Member 339
5 entries

Johann Makram-Salib Bestowrous (M, 32)
Immortal since Dec 12, 2007
Uplinks: 0, Generation 2

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    the value of imperfection.
    Now playing SpaceCollective
    Where forward thinking terrestrials share ideas and information about the state of the species, their planet and the universe, living the lives of science fiction. Introduction
    Featuring Powers of Ten by Charles and Ray Eames, based on an idea by Kees Boeke.
    is it beastiality?

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    I made this and am seeking the brutal truth so that I may one day be a vessel for the biggest brands. Thank you.
    Sun, Apr 16, 2017  Permanent link

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    I do not understand cargo shorts. Or plaid shorts, let alone consumerism and our infidelity to our higher faculties.

    I do not understand a lot of things—there is some Chinese saying about how it is an 'honor' to live in such 'interesting' times and that is really great, I suppose, but I'm a little resentful.

    On good days I am something more of enamored that there are these enormous things to wrap my measily brain around, really—truly, honestly.

    But I have been looking for a decent pair of shorts for about six months, now. Look around you and there is just a bunch of people wearing their plaid pattern shorts or their trite cargo shorts and listen I don't mean to come off as extremist, but their really is very little reason for cargo pockets—and hey, blessed are those that find some splendid functionality in them—

    But someone needs to end this madness.

    Give me a simple pair of some exultant colour unscathed by the oppressive interlocking of plaid or the coercive perpetuation of consumerist chomping and allow my precious legs to feel the enamored breeze without feeling like some tool.

    And it is not as if I am unaware that there are not more important things to mull over—I am fully aware of that, it is just that I am tire dof harboring this heart break of not being able to find a piece of clothing that matches my individual inclinations.

    These corporations are supposed to be pandering for my money, right?

    This is supposed to be the Century of the Self where we waltz like dreary idiots to our unlimited desires, and yet I walk horrified to the majority of my 18 to 25 demographic partaking in the same contrived fashionings.

    Listen, if I am to be a cohort in the destruction of this planet, if I am to so indulge our mindless engorging of all the dwindling nectars of our earth—if I am to perpetuate our Armageddon and so coerce the fiery flames of hell to so oblige us, then I damn sure better have my fashion sense catered to and mass produced for, when the fiery hands have their grasp I can go out with the peace that I went out as a real INDIVIDUAL with complimentary colours and contours of ego, feeling ever so fashionable in these Interesting Times.
    Tue, Sep 8, 2009  Permanent link

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    Neighborhood smells different—it smells different. Maybe I'm making a big deal of nothing, maybe it was some fleeting aroma set to rise away—maybe it isn't my neighborhoods new mark.

    Maybe it is, isn't.

    It's just alarming, how you walk in on something new without no one even warning you before you walk out your door or open your eyes—just this constant juxtapose of then and now—then, now, then, now—and for periods there's not even a difference—then its your childhood, then your teenage drearies, midlife wearies—what happens is neighborhoods smell different—or start to smell different as you walk through them—then becomes then, now becomes now.

    Alright. It's not a bad thing.

    Then you start off your cathartic novels with bouquets rested on your grave past—no—no, honestly, there's little worth doing that—or every worth if you're trying to make some eternal outcry of "REMEMBER ME—REMEMBER this and..." severe list severed nows—eternal thens...

    If I had a guess, these streets are being washed with something new, different—makes them smell like clean laundry. That's my guess.

    Eerie shrills plague this neighborhood—cries of dogs: cellphone sounds and I don't answer, explained what needed and everything else would be just babel.

    A car moves along—maybe to deal with those shrills...

    Once was a man who told me that life's a game elected by eternal beings—they chose to dive into "dream-sport" (that's what he called it) and the point of the game is to wake up.

    Once was a man who told me with an old man's bicker-sneer that I was too young to write. Soon as he said it I knew I'd write about it: maybe we both knew.

    I grew up being taught on old world's geography. I grew up with no regard to hue or color—then it was an angsty quest for "reality" and now its a sprawling dwelling to real time geography, richter change making straight line calligraphy.

    See, it's not a matter of who I am or purpose or destiny—much calmer than that—much, much calmer, and so that wild kid, extremist as of months ago died and gone to heaven—and this new one with nonchalance and subtle swoon walks in the desert between these typical suburban neighborhoods, following cosmic paths of cloud whisps that curve and point to your own interpretation, that have you find empty porno cases—licking lesbian lust (latina!) that are just as soon discarded, although I thought about it.

    See, Life isn't your favorite metaphor, let alone any thing in particular. I don't confuse particulars for looming shadows, and I don't assume a lullaby till I get to know a musician—even then, she could still go electric, if she wants to.
    Sun, Dec 30, 2007  Permanent link
    Categories: reflection, change
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