Á Plus Tard

It's always pretty when you can denude of all pretense and just say, kiss me good-bye. 

My experience with this blog has been the anechoic loud ripple of my thoughts in vitro.  It has been fun. 

But there only is so long of yourself you can take without an emetic choke, and I'm crushed under the weight of my own narcissism striated thin into a tat limousine dun and ready to whiplash my throat into applesauce. 

It has been boring as well. 

The state of this community is immutable by time spent in stasis.  It's mostly all gone. 

It makes me sad I wasn't there in time to enjoy the show; when it was done I wasn't even born.  How time works. 

When I took hold these past two weeks my words felt like me only by xerography; I was told to amount to certain parameters; to scrub the chiaroscuro and make it more claro than scuro. 

If you're a writer then you will know this is a ruin.  Not the thought of optimistic idealism, but precisely the cinching of thought that makes prose spill in all the wrong directions. 

All of this with my willing consent of course.  Kristen was very kind in her absence to let me scream my words into a megaphone without reproach, and I am very thankful to her. 

My problem is that I couldn't accommodate to the role very well.  I am not that person. 

I don't loathe what I have written.  I won't perorate over my lack of amour propre like cheap Dorothy Parker imitation. 

I'm glad I write; I love to have written. 

The piece is Miss Daria Lovett, by Korallrahu. 

Works: 

• "The 1002 Deaths Of Tom Sloane," page ten, by Lady Evil, Indigo, and WacoKid. 
• "Spider Quinn - Tempestuous Origins Of Mysterio, Part Nine," by Cfardell_Brenorenz29. 
• "Scenes No Daria Fanfic Should Ever Have: How Did We Survive?" page seven, by Shiva and Sureia. 
• "Monique," by Radioactivealien_404. 
• "Is It Adulthood Yet?" chapters twenty and twenty-one, by Halliwell_P (Spanish). 
• "I (Don't) Want To Be A Part Of It," chapter ten, by Lady Evil. 

News: 

• Tafka reindexes her husband's work on her website for ease of access.

Wicked Introjection

There are times in life when you're going about your litany like a pastor reciprocrating the will of a God he doesn't know 

and there is this elope. 

A break in incipit cracking the fine silk of routine you were so comfortable in to quander on other topics or things. 

And I know I'm not rebranding a Willstätter synthetic here, but at many intervals there is the cross of thoughts in my mind and I wonder: 

What makes a person? 

Is it the arrangement of cerebral cortex, 

pituitary gland development, 

limbic system's stroke over social coordination? 

I mean the clinical answer is yes, but that's like asking what people think when they die.  You know they think something unless it's a Vietnam vet case where taking a step to piss in the wrong bush means your friends are gonna have to rind you off the trees after a landmine's autothysis turned your blood to lacquer. 

But even then maybe you still died thinking of how much you wanted to take a piss and be home already and whatnot. 

Truth is more complicated than reason. 

People are chains of events; recollections carnated in the mind that taut flashbang reactions into a doctor's well-rehearsed cancer diagnosis by exposure. 

I think first there is the biology and from there we make everything else. 

My point is what's wrong with Sandi, you know?  And yes I'm aware that I'm scaring you by talking about Daria, but I have to ask where did God put the bullet in her life that makes all she have pale in the face of her sadism: 

Mother, father, 

brothers that often like to frame her patience with her open skin but with whom she can't say there isn't the weight of siblinghood biting her rhetoric to accommodate around something less cruel than sinking her teeth into her friends' spirits to taste the metal 

and tear. 

That she was born that way is the excuser's answer and the one she'd probably give.  Because she was conditioned that way. 

Reality sometimes is a sad answer if you're lucky. 

