"Nibby" (nibby68)
12/16/2016 at 10:45 • Filed to: None
2
50|
"Nibby" (nibby68)
12/16/2016 at 10:45 • Filed to: None | 2
| 50 |
It is clear that the world is purely parodic, in other words, that each thing seen is the parody of another, or is the same thing in a deceptive form.
Ever since sentences started to circulate in brains devoted to reflection, an effort at total identification has been made, because with the aid of a copula each sentence ties one thing to another; all things would be visibly connected if one could discover at a single glance and in its totality the tracings of Ariadne’s thread leading thought into its own labyrinth.
But the copula of terms is no less irritating than the copulation of bodies. And when I scream I AM THE SUN an integral erection results, because the verb to be is the vehicle of amorous frenzy.
Everyone is aware that life is parodic and that it lacks an interpretation. Thus lead is the parody of gold. Air is the parody of water. The brain is the parody of the equator. Coitus is the parody of crime.
Gold, water, the equator, or crime can each be put forward as the principle of things.
And if the origin of things is not like the ground of the planet that seems to be the base, but like the circular movement that the planet describes around a mobile center, then a car, a clock, or a sewing machine could equally be accepted as the generative principle.
The two primary motions are rotation and sexual movement, whose combination is expressed by the locomotive’s wheels and pistons.
These two motions are reciprocally transformed, the one into the other.
Thus one notes that the earth, by turning, makes animals and men have coitus, and (because the result is as much the cause as that which provokes it) that animals and men make the earth turn by having coitus.
It is the mechanical combination or transformation of these movements that the alchemists sought as the philosopher’s stone.
It is through the use of this magically valued combination that one can determine the present position of men in the midst of the elements.
An abandoned shoe, a rotten tooth, a snub nose, the cook spitting in the soup of his masters are to love what a battle flag is to nationality.
An umbrella, a sexagenarian, a seminarian, the smell of rotten eggs, the hollow eyes of judges are the roots that nourish love.
A dog devouring the stomach of a goose, a drunken vomiting woman, a slobbering accountant, a jar of mustard represent the confusion that serves as the vehicle of love.
A man who finds himself among others is irritated because he does not know why he is not one of the others.
In bed next to a girl he loves, he forgets that he does not know why he is himself instead of the body he touches.
Without knowing it, he suffers from the mental darkness that keeps him from screaming that he himself is the girl who forgets his presence while shuddering in his arms.
Love or infantile rage, or a provincial dowager’s vanity, or clerical pornography, or the diamond of a soprano bewilder individuals forgotten in dusty apartments.
They can very well try to find each other; they will never find anything but parodic images, and they will fall asleep as empty as mirrors.
The absent and inert girl hanging dreamless from my arms is no more foreign to me than the door or window through which I can look or pass.
I rediscover indifference (allowing her to leave me) when I fall asleep, through an inability to love what happens.
It is impossible for her to know whom she will discover when I hold her, because she obstinately attains a complete forgetting.
The planetary systems that turn in space like rapid disks, and whose centers also move, describing an infinitely larger circle, only move away continuously from their own position in order to return it, completing their rotation.
Movement is a figure of love, incapable of stopping at a particular being, and rapidly passing from one to another.
But the forgetting that determines it in this way is only a subterfuge of memory.
A man gets up as brusquely as a specter in a coffin and falls in the same way.
He gets up a few hours later and then he falls again, and the same thing happens every day; this great coitus with the celestial atmosphere is regulated by the terrestrial rotation around the sun.
Thus even though terrestrial life moves to the rhythm of this rotation, the image of this movement is not turning earth, but the male shaft penetrating the female and almost entirely emerging, in order to reenter.
Love and life appear to be separate only because everything on earth is broken apart by vibrations of various amplitudes and durations.
However, there are no vibrations that are not conjugated with a continuous circular movement; in the same way, a locomotive rolling on the surface of the earth is the image of continuous metamorphosis.
