пятница, октября 05, 2007
четверг, октября 04, 2007
Wisdom for the day
The hour of death will come, it will come and we shall not escape it.
-St. Hesychius of Jerusalem (5th century)
The soul untried by sorrows is good for nothing.
-St. Theophane the Recluse (19th century)
At the present time many suicides are taking place, not only from disbelief, but also from lack of patience. They do not want to endure anything. If the Lord had not given men the natural desire to live, then almost all would kill themselves.
-Elder Joseph of Optina (20th century)
-St. Hesychius of Jerusalem (5th century)
The soul untried by sorrows is good for nothing.
-St. Theophane the Recluse (19th century)
At the present time many suicides are taking place, not only from disbelief, but also from lack of patience. They do not want to endure anything. If the Lord had not given men the natural desire to live, then almost all would kill themselves.
-Elder Joseph of Optina (20th century)
liberals
in part canadians dislike the style that accompanies the colour red, the liberal party's official colour. red things jump in your eyes, they attack your cattle, they flow from your veins when striken. but most of all they: stand for nothing? allow gay marriage? get caught up in scandals? take bribes like in most normal third world countries? often make up the government (and people love to hate the powers that be)? perhaps stand for nothing (that ever-present evil of canadian culture: middle of the road indisdinctness often mistaken for tolerance)?
canada votes (from time to time): in answer to a stimulating overview of politics down below
in canada there are political parties much like in australia. we owe much to the british for the general construction of the political process, and on the surface it appears that we owe them much for the general spirit as well. but this was before the eighties, when we were finally granted the right to vote. until that time the red coats reserved that right for themselves. for many years people had been arguing it was wrong to let some old chap in worchestershire decide what would be happening in saskatchewan, but it wasnt until the end of hard rock and the arrival of bryan adams that canadians decided upon the reckless step of self governement they have been rueing ever since.
the liberals (variously now as liberals, whigs, and something else that slips the mind)
usually make up a very slight majority government not because the country loves them, but more because it often appears that the other parties cant tie their own shoes (to use the vernacular of the people.) the common canadian is dying to see another party in power.
continue to make up the government (with the present term excepted) on the strength of the population of ontario. outside of ontario the average canuck deeply despises the liberals because they are, as the name suggests, quite liberal.
the conservatives (known sometimes as tories, or right wing crazies)
havent been very popular with the average man (though they make up the present minority government) since the eighties of this century when they pushed through the north american free trade agreement despite the fact every single canadian threatened to be angry if they did. also unpopular in central canada (ontario especially) because they can be seen as a religious - evangelical Christian - party, mainly representative of western style (saskatchewan, alberta, british columbia)hillbillies. the eastern and central canadian hillbilly is decidedly secular.
the ndp or new democrats (socialists)
always win a few seats on the strength of their popularity amongst the students, the ageing hippies, and the working poor
the bloc quebecois
stand mainly for whats best for quebec (which is sometimes portrayed as canada ceasing to exist.) quite popular in quebec. less popular outside of quebec where they do not run candidates. they have even been known to form the official opposition in parliament, much the chagrin of english speaking canadians.
the liberals (variously now as liberals, whigs, and something else that slips the mind)
usually make up a very slight majority government not because the country loves them, but more because it often appears that the other parties cant tie their own shoes (to use the vernacular of the people.) the common canadian is dying to see another party in power.
continue to make up the government (with the present term excepted) on the strength of the population of ontario. outside of ontario the average canuck deeply despises the liberals because they are, as the name suggests, quite liberal.
the conservatives (known sometimes as tories, or right wing crazies)
havent been very popular with the average man (though they make up the present minority government) since the eighties of this century when they pushed through the north american free trade agreement despite the fact every single canadian threatened to be angry if they did. also unpopular in central canada (ontario especially) because they can be seen as a religious - evangelical Christian - party, mainly representative of western style (saskatchewan, alberta, british columbia)hillbillies. the eastern and central canadian hillbilly is decidedly secular.
the ndp or new democrats (socialists)
always win a few seats on the strength of their popularity amongst the students, the ageing hippies, and the working poor
the bloc quebecois
stand mainly for whats best for quebec (which is sometimes portrayed as canada ceasing to exist.) quite popular in quebec. less popular outside of quebec where they do not run candidates. they have even been known to form the official opposition in parliament, much the chagrin of english speaking canadians.
понедельник, октября 01, 2007
Australia Votes 07: Who's Wearing What?
As we don’t have fixed-terms here in Australia, it’s up to the PM to call the election. Once he does so, everyone will fly into a tizz because they have only 6 weeks left to decide what they’ll wear on polling day. Polling day itself is on a Saturday, so there’s a broad range to choose from – no work gear necessary, but anything else other than stark nakidity goes. On this side of the Yarra, most opt for the traditional ‘tracksuit and t-shirt’ ensemble, with greens thongs and the occasional denim jacket. Over on the far side they probably wear roopelt coats with glimmery shirts made of newborn babyskin and hollowed out stoats for shoes.
On polling day, I’ll be wearing the onitsuka tigers (we form the brains-trust of the branch), some light slacks for the warm weather, and probably an ill-fitting Greens t-shirt (preferably black, not white). I gotta fang round Broady and surrounds in a car, making sure everything is popping off all Greenlike and sorting disputes and generally being the Commander in the Chariot, like I was born to be.
Afterwards, I’ll probably duck home for a shower and a loosey before throwing on something suitably summery yet alluring - maybe a shirt with a horse on it, although I don't really like horses, so maybe I should trust my instinct and go for a shirt with a dragon on it - and head off to wherever the election night party is. Hoping to sink piss and watch the votes roll in, but suspect I’ll collapse in a heap after two beers.
воскресенье, сентября 30, 2007
Australia Votes 07: Who's Voting for Whom?
Over here in democratic Australia we have the great fortune to choose from more than one or two political parties. Virtually any bloke and his dog can and does enter a candidate in the polls. Happily, most Australians are smart enough not to vote for any bloke and his dog, so there’s a lot of parties who end up getting as near as zero votes as a political could care to and still call themselves a political party with a modicum of self-respect. A few examples: ‘Pauline’, the party run solely on the personality of an inbred red-neck quincelander. Her policies: eject the gooks, kill the boongs, burn the poofs and more lamingtons for everybody. There’s also the Citizens’ Electoral Council, who are hamstrung every election by the fact that they are a front-organisation for Lyndon LaRouche but are so incredibly embarrassed by this fact that they cannot bring themselves to acknowledge their connection, and hence won’t publish their policies.
The Libs
Only selfish wankers vote for the Libs. In fact, in order to vote for the Libs, you have to be a proudly and pompously selfish wanker, otherwise you can vote for the ALP. The Libs have been in government for 11 years, during which time they’ve fiddled about, slapped each others’ backs, snorted champagne froth out of their noses while giggling, and counted their money and then counted it again. Every now and then they are rather vexingly required to obtain a mandate to govern from the Australian population: this usually sees them cooking up the most unlikely prophecies of doom, scurrilously spreading these prophecies throughout their extensive media networks, then sitting back and watching the voters from aspirational middle-Australia come scurrying into the polling booth while casting fearful glances left and right, feverishly scratching a ‘1’ into the Libs box, begging for interest rates and the blacks to be kept down all the while. It’s easy to dislike the Libs, but it’s much easier to dislike the idiots who willingly swallow their dubious tales of impending doom.
Prospect: look set to lose in a landslide. After 11 years of pathetic compliance, the voting population seem to have woken up and decided they’re not happy about being lied to, that really they didn’t know they were being lied to the whole time (honest!), and that they’re going to punish somebody for it.
The Nats
Only red-necks and hypocrites vote for the Nats. The Libs and the Nats invariably join together to form a coalition of government. While the Libs appeal to the merchant bankers (for money) and the aspirational urban middle class (for votes), the Nats appeal to wealthy livestock holders (for money) and rural farmers (for votes). The ostensible strangeness of this coalition is that while the Libs are supposed to endorse free trade, the Nats are totally consumed with maintaining their agrarian socialist stranglehold on Australia’s farming industry. But in fact the coalition does makes sense: the Libs are trying to help wealthy city folk become wealthier, the Nats are trying to help wealthy country folk become wealthier. Traditional Nats voters are beginning to wake up to the fact that it is not in their own best interest to try to run farms in a nation perpetually beset by crippling drought and simultaneously obtain parliamentary representation from a party which denies the existence anthropomorphic climate change. Expect to see an about-face on climate change from the Nats soon, along with a startling remedy for their constituents (‘You all need to be given more money’).
Prospect: same as it ever was – they’ll get sweet fuck all of the votes overall, but they’ll get enough votes in key areas to secure seats, and exercise influence well beyond their numerical representation.
The ALP
Only panic-merchants and weirdos vote for the ALP. These are the guys whom everybody with a skerrick of conscience wants to see in government, but they are notoriously bad at getting their act together, and inevitably calculate the reason for their electoral losses as ‘we’re not enough like the Libs’ rather than ‘we didn’t get our act together’. So the ALP are in a perpetual slide to the right, but nobody is sure whether they are following votes or whether they are dragging voters with them. Everybody hopes that once the ALP get in, they’ll move back to their progressive, left-wing philosophical roots; everybody expects that they will become ‘conservatism with a human face’ – which is to say, they’ll do everything the current government does, but they’ll acknowledge climate change and sign Kyoto, and they’ll stop locking people up in detention centres in the desert because they have the temerity to be notWhite and notChristian. It is in fact logically impossible to be a decent person and vote for the ALP on their current policies, but most ALP-voters are well-practised in the art of ethical contortion.
Prospect: look set to shit their way to victory in a landslide – astonishingly, this will be thanks to the fact that most voters hate the Libs industrial relations policy, even though the ALP’s industrial relations policy is virtually the same.
The Greens
Only sensible people and champions vote for the Greens. That’s why the Greens poll about 9% - everyone else in the country is insane or a loser. Garner lots of votes from left-leaning inner-urban voters who are big on climate change, human rights, free education, effective public transport, and consistently good cafe latte. Also garner a few votes from hardcore, deep green environmentalists but far more from whackos and eccentrics who have their own deeply-held fascination with something obscure which they believe the Greens may champion (and probably will, so long as they get the vote). Rumoured to be ‘communists’, who will give away free drugs and force everyone to ride bicycles and eat vegetables if they win.
Prospect: did look to maintain their perpetual 9% and maybe scrape in a senator or two, but whispers are that they may reap the unionised benefit of being the only party to present an industrial relations policy which looks to defend the rights of the employee rather than line the pocket of the employer.
Family First
Only twisted sickos vote for Family First. This is the religious fundamentalist party. Nobody is quite sure what their policies are, least of all them. They don’t like poofs and lesos, that’s for sure – last election one of their candidates endorsed a policy of burning lesbians at the stake. And they’re not into single-parent families, or even separated families- you gotta go nuclear all the way, or you’re just ain’t the real deal. Women in their place and men wear the pants. FF voters must be Christians, by which I mean evangelists. They’re really not into non-Christians, but they are prepared to countenance the existence of black people, so long as they’re evangelists and live in the south. Oh yeah, they’re big time into money. The more the better – well, the more the holier. FF voters are largely derived from those evangelist mega-Churches, where you get told that ‘to get rich is divine’. The ‘family’ in Family First is a reference to the overlords who run this show from behind the scenes. Now those guys are rich.
