What other phantasmagorias are hither-thither?
You are a walking contradiction with con emphasized. Hey if your gay or bi or whatever. That’s you thang. Leave me out of it though.
I am not including or excluding you, that’s your own business. Besides I can not leave me out of something unless, it’s your prerogative. Is it? Nothing here surprises me.
What someone is, is really none their business, and there is no way someone can be forced to stay in.
But I smell something other here. Wish you could let me in.
True to form!
Okay, now write in laymans terms rather than some underpaid therapist. What are you saying E-X-A-C-T-L-Y? Two posts up.
Let you into what? You are already a violator, stalker, sadistic, insanely jealous, psychopath who wishes to beat the crap out of me. We’ve met, remember? You do not have the mad skills you seem to think.
laymen’s views are a product of reductive process, to the degree, that ‘it is what it is’ or, what it has become. But’it’ is no longer normative or average, the manyform parts stretch out toward elongating horizons, as more and more opinion become less formative, and more a matter of style and opinion.Of beliefs and values.
There is less capacity to pull together, and more for re-invention.
In the case of Igor, the monster was the invention, not him. The monster brought to life, can not but blame his inventor, Igor? Only a man in the middle.
But I fear I am way off with the intent of this forum,
Which seems to be against more figurative symbolism, as if he is trying to recapture a neo romantic style, a time, before the thing wasn’t merely that thing.
But this is an admission of a cynical resignation, of an image of Igor, as only a literary device to serve the purposes of the intended figure, who can never be actualized more than a caricature, a contraposition of opinions, beliefs, and values, into the monstrously overdrawn, compensation of a minor evil figure, anti heroic in his admittedly secondary role, in the creation of the monster. It’s an overcompensated attempt of an excuse to rationalize away the futility and the nihilism derived of personal accountability.
It’s a poor excuse for a personal failure, minimally, toward a self redemption. It is the totally reduced objectivity of any kind of self development, resulting in poorest forms of denial. It’s dynamic rests in the denial of alienation within excluding boundaries of diminishing marginality.
He is not revolting, he is advocating a self righteous positioning of self within a quasi reality, an in-between state, an existence squeezed , becoming detached and irrelevant between beliefs and values.
It’s simply an expression of an embryonic nihilism, one whose abortion can only be formalized through the least symbolic, most literal edifices.
Interdisciplinary symbolism does most to include not only exclude the foundation, and not to truncate them.
If the layman can not relate to the foundation, only occasion empty epitaphs based on unfounded values, then be it, but don’t accuse others of it, and deflect it.
Truth is truth, honesty is just that, in these believe ability and trust can be constructed, at least in between the smallest groups, even consisting of 2.
When push comes to shove, basic beliefs have to be fearlessly guaranteed.
Omit everything perceived to be irrelevant , admit even a minuscule particle of truth.
Igor may appear as all the above, and that appearance is exactly based on the denial of an existential compression ad-absurdism we all fear.
What we may not admit to, at least presently, is, that Igor is symptomatic, generic, and horribly impersonal. It is a tool with which we can subordinate the inventor, the creator, under the constructed, the created. The monster becomes, literally, an extension of ourselves, which we would like nothing better , then decapitate and bury. We hate how anti-heroic we have come, but so human.
I think I have met You, and feel that as well,but I will leave it at that.
Igor brought a woman back from the bar. He undressed her as she sat on the side of the bed talking about how she never got do do math in school cause everyone thought she was stupid. She wasnt stupid. She was just a bit slow. But she had a good brain on her. By the time she was naked, Igor was almost asleep. She then came lie on him and they were warm for a while. Igor looked at the streetlamp outside.
What say you we smoke a cigarette? He said. They climbed away from each other and put on some clothing. With their bare feet in the grass they stood smoking. Life is good, Igor thought, even if sex is overrated. He looked at his companion sideways. She seemed pensive and not at all as comfortable as he. She turned to him. Do you want me to do something freaky?
Like what?
She took his hand and pulled him back to the house.
He flicked away his cigarette.
The next morning Igor woke up to breakfast. His companion, shall we call her Sandy, sat with her back to him drinking coffee watching the animals in the tree.
Igor smiled at a recollection of the previous night.
Igor woke up.
His room was resplendent with light, and a table awaiting to be arranged for breakfast.
But there was no breakfast. Igor was out of eggs.
After sex, Igor asks Sandy, “Was it good for you?”
To which she replied,
“Compared to what?”
Igor, taken aback, shot back, ‘compared to the sex you had with Frankenstein last night’.
Sandy was silent for a moment and, sitting up, fixed her curls.
Pro’s and cons, she said.
Igor, now annoyed, wanted to push her out of the bed and go back to sleep. Then he thought that was something Frankenstein might do. So he didnt.
Instead, he decided he was going to improve his rating and crawled under the covers.
Then, having a flash of Frankenstein having been there before, he lost consciousness.
Igor? Sandy probed.
Are you alive?
Without waiting for an answer she grabbed her cellphone and initiated a chat with her deceased aunt via astralswipe.
Vigor, after having hooked Igor up with a nice young lady from the post-office who was in desperate need of someone to make her forget her past, now in the plane back to Uzbekistan wondered if he had made the right decision, if not Igor may catalyze the fair lady’s mental problems and exacerbate her mnemonic daemonism… endangering both Igors already frail and unenviable heart, and the prospective future of the damsel in distress herself - oh Igor, why hadn’t he grown up to be a proper farmer, like his father? Why did he have to cultivate the fungi in his soul rather than the fruits in the world? Vigor had his head in his hands when the Gulfstream of Ben-Nulla touched down on the simmering tarmac. He cursed the day that Igor had been invited into the Rectors office… and he cursed himself for not … what could he have done? The rector was a powerful man.
