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  #31  
Old 10-31-2016, 03:41 PM
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[QUOTE=bluewpc

Bukowski said: If youre doing it for money or fame, don't do it.

[/QUOTE]



I'll drink to that.

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Old 10-31-2016, 06:13 PM
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I'll drink to it too.

Bravo.

Had I read the first novel, would I know who Dachni was? Would I have an understanding of the world she inhabits?
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Old 10-31-2016, 06:47 PM
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Ill drink to yalls drinking

And yes you would know who she is and the world at large, from Lyubotyn to Chihuahua but what exactly she or anyone else thought of anything you wouldnt know as none but the central character, the pilot, was given interiority.

In this novel you lose even that organizing intellect as none are given interiority but you will have of course people speaking and since the focus of this novel is exclusively on Dachni youll see her talking to herself from time to time in her broken aphasia.

Years from now when the rough draft is done I'll go back and edit out anything that too directly gives away her state of mind. Id like to keep that, as much as possible, a mystery. Therell be a number of times when you know without doubt whats going through her head but those instances should be rare.
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Old 10-31-2016, 07:20 PM
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Her dialogue came just in time for me.

What is rusk? Russian?
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Old 10-31-2016, 07:28 PM
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aye Russian. hahaah its all about timing. In one of the earlier drafts of Things Fall Apart there wasn't any dialogue for forty pages.
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Old 10-31-2016, 07:30 PM
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Aphasia gives a clue. Thanks. I thought she might be irish, from the country.😀
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Old 10-31-2016, 07:33 PM
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Nein nein irish need not apply

Actually a friend of mine sat down and talked to the societies in NI about ending partition. Met them up at McSweenies in Phillie but he said they were all talk and that just raised my scarred brow and so I asked him well what do you think you should do and he proceeded to play hours of IRA music opening with My Little Armalite and closing with the Decommission song.

Last edited by bluewpc; 10-31-2016 at 08:09 PM..
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Old 10-31-2016, 08:10 PM
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Well, now that you've insulted my tribe, and in light of my growing understanding, I'll wait for more.

JK... you can't insult me or my tribe😀
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Old 10-31-2016, 08:27 PM
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Beidh Éire ardú arís!
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Old 11-04-2016, 09:50 PM
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Lot of short posts starting off but that's ok.




She drank till dark fell and purchased four bottles of whiskey and stole a raft. Near completely regardant in her figuring of the rudder. The current took her down the southern branch of the river and she sat on the deck wit the tiller under arm watching the mountains with their clear epochal divisions so old they might have known a time when the sun still had pity to weep and recalling talk once of the recycling of wondered perhaps she herself an iteration that might remember such a thing. The water was jade green. Two falcons rose from out trees of scots pine and began to circle in perfect stasis.

Ye es wrongs all over, she muttered.

When she had floated a good few hours from the bar she moored the rafts to the trunk of a tree fallen in the river and shaved it of its branches for to make a gunwale and then pushed off again. She had found a map in the cabin and she sat drinking and tracing the course of the Ural rivers.

At the Saryshta she turned south and floated a league ere the raft scraped the river bottom how shallow it was, and obliged her to get out and pull. It was evening before she reached the rivers end and she consulted the map and stared into the bleak pine woods through which she must trudge in ropes to the Atolyam dragging the raft behind. It was only a mile but it took the night and she slept on the cold stones of the bank like a dead man. Afternoon the next day she was on the Zigaza floating through the village of the same name and she hid in the cabin from the few folk watching out of the scattering of huts.

The river did not last two days. She had been sleeping on the deck and woke for no reason she knew and when she looked the trees were not moving. She peeked over the gunwale and frowned at the narrow cleft in the earth the river trinkled on into. The map indicated other rivers none too far to walk to but she scuttled the craft and gorged herself on the provisions she could not carry and bearing on shoulder what she could went on.

Went on through thirty miles of birch and through meadows of tulip or fescue and abandoned derevni rotted the same bleached brown as the rotted timothy in the pastures. She found bones of kine and of men and she watched eagles fly of their eyries.