Prospect: these guys can barely poll 1%, so they don’t even qualify as a real political party. But here’s the rub – they’ve got members in marginal seats, so they can negotiate with the big boys: we’ll give you OUR lower house preferences, if you give us YOUR upper house preferences. And thus Family First will sew up at least one senator, if not three or four, and retard the political progression of this nation for years to come, but at least we’ll have good singers.
The Libs
Only selfish wankers vote for the Libs. In fact, in order to vote for the Libs, you have to be a proudly and pompously selfish wanker, otherwise you can vote for the ALP. The Libs have been in government for 11 years, during which time they’ve fiddled about, slapped each others’ backs, snorted champagne froth out of their noses while giggling, and counted their money and then counted it again. Every now and then they are rather vexingly required to obtain a mandate to govern from the Australian population: this usually sees them cooking up the most unlikely prophecies of doom, scurrilously spreading these prophecies throughout their extensive media networks, then sitting back and watching the voters from aspirational middle-Australia come scurrying into the polling booth while casting fearful glances left and right, feverishly scratching a ‘1’ into the Libs box, begging for interest rates and the blacks to be kept down all the while. It’s easy to dislike the Libs, but it’s much easier to dislike the idiots who willingly swallow their dubious tales of impending doom.
Prospect: look set to lose in a landslide. After 11 years of pathetic compliance, the voting population seem to have woken up and decided they’re not happy about being lied to, that really they didn’t know they were being lied to the whole time (honest!), and that they’re going to punish somebody for it.
The Nats
Only red-necks and hypocrites vote for the Nats. The Libs and the Nats invariably join together to form a coalition of government. While the Libs appeal to the merchant bankers (for money) and the aspirational urban middle class (for votes), the Nats appeal to wealthy livestock holders (for money) and rural farmers (for votes). The ostensible strangeness of this coalition is that while the Libs are supposed to endorse free trade, the Nats are totally consumed with maintaining their agrarian socialist stranglehold on Australia’s farming industry. But in fact the coalition does makes sense: the Libs are trying to help wealthy city folk become wealthier, the Nats are trying to help wealthy country folk become wealthier. Traditional Nats voters are beginning to wake up to the fact that it is not in their own best interest to try to run farms in a nation perpetually beset by crippling drought and simultaneously obtain parliamentary representation from a party which denies the existence anthropomorphic climate change. Expect to see an about-face on climate change from the Nats soon, along with a startling remedy for their constituents (‘You all need to be given more money’).
Prospect: same as it ever was – they’ll get sweet fuck all of the votes overall, but they’ll get enough votes in key areas to secure seats, and exercise influence well beyond their numerical representation.
The ALP
Only panic-merchants and weirdos vote for the ALP. These are the guys whom everybody with a skerrick of conscience wants to see in government, but they are notoriously bad at getting their act together, and inevitably calculate the reason for their electoral losses as ‘we’re not enough like the Libs’ rather than ‘we didn’t get our act together’. So the ALP are in a perpetual slide to the right, but nobody is sure whether they are following votes or whether they are dragging voters with them. Everybody hopes that once the ALP get in, they’ll move back to their progressive, left-wing philosophical roots; everybody expects that they will become ‘conservatism with a human face’ – which is to say, they’ll do everything the current government does, but they’ll acknowledge climate change and sign Kyoto, and they’ll stop locking people up in detention centres in the desert because they have the temerity to be notWhite and notChristian. It is in fact logically impossible to be a decent person and vote for the ALP on their current policies, but most ALP-voters are well-practised in the art of ethical contortion.
Prospect: look set to shit their way to victory in a landslide – astonishingly, this will be thanks to the fact that most voters hate the Libs industrial relations policy, even though the ALP’s industrial relations policy is virtually the same.
The Greens
Only sensible people and champions vote for the Greens. That’s why the Greens poll about 9% - everyone else in the country is insane or a loser. Garner lots of votes from left-leaning inner-urban voters who are big on climate change, human rights, free education, effective public transport, and consistently good cafe latte. Also garner a few votes from hardcore, deep green environmentalists but far more from whackos and eccentrics who have their own deeply-held fascination with something obscure which they believe the Greens may champion (and probably will, so long as they get the vote). Rumoured to be ‘communists’, who will give away free drugs and force everyone to ride bicycles and eat vegetables if they win.
Prospect: did look to maintain their perpetual 9% and maybe scrape in a senator or two, but whispers are that they may reap the unionised benefit of being the only party to present an industrial relations policy which looks to defend the rights of the employee rather than line the pocket of the employer.
Family First
Only twisted sickos vote for Family First. This is the religious fundamentalist party. Nobody is quite sure what their policies are, least of all them. They don’t like poofs and lesos, that’s for sure – last election one of their candidates endorsed a policy of burning lesbians at the stake. And they’re not into single-parent families, or even separated families- you gotta go nuclear all the way, or you’re just ain’t the real deal. Women in their place and men wear the pants. FF voters must be Christians, by which I mean evangelists. They’re really not into non-Christians, but they are prepared to countenance the existence of black people, so long as they’re evangelists and live in the south. Oh yeah, they’re big time into money. The more the better – well, the more the holier. FF voters are largely derived from those evangelist mega-Churches, where you get told that ‘to get rich is divine’. The ‘family’ in Family First is a reference to the overlords who run this show from behind the scenes. Now those guys are rich.
Prospect: these guys can barely poll 1%, so they don’t even qualify as a real political party. But here’s the rub – they’ve got members in marginal seats, so they can negotiate with the big boys: we’ll give you OUR lower house preferences, if you give us YOUR upper house preferences. And thus Family First will sew up at least one senator, if not three or four, and retard the political progression of this nation for years to come, but at least we’ll have good singers.
четверг, сентября 27, 2007
среда, сентября 26, 2007
вторник, сентября 25, 2007
воскресенье, сентября 23, 2007
суббота, сентября 15, 2007
среда, сентября 05, 2007
воскресенье, сентября 02, 2007
понедельник, августа 13, 2007
пятница, августа 10, 2007
среда, июля 25, 2007
The Imp of the Perverse vs. the French
I asked the Frogs who run the ground floor cafe what kind of muffins they had.
'Zey are choc-berry,' one of em said, and I gave the nod for him to put one in a paper bag for me.
The other one scarfed a mouthful while cookin up me coffee, and said: 'Zey are not choc-berry. Zere iz no berry. Zey are zhust choc.'
'Just CHOC!' I roared. 'No berry! What a FUCKING GYP!'
And they both stopped what they were doing and stood there staring at me.
'Half price! Half price!' I bellowed, and whirled around and pointed at the poor old mum waiting behind me. 'You heard em! They said choc-berry, and now there's no BERRY! I'm not paying for berry when there ain't none! Half price!'
The coffee-cooker kept staring at me blankly, but the muffin-readier snatched up a muffin from the bottom of the pile.
'ZIS one has a berry!' he announced triumphantly, so I was obliged to give it close inspection.
There was indeed a berry perched on top.
'So it does,' I admitted. 'I'll take it. Half price?'
'Non,' he replied.
'Zey are choc-berry,' one of em said, and I gave the nod for him to put one in a paper bag for me.
The other one scarfed a mouthful while cookin up me coffee, and said: 'Zey are not choc-berry. Zere iz no berry. Zey are zhust choc.'
'Just CHOC!' I roared. 'No berry! What a FUCKING GYP!'
And they both stopped what they were doing and stood there staring at me.
'Half price! Half price!' I bellowed, and whirled around and pointed at the poor old mum waiting behind me. 'You heard em! They said choc-berry, and now there's no BERRY! I'm not paying for berry when there ain't none! Half price!'
The coffee-cooker kept staring at me blankly, but the muffin-readier snatched up a muffin from the bottom of the pile.
'ZIS one has a berry!' he announced triumphantly, so I was obliged to give it close inspection.
There was indeed a berry perched on top.
'So it does,' I admitted. 'I'll take it. Half price?'
'Non,' he replied.
The Bushman's Farewell to Queensland (anon)
Queensland thou art a land of pest!
From flies and fleas one never rests
Even now mosquitoes round me revel
In fact, they are the very devil
Sandflies and hornets just as bad,
They nearly drive a fellow mad
The scorpion and the centipede
With stinging ants of every breed
Fever and ague with the shakes
Triantelope and poisonous snakes
Goannas, lizards and cockatoos
Bushrangers, lags and jackaroos
Bandicoots and swarms of rats
Bull dog ants and swarms of cats
Stunted timber, thirsty plains
Parched up deserts, scanty rains
There's rivers here you sail ships on
There's nigger women without skirts on
There's humpies, huts and wooden houses
There's nigger men who don't wear trousers
There's Barcoo rot and sandy blight
There's dingoes howling half the night
There's curlews' wails and croaking frogs
There's savage blacks and native dogs
There's centralists, flowers and stinging trees
There's poisoned grass and Darling peas
Which drive the horses and cattle mad
And make the sheep just as bad
And then it never rains in reason
There's droughts one year and floods next season
Which wash the squatter's sheep away
And then there is the devil to pay
To stay in Queensland, Oh land of mutton
I would not give a single button
But bid thee now a long farewell
Thou scorching land of sunburnt hell!
From flies and fleas one never rests
Even now mosquitoes round me revel
In fact, they are the very devil
Sandflies and hornets just as bad,
They nearly drive a fellow mad
The scorpion and the centipede
With stinging ants of every breed
Fever and ague with the shakes
Triantelope and poisonous snakes
Goannas, lizards and cockatoos
Bushrangers, lags and jackaroos
Bandicoots and swarms of rats
Bull dog ants and swarms of cats
Stunted timber, thirsty plains
Parched up deserts, scanty rains
There's rivers here you sail ships on
There's nigger women without skirts on
There's humpies, huts and wooden houses
There's nigger men who don't wear trousers
There's Barcoo rot and sandy blight
There's dingoes howling half the night
There's curlews' wails and croaking frogs
There's savage blacks and native dogs
There's centralists, flowers and stinging trees
There's poisoned grass and Darling peas
Which drive the horses and cattle mad
And make the sheep just as bad
And then it never rains in reason
There's droughts one year and floods next season
Which wash the squatter's sheep away
And then there is the devil to pay
To stay in Queensland, Oh land of mutton
I would not give a single button
But bid thee now a long farewell
Thou scorching land of sunburnt hell!
понедельник, июля 16, 2007
real advice for an interview
i think buddy just forgot a bit about to behave for real, so i guess i feel a need to remind him for his own sake:
1) be polite and respectful, as all persons are deserving of respect
2) try to the best of your abilities to answer any questions put to you with due respect and politness
3) be polite should your thoat dry up and out
4) should the interview ask you the same question more than once, tactfully tell them so, taking into account that they might be embarrassed, a feeling no one enjoys
5) remember, you need this job, not them, and if you dont need this job what are you doing there - wasting their time, which is not polite nor respectful
6) enjoy yourself, get to know your interviewer, you never know, maybe you can learn something from them, or teach them something, thus leading to your mutual benefit
1) be polite and respectful, as all persons are deserving of respect
2) try to the best of your abilities to answer any questions put to you with due respect and politness
3) be polite should your thoat dry up and out
4) should the interview ask you the same question more than once, tactfully tell them so, taking into account that they might be embarrassed, a feeling no one enjoys
5) remember, you need this job, not them, and if you dont need this job what are you doing there - wasting their time, which is not polite nor respectful
6) enjoy yourself, get to know your interviewer, you never know, maybe you can learn something from them, or teach them something, thus leading to your mutual benefit
среда, июля 11, 2007
среда, июля 04, 2007
How to fuck up a job interview
1. Before the interview has commenced, insist that while the chairs provided might be suitable for the interviewers, you yourself need something 'high, plush, and resembling a throne'.
