Wednesday, May 24, 2006

careful, johan

yesterday there was a lot of remembering, reminding me how important it is for me to write things down. please remember that i actually have very little upstairs. or if i do, i'm not quite sure where everything is in storage.

i was trying to remember the friend of helium. for some reason i thought it might be baudelaire. it appears that baudelaire and helium were never acquainted. later in the day i actually had reason to read a little more about baudelaire. it appears baudelaire and i should be better acquainted.

a little more about my new friend:
The painter of modern life has a specific task: 'he makes it his business to extract from fashion whatever element it may contain of poetry within history, to distill the eternal from the transitory'.


"The modern 'hero' is the one who, while embodying the tendencies of modern capitalism to the highest degree, is simultaneously engaged in an inevitably doomed struggle against them. The heroism of modernity as endurance and as impotent rage takes the form of self-deception (the flaneur, the gambler) and self-negation (the prostitute, the worker and the ragpicker). For B, the ultimate hero of modernity is the figure who seeks to give voice to its paradoxes and illusions, who participates in, while yet still retaining the capacity to give form to, the fragmented, fleeting experiences of the modern. This individual is the poet."


by: Charles Baudelaire

I'm like some king in whose corrupted veins
Flows ag├Ęd blood; who rules a land of rains;
Who, young in years, is old in all distress;
Who flees good counsel to find weariness
Among his dogs and playthings, who is stirred
Neither by hunting-hound nor hunting-bird;
Whose weary face emotion moves no more
E'en when his people die before his door.
His favourite Jester's most fantastic wile
Upon that sick, cruel face can raise no smile;
The courtly dames, to whom all kings are good,
Can lighten this young skeleton's dull mood
No more with shameless toilets. In his gloom
Even his lilied bed becomes a tomb.
The sage who takes his gold essays in vain
To purge away the old corrupted strain,
His baths of blood, that in the days of old
The Romans used when their hot blood grew cold,
Will never warm this dead man's bloodless pains,
For green Lethean water fills his veins.

'Spleen' is reprinted from The Poems and Prose Poems of Charles Baudelaire. Ed. James Huneker. New York: Brentano's, 1919.
absinthe is green. strindberg, who is the true friend of helium, liked his absinthe. strindberg was also a librarian. a little more about helium's friend:

Johan (August) Strindberg
To escape the uproar which he had stirred up, Strindberg moved in 1883 to France with his family. Between the years 1884 and 1887 he lived with short interruptions in Switzerland. During this time he corresponded with Friedrich Nietzsche, and became interested of the works of Edgar Allan Poe. Under financial and marital difficulties, Strindberg started to show symptoms of emotional crisis. Feelings of persecution were suppressed by heavy drinking of absinthe. Eventually he started to believe his wife wanted to have him locked away in a mental institution.

[aside: Strindberg's friend Poe says "And I said -- "She is warmer than Dian: She rolls through an ether of sighs -- She revels in a region of sighs. She has seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks, where the worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion, To point us the path to the skies -- To the Lethean peace of the skies -- Come up, in despite of the Lion, To shine on us with her bright eyes -- Come up, through the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes." in his Ulalume]

[oh, another aside: do remember to use august as an adjective more often. i will do the same. note also that august birthdays are the lion and the virgin. i should remember to write more about the lion as i have often thought of doing. and it seems i should visit Lethe...oh wait clearly i already have.]

all these new friends like to go by their middle names. granted, i like august, but johan is a lovely name as well. which is surely why Guy Maddin selected it for an important character in Careful. Guy Maddin has another film, Cowards Bend the Knee aka The Blue Hands. i read the screenplay for this film long before i saw it, it has some sticking power with me. as does the film Mad Love, which surely Maddin harks back to in The Blue Hands. Mad Love has a murdering knife-thrower, a wax statue, peter lorre *and* hand surgery. i thought perhaps that might be 3-4 different movies, but no it is all thankfully one.

which i was reminded of when i saw this [i heard it from a friend who...]:

oh my stars. karl freund directed mad love and i just realized that guy maddin and i have the same birthday. what a nice world. my horoscope says i will make perfect sense to at least one person today (it also told me to write things down). this is the best i could hope for on any day.

remind me there is more to remember, lest we forget, and that i have poetry to write.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

i felt that

yesterday i felt a breeze on the small of my back and turned to look outside right as the hail started rapping on the window. i realize this indoors breeze sent anticipation fluttering into my belly, averting my gaze. looking away must, by definition, always lead to seeing something else.



