Original 1859 Photograph of the American Vice Consul to Damascus Michael Mishaka holding a bible. He was a Protestant Christian.

Egil at the ball-game

The game began and Egil proved to be the weaker, while Grim made the most of his strength. Then Egil got so angry that he lifted the bat and struck at Grim with it, but Grim took hold of him, hurled him to the ground and gave him some very rough treatment. He said that if Egil wouldn't behave himself, he'd do him some real damage. Egil scrambled back onto his feet and left the field with the youngsters jeering at him.

Egil went to look for Thord Granason and told him what had happened.

"I'll come with you," said Thord. "The two of us will pay him back."

Thord gave Egil a thick-bladed axe he was carrying, common enough at that time, and they went to the field where the boys were playing. Grim had just caught the ball and was racing along with the other boys after him. Egil ran up to him and drove the axe into his head right through to the brain.

"Where did you get that burned-out look? Why did you sell all your favorite books?"

A Book Review

Weird.

12.19.15.16.17

Seating of Kˀankˀin, 10 Kaban, day with Tezcatlipoca's soul and Mictlantecuhtli's shadow. Visit Tezcatlipoca in Mictlan where abstruse god drama is enacted. Tasteful campaign tent decor. Thoth, Kubaba, and Dōgen all in attendance. I come in Quetzalcoatl drag drinking pulque. We revisit the birth of the enemy of both sides—truth—at the fountainhead-rupture on the top of time. The black mirror's separation is real slow and tasty.

Some young artists have navigated the Land of the Dead here. They are alive—have they bypassed the usual perilous four-year journey across Hell? Apparently not. Nevertheless they are optimistic and seem comfortable and even relaxed in the Enemy's presence (μεμυημένοι?).

Tezcatlipoca's foot has now been eaten. The mortals discuss the viability of building a fire with underworld wood to cauterize the wound. We compare various tools and means of creating fire. Talk somehow pushes us to the peripheral regions. Find myself in a café in Serbia.

Re: HAIR

No doubt many of you who have invoked me in seances are aware that my profile picture—the result of a youthful experiment with time travel in which, having taught myself to play the lute, I injected my consciousness into that of the young Caravaggio (expedited by our equivalent age and life experience), great fellow Tenebroso—is badly out of date and that I now "let the waves spin." Yes, such is incumbent on the καλὸς κἀγαθός, as is carrying your own oil for when the bearded fellows are buying.

The dread Tezcatlipoca-Ixquimilli is accommodating and not at all fussy, as far as evil gods go. Surprisingly, the manifest deity's conversation is basically political and economic—a humanistic and pragmatic deity, busily concerned with his slaves (and "We Are His Slaves"). We get on well because I ask little of him and do not meddle in his affairs, and presumably because my occasional visits for smokes and advice with sex-enchantments remind him of happier times when sorcery and divination were affairs of state.

The Death of Romanticism

A bilious screed against love and romance: we don’t call it the death of romance for nothing. It’s strange, “romance”, y’know? Roman see ee, ss, Roman ticism, what’s the deal? When did our conception of Roman became one of love? When the Roman gladiator burst forth from the melee, the blistered sweaty mélange of muscle and flesh, tore through, burst forth, victorious, sword in hand, to stand face to face, breath to breath, in the mouth of a lion. Our gladiator by leaps and bounds soars through the thick Mediterranean air, thick from despicable debased human beings, thick from the humidity that emanates in post-quantum waves from our sea into the sun-bleached spectators and prisoners of the Roman coliseum, to bring the dirtied, bloodied, and terrible blade down across the brow of this starving, kidnapped, king of the animal kingdom; to sever flesh from muscle, muscle from bone, life from limb, and to stand there, breathing heavily, as the whole crowd lets forth an uproarious orgasm of heinousness, incarnate. For surely, this is what is meant by Roman love, this is what is meant by Latin love, this is what is meant by Mediterranean love. In which case, mosdef, one could see the death of romance, it deserved to die, just like the blood-soaked pelt before our gladiator, curing in the hot midday sun.

