“Of all that is written, I love only what a person hath written with his blood. Write with blood, and thou wilt find that blood is spirit.
It is no easy task to understand unfamiliar blood; I hate the reading idlers.
He who knoweth the reader, doeth nothing more for the reader. Another century of readers–and spirit itself will stink.
Every one being allowed to learn to read, ruineth in the long run not only writing but also thinking.
Once spirit was God, then it became man, and now it even becometh populace.
He that writeth in blood and proverbs doth not want to be read, but learnt by heart.
In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak, but for that route thou must have long legs. Proverbs should be peaks, and those spoken to should be big and tall.
The atmosphere rare and pure, danger near and the spirit full of a joyful wickedness: thus are things well matched.
I want to have goblins about me, for I am courageous. The courage which scareth away ghosts, createth for itself goblins―it wanteth to laugh.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
Postmodernism is awash in the university. From there it leaked into the media as a tree that shunned the daylight and curved back into the ground with the roots turning up through the ground. And this half-retarded looking tree entered most all of our lives.
What is this POSTMODERNISM?
You probably know. But I say that your knowledge is completely a sack of dogshit because, as you should know, there is no objective truth, no standardization, no conclusion, no answer. I see a dove on a hoar-frosted branch and you say, Fuck me, David, but that is no mourning dove – It’s a pterodactyl!
Of the strong and time-tested departments at the university, there is none stronger than the Liberal Arts Militia. And this is where the idea of postmodernism came from. And you would have thought the thing would have come from a child with down-syndrome. No, it came from learned men who wiped their asses with their education.
Even though postmodernism eludes classification there are a few generalities (disputed, of course), but a sort of Cryptid has birthed from the male penis and gives the abomination legs and a runny ass.
Here are some vague representations:
– there is no truth (except, ironically, usually the PhD professor or PhD philosopher is correct in their assertions)
The número uno of postmodernists is the idea that truth is fluid. In society now the gender binary is upset and fluid. The idea of marriage between the two gender binaries has followed this construct. Rachel Dolezal and Shaun King has taken this to race. Race is a construct! – that drum is beaten heavily in the university and now those beats have entered the flocks and masses.
Everything is QUEER.
TRUMP takes this idea of fluid truth and queerness and begins using it to gain traction in the polls. He has been extremely successful even though the press has a segment of “fact checkers” who have damn near 90% false ratings on many of TRUMP’s claims. But I ask, how can you fact check a world and reality that is as fluid as the fucking Mississippi RIVER?
Here are some of TRUMP’s claims and positions that have bits and fragments of truth in them, but mostly wrong (according to the checkers). His wants would be difficult to perform. But in the minds of many Americans they are their truths, in their heads it is basic logic. So if the truth is a fluid entity, how can anyone say TRUMP has a mile-long Pinocchio schnoz?
The concept of global warming was created by and for the Chinese in order to make U.S. manufacturing non-competitive.
— Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) November 6, 2012
TRUMP: “Hey, I watched when the World Trade Center came tumbling down. And I watched in Jersey City, New Jersey, where thousands and thousands of people were cheering as that building was coming down. Thousands of people were cheering.”
TRUMP [on illegal immigrants]: “They’re sending people that have lots of problems, and they’re bringing those problems with us. They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists. And some, I assume, are good people.”
TRUMP [on deporting all illegal immigrants]: “You’re going to have a deportation force, and you’re going to do it humanely and you’re going to bring the country — and, frankly, the people, because you have some excellent, wonderful people, some fantastic people that have been here for a long period of time.”
TRUMP: “Somebody said I’m the Ernest Hemingway of 140 characters.”
He also plays with the idea of Obama being a Muslim in this recent video.
– the performance of actions without conscious thought or intention
When I look back on things I’ve written years, or possibly weeks ago, I get the feeling that I had no influence. A very close friend of mine read me a few lines and I thought, That’s really good, really goddamn good. And I said, “Who is it?” and she said it’s yours. It made me feel great but the words were still alien – Planet Zoltar. The artist in me thinks me me me, it comes from me, but as I consider it, I really don’t know if that is true.