A Letter to Tatiana Yakoleva
by Mayakovsky

Dedicated to I...

In the caresses of lips
or hands
in the tremblings of bodies
near and dear to me
the red colour
of my motherland
must also
burning be.

I dislike
the love
that Paris boasts
of females one adorns
with silks and fashions;
who stretch out dreamily,
"Tu es beau!"
with a bitch's
animal passion.

You alone
equal me in height,
stand now beside me,
brow to brow,
and about that
oh so important night
let's talk
like human beings now.

Five p.m.
and since that time,
let people
of the dreaming pines
the inhabited city
I hear only
argumentative whines
of trains
for Barcelona quitting.

On the heaven's black
lightning acts,
in the drama of heaven.

That's not thunder,
simply the fact
of jealousy
moving mountains even.

Don't believe the raw stuff,
stupid words and idle.
Don't be frightened
by these reelings.

I'll tame,
I'll bridle

Passion's measles
scabs only leave,
but happinesss
unwitherable ever.

I'll be long,
I'll be brief,
talking only in poetry's fever.

of jealousy,
tears, --
Eyelids swell
fittingly I weave.

I'm not myself,
but I'm jealous, dear,
of Soviet Russia

I saw on shoulders
rags and tatters,
licked them
with a sighing cough.

We're not to blame,
so what's the matter?

A hundred million
were badly off.
We can only rectify
a few
for such a gentle sport.

We're needed in Moscow,
me and you,
there're not enough
of our long-legged sort.

But with those legs
you won't be passing
through snow
and typhoid-typhoons.

Here they give them
for caressing
at banquets
for oil-tycoons.

You furrow your forehead
dont be afraid
eye-brow arcs straighten to bands.

Come to me so,
or in the cradle
of my great
clumsy hands.

You don't want to?

You'll stay behind and winter there?

Well that insult
to the general account
is gathered.

Just the same,
sometime or other,
I'll take you, dear,
from Paris
or together.


neighborhood #4 (7 kettles) arcade fire

I am waitin' 'til I don't know when,
cause I'm sure it's gonna happen then.
Time keeps creepin' through the neighborhood,
killing old folks, wakin' up babies
just like we knew it would.

All the neighbors are startin' up a fire,
burning all the old folks the witches and the liars.
My eyes are covered by the hands of my unborn kids,
but my heart keeps watchin'
through the skin of my eyelids.

They say a watched pot won't ever boil,
well I closed my eyes and nothin' changed,
just some water getting hotter in the flames.

It's not a lover I want no more,
and it's not heaven I'm pining for,
but there's some spirit I used to know,
that's been drowned out by the radio!

They say a watched pot won't ever boil,
you can't raise a baby on motor oil,
just like a seed down in the soil
you gotta give it time.


deluge (n.)

c.1374, from O.Fr. deluge (12c.), earlier deluve, from L. diluvium, from diluere "wash away," from dis- "away" -luere, comb. form of lavere "to wash" (see lave). The verb is from 1649.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

x marks the spot, love

when asked which is my favorite movie, i might two months ago have replied the falls, but the eternal answer is and always will be Xanadu [aside: i've just noticed they're both directed by people with "green" in their name].

why xanadu? i could say that i have a fondness for bad movies (and it is, honestly, quite horrible) in the same way i prefer rainy days to sun. these things like bad films and cloudy skies come with lowered expectations and therefore they can never disappoint, but they can pleasantly surprise us.

there's much more to it than its promising absurdity; however, or lambada the forbidden dance would be my favorite film. i was four the first time i saw xanadu. i was easily awed by roller skating, disco, wardrobe changes, time travel, terry cloth short shorts and the dulcet tones of olivia newton-john.

Kira: Have you ever heard the expression "kissed by a muse"? Well, that's what I am. I'm a muse.
Sonny: Well, I'm glad someone's having a good time.
Kira: Oh, don't make jokes; I'm serious.

but i think, even as a four year old, i sensed the deeper truths underpinning all that glitz on wheels. when i was small, i connected most with two particular moments in the film. i noticed the first time i watched again as an adult, my heart still quickened during each of these scenes even though i wasn't processing them as particularly memorable or meaningful now that i'd attained reason. i've always assumed that visceral response was simply related to accessing those positive childhood memories. but now i wonder...

