Character Sketches

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Character Sketches

Post by Outis on Mon Jul 11 2016, 17:30



Last edited by Outis on Thu Jul 21 2016, 12:35; edited 7 times in total
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Google Genius

Post by Outis on Mon Jul 11 2016, 17:34

On the internet circuit you will bump into a variety of Nihilists...there are so many when you do not have to abide by any regulatory standard outside of yourself, and can immerse yourself in fantasy.
One type is the google genius, or the Pez-dispenser variance.

I will not get into the google genius, but I have years ago referred to the type as the specialist, or the idiot savant in my MANifesto....


...the title is self-explanatory.
Beneath the social autistic type is an even more despicable creature.
A creature using the confusion of knowledge and understanding, which has become part of Modern psychosis.
we see it every time they argue against racial differences, and mention how education, or edumucaiton, is the solution.
Edumucition as the panacea for all human inequality woes.
It is a promising delusion, since it eradicates generations of natural selected data, with a decade, or two, of "proper" training.
sort of like the metaphor I often use, of placing cat and dog in a controlled human environment, let's say a house, with no door to the outside, but plenty fo window, and then enforcing a strict code of conduct, creating artificial parity, almost erasing species differences, when both animals are forced, and conditioned, to behave in the same ways, to perform and repeat the same habits and so on.

With the pez-dispenser type, coming in many varieties...


...the lack of substance is replaced with sugary goodness.
little nutritional value, but a whole lot of partying on the taste-buds, giving the buyer a sugar-rush.

now this type might come in a multiplicity of dispensers, each seemingly "unique" and flashy, in tis own way, but every one dispensing the same sugary pills.




It usually lies a lot, and has a lot of encyclopedic knowledge it regularly regurgitates, and dispenses, along with self-aggrandizing self-congratulatory declarations, but what it cannot offer as substance it tries to replace with verbal acrobatics, and impressive linguistics.
usually you will discover that beyond its presence, in every forum, it's almost obsessive participation, you cannot find a single personal post where ti proves it is more than a mediocre mind, with a whole lot of time on its hands.
it's posting prowess may be astounding, almost making you wonder where ti finds the time, yet in all the heaping pile of data vomit not one single post proving it understood and not one offering a personal exposition of its pretentious mental virility.
It continuously alludes to its genius,a s it does to its lifestyle, and its physical prowess, but unlike the other two theories, it has never displayed evidence of it on the only place where mind can easily be displayed with no distractions.  

This absence of a backing for what it claims to be, casts a shadow of doubt over its many other declared traits, and personal attributes.
It is so obvious that one wonders if it does not almost wish to be found out, and if this is not a call for help.

Nevertheless, if one becomes disheartened by the usual trash found on-line, then this type is a refreshing distraction.
It's antics, its consistent narcissism, its surrender to the common, when and if it exposes itself in times of weakness, keeps the other stunted minds at bay.
It's almost like natural self-correction, or nature re-balancing, only this is part of memetic re-balancing, or how Nihilism produces its own antagonists, or a variant that exposes the duller variations to themselves...even if most never become conscious of it.

What it tells me is that no matter how many variants of Modern I come across and categorize, there is always a new one coming out of the dirt, to keep me fascinated by what sheltered mental chaos, detached from an objective standard, can manufacture.
The  Under-World  has to be updated regularly, as it has, with new super-natural, surreal, caricatures, emerging out of the decay of Modernity.
A new surreal sub-species of Modernity discovered every week.

Marvel Comics and DC Comics have a variety of caricatures one can connect to the Modern variants of Nihilism.
Pulling the metaphors form ancient mythology is another option, but why go that far back when the simplicity, shallowness of Modernity manufactures its own caricatures?



This is how the google genius works, how he performs his “magic”...
He collects names and specialized jargon, usually fishing them out of internet pages… obscurity is a valuable find, because it ensures no, or few, other imitators.
In the internet age, knowledge, data in its raw form, is the new “gold” – something flashy and coveted, to bring a man wealth and… attention; a sense of pride, and respect.
Google Genius never actually says a thing, never takes a clear stance, never has a point... he always alludes to one, but never makes one.
What he calls his "philosophy" is insinuation, with no content.
He can't be challenged because he has no position to defend.



Goggle Genius/pez-dispenser, has a comedic quality about him, once you get past the first impressions and you begin to realize what he is and what he is doing.
His reliance on proxies, is what leads him back to internet data bases.
He may have read source material directly, but he has understood very little of it.
He also has no personal insights to compare the source material to, since he has no ability to perceive patterns, directly in the world, if they are not pointed out to him.
This makes him entirely dependent on third-party judgments.
He routinely searches the internet for interpretations of the source material, usually some famous intellectual, and then formulates a judgment using them.
If the third-party interpretations are simplistic and wrong, which they most often are, then his own judgment is disastrously foolish, exposing him to those who have understood the source material beyond the average dolts interpretations.

The most misunderstood source is Nietzsche for the Modern pez-dispensing google genius.
What he has read of this thinker was over his head, and having no personal insights of world to compare Nietzsche's to, he turns to internet sources to try to compensate for his own failings.
This is where the google genius often goes astray, because he always congregates with minds on his level, so his pool of proxies is on his intellectual level, which has already proven to be inadequate.
The more clever google genius will seek out higher minds to interpret the source material, but then the risk is one of being discovered as a aprrot, simply repeating another's interpretations of the source material, which, if a challenge follows might prove to be embarrassing.

Nevertheless, this risk will not make the google genius deny himself the pleasure of impressing fools on-line, and so the most popular Modern source Material being Nietzsche he calls his proxies Nietzscheans, when they seem positive towards the author, and using them he attempts to decipher the author's writings, which would be like sampling Christian understanding of Christ's sermons to gain an insight into Christ's teachings, or using the average Christian to judge Christ, the thinker.
Sampling fools, by a fool, only compounds the foolishness, and the end result is a good laugh... if it were not for the tragic element, and the dangerous part, in a "democratic world" where fools have a vote.

The google genius exposes himself at this point to any mind above the fools he has sampled, adding his own personal touch of idiotic into the mix to complete the stupid soup; more so the google genius exposes the difference between knowing and understanding, the difference between knowing philosophy and being a philosopher, and also the profound weakness of the modern Democratic system.    
What makes a google genius a harmless caricature of a human is that he is only effective among pretentious simpletons, like him, and this is also the scary part, when you consider how dumbing-down, and feminization of working on creating uniform stupidity.
Google Genius will never know, because he lives in his head, where subjectivity keeps the objective world outside, and sheltering prevents a rude awakening from occurring.
Sad part is that human constructs are imperfect, and no matter what a formidable shield of protection is constructed, for the retarded, the real world creeps in through the cracks, and the cost is paid in increments, or in one lump sums... but it is paid in full.
You can fool a fool, and you may trick an idiot, but can you trick reality, can you lie your way and impress the cosmos?  



Google Genius is a miner, a data-miner.
He's not an appraiser, a salesman, nor an artisan jeweller.
He does not know the value of what he digs up, on-line, does not appreciate its value, its meaning, on his own; has no ideal he is peddling, so he does not use it to built anything long-lasting, and no talent to shape the stone, adding his own spirit to its raw beauty - its symmetry.
He's only a simple miner.
With great effort, and dedicating his time, he digs and finds raw data, and then repeats it, gives it away, decorates his garments with it - he has no other use for it.
He lives in squalor, giving away gold, because he is a digger of dirt; nails black with earth.
Alone he works, not wanting to share his secret stash, his method of mining.  
All he can evaluate is its rareness, indicated by the difficulty he had in finding it, and bringing it up from where it was buried.
This is his only contribution.

He finds and casts around nuggets of imperfect gold, unable to even clean away the elements that do not belong to it.
With childish innocence he displays his finds, as if he created them.    


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What about Bob?

