying. No, no thank you, one of me is enough. Of course I need to disappear through the mirrors every now and then. It would be rude of me to leave the other yous standing about wondering where I've gone. I say to you what I say to them: I'll try to make it quick. That much is easy, what with all the time inconsistencies.
Finally, I see there is some kind of fuss made of my teeth. I grin a lot, and I do it because I have to. My eyes are just a decorative distraction, you understand.
I need my teeth to see.
And as for the mirrors, well you're the strange ones, looking at yourselves in them and having someone else look back at you? That's purely terrifying. No, no thank you, one of me is enough. Of course I need to disappear through the mirrors every now and then. It would be rude of me to leave the other yous standing about wondering where I've gone. I say to you what I say to them: I'll try to make it quick. That much is easy, what with all the time inconsistencies.
Finally, I see there is some kind of fuss made of my teeth. I grin a lot, and I do it because I have to. My eyes are just a decorative distraction, you understand.
I need my teeth to see.