Sonny: I've come to take you out of here.
Kira: It can't be done. No one's ever taken anyone out of here. Not in the whole history of... the whole history!
Sonny: I'll make them let you go. Zeus! Zeus, you hear me?
Kira: Oh, God.

the two scenes of mention are the opening sequence when the muse sisters emerge, dancing resplendent with technicolor light trails, from a mural on a brick wall (electrifyingly set to ELO's "i'm alive") and the scene where a lovesick, distraught sonny skates himself hard into this same brick wall (to the tune of ELO's "the fall" - my favorite song of the soundtrack) to see if he can reconnect with his beloved muse. sonny miraculously travels through the wall and arrives on mount olympus (which is a nifty plane of tronesque laser lights and disembodied divine voices). in a nutshell, love--aided by Zeus and Hera's semantic inversion of "eternity" and "a moment"--conquers all.

i think in a land where time is meaningless and brick walls are permeable, love most certainly can conquer.

there are no non sequiturs and if someone built a foam house with a champagne glass bed for the grownups and a swiss cheese nook for the children, i'd buy a ticket and i'd try to get locked in. where would i sleep? outlook hazy.

In Search of Xanadu
"Hearkening back to Coleridge's poem Khubla Khan, Ted Nelson (the creator of the Xanadu in question) strives to create "the magic place of literary memory where nothing is forgotten". It's a beautiful concept, and if you've got a modem or if you're on the Net, it's a concept you can take part in."
Basically, Project Xanadu was simply the work I have been trying to do for hypertext that would allow freedom to collage, freedom to quote and inter-comparison of different versions - ease of editing that allows you freely to see what you've left in and what you've left out.
Ted Nelson

Xanadu: In Search of God, Man, and Machine
I do believe that image harks back to taking me on, taking on me.

But X Marks the Spot...
"The scope of our paper is to analyze the problematical status of x as a sign in the logic of a literary text. A concise text addressing and releasing the semiotic energy of x is a recent song by German industrial band Einst�rzende Neubauten, conveniently titled "X". "X" is the third song on Supporter Album #1 (2003), which EN recorded without the backing of a record label, relying instead upon supporter participation. We will argue that "X" chronologically recounts the different stages of a love affair gone wrong. Our interpretation will be based on a semiotic analysis which follows the narrative pattern of the song closely."

Sunday, May 07, 2006

feeling good was good enough for me

1826, shortening of cabriolet (1763) "light, horse-drawn carriage," Fr. dim. of cabrioler "leap, caper," from It. capriolare "jump in the air," from L. capreolus "wild goat." The carriages had springy suspensions. Extended to hansoms and other types of carriages; applied to public horse carriages (of automobiles from 1899), then extended to similar parts of locomotives (1859). Cabby is from 1859.

i like cabbies. and cabbies like me. i must conclude i am liked by cabbies to a point swiftly approaching grace. i've had more free or heavily discounted cab rides than seems naturally possible, including a 12 mile one from lakeview to hyde park one time. many a cab driver has also volunteered to let me pay on a sliding scale dependent on the amount of cash i have on my person. i have a bit of a tendency to hail a cab and hop in only to realize i am a good few dollars short of the fare, but i always check right off and say i'm going to need to pop out when we reach $4 or so on the meter. most cab drivers then volunteer to take me the full $6 away. i try to make up for it by tipping two dollars on cab fares under ten dollars as a rule. while i know this isn't very effective in making it up to those particular individuals i short-changed, the cab karma still seems heavily tipped to good.

tonight my cabdriver bought me a cup of coffee. we arrived at the coffee via this route:
cabbie[rolling down window]: are you cold?
me: no, no i am fine.
cabbie: so you do not want me to buy you a cup of hot soup or something?
me [laughing]: oh no, no thank you. it is not cold out tonight, much nicer than last night.
cabbie: yes but you sounded cold.
me: oh i did? not cold, tired i guess.
...silence for three blocks...
me: you know now you've got me thinking that coffee sounds good.
cabbie[holding up cup from cariboo]: i've got coffee, it's the fancy stuff.
me: i prefer the cheap stuff from dunkin donuts myself.
cabbie: where is the nearest dunkin donuts?
me: clark and montrose [i did not decide in this moment to reveal my near encyclopedic knowledge of the location of over 100 dunkin donuts on the north side--which certainly does merit me a free cup of coffee; however, this cup should be paid for by dunkin not by a kind stranger if you ask me].
cabbie: let me take you to get the coffee.
me[laughing]: oh no, that is not necessary it is so late but thank you.
cabbie: no come on, let us go, no worries the cab will go off for this trip.

