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The comedian's seriousness.Socrates and Schopenhauer alike may dream of the meaning of being in a world sailing lonely and wantonly through the vastness of space and time, but it is the comedian who whispers their resigned conclusions: c'est la vie et adieu - not at the denouement of their art, but as the introduction to it. It is a subtle différance of seriousness.
The love of Truth.All knowledge, before it is christened or crucified as 'truth', must first be loved. And by this, we mean not romantic love; but jealous love, obsessional love, dangerous love, consuming love, that is; a love of severity. Truth is a love for knowledge, without which it is proclaimed that there can only be ruin: even if ruin is the consequence of such love. How much therefore do we sacrifice in the name of love?
Comedy and the RationalThe comedian, in imbibing, embodying and regurgitating the absurd, the irrational, the fantastical and the surreal; ultimately places their-self within a logos of rationality. By mocking the weaknesses and inconsistencies of the apparently stable, the apparently true and the apparently virtuous; the comedian demands of their subject a perfection of reason, a perfection of means and ends. In this comedy is both the critical art and the senile art for it mocks in demand of some masked and misunderstood idea of the "good" and the "perfect". All too often though both an audience and the artist forget that comedy itself is too such an irrational and meaningless folly. That is, unless it strives to transcend: unless the comedian strives to show what this cloistered demand for perfection can be. Thus, in turn, the contemporary comedian's persona, for all its whimsy and insanity, is for the most part, thoroughly rational and thoroughly senile. Today, the comedian is too often identifiable as a
On Stupidity.On Stupidity - There is no idea today that is more abused than the statement that this or that person "is stupid". Let me clear the messiness of this popular slander for today. Only the greatest people understand what stupidity is, and they understand it not from external comparison between themselves and the rest of their world, or even in comparison with some vague notion of 'the herd' or 'the masses' or 'the majority'. No. the greatest people understand stupidity only in relation to themselves, and it is this knowledge of their own stupidity which brings to them not emotions of shame or embarrassment, but a mischievous smile and a moment of mirthful reflection. For they understand their stupidity only in relation to their-selves and in knowing of their past stupidity, take comfort in knowing in future they will in turn laugh at their current stupidity. The cynic who bemoans the stupidity of the mass, or the stupidity of the public are people who take their misanthropy far too
This is evolution.
This is evolution. This is our creation. Take a bullet, kiss it sweetly, pray for divine justice and shoot to kill. The crucible is born in the archaic fires of history as the plagued horse rides from the west. Beneath the stars of untainted skies we march, divisions formed from the mass, we the good soldier. The hellfire of sin shall be cleansed by this crusade of the right. Like the old gods we shall condemn with impunity, our whore of worship shall bequeath herself to the needy while good men hang from the messiahs noose.
To the young we give our egotistical malice, to the old our undisputed pride, to the future we give birth to the sickly child. Onwards we march, the delusion fuelled by our holy court. Through hellfire and chaos the tributes of the weak willed shall conquer, those unwilling to take the lead shall submit their weakness to the men in black collars and limousines.
Before this visage of the divine, the ground falls away, this one way parade into the rapture the e
A solemn numbness rests within his limbs. Shoulders sloughed and lead light curtains draped over glass eyes. Shifting figures run past frayed memories in the attic while below him, the machine crumbles upon itself. A soft lamp bathes his skeletal hands as the fibre
optic wiring system bleeds the last electricity in the machine. The fuel depot
sifts through the last of the stock, rust expiring upon itself into shades of
dust. The corrosion of the passages, long green with age, heave their last as one
by one the system begins its shutdown, the respective terminals of data blink
their last in resignation, the fragrances of the air conditioning bring their
last gifts of air to the attic and the slowly the room begins to cool.
The century old building smells of decades gone. In the centre of the attic he sits, around him he has collected some items to his side. Here a photo, there a souvenir of good times lost. A collec
The death of the Chimera.Is this my death? Somewhere around me a fire is crackling… twisted metal, burnt rubber. My eyes are closed, I don't want to open them. Someone is screaming. If it weren't for the acrid stench in my nostrils I would no doubt assume I was dead… but am I dying? I realise my right eye is closed not of choice but obliged by swelling, my left however is not… I open it. Everything is shaded and indistinct… someone is screaming. I turn my head to the right, my neck stiff and pained as some form of clarity returns. I see feet. Running feet, people running towards me. I search my mind… but nothing is forthcoming. A lady is kneeling over me… soft auburn hair, she is shouting but I cannot make out her words. I make to move my arm, but like my eye it is motionless, I lift my head as I far as I can and look to my shattered legs and impaled abdomen… shock… the shock is preventing the pain form coursing into my mind… the brain pan.. saucepan…Why did I think of that?