2. Stand by with a vaguely bored expression on your face while the Head of the Publications Div. drags in a throne-like chair from another room down the hall.
3. Tell the Head of the HR Dept. not to 'be stingy with the water', and indeed to 'keep it coming' because you've 'got your parch on'.
4. Inform the interviewers that for simplicity's sake, it would be best if everybody referred to the ostensible recipient of the role as 'Seth'.
5. When asked for the second time to explain your capabilities with Excel, raise your eyebrows and ask the Head of the Publications Div. whether she would like the same comprehensive answer you gave last time, or an entirely new comprehensive answer.
6. Laugh when she is embarrassed at having asked the same question twice.
7. Berate the Head of the HR Dept. for not keeping up with the Shit Cricket Against Nuffies website and for not following the fortunes of Shit Cricket Against Nuffies during the regular season.
8. Get caught with your feet up on the table reading 'Rumpole of the Bailey' after you've been left alone for 10 minutes to complete a proof-reading test.
9. Inform the interviewers that proof-reading tests are 'sh*t boring' and that you don't like 'childish tasks' and far prefer to 'get down with Rumpole'.
10. Inform the Head of the Publications Div. that she 'hasn't the faintest clue' about where you 'are coming from, man', and that it might help if she'd 'learn to listen for longer than 2 seconds'.
11. Inform the Head of the Publications Div. that if she wishes to 'continue asking leading questions', she will end up with a conception of yourself 'more obscured' than her 'own face is by the layers of make-up' she has 'slapped on'.
12. Ask for a payrise before you even receive the position.
13. When accused of arrogance and presumptuousness for asking for a payrise, inform the Head of the Publications Div. that it is in no way arrogant or presumptuous to ask for a payrise when you're 'as fucking good at the job' as you will be.
2. Stand by with a vaguely bored expression on your face while the Head of the Publications Div. drags in a throne-like chair from another room down the hall.
3. Tell the Head of the HR Dept. not to 'be stingy with the water', and indeed to 'keep it coming' because you've 'got your parch on'.
4. Inform the interviewers that for simplicity's sake, it would be best if everybody referred to the ostensible recipient of the role as 'Seth'.
5. When asked for the second time to explain your capabilities with Excel, raise your eyebrows and ask the Head of the Publications Div. whether she would like the same comprehensive answer you gave last time, or an entirely new comprehensive answer.
6. Laugh when she is embarrassed at having asked the same question twice.
7. Berate the Head of the HR Dept. for not keeping up with the Shit Cricket Against Nuffies website and for not following the fortunes of Shit Cricket Against Nuffies during the regular season.
8. Get caught with your feet up on the table reading 'Rumpole of the Bailey' after you've been left alone for 10 minutes to complete a proof-reading test.
9. Inform the interviewers that proof-reading tests are 'sh*t boring' and that you don't like 'childish tasks' and far prefer to 'get down with Rumpole'.
10. Inform the Head of the Publications Div. that she 'hasn't the faintest clue' about where you 'are coming from, man', and that it might help if she'd 'learn to listen for longer than 2 seconds'.
11. Inform the Head of the Publications Div. that if she wishes to 'continue asking leading questions', she will end up with a conception of yourself 'more obscured' than her 'own face is by the layers of make-up' she has 'slapped on'.
12. Ask for a payrise before you even receive the position.
13. When accused of arrogance and presumptuousness for asking for a payrise, inform the Head of the Publications Div. that it is in no way arrogant or presumptuous to ask for a payrise when you're 'as fucking good at the job' as you will be.
понедельник, июля 02, 2007
Mariette and Erna
I sat watching translucent pink liquid seep into the cracks between cobblestones. The half brick lay several metres away, but I couldn't see Mariette. I rubbed a hand over my head. I felt like death.
Earlier, we had struggled briefly in the alleyway, I pushing her slowly into a gaggle of bins, she rolling over the top of them, the rubbish spilling across the cobblestones, a fishy stink. Mariette picked up the half brick as she stood up, and I advanced.
She said: 'Not anymore'.
Earlier, she had accosted me as I came out of work, on the way home. I was surprised to see her. She had always been the diffident type.
I said: 'What do you want?'
Her face was nearly expressionless - perhaps a trace of fear.
'I want to speak with you,' she said. 'I want to tell you what I'm going to do. I want to see what you think about it.'
In truth, I was fearful myself, and very tired - I wanted all this to end, to be forgotten.
So I followed her across the tram tracks and into the alleyway, where a light misty rain was filtering between the buildings and falling upon black cobblestones. Mariette told me what she was going to do, and I backhanded her. She fought back, and we struggled briefly in the alleyway, at the back of the Golden Dragon Restaurant, on slippery cobblestones, and I pushed her slowly into a gaggle of bins.
Earlier, we had met for coffee in Block Place, amongst the lunchtime throng. I sat at a table on the cobblestones, watching her as she threaded her way between the crowd towards me. She looked nervous. I half-rose to greet her; she smiled briefly and kissed me on the cheek.
'Hello,' she said. 'How are you?'
I felt a little nauseous, to tell the truth, but we ordered coffee and she told me what she knew about Erna. She said it was everything she knew, but how could I be sure?
'What are you going to do?' I asked.
'I don't know,' she replied. 'What do you think?'
I rubbed a hand over my head. I felt like death. We looked at each other. I told her what I thought she should do, but she disagreed and we argued.
'I don't want to end this in anger,' she said, 'but I will if you force it.'
'Leave me alone,' I replied. 'If you try to hold me down, I will fight back. I don't want to see you again. I better not hear about this again.'
And I left her sitting there, drinking coffee amongst the lunchtime throng.
Earlier, I had held her down while she fought back. She fought back more and more these days - not an aggressive, violent backlash (she was too diffident for that) but an increasing stubbornness, a refusal to submit - and not just while I fucked her: it was an obstinacy of character.
'One day I'll kill myself,' she sometimes said, 'and then you'll be sorry.'
I jeered at her when she said this.
But this time, after I had finished fucking her and she had finished fighting back, she said: 'One day I'll tell Mariette, and then you'll be sorry.'
I stared at her when she said this.
'You wouldn't dare,' I said.
She stared belligerently back at me, so I backhanded her and put my finger in her face.
'You wouldn't dare,' I repeated. 'If you force this, it will end in anger.'
'Will you hold Mariette down?' she asked. 'She will fight back.'
I rubbed a hand over my head. I felt like death.
*****
Earlier, we had struggled briefly in the alleyway, I pushing her slowly into a gaggle of bins, she rolling over the top of them, the rubbish spilling across the cobblestones, a fishy stink. Mariette picked up the half brick as she stood up, and I advanced.
She said: 'Not anymore'.
*****
Earlier, she had accosted me as I came out of work, on the way home. I was surprised to see her. She had always been the diffident type.
I said: 'What do you want?'
Her face was nearly expressionless - perhaps a trace of fear.
'I want to speak with you,' she said. 'I want to tell you what I'm going to do. I want to see what you think about it.'
In truth, I was fearful myself, and very tired - I wanted all this to end, to be forgotten.
So I followed her across the tram tracks and into the alleyway, where a light misty rain was filtering between the buildings and falling upon black cobblestones. Mariette told me what she was going to do, and I backhanded her. She fought back, and we struggled briefly in the alleyway, at the back of the Golden Dragon Restaurant, on slippery cobblestones, and I pushed her slowly into a gaggle of bins.
*****
Earlier, we had met for coffee in Block Place, amongst the lunchtime throng. I sat at a table on the cobblestones, watching her as she threaded her way between the crowd towards me. She looked nervous. I half-rose to greet her; she smiled briefly and kissed me on the cheek.
'Hello,' she said. 'How are you?'
I felt a little nauseous, to tell the truth, but we ordered coffee and she told me what she knew about Erna. She said it was everything she knew, but how could I be sure?
'What are you going to do?' I asked.
'I don't know,' she replied. 'What do you think?'
I rubbed a hand over my head. I felt like death. We looked at each other. I told her what I thought she should do, but she disagreed and we argued.
'I don't want to end this in anger,' she said, 'but I will if you force it.'
'Leave me alone,' I replied. 'If you try to hold me down, I will fight back. I don't want to see you again. I better not hear about this again.'
And I left her sitting there, drinking coffee amongst the lunchtime throng.
*****
Earlier, I had held her down while she fought back. She fought back more and more these days - not an aggressive, violent backlash (she was too diffident for that) but an increasing stubbornness, a refusal to submit - and not just while I fucked her: it was an obstinacy of character.
'One day I'll kill myself,' she sometimes said, 'and then you'll be sorry.'
I jeered at her when she said this.
But this time, after I had finished fucking her and she had finished fighting back, she said: 'One day I'll tell Mariette, and then you'll be sorry.'
I stared at her when she said this.
'You wouldn't dare,' I said.
She stared belligerently back at me, so I backhanded her and put my finger in her face.
'You wouldn't dare,' I repeated. 'If you force this, it will end in anger.'
'Will you hold Mariette down?' she asked. 'She will fight back.'
I rubbed a hand over my head. I felt like death.
воскресенье, июля 01, 2007
` il est facile, 'il dit, s'emparant de mon bras gauche. Quelqu'un d'autre s'empare de l'autre bras. le ` le bourdon médical fait l'opération. Nous stabilisons.'
Je recherche. La carcasse argentée brillante sur le compteur s'élève dans l'air, et se propulse lentement à travers la salle vers moi.
bourdon médical de `? J'ai pensé que c'était une machine de café!'
Corbett semble d'excuse.
` c'est également une machine de café.'
` I ne le veulent plus. Je ne m'inquiète pas de la rétine. Laissez-moi vers le haut!'
J'essaye de me lever, mais ils me maintiennent.
le ` obtiennent outre de moi ! Je dois me concentrer ! Ils seront ici n'importe quelle seconde!'
Je lutte contre eux. Il y a un trop grand nombre !
le ` ne sont pas stupide, Corbett!'
Le segment fonctionne furieusement. L'inspiration me frappe.
` c'est la machine de café ! Je l'obtiens maintenant ! Vous pouvez me laisser vers le haut ! Je l'obtiens ! La machine de café est mon adversaire!'
J'entends la voix de Karri parlant tranquillement dans le fond.
la personnalité basse de `... a été totalement consommée par personnalité artificielle. Période d'inconnu de consommation... '
le ` I dit m'a laissé vers le haut, vous des bâtards!'
Le seau, il est dans le seau ! Qu'est-il ? ! ?
le `... après la consolidation, personnalité artificielle a replié une deuxième personnalité artificielle. Période d'inconnu de réplique. Les phénomènes unsighted précédemment... '
Je sens un champ d'énergie à mes jambes, et lutte pour rechercher, mais quelqu'un qui tient ma tête contre le dessus de table.
Trop fort dans ma tête le segment exige : le seau, le seau, le seau ! Qu'est-ce que c'est ? Dites-moi ! Quel est le seau??