Post by Outis on Thu Jul 21 2016, 12:18

In keeping with my new found specificity I will write about Bob, a specific average American living in Chicago.
I wouldn’t want to overly generalize about Americans, nor about humans for that matter, so let’s forget the previous and just call him an average western male, biologically speaking, living somewhere in the vicinity of the Great Lakes.
I can only begin by saying that any assumptions made about the broad intricate concept known as Bob do not hold true for all his parts.
There are molecular exceptions to the universal idea of Bob.
Bob lives in a non-specific specificity and a general time/space; yet a far too complex geographical urban setting to call anything other than Chicago.
Bob is moral in that he has never personally killed or intentionally stolen anything, or so we are told by the officials.
Of course Bob also votes and flag-waves when his nation’s armed forces go off to kill in his name, and he often damns infidels and weirdoes to hell in the name of his Lord Jesus Christ, but Bob is not troubled with his inconsistencies.
Bob’s sense of morality is limited to a 50 mile radius around his physical being and so he isn’t distressed by it; out of sight out of mind.
Bob is bad at theory but very good in multi-application.
Bob is insatiably active, as he is insatiable.
Bob secretly thinks that any death is worth his comfort but he preaches compassion and love in social get-together’s.
Bob must theoretically be good even if in pragmatic terms he remains noncommittal.
Bob hates haters with a passion.
Bob is religious and so Bob is definitely good, but not in the sense he would prefer nor would want others to think of him as.  
Bob reads books frequently. In fact he can quote passages from various sources, and this Bob takes as evidence of his intellectual fortitude. Of course Bob cannot come to any personal realizations unless they are dictated to him from external sources.
Bob is loyal to his community’s authorities, yet he is free-spirited enough to disagree on the manner in which his loyalty should be expressed.  
Bob’s bookshelves are full of books he’s never read or hasn’t fully understood – ornaments for his sensual enjoyment – idols of an alien god – monuments dedicated to his vanity.
Like many things that he owns they are symbols of his public persona.
Bob inherits beliefs, he does not earn them.
Bob can quote and he frequently displays his knowledge by using large words and by mentioning famous people.
Bob regurgitates ideas like a cow does fodder.
Bob is semantically proficient and he is proud of his rhetorical fortitude.
Bob does not know the difference between knowledge and intelligence.
Bob does not question his world. He does not challenge his perceptions and beliefs, as these were passed down to him.
Bob remains faithful to his traditions.
Bob only displays skepticism at the corner grocery store where he is, often, doubtful if this is the best price he can get.
Bob’s skepticism begins and ends in his wallet.
Bob uses double-standards in accordance with his self-interests.
Bob has ethics.
Bob is modern.
When Bob wants to form an opinion he does not open his eyes to the world and to his own experiences but he opens a book to another’s eyes and experiences - besides, Bob’s awareness of his own experiences is superficial.
Bob often changes his mind, because Bob’s circumstances change and so he must adapt his opinions to his self-interests continuously.
Bob is progressive.
Bob is open-minded.
Bob adopts critical thoughts because he is not confident in his own mind.
Bob is astute.
Bob secretly knows his own qualities, even when he pretends their opposite.

Bob is married and he has kids. He thinks his genes are so precious that they need to be preserved for future generations.
Bob’s genetic “quality” will be propagated into eternity…or so he hopes.
Bob is optimistic.
Bob teaches his children to be just like Bob. They will become one of the many, parts to a greater whole, and this is his most comforting ideal.
Bob does not like to stand apart. He likes conforming and fitting in. He feels safe within uniformity.
Bob claims individuality as his highest value.
Bob contradicts himself a lot because Bob hasn’t thought out his own thoughts... he’s been taught them.
Bob hates violence, especially when it is directed towards him and his precious offspring.
Bob believes in altruism and compassion mainly because he wants assurances that they will be offered to him in his time of need.
Bob thinks empathy automatically results in compassion.
Bob worships love… as a sacred cow. Bob is committed to her.
Bob’s love comes cheap, because it isn’t his to give.
Bob is selfish but he believes that he is “decent.”
Bob is egotistical, but vehemently despises arrogance.
Bob hates himself... but don’t tell Bob that.

Bob has plenty.
Bob is fat on the products of his work. His very definition of happiness entails plentiful resources. It is therefore impossible for Bob to ignore his instincts.
Bob is rewarded handsomely for being Bob.
Bob’s toys are a testament to Bob’s value. He puts them up for review, like trophies, for his guests. He calls all his guests friends.
He eats often, even if it will eventually kill him.
Bob cannot keep his mouth closed. This is what he considers indisputable evidence that he is successful and worthy of praise and imitation. A large refrigerator is a good enough substitute for an empty head for Bob.
Bob has a nice car and a large home.
Bob believes in conservation, recycling and hates anyone that exploits others.
Bob’s world is founded on exploitation and excess and throw-away consumerism… but Bob will be offended if you tell him so.
Bob will think you are ill or envious of his lifestyle.
Bob will imagine clever little motives behind your disrespect for his delusions.
Bob just wants to be left alone.
Bob believes the things he owns are examples of his significance.
Bob adorns his life with trinkets and wears labels of praise to hide the hollow interior.
Bob depends on egalitarianism. He may be fat, stupid, and ugly but that does not make him less than anybody else... so he says.
Bob believes just being born makes him worthy of respect and dignity.
Bob is a humanitarian.
Bob mocks all those that are his intellectual superiors.
He finds ways to slander them.
Bob thinks thinking too much is antisocial and unhealthy.
Bob values stupidity; his own, most of all.
Bob needs this to remain sane.
Bob thinks he is lovable and sexually desirable, no matter how many layers of fat he is surrounded by.
Bob believes beauty is only skin deep, and that inner beauty counts for more.
Bob bullshits, a lot.

Bob lives in delusion.
Bob does not like being reminded of who and what he really is. He accuses all that do so of cynicism or reductionism. Sometimes he accuses them of over-generalizing.
Bob hates prejudice.
Bob believes everyone deserves respect even those that haven’t earned it. This because he wants assurances that others will respect him when uttering stupidities in public places.
Bob supports Democracy.
Bob reads the paper and is well-misinformed.
Bob thinks being published automatically makes you a dependable source.
Bob does not question the institutions of his society, of his culture, of his nation, of his religion.
He fears being alone; he is unable to stand in solitude.
Bob pretends like he cares.
Bob therefore finds it hard to swallow when someone shows disdain towards him. He thinks they must be suffering from some kind of disease.
Bob believes he deserves eternity, in paradise.
Bob thinks his existence is so important to the universe that it needs to be preserved forever.
Bob believes in God.
Bob is willing to allow others to kill on his behalf to save this part of his belief system.
Bob is a “good Christian” and a good citizen.
Bob wants his streets clean, access to health care, internal plumbing and the criminals in jail, but he just doesn’t want to pay taxes for it.
Bob is careful with his money.
He lives on credit.
Bob regularly spends more than he earns, and so taxes become a burden upon his consumerism.
Bob believes in loving his neighbor and being his brother’s keeper.
Bob doesn’t understand what that means. He just believes in it.
Bob likes to posture and pretend, especially to himself.
But in the night in the deepest recesses of his being Bob senses intuitively his real self, his real worth, his real value and he grows desperate and ashamed.
He hates all that remind him of this undisclosed truth. He despises all those that bring into his consciousness all the things he hides even from himself.
Bob is a blind automaton destined to serve and die in complete subjugation and ignorance.
Bob will live but never know life; he will exist but never be aware of existence.
Bob will follow the rules, be respectful, politically-correct, and compassionate; Bob is a hypocrite.
Bob is necessary.
How else would dirty deeds be made possible?
How else would great men make their ideals reality?
Bob is a nobody, but don’t tell Bob that. He’ll hate you for it. If you try to tell Bob what he is in a runabout way he will accuse you of generalizing to maintain his delusion and keep on pretending he is a “good” man.
Bob finds solace in numbers.
It is his participation in majorities that he sees as his truth.