Focus. A chimaera of realisation re
Alone in Apathy at 11:54pm.i don't want to be lonely, i just want to be alone. Why is the 'i' so insignificant when not capitalised? Captivated by a dream, in the late monitor glow, i sit with port and music in tow. Afore me lays the future, whatever may come may come and willingly i must embrace it. But no fear, no thrill of impending change, just a sure footed calm of acceptance. Resigned to fate and deed the mountain top holds such a lone bounty. What is the price of a shy smile flickered in gleeful embarrassment?, having embraced that which they desire – as the pilgrims of Shakespeare so did upon the balcony of fair Capulet, what coin can purchase?
But no, not the sonnet, not the ballad, not the song of joy nor the taste of fine wine. Just the bitter remains of week long dregs strung out over years. What compromise have i blindly signed? The haunted words traced in smoke vapour; i don't want to be lonely, i just want to be alone…
These late nights chase through my spectre's haunt, falling in love with people
Essence.The warm luminescent lamp casts a low light along the walls. The orchestration of light from other islands within the room, embrace overhead and grace the table with its atmosphere. A simple black uniform slides through the room towards us. Supple, graceful like a delicately arranged bouquet, the composer, sultry in glowing praise, lightly lowers the dish to the silk cloth before us. Sold red lips and soft shadows linger as she departs into he recesses of the room.
The platter, white porcelain framed in granite black, offers us its bounty; crisp slices of red apple, slivers of fresh camembert and Dutch smoked cheddar cheese rest aside a light frame of smoked salmon and slow roasted cherry tomatoes. Not to be humbled, laden grapes partnered with fingers of blood plums and apricots beckon with chastity. Then lastly, splayed in semi lunar fashion, a collection of crackers, plain, cracked pepper and Moroccan spice, laid to compliment. I sigh to the fibres of swelling anticipation within, s
Her Name Was Celeste.The house's roof was dotted rows upon rows of flowers of Celeste blue while the specks of Coquelicot red hues splattered ontop the blossoms. A little girl, as fair as the snowflakes twirling out from our crystal silver dome, with hair in lavender sparkles, and Earth's coral reefs on her silky dress, smiled ever so gently and fell onto the velvets, her cushion.. her entrance to the afterworld. The flowerings absorbed her corpse and she found herself as one of the delicates. Here she was in the same place she had fell to her death seconds ago, and now she is given another life as a plant. Celeste gazed downwards from the rooftop and spotted children her age playing merrily on swings and slides, as well as parents hugging and running with their offspring. A need, a seed, grew intensely from her underlying point and the hunger of joy sprang up. Years after years, she was left in wonder silently looking around at her surroundings, seeing the little ones she used to play with grow up, having
Childish FearsChildish Fears
Doesn't it scare you that you're growing older, growing up? In days, months, years, you'll no longer be teenager. A fifth of your life will be over, and you'd be all grown up, stuffed in a suit with a tie around your neck, a briefcase in your hand and your whole life before you. Some people may think it appealing, but I don't.
I'm scared of leaving everything that's familiar behind.
I'm scared of having to fend for myself, for having to always be in control yet never really having any control.
But most of all, I'm afraid of being changed, of no longer being who I am.
Hunting„Mom, mom, look what I found. This flower. It remembers me of dad...Oh, no, don't start crying, I am sorry, I just did... I miss dad...”
I like this place, the sun is shining down between the big trees. Flowers and moss is at the ground. This whole place is shining. Golden. As if the sun fell down and made everything shining so beautiful. “I like this place mom. The grass looks so green and it is so tasty!”. Between my legs a butterfly is flying. A yellow one. It reflects the sun and it seems almost unnatural. This is a perfect day. That is a day that makes us remember why we live.
The deers, a mom and her son are in a wood. Nearly left behind, no humans are there. A truly peaceful place..
“Run, run my son, I'll come after you, don't stop, run!”
What? What is happening, I can't remember, why do I have to run. Run, run, I should, listen to my mom, why? Why?
a loud noise fills the air. All birds stopped singing, all animals hide. Even the smallest don'
Sunshine, rain, wind, hail, or snow, she was there. This colorfully dressed girl walked her dog down my childhood street every day, no matter the weather. Shorts, skirts, shirts, long sleeve shirts, tights, leggings, dresses, boots, flats, never flip flops though. Her hair never the same twice, always different in some way. Her dog on its long leash but always staying close. I saw her often, walking home from the bus stop. The leash always got caught under the dog’s legs, but she just laughed and smiled every time and untangled her pet. She was always smiling, humming or wearing big purple headphones, sometimes with an umbrella. Occasionally she’s spot me and wave, and I waved back. Her age was unknown to me, but in my young naiveté, everyone was old. I’ll always remember all the hues and shades she wore.