`I ne savent pas!' Je crie.
la rangée de sonde de `... prouve que la personnalité repliée essaye de consommer son ancêtre... '
La masse grossière des manches de machine de café aériens, et moi jugent que c'est champ de force paralysant mes membres.
réponse de grenouille et de seau de `... : négatif. Le sujet a mis en évidence un besoin de passer un essai, mais n'a pas isolé la nature et les conditions du déclenchement mnémonique... '
`No, non, non, 'je chuchote à plusieurs reprises encore. le No. de `, non, aucun...
пятница, июня 29, 2007
Je regarde la grenouille. À mon horreur, étant extrait à partir du mica n'a pas soulagé sa douleur. Est-ce que j'ai cassé les cuisses de la grenouille quand je la remettais dans le seau? J'inspecte le reste des grenouilles pour n'assurer aucun autre suis pareillement affligé, mais je suis horrifié me rends compte que maintenant plusieurs des grenouilles ont leurs deux jambes arrières cassées, et lutte pitoyablement autour dans le mica. Ils doivent éprouver la agonie intense, essayant de se dégager du fatras, capable extraire seulement la douleur esprit-engourdissante à partir de leurs membres cassés et ont déchiré des muscles. Leur peau est tordue, comme le caoutchouc mince de feuille. Je commence à les enlever, rempli de tristesse et de fureur terribles pour la douleur qu'ils sont forcés de supporter, appalled par la agonie ils sont dedans.
La sainteté du seau est primordiale ; le segment exige fort que je maintiens la commande de la situation. Rendez-vous compte. Soyez calme. Ne soyez pas accablé.
Mon nettoyage désespéré est interrompu par une présence. Je décale légèrement. Dans la périphérie de ma vision, je peux faire dehors une figure se tapissant à côté de moi. Je devrais pouvoir voir qui il est.
` vont comment vos yeux?' Corbett demande.
Je ne dis rien. Le segment approuve. Les yeux sont très bien.
` pas aussi bon, huh?' il observe.
le ` a détaché le point sept six du côté gauche, 'je dis.
` vous voulez faire quelque chose à son sujet?'
Je regarde directement lui. Il gesticule.
` nous avons le champ-meds.'
Je ne suis pas sûr. Le seau. Que diriez-vous du seau?
le ` est là temps?' Je demande.
Corbett regarde en arrière Karri. Elle incline la tête. Je me tiens. Quelqu'un je n'identifie pas des foodscraps de champs de la table, et je m'élève sur elle et me couche sur mon dos.
le ` vous ont a fait faire ceci avant?' Corbett demande.
J'incline la tête.
` dans le domaine?'
Je fais une pause. Je ne suis pas sûr.
Le segment est pressant. Il n'importe pas. Concentré sur le seau.
вторник, июня 26, 2007
Je marche plus d'au mur, dépense des revêtements d'un moment il, et puis me tapis vers le bas, regardant fixement le seau. Je ne me dépêcherai pas. Je resterai calme. Je suis dans la commande.
Je me penche en avant pour examiner le contenu du seau. Il est trois quarts complètement de mica et de petites grenouilles. Les grenouilles sont petites et exquises ; beaux brun et vert se cache, avec de petites taches noires parfaites. Il tortille par le mica, rampant plus d'un un autre, et sautant sur les côtés du récipient. Leurs efforts semblent pathétiques, mais plusieurs grenouilles sautent à cloche-pied autour au fond du récipient.
Mon estomac bat. Je prends un souffle profond, regarde hors des fenêtres. Je ne peux pas faire dehors le survivre à. Ces l'oculi détériorent ; la rétine gauche est 76% détaché. Pourquoi est-ce que je n'ai pas implanté des neufs plus tôt ?
Le segment publie un avertissement doux ; Je regarde rapidement en arrière le seau.
Il... inquiétudes je. Je dois comprendre sa fonction. Je ne sais pas elle fonctionne. Je suis confondu par le mica et les grenouilles.
Je n'aime pas ce sentiment.
Je regarde vers le haut Corbett ; il m'observe. Il est nerveux ; il ne peut pas se calmer. Il regarde comme si il est sous l'effort.
Le segment est élogieux. Je traite la situation bien dans la comparaison.
Le seau. Concentré.
Les grenouilles sautant contre le côté du seau rendent me la sensation plus mauvaise. Elles sont si profondes : sûrement elles ne devraient pas sauter à cloche-pied autour de la salle ? Les gens se dépêchent environ : passionnant ; maladroit ; ignorant. Dans l'oeil de mon esprit je vois une grenouille minuscule, entrailles collées à travers le plancher de laminex par quelqu'un initialisation. Je place le mon remet le dessus pour empêcher tous les autres de sauter à la liberté.
Karri s'approche et se tapit à côté de moi, regardant fixement le seau. Elle ne fait aucun effort d'aider.
` comment allez vous le sentiment?' elle demande.
Gêné, je fronce les sourcils, me concentre plus dur.
Les ricanements de segment. Question stupide. Ignorez-la. Détendez. Essayez de comprendre la situation. Ne concentrez pas sur les détails.
Mais je ne peux pas laisser les grenouilles échappées en danger de l'pression. Elles doivent être retournées dans le seau. Je les sélectionne soigneusement vers le haut, un, et les laisse tomber dedans avec leurs frères et soeurs, une fois de plus pour lutter par le mica collant. Je me sens meilleur une fois que toutes les grenouilles ont été remplacées.
Je peux sentir le regard fixe de Karri sur mon visage, ainsi je me transforme et regarde fixement en elle des yeux. Des profondeurs de ses pupilles ma réflexion regarde fixement en arrière moi. Je me sens comme la mort et glace, et je la jugerai jusqu'à ce qu'elle se casse. Elle ne devrait pas être venue. Incapable de tenir mon regard fixe, elle se tient et revient à la table de Corbett. Il regarde dessus, concerné. Il est trop tard maintenant.
Je peux sentir la force sinistre palpiter du seau dans mes mains, par mon corps. Je dois inspecter lui et son contenu encore. Rien ne doit changer.
Tout semble très bien. Le mica, les grenouilles. Mais une grenouille a la difficulté particulière patauger sa voie par le fatras. Le mica s'accroche à son corps. Il faiblement lutte contre les efforts de ses frères et sistren. Pourquoi est-il si pathétique?
Toutes les deux ses jambes arrières sont cassées; cassé comme des brindilles, la peau a étiré l'os fini serré. Consterné, je plume la grenouille dehors et la moule sur le carrelage de laminex.
Le seau doit rester pur !
воскресенье, июня 24, 2007
La salle est comme un cafétéria, avec un bon nombre de tables jointives ensemble, et les sièges en plastique bon marché dispersés autour. Quelques uns ont été frappés plus de. Le grade d'odeurs d'endroit ; comme tous les cafétérias, une combinaison de nourriture graduellement de décomposition et d'air éventé. Une douleur de mécontentement me frappe : J'identifie Corbett se reposant à une table avec plusieurs autres. En fait, je semble savoir chacun dans le cafétéria, excepté une femme derrière un compteur là-bas.
Le segment émet un soupir abstrait. Importe-t-il ? Démuni I contraint par connaissance pendant un certain temps maintenant. Peut-être c'est une coïncidence.
Corbett et les autres remplissent hors des formes, accomplissant la préparation officielle. Je considère leur busyness avec mépris : certains sont heureux de la distraction inhérente à mondain chargent.
La salle mérite davantage d'observation. Grands perchs argentés d'une machine brillant sur le compteur. Il ne ressemble pas à une machine normale de café - il est trop grand, trop profilé, trop cher. Que pourrait-il être ? C'a pu être un bourdon - une nouvelle recrue. Il n'a aucune rangée de sonde, mais puis, je semble rappeler les modèles plus nouveaux pour cacher leur diagnostic intérieurement. Moins de chance d'enfonçer quelqu'un dans l'oeil avec une antenne par radio. Si vous me demandez, elle est trop damnée dur pour faire la différence entre une machine de café et un bourdon de nos jours. Je n'aime pas ne pas savoir ce qu'est il - de telles choses devraient être explicites. Particulièrement pour moi. Spécialement maintenant. Chacun sait que je dois me concentrer.
Un couple des personnes aligne devant lui. Assez sûr, il distribue des projectiles de café dans des tasses de fibro. Je présume que la femme est des rafraîchissements de portion. Je me demande si elle sait ce qui est préparé autour d'elle. Probablement pas.
Il semble que mon adversaire n'est pas encore arrivé.
Je n'essaye pas d'identifier n'importe qui autrement. Corbett semble pâle. Je l'observe jusqu'à ce qu'il me note. Il incline la tête une fois et regarde plus de l'autre côté de la salle. Il y a un petit, opaque seau se tenant innocuously contre le mur lointain.
Je n'aime pas le regard de ceci.
Le segment émet un soupir abstrait. Importe-t-il ? Démuni I contraint par connaissance pendant un certain temps maintenant. Peut-être c'est une coïncidence.
Corbett et les autres remplissent hors des formes, accomplissant la préparation officielle. Je considère leur busyness avec mépris : certains sont heureux de la distraction inhérente à mondain chargent.
La salle mérite davantage d'observation. Grands perchs argentés d'une machine brillant sur le compteur. Il ne ressemble pas à une machine normale de café - il est trop grand, trop profilé, trop cher. Que pourrait-il être ? C'a pu être un bourdon - une nouvelle recrue. Il n'a aucune rangée de sonde, mais puis, je semble rappeler les modèles plus nouveaux pour cacher leur diagnostic intérieurement. Moins de chance d'enfonçer quelqu'un dans l'oeil avec une antenne par radio. Si vous me demandez, elle est trop damnée dur pour faire la différence entre une machine de café et un bourdon de nos jours. Je n'aime pas ne pas savoir ce qu'est il - de telles choses devraient être explicites. Particulièrement pour moi. Spécialement maintenant. Chacun sait que je dois me concentrer.
Un couple des personnes aligne devant lui. Assez sûr, il distribue des projectiles de café dans des tasses de fibro. Je présume que la femme est des rafraîchissements de portion. Je me demande si elle sait ce qui est préparé autour d'elle. Probablement pas.
Il semble que mon adversaire n'est pas encore arrivé.
Je n'essaye pas d'identifier n'importe qui autrement. Corbett semble pâle. Je l'observe jusqu'à ce qu'il me note. Il incline la tête une fois et regarde plus de l'autre côté de la salle. Il y a un petit, opaque seau se tenant innocuously contre le mur lointain.
Je n'aime pas le regard de ceci.
суббота, июня 09, 2007
Grenouille et seau
Que beaucoup-a aimé le segment de mes peaux de conscience loin, des bancs à dossier dans sa cachette, languidly étire son cynisme, et commence à observer par derrière l'embrouillement frénétique de l'entrée, du processus et de l'interprétation. Non un de ceux damnés genomorphed les amis pseudo-conscients de ` que les compagnies de bio-technologie avaient poussés récemment. Je n'ai pas besoin de schizophrénie artificielle maintenant, même si mon nouveau compagnon chercherait toutes mes névroses et me protégerait d'elles. J'ai besoin de mes névroses - elles me maintiendront alerte. Le non, mon segment est purement organique, purement art de l'auto-portrait-induced, purement imaginaire.
Mais j'aime l'avoir autour ; il offre une perspective différente à mes propres.
Je vais avoir besoin de toute la perspective que je peux obtenir.