Bob is pathetic.
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There's something about Mary

Post by Outis on Thu Jul 21 2016, 12:21

There’s something about Mary… or, at least, she would like to think so.
More to Mary than her sex, although nobody can say for sure.
She will claim to be far more complicated than her words or her actions would indicate at first glance; she would say she is deeper than her manicured fingers and push-up bras, would point out; she would say that her nature says nothing about her.
Mary thrives on illusions.
The first illusion Mary thrives on is the illusion of her own complexity.
She hides her simplicity behind it.  
Mary loves thinking of herself as mysterious and too “unique” to be boxed into a stereotype.
Mary despises stereotypes or anything that makes Mary look common and easy.
She calls it being enlightened and progressive.
Yet, Mary never seems to diverge from current beliefs, or from moral standards; she follows popular trends religiously and with her own, “unique,” flare.
Mary’s individuality is expressed only by trivial and superficial symbols; things, like her shoes and her new dress – the one she paid a month’s rent for – and by her complete acceptance of current morays and myths, which she can repeat verbatim.
Even when she’s being naughty and rebelliousness, Mary uses the common ways: she wears t-shirts with counter-cultural messages and occult cyphers.
Mary is updated and current; nothing primitive about Mary, except her feelings and the behaviors they induce.
Mary is all about feelings; this is why she can never live-up to her own theories and her own expectations.
Mary is schizophrenic in her dualistic selectivity.
Mary says one thing and does another, and she feels no shame about it.
She feels this is part of her charismatic, impulsive, fearless, complexity.
She surprises herself just as much as she does others. She considers herself quirky, and this makes her cute – like a child is.
Mary knows how to live. She enjoys the finer things, even if she can’t fully appreciate them.
She is told they are better, and she takes it for granted that they are so.
What does Mary know?
What does Mary care to know?
Only what helps her participate, conspicuously.
She consumes without thought.
Mary is fake and is faking it – almost everything about her is made-up and embellished a notch or two, but she will be quick to express her undying appreciation for an honest man and her disapproval for hypocrites and liars.
Mary is afraid of being outperformed.
This is why Mary dislikes other females.

“Where have all the good men gone?” Mary asks her few girlfriends, and only her best male friends… the ones she likes and trusts, but feels no sexual attraction for.
They are part of her entourage.  
The irony is lost on Mary, and so being resented is taken as an affront to all females. It is considered an attack upon all womanhood.
Yes, she is that unique.
Who can truly dislike Mary’s frustrating adolescence, but a misogynist?
No, really… who?!!
Not I.
Do you wish to get laid?
Then "no" is your only “free” option. She holds the keys in this Kingdom and her reign is democratically protected.
The drawbridge that lets the bridge into her inner-sanctum is not easy to see…but once seen it drops, with the weight of its own mass.

Mary wants to be told what she cannot understand; she prefers strength when she’s found a button to push, a latch to pull, a nerve to press, a weakness to manipulate.
Mary loves horses, for some reason.
Go figure.
Otherwise Mary is scared. She calls that which scares her vulgar and primitive and base… all of it beneath her more sophisticated ways.
Mary loves excuses and evasions.
She wants guarantees and certainties.
Mary is a master at equivocating semantics and convoluted circumvention.
Whatever that means.  
Mary is well-groomed and polite.
She bobs her beautifully quaffed head at the right instances, smiles at the correct moment, offers her congenial social graces with an exact diction and a precise tone. She is immaculate in her pretense.
She is that civil.
Her opinions are common, as it’s her look that sets her apart and it’s her promise that makes her noticeable.
But she wants to be appreciated for how she thinks, if only someone would tell her what that is.  
Belonging is her ultimate goal, her highest reward, her favorite dream. And it’s her status within this belonging that tells her how well she’s doing.

Mary repeats popular sentiments like a child recites poetry – with that same vacuous voice of a parrot repeating words it doesn’t fully get, or cares to get… besides the cracker.
Mary is well educated, in that way.
She knows the script by heart.
She always had a good memory… keeping track of gossip, relationships, snide remarks, demeanors has nurtured a formidable recollection.
She hopes to be able to repeat her culture’s most valued knowledge as an indication of her cultivation.
Her daddy paid for her schooling so that Mary can get a good job and follow the methods and remain loyal to the practices… and get a good mate; preferably one superior to her, but not overly so and not someone that makes it obvious.  
Mary has an ego.
One needs credentials to make it in this world.
Mary is frantically career oriented.
The non-ambitious she calls bums and losers, but she isn’t judgmental or cruel, she just wants to separate the social chaff from the seed so that she may be fertilized with it.
Mary needs nobody to take care of her, she tells herself, except…the dry-cleaners, take-out restaurants, institutions, in general... and her mommy and daddy, of course. In time, she hopes, a man will take over those duties.
She’s that independent.
She looks down upon the more noticeably dependent ones.
She thinks them weak, and calls them losers.
Facades must be protected or else the entire edifice of bullshit collapses and its interior is left, once again, exposed to that indifferent cold air of reality.
She will have none of that.
The bullshit must be bolstered with that pungent hot air of digestive gases to dry its decaying matter into harder, more durable, mortar – the stuff of legends.
Ideals are her bread-and-butter; icons her inspiration; greatness her aphrodisiac.
She can cope on her own, but keep the cops handy, and her parents and friends on the line, just in case someone doesn't buy into the same social bullshit she has bought into so easily.
She’s that strong.
Mary considers herself intelligent.
Her knowledge is evidence of this, and how easily she beguiles men is her final indisputable proof.
How can someone deny this?
Men prostrate before her, like rugs, and who is to claim that these feeble creatures are her superiors?
Not I.
Who would dare, in her presence, without risking banishment from the princess’ kingdom?
Mary wears revealing clothing and she, often, flaunts herself sexually, but then is dramatically, and quite rightly, offended by any unwanted attention.
She doesn’t seek attention she baths in its unwanted coolness in a two-piece bikini.
How dare anyone look at what she so flagrantly exposes, as a sexual signal; how dare anyone respond to it, when she does not approve?

Mary does not like getting attention from those who are not her type.
Her type being the kind-hearted, sensitive, well-off, tall, dark, and handsome guy, with a sense of humor, intelligence, and grooming she finds socially acceptable and promises her comfort and social status, and which she can never, ever, find… for some inexplicable reason.
Mary is a victim.  
Eventually Mary settles for what she can get and calls what she settles for, her ideal. In her heart of hearts she feels disappointed and deeply offended by the cruelty of an existence that does not live up to her expectations, but she’s stoic about it.
She’s that strong.
Yes... she's that multifaceted; too intricate to even attempt to understand.
Bears and dogs and wolves are easy, in comparison.
Men are confused by her ways.
Science is at a standstill when faced with her “individuality.”
Men stand wide-eyed and open-eyed before her multi-dimensional facets.
Drama, yes drama – I know it's hard to believe – but drama, is her best game.
Save a soft tissue for her, she is apt to cry at any moment.
That's how strongly, weak, and unbreakably, fragile, she is.
She’s selfless in her own selfish way.
Play the game or go home a loser.
Mary loves her daddy, for some secret mysterious reason which nobody can ever truly understand.
Mary wants to find a man just like him.
Mary wants to bag, or bang, a “good one”; no losers will do; no flaccid, two-inch wannabes will suffice; no broke, unemployed, soft-spoken, timid, effeminate, man-children will do.
She wants a “real man,” as opposed to the artificial kind, her preferred culture cultivates all around her.
Mary dreams of a “real manly man,” but would be terrified is she ever met one unchained and unaffected by her civilization.
What Mary really wants is a pet.
She has standards.
Mary is altruistic and believes in equality.
“All have their own value” she says.
She may discriminate, according to her own mysteriously intricate standards of evaluating superior from inferior genes, but she will never, or can never, admit that she knows not what is actually occurring or why it is occurring.
All that will be left to mystery.
Her mind is a labyrinth she’s also lost in.
She's that recondite.
Yes, you heard me, that orphic.
She only wishes for someone to treat her like a princess, tell her how great she is, pay all the bills, take her out, make all the decisions for her and then tolerate all her temper tantrums, and call them all preciously adorable, without once smothering her free-wheeling ways nor exposing her dependencies.
She’s a closet junky.
Is that too much to ask for?
Does not her adorability deserve that much?
She calls it unconditional love.
She calls it magical.
Such a rarity in these times of erudite male contemplation.
Mary wants to be kept, but she abhors self-hating weak women and dirty prostitutes, and she condemns all mommas-boys to the pits of hell.
No, "abhors" is too weak a word to describe her vehemence for these social parasites.
She wishes them dead... gone... eliminated... out of sight.
Only her vagina will take precedence.
She is the new queen of this roost. She has been given an empire, defended, and guaranteed by armies and armies of cocks, and she means to take full advantage of this opportunity.
There must be something more about Mary.

Mary is avant-garde.
Her highest goal is to be on the cutting edge of fashion.  
Her tastes are evidence of this; her grooming even more so.
She will not fall back on the kitsch.
Her gaze is firmly focused ahead, towards progress... into the bright promising future of a hazy utopia.
She is at the forefront, the apex, the peak of what is new. The old disgusts her, as virility is her calling-card… so she’s a good citizen, the perfect consumer for any marketing campaign, the best purchaser of goods, when they promise her a mass she lacks, and a value she does not possess.
Mary has been told this is a good thing.
Who is Mary to question this?