Beings only die to be born, in the manner of phalluses that leave bodies in order to enter them.
Plants rise in the direction of the sun and then collapse in the direction of the ground.
Trees bristle the ground with a vast quantity of flowered shafts raised up to the sun.
The trees that forcefully soar end up burned by lightning, chopped down, or uprooted. Returned to the ground, they come back up in another form.
But their polymorphous coitus is a function of uniform terrestrial rotation.
The simplest image of organic life united with rotation is the tide. From the movement of the sea, uniform coitus of the earth with the moon, comes the polymorphous and organic coitus of the earth with the sun.
But the first form of solar love is a cloud raised up over the liquid element. The erotic cloud sometimes becomes a storm and falls back to earth in the form of rain, while lightning staves in the layers of the atmosphere.
The rain is soon raised up again in the form of an immobile plant.
Animal life comes entirely from the movement of the seas and, inside bodies, life continues to come from salt water.
The sea, then, has played the role of the female organ that liquefies under the excitation of the penis.
The sea continuously jerks off.
Solid elements, contained and brewed in water animated by erotic movement, shoot out in the form of flying fish.
The erection and the sun scandalize, in the same way as the cadaver and the darkness of cellars.
Vegetation is uniformly directed towards the sun; human beings, on the other hand, even though phalloid like trees, in opposition to other animals, necessarily avert their eyes.
Human eyes tolerate neither sun, coitus, cadavers, nor obscurity, but with different reactions.
When my face is flushed with blood, it becomes red and obscene.
It betrays at the same time, through morbid reflexes, a bloody erection and a demanding thirst for indecency and criminal debauchery.
For that reason I am not afraid to affirm that my face is a scandal and that my passions are expressed only by the JESUVE.
The terrestrial globe is covered with volcanoes, which serve as its anus.
Although this globe eats nothing, it often violently ejects the contents of its entrails.
Those contents shoot out with a racket and fall back, streaming down the sides of the Jesuve, spreading death and terror everywhere.
In fact, the erotic movements of the ground are not fertile like those of the water, but they are far more rapid.
The earth sometimes jerks off in a frenzy, and everything collapses on its surface.
The Jesuve is thus the image of an erotic movement that burglarizes the ideas contained in the mind, giving them the force a scandalous eruption.
This eruptive force accumulates in those who are necessarily situated below.
Communist workers appear to the bourgeois to be as ugly and dirty as hairy sexual organs, or lower parts; sooner or later there will be a scandalous eruption in the course of which the asexual noble heads of the bourgeois will be chopped off.
Disasters, revolutions, and volcanoes do not make love with the stars.
The erotic revolutionary and volcanic deflagrations antagonize the heavens.
As in the case of violent love, they take place beyond the constraints of fecundity.
In opposition to celestial fertility there are terrestrial disasters, the image of terrestrial love without condition, erection without escape and without rule, scandal, and terror.
Love then screams in my own throat; I am the Jesuve, the filthy parody of the torrid and blinding sun.
I want to have my throat slashed while violating the girl to whom I will have been able to say: you are the night.
The Sun exclusively loves the Night and directs its luminous violence, its ignoble shaft, toward the earth, but finds itself incapable of reaching the gaze or the night, even though the nocturnal terrestrial expanses head continuously toward the indecency of the solar ray.
The solar annulus is the intact anus of her body at eighteen years to which nothing sufficiently blinding can be compared except the sun, even though the anus is night.
Tripper
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 10:52 |
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Damn, I love that Ferris Bueller garage in the first pic.
RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 10:52 |
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The apes howl, bare
Their fangs, dance,
Tumble in the
Rushing water,
Musty, wet pelts
Glistening in the blue.
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Nibby
> RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
12/16/2016 at 10:54 |
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The spectacle is not a collection of images, but a social relation among people, mediated by images.