so he turned the meter off, drove the one block to dunkin donuts, bought me a cup of coffee and insisted on going inside to get it for me, drove back up to where we were, turned the meter back on and dropped me off at home. i did say thank you and tip nicely. i said yes because well i never say no to kindness.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

in here

today i confronted my sadness.

lately i've been struck by the fact that the sense of sight has entered my dream world. in the past few months i have noticed that in a few of my dreams i have been cognizant of my sight, or lack thereof. i've never really noted vision as part of my dreams previously. in one dream i was trying to look out a giant picture window at a mountain vista to see someone far off and to figure out how to close the screen door that was letting in rain. i did not have my glasses in the dream and i expressed frustration at how blurry everything was and how much trouble i was having figuring out the door mechanism. just last night i was, in a dream, telling a friend about the dreams i had had to counteract her retelling of bad dreams she had had. all of this, yes still within a dream, led her to pull out a book on dreaming to look up a passage on how two people having the same dream with different emotional connotations could be analyzed. after finding the passage she handed me the book to read it and also handed me reading glasses to put on. however, as in life, in the dream i was nearsighted and the glasses only made the words blurry. lastly one time i dreamt about waking up in my friend's apartment and in the dream i was waking up feeling disoriented and unsure of where i was and in the dream i rolled over and slowly in my head figured out where i was and decided, my eyes in the dream were still closed, to open my eyes. i was shocked, in the dream, to discover that the wall i knew would be there (and is in reality there) was suddenly transparent and i was looking instead through the wall into the closet (which is also in reality there) directly at a mirror (also there) and seeing myself as i would appear laying on my side. i promptly woke up.

this could be really interesting to explore more i imagine. in the meantime, i started my reading with aristotle.

That the sensory organs are acutely sensitive to even a slight qualitative difference [in their objects] is shown by what happens in the case of mirrors; a subject to which, even taking it independently, one might devote close consideration and inquiry. At the same time it becomes plain from them that as the eye [in seeing] is affected [by the object seen], so also it produces a certain effect upon it. If a woman chances during her menstrual period to look into a highly polished mirror, the surface of it will grow cloudy with a blood-coloured haze. It is very hard to remove this stain from a new mirror, but easier to remove from an older mirror. As we have said before, the cause of this lies in the fact that in the act of sight there occurs not only a passion in the sense organ acted on by the polished surface, but the organ, as an agent, also produces an action, as is proper to a brilliant object. For sight is the property of an organ possessing brilliance and colour. The eyes, therefore, have their proper action as have other parts of the body. Because it is natural to the eye to be filled with blood-vessels, a woman's eyes, during the period of menstrual flux and inflammation, will undergo a change, although her husband will not note this since his seed is of the same nature as that of his wife. The surrounding atmosphere, through which operates the action of sight, and which surrounds the mirror also, will undergo a change of the same sort that occurred shortly before in the woman's eyes, and hence the surface of the mirror is likewise affected. And as in the case of a garment, the cleaner it is the more quickly it is soiled, so the same holds true in the case of the mirror. For anything that is clean will show quite clearly a stain that it chances to receive, and the cleanest object shows up even the slightest stain. A bronze mirror, because of its shininess, is especially sensitive to any sort of contact (the movement of the surrounding air acts upon it like a rubbing or pressing or wiping); on that account, therefore, what is clean will show up clearly the slightest touch on its surface. It is hard to cleanse smudges off new mirrors because the stain penetrates deeply and is suffused to all parts; it penetrates deeply because the mirror is not a dense medium, and is suffused widely because of the smoothness of the object. On the other hand, in the case of old mirrors, stains do not remain because they do not penetrate deeply, but only smudge the surface.

dreams. shrug. dreams.

in addition to dreaming about discussing dreaming and having poor vision, i also started my day with someone telling me i do not suffer from a lack of sense of self. mispelling actually suggested more "cents of self" and i wanted to say i live richly. it is not so.

my life is good, better than many, and i feel blessed. and yet i can look at someone like myself, albeit younger and happier and see them say that life is beautiful and not feel truth resonating in me. how sad i have become.

at night i see streetlamps shining through trees and i think that simple things can be so unbearably beautiful. i don't have anyone to tell this to, at least anyone who will nod and hold me...dear for saying such a thing. at least anyone i've let within arm's reach. everyone i have let in has left.

i could open my arms to everyone and no one and write. i keep waiting to write until i am happy enough with the possibilty that no one is reading. i have a fear of bitterness.