One evening she saw fire in the hills like some part of day snagged in its withdraw. She trudged through the feather until there delineated a silhouette in profile warming itself. She took a sitting stance conducive to marksmanship and aligned the front sight post against this camper and fired.

When she walked up his forehead was pressed to the coals as if he were communing with the flame that had balded him and his brains were bubbling and the steam sang from his ears. The beet soup he had been heating had spilled and she ladled it up with the dirt much as a thickener and when she was full she studied the country that was a cup for dark ere abruptly turning to stomp out the fire until it was dead whereupon she froze enhorrored. She dropped to her knees to speak up the fire as she had seen it done but the embers were deaf to her and she filled her palms with the ash and whispered but no flame rose and in her desperation she plucked up the embers and ate them.
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  #41  
Old 11-05-2016, 05:00 PM
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I feel unsatisfied. Okay, it's good but not enough. I think you should just email me a beta copy of the first novel and then I can catch up here later. Yeah, that works for me.😀
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  #42  
Old 11-05-2016, 11:51 PM
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Hahah no no I cant do that. I can recommend you books. Jung's Modern Man In Search of a Soul is as good as any. Ernst Junger' Storm of Steel and his essay On Pain. Id also recommend Marcus Aurelius' Meditations. And here's a nice rendition of Ecclesiastes:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KKDZSZTWPzk
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  #43  
Old 11-06-2016, 12:04 AM
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Well, I hadn't heard of Ernst Junger. Might give that a go. And one can always re-read Marcus Aurelius.
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  #44  
Old 11-07-2016, 01:36 AM
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This is amazing. Very McCarthy-esque, thank you for sharing.
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Old 11-07-2016, 06:01 PM
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Originally Posted by bluewpc View Post
Hahah no no I cant do that. I can recommend you books. Jung's Modern Man In Search of a Soul is as good as any. Ernst Junger' Storm of Steel and his essay On Pain. Id also recommend Marcus Aurelius' Meditations. And here's a nice rendition of Ecclesiastes:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KKDZSZTWPzk


Ecclesiastes is good, but the book of Enoch is my favorite.
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  #46  
Old 11-08-2016, 09:40 AM
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@cities thanks very much

@brian Never read that one but Judges oh theres a book. Im actually quite surprised that no literature has been written on that book's relation to Blood Meridian. Especially considering the nature of the book and the presence of a character named Judge Holden no less. I think I'll write an essay on that. Leo Daughtery wrote an excellent essay identifying the judge as a gnostic archon but even he acknowledges that the constriction of his identity to a single say ideology is to do a disservice to the character.

Vereen Bell wrote another landmark essay, although I feel its wrong, about the pervading nihilism through McCarthy's oeuvre but still a worthy read.

I'm actually kind of irked Im sitting at a bar right now drinking rum and coke because my motherboard fried and took my graphics card right with it so I cant access my latest files and I was supposed to be working on an essay elucidating the influence of Dylan Thomas' poem And Death Shall Have No Dominion on Ashely Cope's webcomic Unsounded but like I said cant access it. So drink drink! Drink! drink! Driiiiiiink!

https://www.jstor.org/stable/2007770...n_tab_contents

http://peter-mclachlin.livejournal.com/115239.html

casualvillain.com

Last edited by bluewpc; 11-08-2016 at 02:52 PM..
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Old 11-12-2016, 12:43 AM
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Another small update. Much infortune was incurred this week. Computer caught on fire and near broke my ankle. Ive two fat stripes of purple running down either side of my foot but I'm walking again and the fiery parts have been replaced. So добре

I'm actually a tad sad. I have not yet found a suitable occasion to use the phrase jaundiced uterus worms but I'm looking and its never far from my mind.