Highlander-Datsuns are Forever
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 10:55 |
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Sam
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 10:56 |
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I am not sure if you are to benevolent, your life and your life is a great way to get an idea of what I want to do something or whatever you want to do.
Good old autocomplete sentence.
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Sam
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 10:56 |
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So it’s a meme?
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Nibby
> Sam
12/16/2016 at 10:57 |
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Guy Debord predicted memes decades ago.
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Nibby
> Sam
12/16/2016 at 10:57 |
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just tappin’ dat autocorrect
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RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
> Sam
12/16/2016 at 10:59 |
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It’s a regularly scheduled and in-order Nibby shitpost, with a long tradition.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Solar_Anus
You’ve missed it getting posted so far? It’s like a once per two months thing.
My post is the second half of
Underground
, written by Barack Obama (oddly enough) as a student. It’s, um, odd.
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RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:00 |
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A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
S65
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:01 |
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Haven’t you POSTED THIS BEFORE
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Nibby
> S65
12/16/2016 at 11:02 |
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Many times. It is part of tradition.
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Nibby
> RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
12/16/2016 at 11:02 |
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Red sun rising somewhere through the dense fog.
The portrait of the jaded dawn who had seen it all before.
This day wept on my shoulders.
Still the same as yesterday.
This path seems endless, body is numb.
The soul has lost its flame.
Walking in familiar traces to find my way back home.
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S65
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:04 |
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I UNDERSTAND NOW
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RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:04 |
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The keeper of the city keys
Put shutters on the dreams.
I wait outside the pilgrim’s door
With insufficient schemes.
The black queen chants
The funeral march,
The cracked brass bells will ring;
To summon back the fire witch
To the court of the crimson king.
functionoverfashion
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:04 |
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Don’t you have a job, man?
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Nibby
> functionoverfashion
12/16/2016 at 11:07 |
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yes, hence this was a scheduled post
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Nibby
> RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
12/16/2016 at 11:08 |
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The Panopticon is a marvelous machine which, whatever use one may wish to put it to, produces homogeneous effects of power.
Daily Drives a Dragon - One Last Lap
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:12 |
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Can I have some of what you’re having?
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Nibby
> Daily Drives a Dragon - One Last Lap
12/16/2016 at 11:15 |
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ok, just eat regular foods. drink water, and breathe oxygen. no drugs/smoking/alcohol whatsoever
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RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:22 |
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From the rear of the house within a lantern approached: a lantern that the
trees sometimes striped and sometimes eclipsed, a paper lantern that had the
form of a drum and the color of the moon. A tall man bore it. I didn’t see his
face for the light blinded me. He opened the door and said slowly, in my own
language: “I see that the pious Hsi P’eng persists in correcting my solitude.
You no doubt wish to see the garden?”
I recognized the name of one of our consuls and I replied, disconcerted, “The
garden?”
“The garden of forking paths.”
Something stirred in my memory and I uttered with incomprehensible certainty,
“The garden of my ancestor Ts’ui Pên.”
“Your ancestor? Your illustrious ancestor? Come in.”
Maxima Speed
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:24 |
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One: Your brains are completely fried by drugs
Two: so that others don’t succumb to the insanity we need to shut this guy down.
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Nibby
> Maxima Speed
12/16/2016 at 11:30 |
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Re #1 - Many people here know I don’t drink alcohol at all, no drugs, no smoking.
Re #2 - I’ve been here for a looooong time.
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Nibby
> RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
12/16/2016 at 11:31 |
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It has been in search of the absolute that the avant-garde has arrived at “abstract” or “nonobjective” art — and poetry, too. The avant-garde poet or artist tries in effect to imitate God by creating something valid solely on its own terms, in the way nature itself is valid, in the way a landscape — not its picture — is aesthetically valid; something given, increate, independent of meanings, similars or originals. Content is to be dissolved so completely into form that the work of art or literature cannot be reduced in whole or in part to anything not itself.