HAIR

“I will cut my hair for no man, if you cut your hair for other people, it means you’re enslaved to them. That’s why, as a free-man, you’re obligated to grow your hair ass long, and that’s why Sikhs are the best people in the world.”

Vive le France!

Marianne, the national prostitute of the French Nation. Every single French citizen is entitled to fuck her, by law. They just have to wait in line. I mean, she can only take so much at a time, even if they are only French cocks. A nation of bed-wetters, all. Though sometimes, you'll be in line and you'll realize that it's actually a bunch of people together for a gang-fuck situation. I mean, murder is still illegal and all, so there's no death fetishists, like those creepy Americans. Vile Americans, *spit* So when she dies, of whatever she dies of, a search is made for the next Marianne. Usually it's whatever female can be ascertained to have been conceived at the exact moment of the previous mariannes death. It's kinda like the Nepalese Dalai Lama, only she's a prostitute from the day she's born, y'know, to appease all those with, uh, shall we say, more rarefied tastes? Thing is, there's no rape, or sexual abuse in France any longer All neuroses are now affixed upon the person of Marianne. Some would say that it is disgusting, and abhorrent, but who are these people, probably descendents of the 21st century western world? Who are they to judge, at least Marianne is revered, all her escapades captured for all to see… well, save for those men and women who wish anonymity, after all, we're not perverts. You sickening dilettantes, you're so removed from the food on your table, you have no idea the cost, until the cost is brought home to you. Too bad, you've already shown the table your cards, and you've put everything on the line. Your entire gaming philosophy under scrutiny, no one believes you, they all know you're bluffing, you've been caught in a bad bluff. Now you're going to pay for your sins. You can't hide, I've already lain them on the table. I call.

umu explains about Ancient Greek

There's ἔρως, which is sexual attraction (perceived as an outside force that compels you to act)—or rather it is the whole spiritual complex that grows around πόθος "desire". Then there's φιλία, which is the love shared by friends, relatives, and so on—the kind of love it's decent to feel for your wife.

True facts

Homō vīvit, dum spīrat.

Quī spīrat vīvus est, quī nōn spīrat est mortuus.... Cum homō spīrat, anima in pulmōnēs intrat et rūrsus ex pulmōnibus exit. Anima est āēr quī in pulmōnēs dūcitur. Quī animam dūcit animal est.

Get Out The Vote

defined

("Office" is a bathroom where anonymous sex is transacted by a complex nonverbal semaphore system.)

A conversation

God: (singing) People, people, people, I made you out of clay... Ho there, angels! Bow down before my latest creation!

Iblis: Hey! Fuck that, God! He's made out of *mud*!

God: WHAT?! INTO THE FIRE WITH YOU!

Iblis: Awww, Goddddd, can't you at least let me hang around until Judgement Day?

God: Well, okay.

(God transforms Iblis into a jinn.)

Shaytan: NOW I WILL SCREW OVER YOUR MUDMAN AND ALL HIS MUDDY DESCENDANTS. ...er, except your worshippers, obviously.

God: Stay away from my worshippers, bitch.

Shaytan: Not that there'll be that many of them, honestly, I mean, face the facts here, God.

a new breakfast serial

The city. I can give a good description of the city. There are naturally many cities, but there is still /the/ city, and that is, still, the only place that such a scenario could ever truly play itself out; in the past, in the future, the city, but our city is a modern city. It’s unfortunate, it’s not even in the running for greatest, most beautiful. The city is flaccid. It’s depressing and alone, it’s sprawl, like a corpse rotting in the midday sun, people, like maggots, coursing through the festering putrid mass of musk and hunk of husking flesh, translated into a ventriloquists dummy, animated for the amusement of the great supra-structural Baal, or Tlazolteotl, or maybe even some incorporeal Xipe Totec. Welcome to the city of Xipe Totec.

1 picture = 1000 words

COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT, YEEAH!