A month later she crossed into the Mughalzhar. No more to see the alpines or river valleys but dawn after dawn of the same scrubocean sprawl of bronze jejune, predicate to whirlwinds that arose sans warning to rip through the shortgrass or sand ere resolving once more into their origins. Cold cobalt mornings and frigid the scarlet nights. It seeped into her and that marrowbone broke the year afore was visited by a pain like evil. She sheltered in windbreaks, in clefts of the earth. She drank to bay the pain and she monitored the stars progress ordained by who knew which deity among that latitant pantheon presiding beyond the redshift save that it was not that ferous chaos that slavered souls out the umbra.

Of a day she was in Idel. Walking between the ocherously pruinosed ruins in hope of even the dogs that were not there. Not even the flocking buzzards that had rimmed full round the tower, old granary, and watched the sketching of battle on its faded brick now faded itself. She circled it, eyeing the markers. The probabilities. She said: Wentent bout right as coulda doned.

That night she sheltered in a tannery pit. A dismal room without light faintly reeking of lime and sulfides. Huge bombos were set against the wall. The hatches were open but they had exuded their stink long and the few crinkled hides scattered about had grown thin and slightly diaphanous like the moltings of enormous locusts. She had found a doll among the ashes and she pet the filthy tongue of its plastic hair and asked its name.

Is Tepya, she said. Thass a name. Et es. How ye come up? Jess came. Came of what? Well. They was a sea. A big sea. They was a sea and it was real deep and it come out up from there. Ye did? They was sea an et was real deep and come out come up from there and floated to to to to. They was sea real deep and come up and swam ta shore. Hasnt ye named? Is Dachni. Alessa. Guess it come star down. Come far. Ye know what sun is? The sun is? Was? She dent know. Its fire. Ded ye know? Its fire and it cry an ifn ye saes for somethin ta happen ifn does when, when if, when is does itll be true. Whats ye saes? Ifn ye was ta say?

She spat. Saes that sunuvabitch drowns.

The next morning she crossed the Sakmara on a mawky spanse of timber that stressed even under her emaciated weight and in the afternoon she crossed the Ural on a bridge from which members of the plemena had been stobbed to rot from the transom.

Short miles thereafter in a fallow poyle she cut sign of a transhumance. Trampled feather and deep sipes of cart and wagon. Alongside them cloven stamps not seen before. Chimeras or goatfolk or so she speculated for the expectation is founded upon the inner reality's order and that perversed one might in well in faith doubt the exterior cledge be likewise modified beyond wildest fantasy and should a legion of electric corpophagists strike from out the fulgurant banks of the firmaments or the gestalt emulsification of lepers made animate should explode out of the bedrock or Death Sin or Gabriel on their attic equines of infernality should present themselves their meet could none inspire a wholly irrepressible surprise.

Nor was this oblate spheroid to slack in its maddening proliferation of marvels slain or changed ere their kenning as if the ceaseless spin of the cosmos were the action of some heterogenizer invaccinating endlessly the realms of men and things otherwise with ever fresher strains of lunacy. Take rede then nihilists, depart, doubt the world and all in it, it being but a mask.

Dachni went on. In that long venatic pursuit she gave an indifferent read of the tracks whether they be shod or discalced horse or man or other and she saw how the migration would camp with the wagons encircled as it was centuries before and how sentries would be posted not for the entirety of the night and how scouts would venture out alone alone in the mornings and return in the late of day and how there were no dogs to aid the young shepherds and she chose among that migration the very horse she wished to ride. That shy waif she wished to bed.
On the third day there was a wolf. Old soul. A pyrolatrous rag of mange transiting sadly across the gray dun landscape towards the heatless death house of the sun.

Hidy! Dachni called waving.

It stopped and looked back. It was missing a foreleg and part of a hind jutted out like a blunted stick of graphite and one eye was shut forever in a combat and it had no ears. It went on.

Theys whiskey ifn ye care.

It didnt. Its head hung kiltered low to the ground as if it could not raise it much up. She started after it, running with one arm aloft. It broke into a crazy lope peculiar to itself that yet outpaced her quickly by far. In a minute there was something of a quarter mile between them and she came to a panting halt.