But one day, it was different. There was no color, no music, no hum. Just a girl in black, trudging along with her dog. I saw her less, and her look nev
It Isn't Easy “I don’t get it.”
She leaned her head back so that she was looking up at the sky. “What don’t you get?”
I waved my hands to try and string my thoughts together. “How…how can you just be so accepting of this?”
She laughed and turned to look at me. I’d always wished I had her eyes, especially when she smiled like that. “Oh trust me, sissy, I’m not quite to the point of acceptance yet.”
“But you’re so calm about it. I mean, if it was me, I’d have been about to beat someone up.”
“I was pissed off, that’s for sure.” She paused a moment before continuing. “But being angry is just so draining, you know? Plus, it’s just too easy.”
I glanced at her then, confused. “Easy?”
“Yeah.” She gazed up at the sky again, wavy ha
In Roman Times"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy," declared the preacher.
The warm sun was starting to go down. Evening was closing in, yet the crowd still listened to the preacher, captivated by his lessons.
"Blessed are the pure in heart," he continued. "For they shall see God."
Some distance away, two women stood apart from the crowd. They wore the attire of wealthy Roman aristocrats. Veils shrouded their pale skin from the sun.
"Mother, this is the third day you have dragged me into the burning sun to listen to this warm Jew," complained one of them.
"Oh, Julia, aren't you delighted by his words? Don't they stir such a passion in your undead heart? I could listen to this man forever," said Penelope.
"He has a way of putting things, I admit. But it's all the usual Jewish nonsense. Kingdom of God, and all that. I'm a Roman. It's really not for me," replied Julia.
"You should not despise the Jews. They believe in just one god. Many of the philosophers agree that there is only on
To live among the starsA gunshot.
You feel your body hit the ground.
Your life flashes before your eyes, the happy times, the sad times, and all the moments in between.
You are dead before you know it.
Everything is black for a moment.
Is this heaven? you ask yourself.
When your vision finally adjusts, you look around to see the most beautiful sight.
Millions upon millions of stars and planets and galaxies.
You had always dreamed of seeing it.
Upon further inspection you find that there are people here.
Friends, family, and strangers alike who had all died once upon a time.
You begin to wonder...
What's happening on Earth?
Your thoughts turn to your friends and family
Still living in that world.
You feel a slight tinge of regret.
How do they feel?
They've probably discovered your body by now.
They're probably crying and blaming themselves for not being there when you needed them.
And looking around at this beautiful place only makes you r
No One Who Wanted to be SomeoneWhat did you want to be, Grandma? I wanted to be a veterinarian. Why are you not a veterinarian then, Grandma? Well, let me start from the beginning. That is what she said, before she told me her story of how she got to where she is now.
A farm, a large farm on a small island. A small island in the middle of the sound. That is where she grew up. On that farm where there were a lot of animals. There were sheep and cows and pigs and chickens and horses that she helped take care of. Those were the animals her father, my great grandfather, owned. But she also got to take care of the wild rabbits. There were many rabbits, and they were numerous. One could hunt rabbits all night, and not make a dent in the rabbit population on the island, she said. Her father would catch some, just enough for her and her friends to have over the long summer days. Helping the animals from their birth, living and being well taken care of, and nursing them back to health when they got sick, despite the fact tha
From the earth.Still water in clasped hands. A drop, a ripple a perfect illusion. Clasped hands hold still water. A drop a splash a ripple. A perfect moment – shattered.
Cascading stripping away the lines, taking it all away determining my lies. Beneath the raging waterfall I step. Cleansed as I am stripped. Remove the makeup remove the skin. Naked. Naked. Bared. Ferocious and naked I step.
Into the depths I plunge. Aware of this free fall from space. Diving into which I desire leaving all else behind.
Dyed Cloth. Rich in hues of red earth and dust. Below and above the thrumming of the drums of the earth, they grow. Grow. Breathe, swell – destroy.
Ever turning, ever changing, developing this dream changing the wills and re-writing the history in layers of sand. I twist in the womb of the soil. Feeding my passion to live. I race away, stripping the barriers breaking the world.
Still water in clasped hands, a drop, a splash a ripple a perfect illusion. Clasped hands joined. Together holding still
mechanici want to kiss every aching wound you have,
bandage your heart every time it bleeds,
and patch up your mind over and over
because not a single tear deserves to fall
from your brandy-drenched eyes
but this dripping heart of mine can only feel
and the healing honey words it flames get caught
in the back of my throat and on the roof of my mouth
so i only have these passionate guttural cries
to tell you that i care all too much
and in order to fix you up again,
i would need to tear myself to tatters
and trade all of my working parts
for your leftover, fading pieces
but i just haven’t figured out how.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More