Mary can’t cook or clean, or mend her clothes, or take care of herself, really. Her daddy and mommy take care of all that mundane everyday boring crap.
She is far too independent and modern for such outdated interests, but she thinks she’ll be someone’s perfect wife one day... a perfect well-kept shiny trophy.
Even her motherly instincts have been stunted by her social aspirations.
She would rather have a dog than a child, but she thinks she’d make the perfect mother one day.
Mary has better things to do with her precious time… like becoming a dancer, or an artist, or a model, or a lawyer, or a figurehead for a nation – can I dream? – or she plans finishing university, as many like her do by the dozen, to become a respected aesthetician or a doctor.
Or, perhaps, Mary will become an anesthesiologist, since being anesthetized is what she knows the most about.
When not pursuing her goals Mary is busy talking on her designer-phone to her designer girlfriends about important stuff, like shopping or boys or pop-culture or how women are just not respected or taken seriously enough in this day and age or about how superficial the world has become, or about how there aren’t any “real men” about.
You know very important insightful shit.
Mary is very connected.  
Mary can’t live without her phone; without a connection.
Her words cannot be lost to silence, her always-thinking mind cannot tolerate being muzzled, and her independent spirit cannot live without a relationship. Mary wants to relate, in general.
This is how she understands.

Mary is a feminist, when it suits her, and a helpless little girl the rest of the time; groveling for male assistance, crying about how her God-given rights were not respected, bitching about how she deserves better.
Mary has taste.

Mary is ambitious and she will settle for nothing less than an ambitious man.
She likes her males to be social-climbers, go-getters, do-gooders - strong but sensitive, handsome but also funny, well-off but boyishly humble, decisive but not overbearing, good-looking but not metro-sexually so, current but not followers, fighters but not violent, lovers but not vulnerable… the list goes on and on and on... and on...

Mary watches a lot of T.V.
She will not compromise – nothing but the best for Mary.
Daddy told her so.  
And the best is dictated by what is popular.
She deserves to be popular, no? She wants to be amongst the popular and away from the average, the commonplace, and distinctly mediocre.
Mary dislikes herself, for this reason, and cannot stands being alone.
Mar wants to remain distant from herself.

Mary is so precious.
Protectiveness has made her so, but she’s not entirely convinced.
She is baffled by how much men think otherwise. She thinks they are foolish to desire her so much.  
But she goes along, manipulating their need, secretly considering them her inferiors, and subsequently finding them sexually unappealing.
Mary finds the man who thinks little of her, surprisingly, attractive. His indifference charms her.
Who can understand Mary, when not even Mary can understand Mary?

She wants it all.
She wants to be a man and a woman simultaneously; a hermaphrodite, perhaps or, more precisely, she wishes to remain a prepubescent child that is treated like a mature being.
She wants to be dominated but not so much; wanted but not overly so; desired but not obsessed over; taken care of but not fussed over; held but not squeezed - the list goes on and on and on...
One day Mary will wake up in middle-aged reality, and find her hair doesn’t shine no more and her pussy isn’t so wet and exquisite and her ass not so round and promising.
One day Mary will wake up and find herself alone and empty, wondering what happened to all the mysterious mystical magic she was once surrounded by and in her growing despair she will blame it all on men.
Who else?
One day Mary will wake up with a child, or two, or three, saggy breasted and pot-bellied, seeking the men she so casually dismissed, wanting to give her children the father figure they are missing, and in her haste she will give them a spare; a comfortable compromise, a convenient and reliable and accessible “good guy” whom she will secretly resent. Then she will cry out about how the world has gone to hell and how no man is ever truly good enough for her and how she was never loved.
She will become, once again, the victim of her own stupidity and simplicity; a hapless casualty of her own nature.
One day Mary will wake up and find herself in a loveless, unfulfilling, relationship, wondering what changed and why; and unable to explain it Mary will find spirituality and experts and alibis and escapes, to cope.
Mary will go public.
One day Mary will wake up, or partially so, and she will suddenly find herself in a world where nobody cares what that something about her is… or was... and then she will begin realizing, in a haze, what has occurred and she will fabricate clever little games to explain it all away.
Mary will never take responsibility for any of it.
Mary is infinitely innocent.
One day Mary will finally find herself in reality and find herself struggling to adjust her past to the present, and the fantasy to the actual, and she will call her maturity stage.

Mary is positive.
Nothing brings her down. Nothing can stand in her way.
She’s been told to dream big and to settle for nothing less than.
She deserves it all – so she's been told – and how readily Mary accepted this as fact is part of her impressionable silliness.
She, now, dislikes moody and serious people. They make Mary sad and a bit afraid.
She avoids negative energy altogether.
Mary doesn’t like being sad or afraid, so she doesn’t think about anything that makes her so.
So, Mary doesn’t think at all.
Mary just wants to have fun, like all girls do.
Mary is special in that way, as well.
That's what they call the common these days: special.
Everyone and everything born is special.
Who has time to think when Mary is out doing, and doing and doing... what?
What, exactly, is Mary doing?
She doesn't know, and if you ask her she will resent you for putting her on the spot.
Mary just wants to feel, so give in to sensation, to be sensual.
Mary is very feminine.

Mary wants to be happy.
It's that simplistically complicated.
She has a right to it. They told her. She demands it.
Mary is truly a little princess.
Can't you see?
Doing anything that will break her nails or ruin her new dress is out of the question for Mary.
She is willing to do, just as long as nothing on her is soiled or is exposed to anything but the sanitized and cleansed.
Mary calls it “authentic,” as the real is always so dirty and vile and disgusting to her.

Mary is prissy.
Mary is all about second chances, and third, and fourth.
Mary evolves. It’s part of her open-mindedness.
Mary is reborn anew every year.
That’s how free-spirited Mary truly is.
She must outdo the other, so as to remain Mary.
But Mary is nobody’s whore.
No cheap slut is she.
How dare you think such a thing about Mary?
No, Mary only spreads her legs for great returns and then bitches about how much she’s given up and given in.
Her affections are too valuable to simply give away.

Mary wants to be invested in, not bought.
She’s a lady! Not a cheap tramp.
Mary is.  
Sex is Mary’s greatest weapon, but Mary is against the sexual exploitation of females.
Mary is intuitive and she is suspect of reason or of reasons.
She doesn’t want to know about motives or of agendas, in general. They ruin the buzz of her chemical inebriation, the romantic fantasy of her transparency and blameless celestial vulnerability – her emotional inspirations.
Don't over-analyze her fantasies and deconstruct her delusions, it’ll demystify her.
How is her mystique to be preserved and her value to be held at such high regards if all is exposed to daylight?
She is nurtured by ambiguity.
Mary prefers to live in the moment, like any beast, of profound burden, would.
Mary is in touch with her animal nature, even if she will deny it to the end.
She likes to think of herself as above animals, as human, whatever this means to Mary, but in that moment of orgasm and of birthing she is all there, fully present, despite herself.
She cannot avoid that.

Mary often cries; that’s how sensitive and deep and spotless she is.
How can someone deny a crying girl some clemency?
She often feels unappreciated and feeble.
Who does not?
She knows not why but she only feels it bubbling inside of her until it releases itself in a stream of ambrosial tears.

There is definitely something about Mary.
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The talented Mr. Ripley

Post by Outis on Thu Jul 21 2016, 12:23

Mr. Ripley is talented indeed – oh yes he is.
His talent is that of acting, or non-active acting, to be more precise.
He’s more of a non-method inactive actor.
He is so talented he’s bought into his own active inactivity. He must, after all, if it is to convince the spectators.
But he shall smirk if you tell him so, with such insinuating openness, not really appreciating the fullness of what this means but, nevertheless, savoring the “truth” in your comment; unable to fully explain the underlying accusatory tone he will ignore it – if he could and if he would explain it then it would subtract from the fluid “authenticity” of his talent, and make him less effective with it.
I would say that if Mr. Ripley were to be told what this talent is, in a more blunt way, he would be offended almost incensed, even if he would not show it, for this would discredit the long time he has spent practicing his gift and it would take away from the reward this application promises.
Letting the mask down is out of the question for him; he would not bear the reflection in the mirror.
He has spent so many hours perfecting his craft, applying layer after layer to any exposed part of him, that the paint is now an unavoidable part of his identity.
It is his identity.
If you were to try to strip it away another layer would stand in your way, and then another still, until you would give up out of sheer frustration, as every time you tore into his façade he would busily fabricate another beneath the one you were ripping apart.
Mr. Ripley has mastered his defensive strategies; he has become proficient in the art of passive-defensiveness.
Playing dead is his gift.
His “condition” is so ingrained in his psyche that Mr. Ripley has forgotten who he is himself. He is nobody without his faces; he is nothing without his facade.
That little boy he once was is so buried that one can no longer be sure if he is still breathing under all that pressure.
One might even doubt Mr. Ripley was ever that boy, because he is still a boy.  