Environnement physique assez simple : règnes de désolation. Les nuages sont pluie lourde, foncée, menaçante. Chickenwire clôturant des roulements après ; mises en cage en dedans, les usines tristes se tiennent dans le défilé et la putréfaction militaires. Un streetscape abandonné ; sur le côté lointain du bitume pourtant sur des bâtiments plus en détresse blottissez-vous dans leurs stylos, regardant fixement à travers leurs frères de mort. Leur temps jeûnent des approches. Jusqu'ici les bâtiments restent secs ; pas pour long, il semblerait. Ne fait pas beaucoup de différence.
Je souris au morne entoure - j'apprécie un paysage de clichéd le mauvais augure.
Le segment sourit - il a plaisir à m'observer adoptent une certaine Person.
Le détachement, celui est ce qui est il. Mon segment est détachement, pur et simple. Je s'observant, alors que j'observe mon environnement.
En accord avec me, je continue à prendre dans entoure. Le choix de l'endroit curieux, mais moi ne suis pas contrarié. Je fais une pause, dans l'étape et la pensée, et la prise de prise de la barrière. Je ne suis pas quelque chose vers le monde extérieur. Je dois me rappeler cela. Le monde extérieur est un détail insignifiant. Encore, le segment convient : la première priorité doit être moi-même. Le monde extérieur est imprévisible ; il change. Je peux ancrer mes pensées dans me. Je suspecte que ce soit la seule manière d'émerger de ceci indemne.
Un nouveau véhicule modèle - je ne suis pas bon avec eux, ainsi je ne sais pas quelle sorte - tire vers le haut étroitement près avec un fredonnement tranquille. Il est vert-foncé, ou bleu-foncé, je ne suis pas sûr ; Je ne regarde pas directement lui. Je ne veux pas savoir si je suis familier avec les passagers. Avec la chance, un affichage ferme de la négligence découragera n'importe qui d'interrompre mes pensées.
La voiture roule lentement à côté de moi, et cette partie maudite de moi qui ne peut s'empêcher de vouloir savoir que qui il est succède. Je jette un coup d'oeil sur la figure dévisageant dehors à moi. C'est Karri, avec son père. Je ne l'ai pas vue pendant un certain temps, et je voudrais lui parler. Je ne peux pas me permettre d'être distrait, cependant.
Les offres de segment c'est version d'un sourire tordu. Félicitations sur le art de l'auto-portrait-discipline.
Je continue la marche. Karri peut faire sa manière là toute seule.
J'entends mon nom appelé, ainsi je fais une pause, regarde en arrière. Karri pulsant vers moi, sac au-dessus de son épaule. Son père attend dans la voiture, nous observant. Je ne sais pas pourquoi instinctivement, je lui donne une vague effrontée. Je considère flâner plus de pour lui demander comment sa recherche va. Comment mon frère fait. J'ai noté que récemment le type avait montré une strie indépendante. Le segment n'est pas aussi aimable. Plus aiment une habitude d'être contraires et raisonnés. Il est changé. Peut-être Cliffo a observé quelque chose de semblable.
Je peux sentir le segment attendre patiemment. Est-ce que j'aller suis l'approcher, puis ?
Naturellement pas.
Karri et moi le laissent dans sa voiture. Je suis tenté pour me réprimander - j'ai été trop facilement distrait par la présence inattendue de Cliffo's.
Le segment demeure compatissant silencieux ; Je sais que je sais qu'il s'est produit trop facilement.
Je ne laisserai pas Karri me distraire. Elle ne dit rien ; nous restons silencieux.
Le carpark est vide, et répandu avec l'herbe jaune qui jette un coup d'oeil par l'ashphalt criqué. Nous faisons notre manière à travers elle vers la station-service. Le bâtiment dilapidé semble exempt de la vie, ils sont dedans là.
Karri fait une pause à la porte et demande : le ` sont vous bien?'
Je dis : No. de `.'
Puis : ` ce qui vous pensent?'
Karri me regarde pendant un long moment. Je pousse la porte ouverte, et entre.
Mais j'aime l'avoir autour ; il offre une perspective différente à mes propres.
Je vais avoir besoin de toute la perspective que je peux obtenir.
Environnement physique assez simple : règnes de désolation. Les nuages sont pluie lourde, foncée, menaçante. Chickenwire clôturant des roulements après ; mises en cage en dedans, les usines tristes se tiennent dans le défilé et la putréfaction militaires. Un streetscape abandonné ; sur le côté lointain du bitume pourtant sur des bâtiments plus en détresse blottissez-vous dans leurs stylos, regardant fixement à travers leurs frères de mort. Leur temps jeûnent des approches. Jusqu'ici les bâtiments restent secs ; pas pour long, il semblerait. Ne fait pas beaucoup de différence.
Je souris au morne entoure - j'apprécie un paysage de clichéd le mauvais augure.
Le segment sourit - il a plaisir à m'observer adoptent une certaine Person.
Le détachement, celui est ce qui est il. Mon segment est détachement, pur et simple. Je s'observant, alors que j'observe mon environnement.
En accord avec me, je continue à prendre dans entoure. Le choix de l'endroit curieux, mais moi ne suis pas contrarié. Je fais une pause, dans l'étape et la pensée, et la prise de prise de la barrière. Je ne suis pas quelque chose vers le monde extérieur. Je dois me rappeler cela. Le monde extérieur est un détail insignifiant. Encore, le segment convient : la première priorité doit être moi-même. Le monde extérieur est imprévisible ; il change. Je peux ancrer mes pensées dans me. Je suspecte que ce soit la seule manière d'émerger de ceci indemne.
Un nouveau véhicule modèle - je ne suis pas bon avec eux, ainsi je ne sais pas quelle sorte - tire vers le haut étroitement près avec un fredonnement tranquille. Il est vert-foncé, ou bleu-foncé, je ne suis pas sûr ; Je ne regarde pas directement lui. Je ne veux pas savoir si je suis familier avec les passagers. Avec la chance, un affichage ferme de la négligence découragera n'importe qui d'interrompre mes pensées.
La voiture roule lentement à côté de moi, et cette partie maudite de moi qui ne peut s'empêcher de vouloir savoir que qui il est succède. Je jette un coup d'oeil sur la figure dévisageant dehors à moi. C'est Karri, avec son père. Je ne l'ai pas vue pendant un certain temps, et je voudrais lui parler. Je ne peux pas me permettre d'être distrait, cependant.
Les offres de segment c'est version d'un sourire tordu. Félicitations sur le art de l'auto-portrait-discipline.
Je continue la marche. Karri peut faire sa manière là toute seule.
J'entends mon nom appelé, ainsi je fais une pause, regarde en arrière. Karri pulsant vers moi, sac au-dessus de son épaule. Son père attend dans la voiture, nous observant. Je ne sais pas pourquoi instinctivement, je lui donne une vague effrontée. Je considère flâner plus de pour lui demander comment sa recherche va. Comment mon frère fait. J'ai noté que récemment le type avait montré une strie indépendante. Le segment n'est pas aussi aimable. Plus aiment une habitude d'être contraires et raisonnés. Il est changé. Peut-être Cliffo a observé quelque chose de semblable.
Je peux sentir le segment attendre patiemment. Est-ce que j'aller suis l'approcher, puis ?
Naturellement pas.
Karri et moi le laissent dans sa voiture. Je suis tenté pour me réprimander - j'ai été trop facilement distrait par la présence inattendue de Cliffo's.
Le segment demeure compatissant silencieux ; Je sais que je sais qu'il s'est produit trop facilement.
Je ne laisserai pas Karri me distraire. Elle ne dit rien ; nous restons silencieux.
Le carpark est vide, et répandu avec l'herbe jaune qui jette un coup d'oeil par l'ashphalt criqué. Nous faisons notre manière à travers elle vers la station-service. Le bâtiment dilapidé semble exempt de la vie, ils sont dedans là.
Karri fait une pause à la porte et demande : le ` sont vous bien?'
Je dis : No. de `.'
Puis : ` ce qui vous pensent?'
Karri me regarde pendant un long moment. Je pousse la porte ouverte, et entre.
понедельник, июня 04, 2007
среда, мая 23, 2007
The Wise Old Man
It was with some relief that the heroes spied a tavern set up above an old tannery just off the main street. The road had been hard, and they were in need of a revitalising meal. Ori the Dwarf was demanding a tankard of ale, Lieren the Elf wanted to comb his hair, and Jogmoth the Barbarian needed to polish her armour.
The rain was pouring now, so they climbed the stairs with some haste, and were delighted to see a cosy room within: largely empty, a fire crackling in the hearth, and a smiling barman.
'What'll it be?' he said, and Ori ordered a round of ale.
And old man was propped against the wall near the fire, observing the heroes and stroking his beard. He was immensely tall and painfully skinny, and he rested himself on a worn wooden staff.
'Who is that?' Ori whispered to the barman.
'Wise Old Man,' the barman replied. 'Best not to mess with him.'
And Jogmoth bellowed with laughter and said: 'A wise old man, eh? Well, come on then, wise old man - let's have some of your wisdom'.
She tossed him a coin and the heroes arranged themselves around the table with their ale and took their ease.
And the wise old man stepped in front of the fire and drew himself up even higher - so high they couldn't possibly have thought a man could be so tall - and so skinny he looked as if he'd snap in half with the blink of an eyelid.
And the Wise Old Man said:
'Ah geez. Another day, another seven hours gone and three hours to go in this shit tavern doing a shit job in a shit town with shithouse weather and full of dickheads, when my footy team's 0-8 and I don't get to see me woman for another couple of days and there's idiots on the roads and pedophiles everywhere and Evil Lord J-Ho's STILL running the place for god's sake and I can't even complain about the winter fucken blues cos it's not even fucken winter yet and I'm bored shitless and the only thing I can do to console myself is drink YET ANOTHER cup of fucken tea and I'm sick of all the taverns in this town and the fact that I don't have enough time to write my own manuscripts let alone read all the shit manuscripts that other dickheads write and don't even know what I'm gonna eat for tea tonight and I don't wanna do nothing this weekend but I can't be fucked do anything this weekend and I'd get a new job but they're all shit and if this was another city far away I'd get me a drink and smoke a cigarette but this is Here, yay good old rockin Here so I guess I'll just drink YET ANOTHER cup of fucken tea.'
And he said:
'And why can't I just be paid to research and write history all day? Why do people insist that I do stupid boring shit that's vaguely useful - unlike history which is fascinating but totally useless - and how exactly did that come about? Why wasn't I born fascinated by boring but useful shit like maths? And why is everyone such a pig ignorant fool, going round talking up Evil Lord J-Ho like he was the man when clearly he's far far from it? And how did this whole world get all fucked up in the first place? How tiresome that I should have to go round fixing everyone else's mistakes. I don't mind if I LIKE the people, but what about all those idiots who supported Evil Lord J-Ho, screwed everything up, and now run around going "wah wah wah, I don't like Evil Lord J-Ho anymore and I'm not content with being fabulously wealthy, and I don't know what to do about it except to support Evil Lord J-Ho Mk II, ie. the Krudd Monster". Idiots. These are the people who stop me from researching and writing history all day - let alone making important decisions like NO BIG FIRES AROUND HERE, der! Der der der! How tricky can it be: BIG FIRES BAD, WIND POWER GOOD. But no. Oh no, that'd be too easy wouldn't it, you sons and daughters of bitches?'