Wasnt goi no hurt ta ye, she called wheezing. Drink ifn yay wan. She dropped to a knee. Dennint. Mane ta scare ye. Is sorry. Well ye come back? Is sorry. Is sorry. Come back. Will ye come back?

Last edited by bluewpc; 11-12-2016 at 06:44 AM..
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  #48  
Old 11-12-2016, 04:17 PM
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Originally Posted by bluewpc View Post
Another small update. Much infortune was incurred this week. Computer caught on fire and near broke my ankle. Ive two fat stripes of purple running down either side of my foot but I'm walking again and the fiery parts have been replaced. So добре

I'm actually a tad sad. I have not yet found a suitable occasion to use the phrase jaundiced uterus worms but I'm looking and its never far from my mind.



A month later she crossed into the Mughalzhar. No more to see the alpines or river valleys but dawn after dawn of the same scrubocean sprawl of bronze jejune, predicate to whirlwinds that arose sans warning to rip through the shortgrass or sand ere resolving once more into their origins. Cold cobalt mornings and frigid the scarlet nights. It seeped into her and that marrowbone broke the year afore was visited by a pain like evil. She sheltered in windbreaks, in clefts of the earth. She drank to bay the pain and she monitored the stars progress ordained by who knew which deity among that latitant pantheon presiding beyond the redshift save that it was not that ferous chaos that slavered souls out the umbra.

Of a day she was in Idel. Walking between the ocherously pruinosed ruins in hope of even the dogs that were not there. Not even the flocking buzzards that had rimmed full round the tower, old granary, and watched the sketching of battle on its faded brick now faded itself. She circled it, eyeing the markers. The probabilities. She said: Wentent bout right as coulda doned.

That night she sheltered in a tannery pit. A dismal room without light faintly reeking of lime and sulfides. Huge bombos were set against the wall. The hatches were open but they had exuded their stink long and the few crinkled hides scattered about had grown thin and slightly diaphanous like the moltings of enormous locusts. She had found a doll among the ashes and she pet the filthy tongue of its plastic hair and asked its name.

Is Tepya, she said. Thass a name. Et es. How ye come up? Jess came. Came of what? Well. They was a sea. A big sea. They was a sea and it was real deep and it come out up from there. Ye did? They was sea an et was real deep and come out come up from there and floated to to to to. They was sea real deep and come up and swam ta shore. Hasnt ye named? Is Dachni. Alessa. Guess it come star down. Come far. Ye know what sun is? The sun is? Was? She dent know. Its fire. Ded ye know? Its fire and it cry an ifn ye saes for somethin ta happen ifn does when, when if, when is does itll be true. Whats ye saes? Ifn ye was ta say?

She spat. Saes that sunuvabitch drowns.

The next morning she crossed the Sakmara on a mawky spanse of timber that stressed even under her emaciated weight and in the afternoon she crossed the Ural on a bridge from which members of the plemena had been stobbed to rot from the transom.

Short miles thereafter in a fallow poyle she cut sign of a transhumance. Trampled feather and deep sipes of cart and wagon. Alongside them cloven stamps not seen before. Chimeras or goatfolk or so she speculated for the expectation is founded upon the inner reality's order and that perversed one might in well in faith doubt the exterior cledge be likewise modified beyond wildest fantasy and should a legion of electric corpophagists strike from out the fulgurant banks of the firmaments or the gestalt emulsification of lepers made animate should explode out of the bedrock or Death Sin or Gabriel on their attic equines of infernality should present themselves their meet could none inspire a wholly irrepressible surprise.

Nor was this oblate spheroid to slack in its maddening proliferation of marvels slain or changed ere their kenning as if the ceaseless spin of the cosmos were the action of some heterogenizer invaccinating endlessly the realms of men and things otherwise with ever fresher strains of lunacy. Take rede then nihilists, depart, doubt the world and all in it, it being but a mask.