Mr. Ripley tells himself he is a chameleon; this is how he understands the nature of his gift, though leach would be a more appropriate metaphor for his nature.
But all this is commonplace and it is not what sets him apart from all the other pretentiousness that is occurring all around him.  
He would tell you himself that all do as he does and that all are guilty of play-acting, as this is the norm in today’s world, and all wear masks as he does, as this is essential in this environment, and you would have to agree.
Mr. Ripley is cogent.
He is right, Mr. Ripley is, and for him it’s become a matter of purchasing his own wares and of buying into his own bullshit which, again, is a common phenomenon – but he does it with such lethargic gusto that one can only admire it.
His distinction is in the pretenses he uses. Where most build themselves up he tears himself down; where others exaggerate their strengths, he plays up his weaknesses.
Mr. Ripley swims with the current, making him a maverick.
His goal, you see, is to suck the subject dry of all nutrients before his fangs are felt, expending as little effort as possible in the process.
Now, Mr. Ripley would tell you again that all seek to gain more than they lose but it is the way he does it, the methods he applies that makes him special.
Effort is his greatest enemy, you see, and his movements show his distaste for it.
He wastes no time on superfluous motion, or on graciousness, unless it is to display his physical attributes to any potential mates, and there he does so sparingly and with some evident consternation.
Not even the sexual urge is enough to move him outside his comfort zone. He acts, motivated by sexual desire, but on his face you can witness the inner turmoil and the degree of self-doubt his internal dialogue imposes upon his otherwise bland and droopy-eyed exterior.  
He would rather have nothing, just as long as it comes easy, and this is why he is unwillingly ascetic. There is no underlying principle here and no ultimate goal. The frugality and austerity he displays is all based on his distaste for effort.  
He hasn’t thought this out on his own; this comes as natural to him as putting on his clothes.
Most of the work is done for him. He’s picked up the justifications for his condition along the way.
These too he’s leached off of others.
He cannot even be bothered with finding philosophical reasons to remain as he is. When he reads he wants others to do it for him as he reclines in his favorite horizontal position sucking in the information, his eyes closed to the world, without breaking a sweat.
He basks in the other’s work.
He enjoys having movies explained to him.
He feels like he’s outsmarting those that abuse him. His face makes the other’s fist bleed when they punch him, and this is enough.
Anything else would force him to move, to be moved, and he is beyond such primal pride and egotism.
He is a natural victim.
He’s also a master mathematician, keeping track of the cost/benefits in every transaction – he’s a book-keeper running through the odds of him making a big profit while risking as little of his credit as possible.
Mr. Ripley would have made a perfect accountant if his distaste for effort didn’t prevent him from being ambitious. He has a knack for keeping his books balances which, in his case, means that he is comfortably in the black: always giving a tiny fraction for what he receives.

Mr. Ripley dislikes ambition. He makes sure it never affects anything he doesn’t do.
His only ambition is to not be ambitious. This also makes him a perfect socialist.
He is way ahead of materialism. He hates it.
Mr. Ripley is a communist without being overly interested in politics. He is for anything that promises sharing; because he has so little to offer, making it inevitable that he will gain form any such arrangement.
He might even offer a token degree of effort just to make his inactivity more efficient.

Mr. Ripley has a Semitic disposition, right down to his slavishness.
He latches onto authorities. If it’s not God then it most certainly is another person. Anyone that will do all the leg work and the thinking, and who will then tell him what his minimal contribution will be.
Mr. Ripley is effeminate, borderline asexual, coming across as ambiguously homosexual.  
Nothing touches him because this too would entail effort. To call him lazy would be a gross understatement. He is beyond lazy, and he’s picked up the anti-materialism, anti-capitalist, jargon to justify it.

Mr. Ripley does not speak much either, as this too is an activity which demands a certain expenditure of energy.
He is sparse and lean and laconic.
His form and movement speaks of an economy.

Mr. Ripley cannot be bothered with being bothered. He is quick to anger when you disturb his state of undisturbed rest. He only becomes restless when a higher level of restfulness enters the scene as a possibility.  

Mr. Ripley is a Zen master without the Zen; practicing meditation without the underlying grander purpose. He simply is it.
In this sense he has achieved a higher level of self-control and egoless emptiness than most do after decades of practice.
He is emptiness. He’s been so ever since he entered puberty. It is why he seeks fulfillment in others and why he absorbs others without wanting to give anything in return. He must enter into win/win situations otherwise he feels like he’ll return to his previous emptiness. His sources of nourishment are always external, while he pretends to be a non-materialist and above superficial consumer trends.

Mr. Ripley is void of inner wells; this is why he freely drinks of another’s, offering nothing but his static presence as recompense.
His gift is that he is pliable because he lacks a backbone, and he is malleable because he has no substance.
He is a gaping vagina awaiting the first penis to impregnate it with its seed.
His versatility is found in his non-resistance. He surrenders to whatever dominant entity confronts him, then he adapts to another and then another… and this is why he considers himself a “chameleon.”
Mr. Ripley is a slut.  
One year he is this, the next he is something else. He calls this “open-mindedness.”
His inability to make up his mind, his constant “going with the flow,” his total immersion in the otherness, he considers evidence of his modern progressiveness.
He is all things to all people, at all times, not because he understands any of it beyond the superficial, but only because he gives-in easily; he has no identity to lose, no pride to defend, no ego worth saving.
Resistance is futile and far too strenuous to indulge in.
Mr. Ripley embraces his emptiness.
He is void.
It is how he blends into the background, all silent and unmoving – unmoved – sucking up the vitality around him, feeding off the scraps others let fall in their superfluous haste and their exaggerated egotistical activities.

Mr. Ripley feels superior to these creatures.
His weakness is his strength. This is why Christianity appealed to him early on… but this too was too demanding for him to fully accept.
Worshiping is hard work and defending his fragile ego would demands stress.
He hates stress.
The total annihilation of otherness through atheism appealed to him; it freed him to be anybody’s bitch. Christianity, in this, was too stringent and asked for too much loyalty, too much effort, too much sacrifice. The idea of nothingness appealed to him, not as a way of self-creation and freedom, but as a way towards total self-annihilation.
Mr. Ripley is a closet Buddhist, only he can’t be bothered with finding this out.

Mr. Ripley uses people and they have no clue, because he has no clue. In this Mr. Ripley is indeed innocent of all charges and is quick to anger if he is exposed to the possibility that he might be culpable.
His childishness is part of his talent.
Pity is his bait. The more pitiful Mr. Ripley becomes the easier things are given to him.
He is clothed, bathed, fed, without even having to ask for it.
He just sits there all sad and languid and static in comparison to all the activity around him, until someone notices and feels sorry for his deplorable state.
You see why Mr. Ripley hated pride?
Pride would prevent him from making of himself into a wretch.
But Mr. Ripley is humble. Arrogance is too demanding an activity to bother with.
He despises pride, in true Christian fashion, as pride would force him to move and to be moved into action which the immediate conditions do not force upon him is out of the question.
His ultimate goal is death… without the uncomfortable circumstances and costs of his dying.
He is, in this, a Buddhist… but he does not know it.
He is a pure one. This shit comes to him naturally; it bubbles out of his very essence.
Otherwise it would be an internally motivated inspiration, and Mr. Ripley is empty of all such forces – he is empty in general.
He is bland, boring, and lethargic; he disappears into the background without intending to.  
He is there, but not all there.  
He lets others play those competitive games, smiling as they sweat and churn and cry, when he sits there like a sphinx, totally at peace with his inferior superiority.
Yet Mr. Ripley is envious, despite himself. Beneath the seemingly stoic exterior his soul covets and desires and bleeds, but he hides it from himself as this would lead to him doing something about it, and doing is not what he wants to do.
Doing is for doers and this usually entails a give and take; Mr. Ripley only wants to take. Passivity is his philosophy; passive-aggressive is his favorite mood; pity is how he manipulates others.
He is pitiful, as this is what he exudes as a manner of seducing the other to act on his behalf.
He is unmanly, because he exists beyond sexual distinctions; he is beyond sex altogether.
He is anti-sex; he is asexual.
He practices sexual self-control without even knowing why or how – he has no reason to, other than that it would place upon him a demand which he feels unable to satisfy.
He feels insecure and vulnerable and inadequate. Facing this would entail effort; accepting what this means would entail self-realization and the independence it might lead to, but he is allergic to exertion so there he sits stagnating until death comes to formally take him.
Mr. Ripley is, for all practical purposes, already dead.
He is inanimate matter.
He is amongst the walking-dead, and in this he includes himself within a popular trend; his own surround him to varying degrees, and this emboldens his inactivity and makes him feel good.
He is a naturally born nihilist; authentic in the sense that he did not have to be convinced.
He is anti-activity in a world where action always leads to hedonism and materialism – both aspects of himself he cannot accept because this would expose him to himself.
The self he has buried and now pretends to have forgotten – or perhaps he has.
If he is to expend energies for childish games, which sexual games ultimately are even if the result is metaphysical, then he requires a clear-cut victory to compensate for his momentary disturbance - some kind of standard to measure success by, so that the ambiguity does not make of his discomfort a wasteful expenditure.