And he said:
'And it's not like it's better anywhere else anyway - it's just as bad far away, in fact it's far far worse, it's just doesn't feel so bad cos I'm not from there so it's not my fault and it's not my responsibility and besides public drunkenness is slightly more acceptable over there. It's just one fucken soul-shattering day after another round here, each hour that passes is one more hour in which we've earned money to buy some petty piece of useless crap to distract ourselves from the fact we're doing NOTHING USEFUL and NOTHING FUN just sleeping, eating and breeding, and it may all be far more worthwhile, this whole caper, if we lived on boats, BUT NO. No, nobody's going to try that, are they? Instead we'll all go live in this town or the next one or the one after that and indulge our depravities on one another when we should really just KEEP THEM TO OURSELVES. It wouldn't be that hard.'
And he said:
'Remember all them poor bastards living in prison camps in the middle of the desert? We bunged em in there a couple of years ago cos they weren't from Here and had the temerity to come from Somewhere Else when we were busy bombing the fuck outta the place and so had to look for a new place to live so we generously threw them into prison camps Here in our very own desert and they didn't like the fact that the guards in these camps sexually abused them, so they sewed their lips together to protest and tried to break out and committed suicide? Remember these people? Where are they now? What happened to them? That's what gets my goat - it's rubbish to the horizon around Here, but at least most of us arent being ritually abused or feeling the need to sew our lips together. I mean, come on - why would we perpetrate that shit on people? Why would choose to put anyone through that, when enough of us go through it without our say-so?'
And he said:
'It's the weather, man - that's what's gettin to me. I cannot comprehend the fact that for the next five months it's going to be overcast and grey with a chance of showers, at least far away it fucken snows and I'm not from there so I don't have to actually LIVE there, I can run around in the snow thinking it's wonderful and pristine and so forth, but here it's one grinding day after the next: drag the old bones home and throw them into bed, just to drag them back to work again in the morning, and all FOR WHAT? To buy a house? I will NEVER have enough for that, and even if I did, I'd do what all the pricks who came before us have done after buying a house - buy another one, then another one, then another one, and all FOR WHAT? To have a zillion houses? Yay, it's a houseathon! I'll get to end of my dreary whimper of a life and look back and say: 'See what I did? I owned houses - not just one, mind, but SOME'. Get that shit engraved on my tombstone: 'Wise Old Man - Worked His Whole Life in a Shit Job So He Could Own More Than One House (But Failed)'.
And he said:
'Where has all the god damned COMPASSION gone? This is what happens when ya listen to too much news: ya start thinking "Why is everyone such a god damned prick? What kind of a bastard runs somebody over in their horse and cart then drives off to leave em lying at the roadside for four hours before somebody else finds em and they die anyway? What kind of animals surge like a pack out of a tavern down the docks and converge on some lonesome bloke going home and kick his skull in? What kind of pervert can't comprehend "no" as an answer? What sort of jackal hangs around in the hope that he'll get a whiff of stale pussy and finally, after all these years, can make his move, shoot his seed, then disappear? What's the point? Where's the victory? How hollow an existence is that, and why bother desecrating somebody else's? Have you seen these crazies in the refugee camp in the forest over the way? By day they fight the army, by night they shoot RPGs into the next forest - and for what? So that when the army and the people from the next forest inevitably retaliate, a few sick kids in the camp get killed by stray volleys? Who wins? Then they shoot at healers going into the camp - for what? What the hell happened to their compassion?"'
And he said:
'Right, I'm off to find some compassion, or failing that, a cup of tea.'
And he turned decisively on his heel and stormed out of the tavern, leaving the heroes speechless behind him.
The rain was pouring now, so they climbed the stairs with some haste, and were delighted to see a cosy room within: largely empty, a fire crackling in the hearth, and a smiling barman.
'What'll it be?' he said, and Ori ordered a round of ale.
And old man was propped against the wall near the fire, observing the heroes and stroking his beard. He was immensely tall and painfully skinny, and he rested himself on a worn wooden staff.
'Who is that?' Ori whispered to the barman.
'Wise Old Man,' the barman replied. 'Best not to mess with him.'
And Jogmoth bellowed with laughter and said: 'A wise old man, eh? Well, come on then, wise old man - let's have some of your wisdom'.
She tossed him a coin and the heroes arranged themselves around the table with their ale and took their ease.
And the wise old man stepped in front of the fire and drew himself up even higher - so high they couldn't possibly have thought a man could be so tall - and so skinny he looked as if he'd snap in half with the blink of an eyelid.
And the Wise Old Man said:
'Ah geez. Another day, another seven hours gone and three hours to go in this shit tavern doing a shit job in a shit town with shithouse weather and full of dickheads, when my footy team's 0-8 and I don't get to see me woman for another couple of days and there's idiots on the roads and pedophiles everywhere and Evil Lord J-Ho's STILL running the place for god's sake and I can't even complain about the winter fucken blues cos it's not even fucken winter yet and I'm bored shitless and the only thing I can do to console myself is drink YET ANOTHER cup of fucken tea and I'm sick of all the taverns in this town and the fact that I don't have enough time to write my own manuscripts let alone read all the shit manuscripts that other dickheads write and don't even know what I'm gonna eat for tea tonight and I don't wanna do nothing this weekend but I can't be fucked do anything this weekend and I'd get a new job but they're all shit and if this was another city far away I'd get me a drink and smoke a cigarette but this is Here, yay good old rockin Here so I guess I'll just drink YET ANOTHER cup of fucken tea.'
And he said:
'And why can't I just be paid to research and write history all day? Why do people insist that I do stupid boring shit that's vaguely useful - unlike history which is fascinating but totally useless - and how exactly did that come about? Why wasn't I born fascinated by boring but useful shit like maths? And why is everyone such a pig ignorant fool, going round talking up Evil Lord J-Ho like he was the man when clearly he's far far from it? And how did this whole world get all fucked up in the first place? How tiresome that I should have to go round fixing everyone else's mistakes. I don't mind if I LIKE the people, but what about all those idiots who supported Evil Lord J-Ho, screwed everything up, and now run around going "wah wah wah, I don't like Evil Lord J-Ho anymore and I'm not content with being fabulously wealthy, and I don't know what to do about it except to support Evil Lord J-Ho Mk II, ie. the Krudd Monster". Idiots. These are the people who stop me from researching and writing history all day - let alone making important decisions like NO BIG FIRES AROUND HERE, der! Der der der! How tricky can it be: BIG FIRES BAD, WIND POWER GOOD. But no. Oh no, that'd be too easy wouldn't it, you sons and daughters of bitches?'
And he said:
'And it's not like it's better anywhere else anyway - it's just as bad far away, in fact it's far far worse, it's just doesn't feel so bad cos I'm not from there so it's not my fault and it's not my responsibility and besides public drunkenness is slightly more acceptable over there. It's just one fucken soul-shattering day after another round here, each hour that passes is one more hour in which we've earned money to buy some petty piece of useless crap to distract ourselves from the fact we're doing NOTHING USEFUL and NOTHING FUN just sleeping, eating and breeding, and it may all be far more worthwhile, this whole caper, if we lived on boats, BUT NO. No, nobody's going to try that, are they? Instead we'll all go live in this town or the next one or the one after that and indulge our depravities on one another when we should really just KEEP THEM TO OURSELVES. It wouldn't be that hard.'
And he said:
'Remember all them poor bastards living in prison camps in the middle of the desert? We bunged em in there a couple of years ago cos they weren't from Here and had the temerity to come from Somewhere Else when we were busy bombing the fuck outta the place and so had to look for a new place to live so we generously threw them into prison camps Here in our very own desert and they didn't like the fact that the guards in these camps sexually abused them, so they sewed their lips together to protest and tried to break out and committed suicide? Remember these people? Where are they now? What happened to them? That's what gets my goat - it's rubbish to the horizon around Here, but at least most of us arent being ritually abused or feeling the need to sew our lips together. I mean, come on - why would we perpetrate that shit on people? Why would choose to put anyone through that, when enough of us go through it without our say-so?'
And he said:
'It's the weather, man - that's what's gettin to me. I cannot comprehend the fact that for the next five months it's going to be overcast and grey with a chance of showers, at least far away it fucken snows and I'm not from there so I don't have to actually LIVE there, I can run around in the snow thinking it's wonderful and pristine and so forth, but here it's one grinding day after the next: drag the old bones home and throw them into bed, just to drag them back to work again in the morning, and all FOR WHAT? To buy a house? I will NEVER have enough for that, and even if I did, I'd do what all the pricks who came before us have done after buying a house - buy another one, then another one, then another one, and all FOR WHAT? To have a zillion houses? Yay, it's a houseathon! I'll get to end of my dreary whimper of a life and look back and say: 'See what I did? I owned houses - not just one, mind, but SOME'. Get that shit engraved on my tombstone: 'Wise Old Man - Worked His Whole Life in a Shit Job So He Could Own More Than One House (But Failed)'.
And he said:
'Where has all the god damned COMPASSION gone? This is what happens when ya listen to too much news: ya start thinking "Why is everyone such a god damned prick? What kind of a bastard runs somebody over in their horse and cart then drives off to leave em lying at the roadside for four hours before somebody else finds em and they die anyway? What kind of animals surge like a pack out of a tavern down the docks and converge on some lonesome bloke going home and kick his skull in? What kind of pervert can't comprehend "no" as an answer? What sort of jackal hangs around in the hope that he'll get a whiff of stale pussy and finally, after all these years, can make his move, shoot his seed, then disappear? What's the point? Where's the victory? How hollow an existence is that, and why bother desecrating somebody else's? Have you seen these crazies in the refugee camp in the forest over the way? By day they fight the army, by night they shoot RPGs into the next forest - and for what? So that when the army and the people from the next forest inevitably retaliate, a few sick kids in the camp get killed by stray volleys? Who wins? Then they shoot at healers going into the camp - for what? What the hell happened to their compassion?"'
And he said:
'Right, I'm off to find some compassion, or failing that, a cup of tea.'
And he turned decisively on his heel and stormed out of the tavern, leaving the heroes speechless behind him.
четверг, мая 17, 2007
суббота, мая 12, 2007
пятница, апреля 27, 2007
tonight in my enormous grief
tonight in my enormous grief
so many wrists on the street
rooftops to look down from
the wind doesn't care how old you are at night
in my hands, so many things
a bottle a knife
compassion for everyone
a purple flower
listen - give up all the truths!
there's no need for people everywhere!
let me tell you tenderly and with sadness –
there's no need for people everywhere
вторник, апреля 17, 2007
Les personnages de mon roman
Une vieille dame regarde par la fenêtre d’une imposante clinique d’autres bâtiments aussi démesurément grands.
Plus grand que le monde lui-même.
Leurs extrémités semblent inaccessibles et disparaissent quand elle essaye de les regarder dans les épais nuages jaunes et argileux qui recouvrent Moscou. Les contrastes sont affaiblis et la luminosité ainsi augmentée au-dessus du seuil habituel ne fait qu’accroître la suspension du temps et l’angoisse qu’elle diffuse en elle.
Comme dans un songe, les arbres sont morts, et c’est peut-être ce qui compte le moins dans cette ville ; la nature y est figée dans des emplacements stériles et abandonnés.
Les rares végétaux survivants sont soit de mauvaises herbes soit des arbres rongés par les vapeurs toxiques. les peupliers Brejnéviens peinent à déployer leurs branches recroquevillées et succombent un par un inexorablement, laissant ici et là des troncs pourrissant remplis d’insectes aux épaisses carapaces.