Dachni went on. In that long venatic pursuit she gave an indifferent read of the tracks whether they be shod or discalced horse or man or other and she saw how the migration would camp with the wagons encircled as it was centuries before and how sentries would be posted not for the entirety of the night and how scouts would venture out alone alone in the mornings and return in the late of day and how there were no dogs to aid the young shepherds and she chose among that migration the very horse she wished to ride. That shy waif she wished to bed.
On the third day there was a wolf. Old soul. A pyrolatrous rag of mange transiting sadly across the gray dun landscape towards the heatless death house of the sun.

Hidy! Dachni called waving.

It stopped and looked back. It was missing a foreleg and part of a hind jutted out like a blunted stick of graphite and one eye was shut forever in a combat and it had no ears. It went on.

Theys whiskey ifn ye care.

It didnt. Its head hung kiltered low to the ground as if it could not raise it much up. She started after it, running with one arm aloft. It broke into a crazy lope peculiar to itself that yet outpaced her quickly by far. In a minute there was something of a quarter mile between them and she came to a panting halt.

Wasnt goi no hurt ta ye, she called wheezing. Drink ifn yay wan. She dropped to a knee. Dennint. Mane ta scare ye. Is sorry. Well ye come back? Is sorry. Is sorry. Come back. Will ye come back?

Short miles thereafter in a fallow poyle she cut sign of a transhumance. >>>cut?
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  #49  
Old 11-12-2016, 07:22 PM
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Why so? In the meanwhiles Ill give it a thunkin over.

oh poyle is Russian for field I don't know if that was clear. I typically include local words into the narrative. the dialogue is actually a lot in Cyrillic. there'll be that in the next update.
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Old 11-12-2016, 08:23 PM
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I was questioning the word "cut"

I suppose it could be a stunted form of "caught" and in fact if she'd been speaking it it would make sense.
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  #51  
Old 11-12-2016, 08:27 PM
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ohhhh. Cut is a western term. So in tracking when you come across a set of tracks, deer dogs men whatever you typically go across their tracks, thus you cut the recorded progression with your own and then you can assume or leave the track whatever your want might be.

Its like cutting across something a road or a trail or whatever.
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Old 11-12-2016, 09:17 PM
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If this ever gets published you will be forever explaining that one. Well, until they publish the Cliff Notes😆
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Old 11-13-2016, 08:34 AM
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Haha well twill never be so egregious as Joyce:

No, not like that. A barren land, bare waste. Vulcanic lake, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth. No wind would lift those waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they called it raining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead names. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. Old now. It bore the oldest, the first race. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's clutching a noggin bottle by the neck. The oldest people. Wandered far away over all the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. It lay there now. Now it could bear no more. Dead: an old woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the world
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Old 11-13-2016, 12:35 PM
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bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronnt uonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthur!
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Old 11-13-2016, 04:28 PM
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we don't speak of Finnegan in polite company
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Old 11-13-2016, 05:41 PM
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I've still yet to finish it. Every few years I try again, but...
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Old 11-13-2016, 07:24 PM
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They say theres two kinds of people. Those who have read Ulysses and everyone else. I'm almost in the former category. I got to the middle of part two sober and a ways beyond that drunk but I don't know how far
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Old 11-13-2016, 08:34 PM
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Oh, I've finished U half a dozen times. One of my favorites.
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Old 11-13-2016, 08:34 PM
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It's FW I can't get through.
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Old 11-13-2016, 08:47 PM
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You know I don't really read fiction anymore. Its almost all nonfiction these days. I started rereading Catalain Avramescu's an Intellectual History Of Cannibalism and I first read that at twenty and had no idea what the guy was really getting at but now eight years later it all makes so much sense. One of the things I realized some years ago, and quite late I guess, is that you can't just pick something up and expect to understand it. Theres so much intertextuality between everything which actually makes sense from a cosmic perspective were all a continuation of the same temporal tapestry so logically everything must be interconnected its just that the number of the connections multiply exponentially and so it takes years and years to even get to a point where you can coherently speak of anything.

So here's me a while back stating some views in an interview. god I look like a retard and sound worse.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3g1NLplHkp4

Last edited by bluewpc; 11-13-2016 at 08:56 PM..
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