Some automatists thought they were guided by ghosts. One such figure is Arthur Conan Doyle’s wife Linda who wrote thinking the fallen in WWI were hectically trying to speak to the public through her. Houdini thought she was full of shit. From where these messages are being sent varies. Charles Dickens, usually skeptical, got into mesmerism which believes the “universe was full of an invisible magnetic fluid, which influenced all life.” Ralph Waldo Emerson thought it came from “The Over-Soul.”
But, from my experience, this state cannot be provoked by saying, “Work through me now.” But you have to be in proximity for it to happen. In other words, a writer has to be near a writing device (although glimpses or notes from the place can come at any time), just as a fisherman has to have a lure in the water, or a hunter has to have a killing instrument in a woods.
TRUMP’s automatism is usually at the podium or when in the spotlight. That is where any automatist should be, in the spotlight of something or whatever.
His first automatist trait is hand gestures. Most all of automatism relies on a pre-sophisticated language, a primal communication, like body language which is demonstrated in this video and the following:
TRUMP’s other automatist trait is another primitive communication of grunting, noises, groans, natural mimicry. He is Tarzan of the Apes (read this).
Stream of Consciousness
– related to automatism but, again with the brain standing aside, allowing the transmission to roll out either profundities or otherworldly thought patterns. Is prevalent in works of Knut Hamsun, James Joyce, Anton Chekhov, Sylvia Plath, where thoughts bob-and-weave in tangents, sometimes gibberish or a dream-like logic
This is possibly one of the finest examples of TRUMP’s postmodern traits. Watch any of his rallies and he goes from poll numbers that show him dominating and then to the topic he wants to address. These often go all over the place. Tangents galore. They are like the inner workings of the mind vocalized, or set into words like Hamsun’s novels Hunger and Mysteries.
This is a clip of his surreal Ben Carson belt-buckle knife-stopping, pedophile, pathological, mother-hammering enactment. Also of note is that he calls Iowans idiots and fools while also saying the press is garbage.
A series of stream of conscious blasting of Hillary’s lethargy, and the bing-bing-bing bom-bom perv Anthony Weiner.
POSTMODERNISM is pretty much anything that
SCARES YOUR GRANDPAPARENTS SHITLESSS
What TRUMP is doing is using the postmodern ideology, flipping it around, and using it against the administers of that ideology. As Derrida, Foucault, and Deleuze used their ideas to kill the solidity of the old, and to cast doubt upon their legitimacy, TRUMP is persuading the majority audience. One audience is filled with intellectuals and the other with good old boys in ball-caps.
TRUMP is directing the others, the rednecks, the lowly morons, the miscreants, with his own brand of postmodernity. Whereas the postmodernists used their influence to obliterate their elders, TRUMP is using postmodernism to redeem our grandpapaws and grandmamaws. It strikes a nerve. It is a regression to strength and power.
Guttural Greystoke with “the victory cry of the bull ape.”
These last thoughts I didn’t title to see if you could grasp something, because in it lies another general trait of postmodernism.
TRUMP be so meta my fucking brain gonna EXPLODE, brah.
People are tired of looking at this non compos mentis tree.
Let’s take a day off from our racist YouTube comments and Make America Great Again, ok?
Hello computer nerds. I want you all to write and to keep writing, to write forever, even after death. Heaven is writing and so is hell—so get started.
This Coffitivity place will put you in the center of action even though you are not on campus or in Starbucks. The scholarly sounds will thrill you. The professors murmuring in the background will bring you to the light of knowledge. Knowledge = Power.
Rainfor.me has a nice image of a tree, and I love trees so I go here just to look at the tree with the sound off. But with the sound on – Thunderstorm! Not really. It’s a gentle storm. Very relaxing. Good splashing sounds.