Dans le parc à coté de la polyclinique n°123, il y a deux bancs en bois fraîchement repeints en rouge et jaune par les administrateurs aux yeux bridés, les-mêmes qui jour après jour balayent le trottoir : en hiver ils déblayent la neige, au printemps ils enlèvent les pollinies des peupliers, en été la poussière, et en automne les feuilles, inlassablement. Ils enlèvent les traces du cycle de la nature consciencieusement, sans remords, pour une centaine de dollars par mois.
De la fenêtre de la vieille dame, on voit très bien la terre, du sol dans le parc, une terre brune et dure, tassée par les cents pas des condamnés qui viennent s’y promener. Il n’y pas d’herbe, elle est arrachée et bouillie pour faire de la soupe qui aide à dormir.
La terre est brune et foncée et ne se creuse pas à cet endroit, il faut la creuser plus loin, derrière les bâtiments, au delà des routes, exactement dans la direction de son regard, à l’ouest, vers le soleil qui se lève et qui fait mal aux yeux. Créature sombre, lointaine ennuyeuse qui s’applique à avaler les morts en silence, la terre brune et tassée de la campagne.
Plus grand que le monde lui-même.
Leurs extrémités semblent inaccessibles et disparaissent quand elle essaye de les regarder dans les épais nuages jaunes et argileux qui recouvrent Moscou. Les contrastes sont affaiblis et la luminosité ainsi augmentée au-dessus du seuil habituel ne fait qu’accroître la suspension du temps et l’angoisse qu’elle diffuse en elle.
Comme dans un songe, les arbres sont morts, et c’est peut-être ce qui compte le moins dans cette ville ; la nature y est figée dans des emplacements stériles et abandonnés.
Les rares végétaux survivants sont soit de mauvaises herbes soit des arbres rongés par les vapeurs toxiques. les peupliers Brejnéviens peinent à déployer leurs branches recroquevillées et succombent un par un inexorablement, laissant ici et là des troncs pourrissant remplis d’insectes aux épaisses carapaces.
Dans le parc à coté de la polyclinique n°123, il y a deux bancs en bois fraîchement repeints en rouge et jaune par les administrateurs aux yeux bridés, les-mêmes qui jour après jour balayent le trottoir : en hiver ils déblayent la neige, au printemps ils enlèvent les pollinies des peupliers, en été la poussière, et en automne les feuilles, inlassablement. Ils enlèvent les traces du cycle de la nature consciencieusement, sans remords, pour une centaine de dollars par mois.
De la fenêtre de la vieille dame, on voit très bien la terre, du sol dans le parc, une terre brune et dure, tassée par les cents pas des condamnés qui viennent s’y promener. Il n’y pas d’herbe, elle est arrachée et bouillie pour faire de la soupe qui aide à dormir.
La terre est brune et foncée et ne se creuse pas à cet endroit, il faut la creuser plus loin, derrière les bâtiments, au delà des routes, exactement dans la direction de son regard, à l’ouest, vers le soleil qui se lève et qui fait mal aux yeux. Créature sombre, lointaine ennuyeuse qui s’applique à avaler les morts en silence, la terre brune et tassée de la campagne.
четверг, апреля 12, 2007
The meaning of 'Dostoevsky' in Japanese
Japanese man says:
'"Dostoevsky" means to me
Whatever you want'
'"Dostoevsky" means to me
Whatever you want'
среда, апреля 11, 2007
вторник, апреля 10, 2007
7:50
whats the diameter of a pencil in long black tresses?
wheres the calling card they used during the war to call for peace?
was that really your house to sell?
i know you said it was a part of the neighbourhood,
but does that mean you were a part of the neighbourhood?
wheres the calling card they used during the war to call for peace?
was that really your house to sell?
i know you said it was a part of the neighbourhood,
but does that mean you were a part of the neighbourhood?
понедельник, апреля 09, 2007
7:35
I got a mate who lives in Lara
And his back porch looks out over Avalon
So you can sit on the couch and sink piss
And see everything at the air show for free.
And his back porch looks out over Avalon
So you can sit on the couch and sink piss
And see everything at the air show for free.
четверг, апреля 05, 2007
понедельник, апреля 02, 2007
Pharmakon 3: The Father and the Good
Spoken wisdom – the created organism – has a father. But what is a father?
Do we know? If we know, should we classify spoken wisdom as belonging to a father? Does this not confuse the matter? Does it not grant spoken wisdom attributes beyond reasonability?
But the father is not the real father of spoken wisdom. How can we distinguish a father/son relationship from a cause/effect, if not through spoken wisdom? Only speech can have a father. A father is always a father to a living being. What I am trying to say is that it is impossible to understand fatherhood without spoken wisdom. The term ‘father’ receives greater meaning from the term ‘spoken wisdom’ than vice versa. A father and a son are presented to us and relate to one another within the domain of spoken wisdom. Although we may think it, one cannot escape from this domain even when transported – via metaphor – to a place where one can meet fathers, sons, and other creatures which help explain what spoken wisdom is. ‘Father of spoken wisdom’ is by no means a simple metaphor. To make a simple metaphor, one would need to believe that a creature which cannot speak nonetheless has a father. This is, of course, attempting to reverse metaphorical directions so that we no longer ask whether spoken wisdom can have a father, but understand that what the father says he is the father of cannot exist without spoken wisdom.
What does it mean to say that spoken wisdom is indebted to a father?
Fathers, at least insofar as we are discussing them here, are good. A father is a leader, capital, resources. This is what is meant by the term ‘father’, and it provides considerable and unexpected complexity to our understanding. This is why Socrates suggests replacing good with good’s son:
‘Let us dismiss the notion of good,’ he says, ‘for I will not speak of it. But I will speak of its son, if you wish, or else we can drop the matter.’
To which we all replied: ‘Speak on, you can pay us with the story of good another time.’
‘I wish I could give you the payment,’ Socrates replied, ‘and not the interest. But anyway, take the interest and the son of good.’
Interest (here associated with the son of good) signifies both production and product, or to put it another way, birth and child. The term ‘son of good’ operates within the domain of agriculture, family, business. None of these domains – as we shall see – lie outside the domain of spoken wisdom.
Interest is a child, the brood, the fruits of seed sewn in a field, and the interest on an investment. Interest is a return.
It is impossible to speak simply or directly of a father, of good, of the origin of value and of living beings. To attempt to do so is like attempting to look directly at the sun – one will be bedazzled by the face one is directed towards. Says Socrates, who evokes the visible sun, the son who resembles his father: ‘When I spoke earlier of the son of good, of the being created in the image of good, I meant the sun. The visible sun has the same relation to vision and visible things as intelligent good does to intelligence and intelligible things.’
But how does spoken wisdom intercede between the father and the son?
The good is the origin of all entities, responsible for their creation and their relations with spoken wisdom, which both assembles and distinguishes them. As Socrates points out: ‘We say that beautiful things or good things are, and define them thus in our speech.’
Hence, the good – by which we mean father, sun, and capital – is the hidden, illuminating, bedazzling source of spoken wisdom. And because one cannot speak of that which permits us to speak (as we are forbidden to speak of it or to it) one will speak only of that which speaks and of that which one is speaking of. And further, because it is impossible to explain what spoken wisdom is accountable to, because capital cannot be counted and the chief cannot be looked directly in the eye, it is necessary to count up all interests, all returns, all products, all offspring. Remember, Socrates said: ‘I wish I could give you payment,’ he said, ‘and not the interest. But anyway, take the interest and the son of good.’
But we should also remember that he added: ‘Be careful, lest I deceive you with a false reckoning.’ Yes, we should remember that with all the good, Socrates also introduces the possibility of that which is falsified, adulterated, corrupted, deceptive, mendacious. ‘Be careful,’ he says, ‘lest I deceive you with a false reckoning.’
This recourse to spoken wisdom – which is brought about through fear of the face of the father, good, capital, the origin of being, the form of forms, and so forth – is a recourse to protection. Socrates proposes: ‘I thought that because I failed to understand true existence, I should be careful not to lose the eye of my soul. You know it is possible to injure your bodily eyes looking at the sun during an eclipse – so in my own case, I was afraid that my soul would be blinded if I looked at certain things. I figured it better to have recourse to the world of spoken wisdom and then seek the truth of things. In each case, I based myself on the spoken wisdom which I judged strongest…’
Hence, spoken wisdom is a resource. One must not only turn to it when the sun shines and threatens to burn out our eyes, one must turn away from the sun during an eclipse, when the star – dead, extinguished, or hidden – is more dangerous than ever.
Now it is time to let these yarns of suns and sons spin. We have moved from spoken wisdom to the father. We have beheld the master, the lord, the good-sun-capital-father. Later, within this same tissue, we will pull on the same strings, and witness the weaving or unravelling of other designs.
Do we know? If we know, should we classify spoken wisdom as belonging to a father? Does this not confuse the matter? Does it not grant spoken wisdom attributes beyond reasonability?
But the father is not the real father of spoken wisdom. How can we distinguish a father/son relationship from a cause/effect, if not through spoken wisdom? Only speech can have a father. A father is always a father to a living being. What I am trying to say is that it is impossible to understand fatherhood without spoken wisdom. The term ‘father’ receives greater meaning from the term ‘spoken wisdom’ than vice versa. A father and a son are presented to us and relate to one another within the domain of spoken wisdom. Although we may think it, one cannot escape from this domain even when transported – via metaphor – to a place where one can meet fathers, sons, and other creatures which help explain what spoken wisdom is. ‘Father of spoken wisdom’ is by no means a simple metaphor. To make a simple metaphor, one would need to believe that a creature which cannot speak nonetheless has a father. This is, of course, attempting to reverse metaphorical directions so that we no longer ask whether spoken wisdom can have a father, but understand that what the father says he is the father of cannot exist without spoken wisdom.
What does it mean to say that spoken wisdom is indebted to a father?
Fathers, at least insofar as we are discussing them here, are good. A father is a leader, capital, resources. This is what is meant by the term ‘father’, and it provides considerable and unexpected complexity to our understanding. This is why Socrates suggests replacing good with good’s son:
‘Let us dismiss the notion of good,’ he says, ‘for I will not speak of it. But I will speak of its son, if you wish, or else we can drop the matter.’
To which we all replied: ‘Speak on, you can pay us with the story of good another time.’
‘I wish I could give you the payment,’ Socrates replied, ‘and not the interest. But anyway, take the interest and the son of good.’
Interest (here associated with the son of good) signifies both production and product, or to put it another way, birth and child. The term ‘son of good’ operates within the domain of agriculture, family, business. None of these domains – as we shall see – lie outside the domain of spoken wisdom.
Interest is a child, the brood, the fruits of seed sewn in a field, and the interest on an investment. Interest is a return.
It is impossible to speak simply or directly of a father, of good, of the origin of value and of living beings. To attempt to do so is like attempting to look directly at the sun – one will be bedazzled by the face one is directed towards. Says Socrates, who evokes the visible sun, the son who resembles his father: ‘When I spoke earlier of the son of good, of the being created in the image of good, I meant the sun. The visible sun has the same relation to vision and visible things as intelligent good does to intelligence and intelligible things.’
But how does spoken wisdom intercede between the father and the son?
The good is the origin of all entities, responsible for their creation and their relations with spoken wisdom, which both assembles and distinguishes them. As Socrates points out: ‘We say that beautiful things or good things are, and define them thus in our speech.’