But the absolute is absolute, and the poet or artist, being what he is, cherishes certain relative values more than others. The very values in the name of which he invokes the absolute are relative values, the values of aesthetics. And so he turns out to be imitating, not God — and here I use “imitate” in its Aristotelian sense — but the disciplines and processes of art and literature themselves. This is the genesis of the “abstract.” (1) In turning his attention away from subject matter of common experience, the poet or artist turns it in upon the medium of his own craft. The nonrepresentational or “abstract,” if it is to have aesthetic validity, cannot be arbitrary and accidental, but must stem from obedience to some worthy constraint or original. This constraint, once the world of common, extroverted experience has been renounced, can only be found in the very processes or disciplines by which art and literature have already imitated the former. These themselves become the subject matter of art and literature. If, to continue with Aristotle, all art and literature are imitation, then what we have here is the imitation of imitating.
C62030
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:32 |
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Mr. Regular? Is that you?
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RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:36 |
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It is a revelation to compare Menard’s Don Quixote with Cervantes’. The latter, for example, wrote (part one, chapter nine):
. . . truth, whose mother is history, rival of time, depository of deeds, witness of the past, exemplar and adviser to the present, and the future’s counselor. Written in the seventeenth century, written by the “lay genius” Cervantes, this enumeration is a mere rhetorical praise of history. Menard, on the other hand, writes:
. . . truth, whose mother is history, rival of time, depository of deeds, witness of the past, exemplar and adviser to the present, and the future’s counselor.
History,
the
mother
of truth: the idea is astounding. Menard, a contemporary of
William James, does not define history as an inquiry into reality but as its
origin. Historical truth, for him, is not what has happened; it is what we
judge to have happened. The final phrases—
exemplar and adviser to the
present, and the future’s counselor
—are brazenly pragmatic.
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Nibby
> RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
12/16/2016 at 11:38 |
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A vast pride swelled in our breasts, to feel ourselves standing alone, like lighthouses or advanced guards, facing the army of enemy stars that camp in heavenly bivouacs. Alone with the greasers in the infernal engine-rooms of great ships, alone with the dark phantoms that rummage in the red bellies of bewitched locomotives, alone with the drunks fluttering, battering their wings against the walls!
And unexpectedly, like festive villages that the Po in flood suddenly unsettles and uproots to sweep them off, over the falls and eddies of a deluge, to the sea, we were disturbed by the rumbling of enormous double-decker trams, passing in fits and starts, streaked with lights.
Then the silence got worse. As we listened to the exhausted prayer of the old canal and heard the grating bones of palaces moribund in their greenery whiskers, all of a sudden hungry cars roared beneath our windows.
“Come,” I said, “my friends! Let us go! At last Mythology and the mystic Ideal have been surpassed. We shall witness the birth of the Centaur and, soon, we’ll see the first Angels fly! We must shake the gates of life to test the hinges and the locks! ... Let us go! This is truly the first sun that dawns above the earth! Nothing equals the splendor of our red sword battling for the first time in the millennial gloom.”
sm70- why not Duesenberg?
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:40 |
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TL;DR
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RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:43 |
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The moon went slowly down in loveliness; she departed into the depth of
the horizon, and long veil-like shadows crept up the sky through which
the stars appeared. Soon, however, they too began to pale before a
splendour in the east, and the advent of the dawn declared itself in the
newborn blue of heaven. Quieter and yet more quiet grew the sea, quiet
as the soft mist that brooded on her bosom, and covered up her
troubling, as in our tempestuous life the transitory wreaths of sleep
brook upon a pain-racked soul, causing it to forget its sorrow.
From the east to the west sped those angels of the Dawn, from sea to sea, from mountain-top to mountain-top, scattering light from breast and wing. On they sped out of the darkness, perfect, glorious; on, over the quiet sea, over the low coast-line, and the swamps beyond, and the mountains above them; over those who slept in peace and those who woke in sorrow; over the evil and the good; over the living and the dead; over the wide world and all that breathes or as breathed thereon.