i have a stronger fear of sadness. when i was seventeen my mother wanted to die, she has not been very happy ever since. i spent seven years not understanding what depression was, i thought it was sadness. i have spent five years knowing the difference between sadness and depression. i want to say it is like this:


but that seems too simple. it is hard to contemplate, and to look at. i do not want to be sad. i am, in fact, deathly afraid of it. afraid of it for myself and for its spoiling of all i hold dear. love has been the surefire way to turn my back on the gaping maw. when love goes awry i'm left alone with the mirror of rejection. i stare the maw in the face and wonder if i am staring down my own gullet and if this dark, silent scream caught far far back in my throat was somewhere behind my words of affection, my smiles and this reflection? no wonder they run.

why can't we know what people see when they look at us? some of us can. funny thing is i think those are the people that end up the most protected in life by others --the weak, the judged and the insecure, easily molded. while others have had such forces of persuasion at our disposal, bred possibly through the random happenstances of neglect, that no one bothered to create a version of us to hold up, show us, spoon feed with a bit of sugar added to ease the swallowing. instead we're out here, alone, struggling to make it up as we go along, waiting for the one person who sees the same thing. but perhaps, it seems, no one really likes looking into mirrors. it startles us into waking.

Monday, May 01, 2006

out there

i was wondering about the equation 1 picture = 1,000 words last night. i wanted to see what 1 picture that is worth 1,000 words looks like, and i wanted to compare it to 1,000 words. so i looked.

these pictures didn't strike me as particularly valuable. the only one i really like is a vintage postcard that says "the mysterians", which may or may not refer to this japanese film i think i'd like to see.

lacking pictures of worth, i wondered where "1,000 words" alone might take me. nowhere very exciting. drats.

ever persistent, i went looking for the origin of the phrase "a picture is worth 1,000 words". astonishingly, i haven't found it yet. i'll look in my books when i get home later tonight. feel free to elucidate me if you've got something handy.

how utterly unintriguing in its ubiquity is this phrase. the only point of interesting inquiry was my discovery, back in the image search, of this webpage about a course in heraldry. it says "the specialised vocabulary includes 1000 words, amongst them the most frequently used ones. The interest in heraldics lies within the vast poetic nature of the language, but also in the illustrations." i never knew there was a whole heraldic language, and here we find a fitting bridge between words and pictures. i wonder if this language has only 1000 words, and if this explains our phrase. but i doubt it.

it's ever so hard for me to accept not finding what i've been looking for.

so in lieu of nothing, here's an observation i made after searching on ["a picture is worth a 1,000 words"+word origins]: people everywhere are wondering if there is intelligent life out there.

why is the first search return looking for the origin of this phrase a link to this contest: " is sponsoring your written or artistic depiction of the Neilans and their first six months on Earth."?

why is another search return this very strange thing, which i believe might be called a story, bearing the title: "After Eve [Conte Philosophique] Part One (Chapter One): The First Ballad"? there's atlantis, aliens, gilgamesh and the garden of eden (oh and demigods) waiting for you if you choose to go there.

aliens, once twice and thrice. hmmm.

i like how aliens appear in the song "diner girls" by
ill lit. one of my favorite songs by what may be my favorite band. i like this reference because it notes that the "aliens, they're coming for us. and yes, we're aliens, they're only part of us. well, aliens will eat the heart of us, my baby."

exactly my sentiments and perfectly on point with why i've never been particularly concerned with life out there. there's so much intelligent life right here. last time i checked, you were here too. do you understand why i hate it when people say things like "good luck out there"?

Q: am i the only that notices the noticing of loneliness components?
A: thankfully, no.

drowning in meaning

"semiotic fluid"

these two words came together in my head this morning. i think they glanced at each other during that time i spend each morning sleeping in 9 minute increments trying to repeat any pleasant dreams. i was riding the bus and looking at the lake when they decided to really give it a go as a couple. of course then i was just hoping a special spam with both of them would be waiting for me in my inbox so i could use the phrase in a poem.

Q: what does wendy do when words mate in her mind?
A: she investigates other minds that had the same thought.

Q: does wendy enjoy employing the third person?
A: sometimes.