Vigor didn’t have to wonder much. Rigor, the very fine damsel was in fact in disguise, of having been duped by Igor into a faux flight into the land of never never, and she had made up her mind not to overly effect too much over her eternal return into never, ever land. After all decades of enchantment caused the powerful pastor to sync with Vigor into touching basis with nemesis Igor, as Rigor excuse; Rigora was not exactly the innocent bystander , watching the spectacle of whipped horse in never land.
Her imbalance notwithstanding, being a realist, she will be ok, Igor reasoned, she will be ok, ok…and despite huge losses at roulette the night before, he will have enough left for the subsequent visit, the visit of magic.
The magic consisted in the real practical analogically pervasive looking glass of Wagner’s Ring, as it applies to the apprehension of the Persians magics which love may endanger upon her soul.
That’s all, no infusion with the artifact of actual buggery, a buggary of the subtle type, of the kind of encapsulation into the forces of the unkind spirits, the obvious pretenders of human e cellence, no, the kind that wishes to subsume into the transformation into, the actual dreamlike bug, the one unrecognizable one, free and swell.
Rigor is ok, no fear for Igor to fret over, nor Vigor, for both are totally and irreversibly determined to find her, after the repetitious but delicious whipping.
Thereafter, whom shall he fear? Myra? Brack and rich,
Fried rich mY have, said
But he wasn’t leaving her, irrespective of the magic Circe of fire, he determinantly knew of no refrain, which would have as Brunhilda, find a forbidden nexus, since the twilight, that has passed, the dawn approaching , fear no, as long as, Circe can weave into the realm an actual visage, as a Corot would scale the underlying motive know no man, woman or sweet child.
No, here there always a bridge arise as if from a fog, a waterfront, a White House, a Brooklyn bridge, a past revisited by the strangest of cues few could, would or mind. Unravel my sweet, be my guardian, Rigira quipped purely, as if this newest return into the vortex the of the ring, for your eyes,
Only.
No fun in his over encapsulation, this second compressing eons, this existence finely hued of Golden Fleece found at last in the sweetest places,
No fun found in the trembling of endearment. No fun in landing, but take off my friend in a place of your/mine choosing, a place in the heart of lost forgotten memories, as would baroque transplantation so into new world aspirations:
No.
To: Gregory Corso (be friend, of mime)
Whence of Elisian fields you could only whimper in the glare of coming attractions, come, mine friend for a minute of confusion. I must leave her now for sure, to participate in only a re-created production, but real only so real.
Sandy says, ‘Igor you’re an idiot’, You’re just jealous of Frankenstein. You know me inside and out, at least you should, that there is nothing Frankenstein can offer me to give you up. With me it’s a matter of principle. With You it’s merely a game. Otherwise You would have left me a long time ago.
And don’t ever forget my love, you are real, and he is merely a created boy toy, you yourself being instrumental in his creation.
Sandy’s bosom shook with a degree of voluptuous severity, which made him drop his cocktail, hitting the granite and breaking into numerous ice cube filled shrouds of heavy crystal.
Igor held the hand of a pregnant woman and he said: the pond is deep, isnt it? Together they looked out over the pond. She noticed the green film across it and remembered how she once ran across it thinking it was grass, and found herself underwater suddenly. It evoked in her a churning of the gut and wishing she were her own baby. Igor on the other hand was concerned only with the question of boats, ships, naval gear, accountability for the real, a way across this forsaken pond, on the other side of which was a ruin where he intended to make a campfire.
The woman had wanted to wander off across the distance in the roundabout way, avoiding the deep waters, rumashing through the grassroots like an angel, Igor insisted, insisted on his transduction of the tidal crossmagnet that he intended to set up in his soul.
So was thence there done, for it was saturday night and the market had been open since dawn.
He who jumps farthest will land closest.
You have to pull it off… the dream man had told him. He’d shown Igor a bow and arrow and demonstrated the tension, and then he was a rubicks cube and he understood. But now, facing the pond, there was another issue that pressed harder than the ultimate goal; what is this?
This, here. Igor understood that he knew so little about it because he knew so much about that one thing -
this here, though, it appeared to him, with alarming clarity -
This here is good. He said.
Igor was for the first time in his life glad to be in his home county.
Dang. He went out in the yard, had himself a righteous time overlooking the preserve. He knew he had every inch and pennty of what he deserved, but he wanted more. He was an American. An American in Texas.
Curled up in a Texas womb
I play to the mandolin
and seal my tomb
I light a candle darling
for your golden merriment
your English temperament
(soothes my dastardly soul)
A house we built on bones
of mores never more,
well never drink the waters from the well
never drink the waters but we steam
our engines, they reek and we sweat like steers
we workers united, we produce, we are!
Igor put down his pen and tried out the dance he had imagined before the second stanza.
Hop-la, in the air!
Gorki, under Igors pillow, sighed in translation.
Igor was so fucking tired. He didnt even want to get out of the car. What had they done to his brain? He could barely fathom. It felt like they had been chopping with blunt axes from inside his marrow. Of his bones. His bones, they hurt inside, they felt like theyre being eaten slowly by corrosive acids… oh, this damned therapy. Why couldnt they just force him to milk some cows? Why all this… intervention? Igor now moved to open the car door but just, couldn’t. Imagining the walk across the garden to the door was too much. He might make it to the hallway though and collapse blissfully on the polished oak… oh that would be nice. But he couldn’t… he…
A carhorn was heard across the neighborhood for 30 minutes, until Igors mom opened the door and Igor tumbled out on the street. After dragging himself crawling across the domicilic threshold he slept on, for twenty hours, and drooled.