August Ambiance is good if you like bugs and weird shit in the summer night. I don’t like the sound of bugs or the look of them. This motherfucker will drive you nuts.
This is the gayest entry into writing production. There are images of snowflakes with the option of playing piano music from the 1800s. If you use this one, I do not want to read your book.
This snowy one is much better. It sounds like a murderer is following you on Christmas Eve.
I entreat you. Please step into the Virtual Shower. The sounds of this shower nozzle are entirely adjustable. It is like doing the real thing except you will still smell like a rotten ass afterwards. But, Jesus, this is golden. The song on the radio is a real whizz banger. Oh yes!
A Soft Murmur is not murmurs. There is a ton of shit here. But my favorite is the singing bowl.
Calm.com is one of my favorites. It is like the voice of God. Your writing will excel by listening to this ecstasy of light and sound.
SOUNDROWN has some of the same bullshit as Soft Murmur. But nowhere else can you listen to the sounds of a playground unless you are a creepy ass that goes down to the playground.
Noisli features more of the same with the addition of what is either a fan or a trolling motor. Also kinda sounds like Crocodile Dundee swinging that goddamn thing around on a rope from atop that hillside in the heart of the bush.
Simplynoise is just noise. There is pink, brown, and white noise. What in thee hell? Man, fuck this noise.
Blazinglogs is like a Yule log that burns the whole year round. Is very comforting until someone throws you into it. You probably should throw your writing into it.
And last of all I have save for you the best jolly bastard of them all. Just click on it. Savor the flavor my writing friends.
— David M. Morton (@BantyCock) April 13, 2015
— David M. Morton (@BantyCock) April 13, 2015
Some person reviewed this book stating that it can’t be used for a college paper. I wish less college papers were written and replaced with works of love. The reviewer is probably correct though. This book is titled “unprofessional” aptly and flourishes because of it, because Nin was extraordinarily gifted with an intuition into the creator’s mind.
Lawrence is a challenge to pinpoint. The act is nearly impossible (as Henry Miller would attest). The reason is that he is not a writer that attempts to explain but to insert his volatile emotion into his characters and his writing. Like Nin says, he tries to work from a dark region of the psyche that is not entirely negative but difficult to grasp much less to solve.
One sentence of Nin’s that I like is very near to the end where she writes (speaking of Lawrence’s volatility), “It is a force which is always exploding and seeking to explode.”
Lawrence: “Well, all right then, if I AM finally a sort of human bomb, black inside, and primed; I hope the hour and the place will come for my going off: for my exploding with the maximum amount of havoc. SOME men have to be bombs, to explode and make breaches in the walls that shut life in. Blind, havoc-working bombs too. Then so be it.”
by Charles Bukowski
she lived in Galveston and was into
and I went down to visit her and we made love
continually even though it was very warm
and we took mescalin
and we took the ferry to the island
and drove 200 miles to the nearest
we both won and sat in a redneck bar—
disliked and distrusted by the natives—
and then we went to a redneck motel
and came back a day or two later
and I stayed another week
painted her a couple of good paintings—
one of a man being hanged
and another of a woman being fucked by a wolf.
I awakened one night and she wasn’t in bed
and I got up and walked around saying,
“Gloria, Gloria, where are you?”
it was a large place and I walked around
opening door after door,
and then I opened what looked like a closet door
and there she was on her knees
surrounded by photographs of
7 or 8 men
most of them wearing rimless spectacles.
there was a small candle burning
and I said, “oh, I’m sorry.”
Gloria was dressed in a kimono with flying
eagles on the back of it.
I closed the door and went back to bed.
she came out in 15 minutes,
we began kissing,
her larger tongue sliding in and out of my
she was a large healthy Texas girl.
“listen, Gloria,” I finally managed to say,
“I need a night off.”
the next day she drove me to the airport.
I promised to write. she promised to write.
neither of us has written.