Hence, the good – by which we mean father, sun, and capital – is the hidden, illuminating, bedazzling source of spoken wisdom. And because one cannot speak of that which permits us to speak (as we are forbidden to speak of it or to it) one will speak only of that which speaks and of that which one is speaking of. And further, because it is impossible to explain what spoken wisdom is accountable to, because capital cannot be counted and the chief cannot be looked directly in the eye, it is necessary to count up all interests, all returns, all products, all offspring. Remember, Socrates said: ‘I wish I could give you payment,’ he said, ‘and not the interest. But anyway, take the interest and the son of good.’
But we should also remember that he added: ‘Be careful, lest I deceive you with a false reckoning.’ Yes, we should remember that with all the good, Socrates also introduces the possibility of that which is falsified, adulterated, corrupted, deceptive, mendacious. ‘Be careful,’ he says, ‘lest I deceive you with a false reckoning.’
This recourse to spoken wisdom – which is brought about through fear of the face of the father, good, capital, the origin of being, the form of forms, and so forth – is a recourse to protection. Socrates proposes: ‘I thought that because I failed to understand true existence, I should be careful not to lose the eye of my soul. You know it is possible to injure your bodily eyes looking at the sun during an eclipse – so in my own case, I was afraid that my soul would be blinded if I looked at certain things. I figured it better to have recourse to the world of spoken wisdom and then seek the truth of things. In each case, I based myself on the spoken wisdom which I judged strongest…’
Hence, spoken wisdom is a resource. One must not only turn to it when the sun shines and threatens to burn out our eyes, one must turn away from the sun during an eclipse, when the star – dead, extinguished, or hidden – is more dangerous than ever.
Now it is time to let these yarns of suns and sons spin. We have moved from spoken wisdom to the father. We have beheld the master, the lord, the good-sun-capital-father. Later, within this same tissue, we will pull on the same strings, and witness the weaving or unravelling of other designs.
четверг, марта 29, 2007
Pharmakon 2: Socrates and Phaedrus
Socrates and Phaedrus were in conversation.
‘I agree,’ said Socrates, ‘only so long as an argument which endorses speech is based on the appreciation of speech as an art. Here and there I’ve heard some saying that speech leads to spoken falsehoods – lies, if you prefer – and rather than being an art, speech is considered artless. I have a Spartan friend fond of saying: “Without truth, there can never be an art of speaking.”’
And Phaedrus replied: ‘We need this argument. Let us bring some to hear what they have to say about this.’
Thereupon Socrates stood and hailed his noble brood, and called upon them to convince Phaedrus that he would never become a competent speaker unless he paid closer attention to philosophy. And he called upon Phaedrus to respond.
For the sake of convenience, we have been working in metaphor. But we can see that the metaphor belongs to a system. If spoken wisdom has a father, this is because it is a living being, an animal born, growing, and belonging to our emerging, abiding, swaying existence. This understanding permits us to regard the spoken word as a living being which conforms to the needs of the immediate situation, to the questions and demands of its interlocutors, capable of adapting in order to maximise persuasiveness and control.
Spoken wisdom is not merely a living creature, it is a created organism. It requires a head and a tail, and neither heads nor tails can be written down. This can be seen in the continuation of Socrates’ and Phaedrus’ dialogue.
‘Well Phaedrus,’ said Socrates, ‘I am ignorant of how to write. It seems to me that the writer simply writes down whatever springs to mind. Do you know how the writer arranges thoughts into some kind of order? What is the structural principle behind composition?’
Phaedrus blushed.
‘Really,’ he said, ‘it’s very kind of you to think me capable of such an accurate insight into the method of writing.’
‘True enough,’ said Socrates, ‘though surely you will agree that spoken wisdom requires a head and a tail, as well as all other parts which comprise a created organism?’
Here we can see that Socrates insists that a speech must have a beginning and an end, and it must begin at the beginning and end at the end. He was clearly dissatisfied with Lysias, who had attempted to swim on his back upstream through the current of his own speech. He began with a lover’s speech, which should have been delivered at the end. The significance of this is enormous, but as it is obvious, we will not belabour it. Hence, spoken wisdom behaves like a person, who is at once present and has an origin.
‘I agree,’ said Socrates, ‘only so long as an argument which endorses speech is based on the appreciation of speech as an art. Here and there I’ve heard some saying that speech leads to spoken falsehoods – lies, if you prefer – and rather than being an art, speech is considered artless. I have a Spartan friend fond of saying: “Without truth, there can never be an art of speaking.”’
And Phaedrus replied: ‘We need this argument. Let us bring some to hear what they have to say about this.’
Thereupon Socrates stood and hailed his noble brood, and called upon them to convince Phaedrus that he would never become a competent speaker unless he paid closer attention to philosophy. And he called upon Phaedrus to respond.
************
For the sake of convenience, we have been working in metaphor. But we can see that the metaphor belongs to a system. If spoken wisdom has a father, this is because it is a living being, an animal born, growing, and belonging to our emerging, abiding, swaying existence. This understanding permits us to regard the spoken word as a living being which conforms to the needs of the immediate situation, to the questions and demands of its interlocutors, capable of adapting in order to maximise persuasiveness and control.
Spoken wisdom is not merely a living creature, it is a created organism. It requires a head and a tail, and neither heads nor tails can be written down. This can be seen in the continuation of Socrates’ and Phaedrus’ dialogue.
************
‘Well Phaedrus,’ said Socrates, ‘I am ignorant of how to write. It seems to me that the writer simply writes down whatever springs to mind. Do you know how the writer arranges thoughts into some kind of order? What is the structural principle behind composition?’
Phaedrus blushed.
‘Really,’ he said, ‘it’s very kind of you to think me capable of such an accurate insight into the method of writing.’
‘True enough,’ said Socrates, ‘though surely you will agree that spoken wisdom requires a head and a tail, as well as all other parts which comprise a created organism?’
************
Here we can see that Socrates insists that a speech must have a beginning and an end, and it must begin at the beginning and end at the end. He was clearly dissatisfied with Lysias, who had attempted to swim on his back upstream through the current of his own speech. He began with a lover’s speech, which should have been delivered at the end. The significance of this is enormous, but as it is obvious, we will not belabour it. Hence, spoken wisdom behaves like a person, who is at once present and has an origin.
среда, марта 28, 2007
Pharmakon 1: Yamanu and Djeheuty
Yamanu received his old acquaintance Djeheuty, who had come all the way from Naucratis to show Yamanu his latest discoveries. Among these was a concoction derived of various herbs and fluids which had the curious property of improving memory and wisdom. And he pulled out a flask and offered Yamanu an appraising swig.
Yamanu looked sceptically at the flask, and said: ‘Why should I? There’s nothing wrong with my memory, and I should think nobody would question my wisdom.’
‘True enough, on the face of it,’ replied Djeheuty. ‘But this will improve your ability to write down your instructions.’
‘Instructions?’ said Yamanu. ‘What instructions? What writing? I need no writing. My word is Law.’
‘No,’ said Djeheuty. ‘My master’s word is Law. Your words are merely an interpretation of the Law. You must write them down, or you are liable to forget them.’
And Yamanu figured that this was probably true, after all. He nonetheless regarded Djeheuty with some suspicion.
‘Is it poisonous?’ he asked, gesturing at the flask.
‘Very possibly,’ replied Djeheuty. ‘It is not just a concoction, it is both artwork and artefact.’
‘Well, that may be,’ replied Yamanu, ‘but I am receiver of this gift, and it will be I who decides the value of your discovery.’
‘You speak like my father,’ said Djeheuty. ‘I did not like him. All he did was reject, belittle, abandon, disparage. He, like you, was suspicious of writing.’
From the tale of Yamanu and Djeheuty, it should be obvious to all that the articulation of wisdom belongs to a father, much like a son belongs to a father. This is no metaphor. A father speaks; writing is only necessary in his absence.
Let us note some of the ways a father can be absent: he can die of cancer or be hit by a car while riding his bicycle. He can be stabbed several times in the lungs by a stranger and lie in the street watching his lifeblood bubble from his chest, his child can take revenge and push him unsuspecting from a cliff. And then from whence will we find our wisdom? Or must we get by without it?
It was Socrates who pointed out that the writing down of wisdom is misery, whether pitiful or arrogant. But I will add that this is born both of the distress of the orphan who has no father to speak wisdom, and of the perfidy of the orphan who sought wisdom beyond the father in the first place.
Hence Yamanu’s suspicion was legitimate: the gift of writing is poison.
But really, it behooves us to acknowledge that the orphan, whose welfare cannot be assured, is the same as a letter of the alphabet: this letter, once it is inscribed on paper, is no longer a son. It has no origins. But the same letter when spoken has a father. It lives through this father, while the letter written down is half-dead. The spoken letter has no thoughts of murder or revenge.
The tale of Yamanu and Djeheuty proves that the responsibility for wisdom belongs to those who accompany the father; that is, the letters he speaks. They protest, they answer questions and – unlike wisdom written down – they respond when their father is present.
Yamanu looked sceptically at the flask, and said: ‘Why should I? There’s nothing wrong with my memory, and I should think nobody would question my wisdom.’
‘True enough, on the face of it,’ replied Djeheuty. ‘But this will improve your ability to write down your instructions.’
‘Instructions?’ said Yamanu. ‘What instructions? What writing? I need no writing. My word is Law.’
‘No,’ said Djeheuty. ‘My master’s word is Law. Your words are merely an interpretation of the Law. You must write them down, or you are liable to forget them.’
And Yamanu figured that this was probably true, after all. He nonetheless regarded Djeheuty with some suspicion.
‘Is it poisonous?’ he asked, gesturing at the flask.
‘Very possibly,’ replied Djeheuty. ‘It is not just a concoction, it is both artwork and artefact.’
‘Well, that may be,’ replied Yamanu, ‘but I am receiver of this gift, and it will be I who decides the value of your discovery.’
‘You speak like my father,’ said Djeheuty. ‘I did not like him. All he did was reject, belittle, abandon, disparage. He, like you, was suspicious of writing.’
************
From the tale of Yamanu and Djeheuty, it should be obvious to all that the articulation of wisdom belongs to a father, much like a son belongs to a father. This is no metaphor. A father speaks; writing is only necessary in his absence.
Let us note some of the ways a father can be absent: he can die of cancer or be hit by a car while riding his bicycle. He can be stabbed several times in the lungs by a stranger and lie in the street watching his lifeblood bubble from his chest, his child can take revenge and push him unsuspecting from a cliff. And then from whence will we find our wisdom? Or must we get by without it?
It was Socrates who pointed out that the writing down of wisdom is misery, whether pitiful or arrogant. But I will add that this is born both of the distress of the orphan who has no father to speak wisdom, and of the perfidy of the orphan who sought wisdom beyond the father in the first place.
Hence Yamanu’s suspicion was legitimate: the gift of writing is poison.
But really, it behooves us to acknowledge that the orphan, whose welfare cannot be assured, is the same as a letter of the alphabet: this letter, once it is inscribed on paper, is no longer a son. It has no origins. But the same letter when spoken has a father. It lives through this father, while the letter written down is half-dead. The spoken letter has no thoughts of murder or revenge.
The tale of Yamanu and Djeheuty proves that the responsibility for wisdom belongs to those who accompany the father; that is, the letters he speaks. They protest, they answer questions and – unlike wisdom written down – they respond when their father is present.
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