Mr. Ripley wishes for certainty. He wants clear-cut methods towards clear goals with clear standards.
Mr. Ripley is a mathematician. He loves the sense of certainty math offers, even though defining the self-evident concepts math uses is beyond his capacity to do.
Mr. Ripley simply loves the sense of efficiency mathematical algorithms offer him – coming to terms with activity, to the small degree that he has demands of him a method to decrease the energy expenditure while increasing the promised rewards.
He will not act unless he is assured and ensured a payback triple and quadruple his effort. He will not act in no other way and under any other circumstance.
Inaction is his Utopia.  
That’s why Mr. Ripley likes games, mostly childish ones. Something simple and obvious, nothing that would require too much nuanced thinking, as thinking is an effort he will not allow himself to indulge in.
This is because Mr. Ripley wishes to remain a child forever. It represents the stage in life that suits him the best, because a child one need not do anything unless it were fun – no commitments, no responsibilities that would urge with into undesirable motion, but also because as a child he can be taken care of, guided, given things without earning them.
Mr. Ripley wants to be kept.
It is why despite all efforts he cannot find a mate. He wishes for a mother but much more attractive, as her looks would make his life much easier.
He wants a mistress that cooks and cleans and does not make him feel like the infantile mind that he is, for Mr. Ripley wishes to remain boyish if not manly.
So, Mr. Ripley is attracted to authorities and more masculine entities, having effeminate qualities himself, yet will not admit it nor even consider the implications of his overall demeanor.
As such Mr. Ripley comes across as a homosexual to all that do not know that he is simply emasculated and stagnating in the condition of retarded maturity.
You see Mr. Ripley’s daddy was a stupid bastard - one of those idiots that shouldn’t have had a family to begin with, finding some poor ugly female to settle for him.
In today’s world where female sexual choice is returning to its primitive state he would have remained a bachelor, like his brother did.
Instead here we are with Mr. Ripley on the scene: uncomfortable, bewildered, pitiful – a half-man seeking a father figure because he lacked one of his own; a man-child desperately seeking a leader to keep him safe and to allow him to live-out a childhood he never got over.  

Mr. Ripley is a tragic figure, as the very type of woman he needs, he does not want, and the one he wants would never be attracted to him, no matter how he looks.
He is far too feminine for such females and the more masculine ones intimidate him and would wish for a type of male he could ever be.
His only option is to settle for a female more desperate than he is, but his childishness prevents such mature sacrifices.
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A Woman for the Ages

Post by Outis on Thu Jul 21 2016, 12:25

#1
A female will pay you no mind unless you have already seduced her.
Her first acknowledgement of your presence will determine if you keep her attentions, and how long this will last.
Her test is that of substance, though she has no way of rationally determining and understanding it.
She will feel it, in her bones, in her vagina, on her nipples.
A hardness her softness craves.  
But she will doubt herself.
Then she will test you, or watch as others test you for her.
Your talents will be evaluated intuitively, viscerally, dissected and inspected.
She will not know what or why, but she will know there is "something about you” or nothing at all.
Her judgments are quick and final, and up for revision, on some later date.  


#2
When dealing with the feminine mind, relinquish the initiative.
She will resist taking the lead, being against her nature (an innate quality) to not be passive-aggressive and (re)reactionary.
Taking the lead, being clear, requires courage and integrity - it limits her playing field, her choice options.
She has very little of either.
To outperform the female at her own games you must use more elegant feminine methods.
Never take the lead – fall back and wait.
Make her come to you, swinging.
Force her into that place of focus.
Watch, adapt, and be flexible.
She will signal you when she's had enough.
Then you'll have her.


#3
Having no ability to respond to anything on a rational level, on a conscious level, the sophisticated female will always fall back on emotion, and attack the source of the opinions she rejects on matters of principle, rather than trying to deal, directly, with the opinions themselves.
Her desire is to return the conversation to where she feels the most confident and powerful: emotions, psychological manipulation, relationships etc.
These are, typically, some of the words they will evoke to accomplish the desired effect: shame, guilt, envy, hatred, love, pity, mirth and so on.
Triggering mechanism at her disposal; she loves horse stirrups
The goal is to produce an emotional reaction in what she cannot deal with physically, or intellectually.
The cycle usually proceeds from the positive emotion of happiness, mirth, humour, implying a detached, uncaring, dismissive, detachment, to that of pity, sadness, implying a personal reaction to her own state, now directed towards its source.

There are two options:
a- Total disengagement.
There is no way you can deal with this emotionalism, but to flee.
This option is only available if you do not wish to continue relating with the female, given that there is no sexual, or economic, or family, reason to continue to do so, or when other alternatives are available.  

b- You must lower yourself to her level of comprehension, and outperform her at her own game, increasing her esteem of you.
This requires self-knowledge and a full acceptance of your feminine side.
At this point your detachment becomes apathy towards her words, and a focus on her (re)actions.
The reasons you may choose this option are multiple:
sexual gratification, a child, economics, play, practice, boredom, leaving your options open, since the first closes the door etc.


#4
Woman is a force of nature; she is nature personified.
The modern version is an exercise of her powers of suggestion.
Chaos is her essence, as she is swept away by the current, given over to the most powerful force of all: change.
She is, therefore, always progressive, fashionable, and “open” to the new.
She is made to sample the newness, to absorb and incorporate it in her being; she gestates it and gives birth to more newness, more possibility.
She seduces simply by being open and willing.
She offers herself up as another conduit to newness, to the modern, to the immediate.
Even when she adopts popular delusions concerning the irrelevance of appearances, she cannot help but be totally immersed in the apparent.
She is all about appearances, behaviours, how this past, which she has no interest in, manifests in the present, as presence.
She is seduced by it immediately and with no constraints, except for social conventions.
Her evaluations occur spontaneously and intuitively, and they are final and certain, for a while.
She's been conditioned, over thousands of years of evolution, to appreciate instinctively, surrender with no inhibitions - her loaylatis are,a fter all, temporary and up for revision at a moment's notice.
She feels power, without having to define, nor understand it.
She senses intelligence, though it may surpass her own.
She knows strength, in the way it relates to her and her promises.


#5
Woman, particularly the modern version, is all about suggesting what it may, or may not, be able to deliver.
From the moment she wakes up she begins her routine of self-creation.
She takes whatever her past has given her and accentuates it or diminishes it, for a desirable effect: a hint, an insinuation.
She makes of herself bait to draw prospectors in.
It must all remain ion the subtle and the hypothetical, for she must always be able to deny her own motives.
She must speak without clarity, imply without directness, offer without doing so.
This is her genius.
A seemingly passive force of continuity, being swept away by whatever is irresistible in the here and now, but never actually, admitting, it.
To admit is to take a stand, to make a choice, to produce order: this only follows her surrender.
Before it she must keep her options open, give herself to randomness, and be prepared to take advantage of circumstances.
But surrender only lasts for so long, like her loyalty, and her "love.”
Once the costs have been paid and the benefits acquired, she returns to her natural state of openness to whatever sweeps her away once more.
She is nothing beyond her procreative role of genetic and memetic filter.  