[aside: "(Keep Feeling) Fascination" by The Human League is annoying in its repetition, rather hard to make any real sense of, and yet I like it immensely when the deep voice says "and so the conversation turned until the sun went down, and many fantasies were heard on that day."]

i'll trust you're competent enough to go to google or some such place and search on "semiotic fluid" if you're really that interested in all of the results. in the meantime, here are the two that intrigued me the most.

there's an article [citation: Milburn, Colin "Nano/Splatter: Disintegrating the Postbiological Body" New Literary History - Volume 36, Number 2, Spring 2005, pp. 283-311 The Johns Hopkins University Press] which you cannot read online. i can because i hobknob with librarians. if you ever need a full text academic article, give a ring to your local library. if you'd like to read this particular article let me know. i haven't read it yet but i found the instance of my words:

"Splatter," in the vocabulary of literary and cinematic horror, has come to refer to a representational moment in which the human body is violently torn asunder, shredded, sliced, hacked, dismembered, melted, and transformed, splattered as semiotic fluid into ghastly forms of monstrous abjection. As the defining motif of "splatterpunk" fictionrepresented by the wettest productions of auteurs such as Clive Barker, Poppy Z. Brite, John Shirley, Edward Lee, George Romero, Lucio Fulci, David Cronenberg, and Peter Jacksonsplatter is the figural mechanism through which narratives of "extreme horror" create meaning: in these texts, "mutilation is the message." By disrupting the body's boundaries and the social codes adhering to them, splatter viciously unsettles the economies of corporealization, and Jay McRoy has argued that at the moment of splatter, the "spectacular and graphic deconstruction/transformation of the 'human' form" enacts a radical revision of normative embodiment, suggesting possibilities of somatic experience other than those encountered in the historical accident of human morphology. Or, as Judith Halberstam has written, the bodies that "emerge triumphant at the gory conclusion of a splatter film are literally posthuman, they punish the limits of the human body and they mark identities as always stitched, sutured, bloody at the seams, and completely beyond the limits and the reaches of an impotent humanism.

this is pretty darn interesting to me given i've spent the past two years focusing most of my film watching on cronenberg, giallo (italian horror genre), and miike(japanese horror director) films. neat coincidence, and for now unfathomable.

there's something called the "book of knots" which is the manual for an RPG (role-playing game if you're not as familiar with nerds as am i) called Wonderland based on the writings of lewis carroll. i find myself musing about the writings of lewis carroll often. i cannot plumb this manual's text well enough to find my "semiotic fluid", if you do please let me know. i did glance at the secret history of the end of the universe. i did brush against the person known as the clear widow and wonder if i am she. i saw the words We Know It is Called The Department of Works in bold and was reminded of the book "the third policeman" and the movie "the falls" in a pleasant fashion. i noted the words "vacuum" and "common sense". but the only thing that grabbed me for more than a few pages was a sidebar about the caretakers. lesson learned: sidebars have sticking power. i believe that everything that follows references back to Caretakers. as a frame of reference, i believe everyone that alice meets in her adventure is considered a Caretaker. i believe that humans meet Caretakers during their "descent", and that this is known as The Royal Drama. are you ready?

A caretaker is
Because he sees the world, not
as it is but as he wishes it would
be. And for millions and millions
of years, the world has bent to
conform to his delusions.
The Eye of the Storm
Because she believes herself
to be physical thing, while her
infl uence roars around her,
corrupting, perverting, and
degrading everything within her
Munifi cent
Because he has everything he
could ever desire and yet can
still be bigger by demonstrating
his largess.
A Petty Bastard
Because she knows she has
limits and they make her furious
and when she sees weakness and
mortality in others it reminds of
things that she hates in herself.
Paradoxes with Opposing Poles
Each Caretaker is obsessed
with something and repelled by
something else. Sometimes these
are polar opposites. Sometimes
these are the same things. And
these things are represent deep,
universal truths that would be
enlightening if one could see
through the
pageantry, rage, and distortion.
The Queen of Hearts has
sacrifi ced millions upon the altar
of the rules, but violates their
spirit with every psychotic deed.
The Duchess of Knots is
ensnared in storm of
maddening change and
tumultuous chaos, but
sponsors a massive, dark
bureaucracy whose rules and
bylaws and dusty fi les consign
those caught in its grip to stasis.
The Liebrarian worships the
sanctity of truth, while residing
over an infi nite collection of
blasphemy and perversity. She
seeks ordinal mastery over
the un-ordered and cardinal
understanding of the unnumbered.
She is a keeper of
knowledge so wrapped in lies, it
provides uncertainty.
Darker things less human rule
over chasms dedicated mirth that
are fi lled with weeping.
The Factory is, in itself the
means of production the
engines of capitalism, but they
vomit up resources without
scarcity: the utopian dream.
Full of Hatred
In a refi ned, civilized way, they
hate everything, and it gnaws at

well, that's about it.