whats ur sunday looking like

Health insurance rip off lying FDA big bankers buying
Fake computer crashes dining
Cloning while they're multiplying
Fashion shoots with Beck and Hanson
Courtney Love, and Marilyn Manson
You're all fakes
Run to your mansions
Come around
We'll kick your ass in

Postby alaska » Mon Apr 15, 2019 10:35 am

Autarch wrote:ok,

so, supposedly there's a lot of time travel that goes on in the books. i didn't get all of it. did you? like, obviously the hierodules were time travelers. and clearly jonas was, well, from the past (or, well, our future), but, like, apparently severian time traveled a lot. I did not catch that the first time at all. Only after re-reading did i notice that there is a drastic change in linguistic style from the first to the second book. like, the first book sounds way more antiquated just in terms of language. idk. also, the fuckin witches? having a hard time remembering there names. one of them was named like cumaean or something like that. idk. hildegrin was also a confusing character to me for some reason. idk, but they were mysterious to me. I'm a slow reader, it took me a very long time to complete these books, so that probably didn't help. Also, what was the deal with miles vs jonas? I'm pretty sure that had to just be severian being dumb or just imagining it, right? like, they weren't actually the same person, right? idk. I think one of my favorite elements of the books was the stories within it. Like, when there would be a story that one character would tell. or a story from the brown book. the one about the chicken vs the eagle was excellent. But also, the stories told by the people in the hospital during citadel. idk, i'm just rambling about stuff now. But anyway, read urth. It's not as good as the others, but it's fuckin wacky imo. Like, it is insanely wacky, some of thee shit that goes on in urth. My memory of it is hazy, but there are certain scenes that were just so fuckin insane. Also, just want to say that in some ways, I think long sun and short sun are better than new sun. Like, new sun is probably my favorite, but I still think about the others a lot, especially short sun. So definitely read them. I really love the characters in those books.Toggle Spoiler



there is no way i got all of the time travel. do you think severian traveled in time b/w the first and second books? i know the opening to the second is jarring for sure. i guess i assumed the language difference was just sort of because they're outside of nessus

honestly i have almost no idea about the other characters lol. hildegrin was confusing, no idea about the witches, the atrium of time was confusing. jonas vs. miles -- i guess i assumed that there was some connection between the two because of the way miles like, stares off into the distance and storms away at the conclusion of his conversation with severian?

i feel like one of the amazing things about the series is that wolfe holds how the world works really close to his chest the whole time, but what this means is that much of the action of the book was sort of bewildering to me the first time through

ok so hierodules time-traveled, jonas time-traveled -- the guy in the bonkers house where every story is a different Epoch time travels (whom the pelerines know about!!). dorcas was dead but then brought back to life and is reunited at the end with...severian's father??

he says at the end that he had only called the claw "the claw of the conciliator" by mistake?????? what is it!?!?!!

the guy severian kills who's grafted onto hsi servant's head who lives in a giant statue of himself????? why is that guy there!?!!!?!!?!?

friend autarch i must say i have basically no answers at this juncture

the hospital stories and brown book stories definitely fucking rule

i'm gonna reread it sooner rather than later and maybe make a thread about it or something. so fucking wild

i cannot stop thinking about the scene with that family in the mountains when the alzabo comes and screams in the voices of the dad and daughter that it's eaten. one of the most bonkers set-pieces in any book i've ever read
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Postby aububs » Mon Apr 15, 2019 10:42 am

I just finished BotNS last year and I don't think I've ever read a book that was so utterly dense and bewildering and arcane whilst also being so addictive and fascinating and charismatic

def will re-read soon
no buddy not really
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Postby separator » Mon Apr 15, 2019 10:59 am

Paul wrote:
separator wrote:About to head to the abandoned pasta factory club


ppp

(please post pictures)


they're all very anti photography but here are some i found

Image

Image

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Postby alaska » Mon Apr 15, 2019 12:06 pm

sobieski - the first chapter of "invisible man", some of the best writing ever in history, is in large part about smoking weed and listening to louis armstrong

Ralph Ellison wrote:Now I have one radio-phonograph; I plan to have five. There is a certain acoustical deadness in my hole, and when I have music I want to feel its vibration, not only with my ear but with my whole body. I'd like to hear five recordings of Louis Armstrong playing and singing "What Did I Do to Be so Black and Blue"—all at the same time. Sometimes now I listen to Louis while I have my favorite dessert of vanilla ice cream and sloe gin. I pour the red liquid over the white mound, watching it glisten and the vapor rising as Louis bends that military instrument into a beam of lyrical sound. Perhaps I like Louis Armstrong because he's made poetry out of being invisible. I think it must be because he's unaware that he is invisible. And my own grasp of invisibility aids me to understand his music. Once when I asked for a cigarette, some jokers gave me a reefer, which I lighted when I got home and sat listening to my phonograph. It was a strange evening. Invisibility, let me explain, gives one a slightly different sense of time, you're never quite on the beat. Sometimes you're ahead and sometimes behind. Instead of the swift and imperceptible flowing of time, you are aware of its nodes, those points where time stands still or from which it leaps ahead. And you slip into the breaks and look around. That's what you hear vaguely in Louis' music.