#6
The masculine spirit wants to master the chaos, fertilize it with his own kind of order, and give it shape and melody.
A man is a musician, a painter, a sculptor of forms, songs, norms, words, symbols; metaphors shaped to accommodate his will.
Man writes music, by taking the chaos of sound and structuring it with repetitive, symmetrical, consistency.
He takes the ugly and makes it beautiful.
The feminine domain is in words, dominating it goes into her heart.
In the structure, the code, provided for her, the masculine energy is used, manipulated, harnessed.
She injects the irrational to the rational, speaks in-between the lines – in the chaos still present between the notes, between the words.
She insinuates the unsaid, the unfathomable, the chaotic confronting structure and order.
A female is a master of words, but not of what they refer to, and in this age of feminization, words are all we are permitted to have.
Children of the code, of the Book; children of mothers and no fathers.  


#7
A modern female secretly laughs at the modern male.
There was a time when the male stood between her and whatever lurked out there, beyond her powers of seduction and manipulation.
A cold, indifferent man is as terrifying as a bear, a wolf, out in the wild. A creature she cannot control.  
She considered him a god-like creature: strong, brave, a provider, protector, and a creative force.
Without him she could not get pregnant, bringing a life into the world, and she could not fend for herself and the offspring, in a world that was indifferent to her charms.
But things slowly changed, changing her role with them.
At first the male was degraded to that of a mere representation of the clan, the kind being its highest form.
Still, he stood in between her and the other members of the group, and still remained the one through which she accessed resources and held status.
She now valued him, though she no longer worshipped him.
But change came again.
The institution was then the entity that stood between her and whatever lurked, out there, and between her and other members of the group.
It took time for this to sink in, because psychology, evolved and innate, must be rationally convinced of its reversal.
Slowly he became a big joke. When he pranced and danced, huffing and puffing, and acting all big and string, she knew that he was nothing in comparison to the only real masculine power, the institution, and that all she had to do is scream, bloody-hell, and he would be put in his place by a power exceeding any mortal man.
Even in the time of religious fanaticism, when God was the supreme male, the biological male still had to be a go-between, the mundane, and the divine.
But now, with the secularization of the ideal it became more than an intangible idea.
It acquired hands and feet, and through technologies, even fertilizing potential.
This abstracted masculine entity could do it all for her.
He was not needed as a sperm-donor, and forget about being protector and provider, because another had taken that spot long ago.
He, this pale representation of the supreme male, not god-like but abstracted into a faceless entity with interchangeable faces and myriads of hands and feet and minds, was a pathetic nothing to her.
His superior strength and intelligence could not match the supreme-male.
She tolerated his bravado and his displays, because the old had yet to be expunged from her psychology.
She, again, had to be rationally convinced that her innate appreciation of the biological male, was nothing compared to the ethereal, godly, nature of the institution.
All she had to do is pick up the phone, and he would become less than her.
She felt strong, independent, liberated from that damn man, who was nothing but skin and bones, like her.
She felt indestructible enough to display herself sexually without fear, without remorse.
The, one and only real alpha-male, would provide, protect, and ensure that her sexual choices remained intact – it would even impregnate her with a sample from any hair, or skin, follicle; protected from what lurks in the natural darkness, she can live in artificial light, and climate controlled walled-in enclosures, an abstracted male's embrace, raising her children, serving her master, feeling safe and taken care of.
Now, that remnant of the biological past had to be humoured.
He had to be trained to be a female-like creature, because all she really needed was the penis, just for old-time's sake (technology can replace that, as well), and a girlfriend, a second mother for her children, which may or may not be his.

One thing remained problematic.
The creativity factor.
Who would innovate, revolutionize, and think outside the norm, challenge established ideas and ideals, if the masculine energy was made effete and obsolete?
Well, for one, challenging the institution is not something it would consider "positive," and secondly, maybe creativity could be salvaged by making it into a formula – a code that can be programmed into any machine. Then technology can compensate for yet another masculine trait.
Artificial penis', artificial maleness, artificial insemination, artificial joy, artificial "authenticity," artificial safety and identification... so why not artificial creative genius?
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SpiderWoman

Post by Outis on Thu Jul 21 2016, 12:28



A fence-sitter, a fence swinger, this species of predator feeds on emotion, human (re)action, human frailty - a female version of the masculine "playa", given a second wind with institutional payments and day after pregnancy controls that keeps this type confident and cost free - cheap.
She builds her nest, with fine yarns, barely sticking to the solid in between fence rungs, in the void; oscillating this way, and then that way, or wherever the wind blows: attached to both and to neither.  
Her loyalties as firm as her thoughts - convoluted biological steams, flowing down paths-of-least-resistance, a irresistible power.

She does not wish to kill, but only to keep her prey tied-up in her verbal webs, and her sticky pretenses, so as to feed on it indefinitely.
The energies she sucks-in are to compensate for her own inability to produce them in herself - her abdomen engorged with victim blood.
Her hunger exposes her; her prey exposes its essence.
She is spindly and veracious, always wanting more of what she lacks in herself.
The kernel of the other fills the vacuum of her inner absence.
Like her nest she hovers in the void clinging to solidity tenuously, ready to shift her weight at a moments notice.  
Emotional (re)actions remind her that she is present; that she has mass.
Sometimes here, and sometimes there.  

She never takes a definite stand on anything because this would reduce her options, force her to commit… and her hunting methods depend on remaining inconspicuous, and versatile.
She repeats the official narrative playing on the odds, knowing the other will, most probably, belong to the majority who adhere to it, and therein lies the power she craves -  but she is never precise and definite about it because she wants to, also, retain her options open, and flexible, denying that the official story is, in fact, what she buys into.
She cares not about ideas, ideals, or reality… other than the reality of her pressing needs, and their gratification.
She has no principles other than this, self-serving hedonism.
She believes in nothing and nobody, outside of the reality of her emotions and her physical hunger; her automatic (re)actions to temporary satiation.
Sensation, on a visceral level, is all she places her confidence upon, and since her own is the only one she can rely upon her own gratification is her only idea(l), and her only standard for evaluating worth.
All is measured against it.
Once the emotion, the feeling, becomes an idea(l), when it becomes too abstract, she lets go, and spins another thread to swing away on - her anus acting as a spindle she can place all her trust on.     
She is cynical concerning all human artifices, recognizing in them her own weakness.
But she will never explore the roots of this need, not wanting to demystify her idea(l) to the point where she must let go of it; that ease in the experience of the sensation of pleasure is where she begins and ends her threading.

Spiderwoman (although it can also be a Spiderman), can multitask.
It’s a delicate balancing-act to keep all eight legs steady on eight different fence posts, not once touching any one of them with your body, with the most intimate part of your physicality - your abdomen.
Head, and stomach hover above her touching points, only dipping low when she comes down to take a bite, and run.
She never settles anywhere for long; always in the crevices, in the corners, or hanging from a string, uncommitted, waiting patiently for something to fall into her webs.

Spiderwoman is a study in contrasts:
Motherly predator, light gravitas, fragile sturdiness, emotional detachment and so on.
She spreads her legs wide, spanning distances greater than her body can encompass, raising her uterus off the ground, creating the illusion of mass; the fringe, created by her outstretched limbs, an appropriation of space/time covering mostly emptiness within its perimeter.
She gives the impression of great size but she is small and easily crushed if caught off-guard in open ground - she is fragile.
It’s why she scurries for the edges, and climbs the fence tops, or buries herself in crevices.
Her pretense of size also implies weight, but a strong wind, or a watery current, can sweep her away.
To compensate for her fragility she’s evolved many methods, one of which is linguistic venom which affects the nervous system of her intended victim, rendering it incapacitated for a long-enough period of time, to plunge her fangs in and suck it dry of all its vital juices.
Depending on her emotional appetite she can stimulate a neurological (re)action in the other to feed on , a venomous crippling of the nervous system.
There are many kinds of this species each with its own particular tastes, but any emotional (re)action will do when she is starving.
Her verbal poison affects the primal connection of mind/body, the nervous system, by stimulating its most automatic, visceral parts.
It affects the body and through the connecting nexus of the neurological network, the effect reaches the brain/mind.
 