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Nibby
> sm70- why not Duesenberg?
12/16/2016 at 11:44 |
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Basically two motions exist in the universe - circular, like planets orbiting the sun and piston, like a car engine or coitus. And this essay ties them all together.
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Nibby
> RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
12/16/2016 at 11:45 |
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In June 1935, Surrealism came to the last supportable limits of its project of forming the total avant-garde. After eight years passed trying to hold itself in the service of the French Communist Party, a too-thick flood of camouflets made it take note of its definitive disaccord with Stalinism. A discourse written by Breton, but read by Eluard at the “Congress of writers in defense of culture” must thus mark the last contact of importance between Surrealism and the PCF, between the artistic avant-garde and the political avant-garde. Its conclusion has remained famous: “ ‘Transform the world’ said Marx; ‘change life’ said Rimbaud: for us these two watchwords are one”. Breton did not only formulate the frustrated hope of a rapprochement, he also expressed the intimate connection between artistic and political avant-gardism, their common aesthetic nature. Ergo, in the same manner as Surrealism held itself towards the PCF, the PCF held itself towards the proletariat. In The Militants, written in 1949, Arthur Koestler delivers precious evidence of this form of schizophrenia, of the ventriloquism of class that is so remarkable in the discourse of Surrealism, but less often recognized in the delinquent KPD of the start of the 30’s: “A particular trait of the life of the Party, in this era, was the ‘cult of the proletarian’ and the hatred of intellectuals. That was the distress and obsession of all the Communist intellectuals who had issued from the middle class. We were tolerated in the Movement, but we did not have full rights: we had to convince them day and night...an intellectual could never become a veritable proletarian, but his duty was to approximate this as much as possible. Certain attempted to renounce ties, wearing working-class sweaters and keeping their nails black. But such a snobbish imposture was not officially encouraged.” He adds for its own sake: “In as much as I had only suffered from hunger, I considered myself as a provisional offshoot of the déclassé bourgeoisie. But since in 1931 I finally assured myself of a satisfactory situation, I felt that the hour had come to expand the ranks of the proletariat.” Therefore, if there is a watchword, certainly unformulated, that the avant-garde never failed, it is this: go to the masses rather than start from self. It is also relevant that the man of the avant-garde, after having gone to the masses for a whole life without ever finding them — at least where he waited for them — consecrates his old age to deriding them. The man of the avant-garde could be the sort, advancing in years, to take the advantageous pose of the man of the Ancien Regime and to make of his rancor a profitable business. In this manner he will always live under certainly changing ideological latitudes, but always in the shadow of the masses that he himself invented.
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sm70- why not Duesenberg?
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:46 |
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Cool.
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RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:52 |
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“Where are the notes?” I asked. He pointed to the table, and for the hundredth time I picked up the bundle of manuscript entitled—
“T HE I MPERIAL D YNASTY OF A MERICA .”
One by one I studied the well-worn pages, worn only by my own handling, and although I knew all by heart, from the beginning, “When from Carcosa, the Hyades, Hastur, and Aldebaran,” to “Castaigne, Louis de Calvados, born December 19th, 1877,” I read it with an eager, rapt attention, pausing to repeat parts of it aloud, and dwelling especially on “Hildred de Calvados, only son of Hildred Castaigne and Edythe Landes Castaigne, first in succession,” etc., etc.
When I finished, Mr. Wilde nodded and coughed.
“Speaking of your legitimate ambition,” he said, “how do Constance and Louis get along?”
“She loves him,” I replied simply.
The cat on his knee suddenly turned and struck at his eyes, and he flung her off and climbed on to the chair opposite me.
“And Dr. Archer! But that’s a matter you can settle any time you wish,” he added.
“Yes,” I replied, “Dr. Archer can wait, but it is time I saw my cousin Louis.”