Once I saw a prizefighter boxing a yokel. The fighter was swift and amazingly scientific. His body was one violent flow of rapid rhythmic action. He hit the yokel a hundred times while the yokel held up his arms in stunned surprise. But suddenly the yokel, rolling about in the gale of boxing gloves, struck one blow and knocked science, speed and footwork as cold as a well-digger's posterior. The smart money hit the canvas. The long shot got the nod. The yokel had simply stepped inside of his opponent's sense of time. So under the spell of the reefer I discovered a new analytical way of listening to music. The unheard sounds came through, and each melodic line existed of itself, stood out clearly from all the rest, said its piece, and waited patiently for the other voices to speak. That night I found myself hearing not only in time, but in space as well. I not only entered the music but descended, like Dante, into its depths. And beneath the swiftness of the hot tempo there was a slower tempo and a cave and I entered it and looked around and heard an old woman singing a spiritual as full of Weltschmerz as flamenco, and beneath that lay a still lower level on which I saw a beautiful girl the color of ivory pleading in a voice like my mother's as she stood before a group of slave owners who bid for her naked body, and below that I found a lower level and a more rapid tempo and I heard someone shout:

"Brothers and sisters, my text this morning is the 'Blackness of Blackness.' "
And a congregation of voices answered: "That blackness is most black, brother, most black . . ."
"In the beginning . . ."
"At the very start," they cried.
". . . there was blackness . . ."
"Preach it . . ."
". . . and the sun . . ."
"The sun, Lawd . . ."
". . . was bloody red . . ."
"Red . . ."
"Now black is . . ." the preacher shouted.
"Bloody . . ."
"I said black is . . ."
"Preach it, brother . . ."
". . . an' black ain't . . "
"Red, Lawd, red: He said it's red!"
"Amen, brother . . ."
"Black will git you . . ."
"Yes, it will . . ."
". . . an' black won't . . ."
"Naw, it won't!"
"It do . . ."
"It do, Lawd . . ."
". . . an' it don't."
"Halleluiah . . ."
". . . It'll put you, glory, glory, Oh my Lawd, in the WHALE'S BELLY."
"Preach it, dear brother . . ."
". . . an' make you tempt . . ."
"Good God a-mighty!"
"Old Aunt Nelly!"
"Black will make you . . ."
"Black . . ."
". . . or black will un-make you."
"Ain't it the truth, Lawd?"

And at that point a voice of trombone timbre screamed at me, "Git out of, here, you fool! Is you ready to commit treason?"
And I tore myself away, hearing the old singer of spirituals moaning, "Go curse your God, boy, and die."
I stopped and questioned her, asked her what was wrong.
"I dearly loved my master, son," she said.
"You should have hated him," I said.
"He gave me several sons," she said, "and because I loved my sons I learned to love their father though I hated him too."
"I too have become acquainted with ambivalence," I said. "That's why I'm here."
"What's that?"
"Nothing, a word that doesn't explain it. Why do you moan?"
"I moan this way 'cause he's dead," she said.
"Then tell me, who is that laughing upstairs?"
"Them's my sons. They glad."
"Yes, I can understand that too," I said.
"I laughs too, but I moans too. He promised to set us free but he never could bring hisself to do it. Still I loved him . . ."
"Loved him? You mean . . ."
"Oh yes, but 1 loved something else even more."
"What more?"
"Freedom."
"Freedom," I said. "Maybe freedom lies in hating."
"Naw, son, it's in loving. I loved him and give him the poison and he withered away like a frost-bit apple. Them boys woulda tore him to pieces with they homemake knives."
"A mistake was made somewhere," I said, "I'm confused." And I wished to say other things, but the laughter upstairs became too loud and moan-like for me and I tried to break out of it, but I couldn't. Just as I was leaving I felt an urgent desire to ask her what freedom was and went back. She sat with her head in her hands, moaning softly; her leather-brown face was filled with sadness.
"Old woman, what is this freedom you love so well?" I asked around a corner of my mind.
She looked surprised, then thoughtful, then baffled. "I done forgot, son. It's all mixed up. First I think it's one thing, then I think it's another. It gits my head to spinning. I guess now it ain't nothing but knowing how to say what I got up in my head. But it's a hard job, son. Too much is done happen to me in too short a time. Hit's like I have a fever. Ever' time I starts to walk my head gits to swirling and I falls down. Or if it ain't that, it's the boys; they gits to laughing and wants to kill up the white folks. They's bitter, that's what they is . . ."
"But what about freedom?"
"Leave me 'lone, boy; my head aches!"
I left her, feeling dizzy myself. I didn't get far.
Suddenly one of the sons, a big fellow six feet tall, appeared out of nowhere and struck me with his fist.
"What's the matter, man?" I cried.
"You made Ma cry!"
"But how?" I said, dodging a blow.
"Askin' her them questions, that's how. Git outa here and stay, and next time you got questions like that, ask yourself!"
He held me in a grip like cold stone, his fingers fastening upon my windpipe until I thought I would suffocate before he finally allowed me to go. I stumbled about dazed, the music beating hysterically in my ears. It was dark. My head cleared and I wandered down a dark narrow passage, thinking I heard his footsteps hurrying behind me. I was sore, and into my being had come a profound craving for tranquillity, for peace and quiet, a state I felt I could never achieve. For one thing, the trumpet was blaring and the rhythm was too hectic. A tomtom beating like heart-thuds began drowning out the trumpet, filling my ears. I longed for water and I heard it rushing through the cold mains my fingers touched as I felt my way, but I couldn't stop to search because of the footsteps behind me.
"Hey, Ras," I called. "Is it you, Destroyer? Rinehart?"
No answer, only the rhythmic footsteps behind me. Once I tried crossing the road, but a speeding machine struck me, scraping the skin from my leg as it roared past.
Then somehow I came out of it, ascending hastily from this underworld of sound to hear Louis Armstrong innocently asking,

What did I do
To be so black
And blue?

At first I was afraid; this familiar music had demanded action, the kind of which I was incapable, and yet had I lingered there beneath the surface I might have attempted to act. Nevertheless, I know now that few really listen to this music.
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