The spontaneous, spasmodic, passionate (re)action her poison causes in the other can be replicated continuously, with careful injections of her pharmakon, until her prey is spent, and nearly bone dry.
Then, in a motherly gesture, she will cocoon her prey in her soft, warm, webs, letting it rest and rejuvenate its energies.
Sometimes the venom may mutate the victim’s essence, and what it was will not be what emerges from the shell.
This is her cultivating contribution to the victim’s development – sometimes unintentional.  
It perpetuates the types she can feed on, and if she likes her prey’s smell/taste, or its vulnerability to her venom’s effect, she might attempt to turn it into a version of herself.
With no idea(l), other than the reduction of need/suffering, she can only teach by example, always remaining unconcerned about the outcome.
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The curious case of Benjamin Button

Post by Outis on Thu Jul 21 2016, 12:34

Benjamin is a man out-of-phase, a term he uses to explain his existential condition, his temporal state of being permanently out-of-sync.
He began phasing, and fading out of physical presence around the same time he entered puberty. Up until then he was a normal, average boy, with nothing particularly distinctive about him.
His case is, indeed, curious, for it is an uncanny state of time displacement, dividing Benjamin Button in two – one part, his body, out of place, in his own age; falling behind towards the ultraviolet light spectrum, the melancholic blue – while, at the same time, his mind is far ahead, traveling in the future, red-shifting as he advances at a rate that distances him from the present.
The blue and red light spectrum shifts are not how he perceives himself, but it is how he is perceived by others.
This temporal disparity leaves his presence, his appearance, oscillating between melancholic blue, and raging red, and these are the only hues that get him noticed, primarily by more sensitive eyes.
He is becoming a shadow of himself, fading to grey but experienced, externally as blue, or red.  
To compensate, for his fading out of sync, Benjamin covers his temporal disappearance using a variety of clothing, sometimes wearing one uniform, and the character appropriate to it, and the next wearing another.
He has become, with practice, a master of disguise, and a competent imitator – an actor.
To seem “normal”, to others, Benjamin has acquired many masks and learned to play many roles, using many different scripts, depending on who he wishes to be seen by.
Benjamin became a chameleon; adapting, able to read others and adjust to their particular personalities.
As a consequence he cannot connect physically with other creatures of his own kind, but is forced to compensate with his mind, and its creative expressions, his purchased bag of tricks.
He doubts he has a kind, and this makes him feel unique and ashamed of being so self-flattering.
It is his mind that gets him noticed, if and when he speaks, because Benjamin remains inconspicuous, and goes unnoticed when among these bizarre temporal creatures, unlike him in so many ways, preferring to observe rather than participate, but when he opens his mouth to let his mind show itself through words, symbols shaped into metaphors, all suddenly see his blue, or his red, or any combination of the two, depending on what point in his oscillating phases Benjamin is in.
This makes him a curiosity few can ignore, or forget, adding to the strangeness of his situation by either condemning him to being ignored, or to the uncomfortable, for him, situation of being the center of attention.
The others are metaphysically toxic to him, as he is to them – oil and water cannot mix.
He sees them recoil when his authenticity dares to peek through his pretences, or when he comes out of hiding.
He is incompatible with them, as they are with him – two different temporal beings that maintain a physical connection quickly dissipating in temporal fog.    
His mind is experienced, by his audience, as melancholic, or enraged, mostly covered in self-deprecating humour, at times turning outwardly insulting, in ambiguous indirect ways, because only in humour does his age permit the expositions of certain ideas, and certain emotional states; only with humour can someone express rage, that rises above and casts ahead.
They prefer his melancholic intoxication; numb and complacent.
To that they can feel superior, progressive, and far ahead.  
Benjamin discovered this early on, when he began fading out of his time’s enlightenment project, and became no more than a shadow of himself.
The world of men passed through him, barely making contact, and they rarely noticed.  
This curious condition has only permitted his contemporaries to become aware of Benjamin as a sad, or as an angry mind, and never as a physical presence, never completely there, never substantially present – he is irrelevant, a curiosity, a non-threatening weirdness they can dismiss after they’ve had a look, or two.
It is his past, his nature that places him out of harmony with those that remain forever present, forever current, and it is the speed of his mind’s movement ahead that forces these same people to take notice of him, but not as a physical being but as raging mind, a blood-red inferno, blazing up-ahead, in the distance, or as falling behind gloomy body, sulking, in introverted blue despondency.  
Benjamin was dismayed by this, when he was in his youth, the period in his development when he was discovering his own physicality, but grew to appreciate his misfortune as a great fortune, for it freed him from the usual demands others are distracted by, liberating his mind to experience his own existence and these creatures who call themselves his kind, from the distinctive vantage point of objective, unaffected, non-participating observer; allowing his mind to become creative, free from all physical entanglements, and all cares associated by inescapable interactivities bodies indulge in.
When he did experience physical contact it was always as detached voyeur, and they sensed his partial presence as indifference, approaching an insult.
He never performed well physically. Only adequately, when we put all his energies into it which, as time went by, he lost interest in repeating.
Where he did make a memorable, impact, they could not dismiss, was when he let his mouth open to make a sound – as if it were coming from some other dimension; a voice emerging out of a spectre.      
During those days of coming to terms with his strange condition, he made many efforts to be “normal”, to become fully seen, to phase back into presence, to be appreciated physically, though he was not a bad looking fella, but all his efforts did not reach a satisfactory conclusion, making Benjamin feel as if he were a stranger in a stranger land, an alien among creatures he could relate to but they could not relate to him; a monster.
He felt a distance growing as he faded out, and his fellow men become more solid, inflexible, slow, to the point where he could predict their movements and, usually, became bored waiting for them to advance through their charted, by him, predictable points in space/time; at other times they appeared to be moving at light speed, never settling down, never seeing existence passing them by, and with the world Benjamin was passed by unnoticed.
At those speeds his words sounded like an annoying buzz in their ears.
He could see them but they saw right through him, as if he were not there, as if he were no-body.
The light, they were accustomed to, passed through Benjamin; only a few photons bouncing off his cells, his material presence, to make him perceptible to others.
He realized that their light was not his light, and their time was not his, and their world was one he could never belong to – he was out of place and out of time.
Always in the right place at the wrong time, or at the right time in the wrong place – out of step, out of phase.
He came to associate this with the gamma masculine psychological type, or by using the metaphor of the third-wheel: there but not useful, not included – there but not there; the odd one out, when all was even, two by twos.    
His method of compensating had to increase as the years phased him out further, distances gradually and steadily increasing. His characters became caricatures, each more extreme than the previous one, his wardrobe more severe, or, if he wanted to disappear, more casual.
This gave him much leeway.
Never being seen, when he took off his masks, his clothing, when he did not speak, he could pretend to be anyone, and no one, and if he stayed quiet he could slip in and out of social circumstances as if he were never there, because he never fully was.
For the normal ones this would appear to be a tragic state, a sad one, which Benjamin sometimes felt in himself as a longing, a sense of being forever without a home, without a comrade – a wanderer, outside the city walls, with his following shadow his only companion; a companion only seen when the sun was at the right angle, sometimes menacingly long, during sunrise and sunset, and sometimes short and small, during high noon.
But the mind is adaptive, and in time he became accustomed to his condition.
To the point where he would not choose to be anything other than that, even if he could.
He no longer wanted to be appreciated physically, to be seen as a corporeal presence, but preferred the malleable power of remaining a mind, a spirit casting a shadow of red, or blue, upon creatures that could not make sense of him unless they sampled their own experiences to find there a presence they could relate to and use to give Benjamin's fading presence flesh and bones.
The more they did so the more Benjamin became alienated from them; the more he became alienated the more he receded into his act, his shadow taking over.
He learned to play along with their understanding, wearing their projections as if it were the real him, but this became tiresome, and Benjamin preferred to recede into solitude as he disappeared from being present to them.
Isolation was where he felt most in harmony with his own condition; it was how he made his physical, and his mental state coincide – to not be present in body but also in mind; to remain outside their field of view, a shadow they notice from the corner of their eye before they returned to their distractions.




He could not touch them, affect them physically, but neither could they.
His only bridges were his words, and his mind’s talent with them.
He used them to stimulate passions in them in ways his body could not.
He used them to exploit and manipulate.
He became a gifted wordsmith, seductive in a way the body could never match.
What he could not experience physically he did so vicariously, using these creatures as his proxies, his ploys, his toys.
He took full advantage of his invisibility, slipping in and out of their heads, leaving behind his scent, his seed, his memories which were also fading




Words lost in tropical storm noises, or in an arctic muting that freezes all in silence.
He's done his duty, cultivated seedlings for others to harvest and digest at their leisure; bodies for others to caress and feel the lingering warmth; minds for others to seek refuge in and explore their secret gardens.
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