Works: 

• "Her Last Words," chapters ninety-one, ninety-two, and ninety-three, by Sheila Wisz Ellayn. 
• "I May Go Pop," chapters four and five, by Tafka. 
• "Am I Employed Yet?" by Ulatekh. 
• "Jodie," by Ulatekh. 
• "Heavenly Wine And Roses," chapter nine, by Riotsquirrrl. 
• "Is It Adulthood Yet?" chapter nineteen, by Halliwell_P (Spanish). 
• "Secrets Of Lawndale - Lawndale Below, Part One," by cfardell_brenorenz29. 

News: 

• Immediate American need for Iran war fodder. 
• Disaac wants proof-readers for his work. 
• Tafka's fair-use exposé of plot scraps. 

Art: 

• A piece confecting The Beauty And The Beast over a Batman template, by Britabird.

T'es Debout Tiens Sur Mon Cœur

Love is a complicated metaphor at the end of a sentence.  

It's not a philosophy to be studied past chemical reactions attached to the brain like carbon black ink under the skin.  Not meant to be studied at all.  

It's not a human thing in exclusion, for all worthwhile things feel affection and aversion.  

A mother can love her child, a coward their own life; a drunk the tremens that bring delirium to an end as each morning's glass dies defracted on the carpet.  

A little girl the letters from admirers not of her soul but of her body painted in the plain translucent white of the mind that has no boundaries or shame in rearranging it into something naked and afraid.  

People, ecstasy, Calvary; one can love all these things, fear these things.  Because Love is the fear of loss; the prescient memory of pain.  

Of the knowledge that there can come and will come the day the connection won't be there and what will remain is something cruel that spells life is fair only not to you.  

But what the hell do I know?  I'm not going to trivialize emotions on a surgeon's table.  

Life is short and even shorter when it's lived.  Enjoy.  

Works: 

• "Lawndale, Season Four," chapters eleven, twelve, and thirteen, by WildDogJJ.  

News: 

• Splendora's "You're Standing On My Neck" as manipulated in the season three premiere in the Français version of the show.

Mindless Orations

Today is one of those quiet days.  

The kind when you go to bed and back cannot be sure it really happened and not for a lack of effort to sharpen the nails at the brain's temple scraping for some bright memory of hollow significance but for how empty it was.  

Life's sequentialism is in celluloid colourless: Moments left to fill in with the qualia of meaning coated in something flammable and prone to damage.  

Sometimes memories are the most important things we have left and we are to leave.  We put ourselves in them in pieces and let other human beings we let close enough to touch reconcile the details as fractured chronograms.  

Like this piece for example: Even though the author is lost in identity but not presence we can rejoice their work twenty-four years later and even more.  

And it's a very pretty dress, a very pretty drawing.  It makes me remember of the daydream Daria had imagining a world prettified by 19th-century overalls and a sister with whom she could confer and display affection.  Meditating on this we can infer that this is not an idea, but a fantasy.  

One where sororal acrimony dies and what now is there cannot be marred with enmity and discontent.  

In the end what I'm trying to say is don't push the wrong people away.  

Works: 

• "Is It Adulthood Yet?" chapter eighteen, by Halliwell_P (Spanish).

Requiem For A Quinn

Heavy is the crown that fits heads so dense, and gray the days that Quinn's garbs don't make sharp testament of fashion reflex: 

How does she know that today is Hassanal Bolkiah's birthday?  How?  Is it because I inserted an image of her leaning in lentor? 

I think after stepping on a Waif with the enamel still fresh synapses flared the charcoal stains in her brain to paint her maudlin in grayscale. 

Very felicitous in any case that it is likewise National Clean Beauty Day.  Of course all the week is litany in the same thing to her, but Barbies don't get to be played with when there isn't the reek of kanekalon modacrylic washed over too many fingerprints to count 

and other things I cannot say because I told Kristen I would hold my tongue.  By the way I'm not Kristen, in case you didn't read the name.  She will be back by the 29th on Tuesday. 

The art is a beautiful rendition by the late Amy Quinn née Whisenhunt, or KemicalReaxion. 

Works: 

• "Is It Adulthood Yet?" chapter seventeen, by Halliwell_P (Spanish).