“It is time,” he repeated. Then he took another ledger from the table and ran over the leaves rapidly. “We are now in communication with ten thousand men,” he muttered. “We can count on one hundred thousand within the first twenty-eight hours, and in forty-eight hours the state will rise en masse . The country follows the state, and the portion that will not, I mean California and the Northwest, might better never have been inhabited. I shall not send them the Yellow Sign.”
The blood rushed to my head, but I only answered, “A new broom sweeps clean.”
“The ambition of Caesar and of Napoleon pales before that which could not rest until it had seized the minds of men and controlled even their unborn thoughts,” said Mr. Wilde.
“You are speaking of the King in Yellow,” I groaned, with a shudder.
“He is a king whom emperors have served.”
“I am content to serve him,” I replied.
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Nibby
> RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
12/16/2016 at 11:54 |
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En Vind Av Sorg
La seg tungt
omkring
De Eldstes hus
En eim av Frost
på en allerede Frossen sjel
Et savn av Hyllest
fra disse De Edle sinn
Minnes de svundne Tider
Et Hav av Tid
har gået siden Den gang
Norrøners tro og skikk
Til Skogen hjem én Kom
og trakk luften inn
Her lukter det Kristen manns blod
- igler på Våre Hjerter
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RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 11:59 |
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aH pagh taHbe’. DaH mu’tlheghvam vIqelnIS.
quv’a’, yabDaq San vaQ cha, pu’ je SIQDI’?
pagh, Seng bIQ’a’Hey SuvmeH nuHmey SuqDI’,
‘ej, Suvmo’, rInmoHDI’? Hegh. Qong —- Qong neH —-
‘ej QongDI’, tIq ‘oy’, wa’SanID Daw’’e’ je
cho’nISbogh porghDaj rInmoHlaH net Har.
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Nibby
> RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
12/16/2016 at 12:01 |
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17 ‘ ’ “ , . ” .
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RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 12:04 |
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Hey! Mine was still literature.
... that was translated into Klingon
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Nibby
> RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
12/16/2016 at 12:06 |
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XD
mine was Korean news
Hateful Mate
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 12:09 |
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If so, I really can’t make any sense of this, because it’s next level crazy. Well, unless you’re in some religious cult, at which point, I’d say now is a good time to get the hell out. I’ve seen this on discovery channel, and it never ends well.
Or maybe the hippies put something in your organic free range coffee.
Whatever the cause, this is far beyond what my paranoid scizo cousin could come up with, and he wanted to put my grandmother on charge...
And, yeah. I remember you from years past. You where never THIS bad though.
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RamblinRover Luxury-Yacht
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 12:13 |
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XD
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Nibby
> Hateful Mate
12/16/2016 at 12:32 |
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If it gives you any solace, know this essay “The Solar Anus”
was written by Georges Bataille in 1931.
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functionoverfashion
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 14:27 |
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And it was epic
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Nibby
> functionoverfashion
12/16/2016 at 14:35 |
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Thank you kind sir
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functionoverfashion
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 14:53 |
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Like, how long did it take just to collect all those photos? I can’t even.
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Nibby
> functionoverfashion
12/16/2016 at 15:23 |
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Probably 10 minutes
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Hateful Mate
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 15:45 |
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Being well read is definately better than having lost the plot, so yes, it does provide solace.
I was wondering for a second how anyone capable of picking such a tasteful collection of photos, would at the same time be absolutely deranged. Though I suppose it might sound a bit better in French?
John Norris (AngryDrifter)
> Nibby
12/16/2016 at 17:31 |
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Let me abbreviate that for you.
Cool German cars:
A couple of cool American cars.
Ready for an adventure!
> Nibby
12/17/2016 at 06:26 |
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I only bought this to “read” this article.
Rusty Vandura - www.tinyurl.com/keepoppo
> Nibby
12/26/2016 at 11:50 |
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You might consider taking up drinking.
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Rusty Vandura - www.tinyurl.com/keepoppo
> Nibby
12/26/2016 at 11:52 |
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I choose this one. And then LS swap.