*Today's Special Consternation* (toted by my current girlfriend) is indicative of the striking downfall of large, cohesive families. Yes, as i have mentioned previously, Marisa's family is monolithic. Only the most distant edges crumble slightly. If her family were a circle, I'd be a point on a plane parallel to it and growing increasingly distant. The line passing through me and Marisa, however, remains. One of her nephews, Alberto, is moving out of the flat that she owns near to this flat that she also o...
Marisa has a trait that I find in part very amusing but in part extremely worrying. It is simple, but indicates a *blight* in my eyes fundamentally. We were just talking, as we released dry and practically dry clothing from their castigation hanging from a flimsy drying apparatus, about the english word *pugnacious*. Admittedly, it is not a word I use very often. The word describes a certain *feature* of creatures that I do not desire to be around often. A parallel word exists in Spanish, and therefore I e...
Whilst Marisa continued to shop in unnamed clothing shop in an unnamed shopping center a few hours ago, I checked Facebook. The top post on my feed was by Acy. He referenced an article that had to do with the [Many Minds Interpretation](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Many-minds_interpretation) of quantum mechanics. I was sitting on a squat stool at the base of a number of shelves containing articles of ostensibly new clothing. Humans milled and browsed around me as I sat there, a pile of ostensibly new cloth...
The switch that was eventually implanted just above the double fold of fat at the base of Shambal's neckline had been planned for ages. It was his own design, in fact, for he had foreseen his future condition. He was never pleased with what he foresaw, but, always the pragmatist, he took steps to perpetuate his *soul*. Shambal's concept of *soul* was shaky, sure, but basically, he meant the sphere of personality that engorged itself slowly (and sometimes even quickly) since the dawn of consciousness. A com...
One must remember that Shambal Brambel was born both deaf and sessile. I was only when the first tenebrous tentacle plunged from the night sky and uprooted him that he began to become a renowned gigolo, vagrant, gourmet and visionary. Centuries have passed and the apex of his life journey is long behind him. He has enjoyed the ease of descent for ages and like the multicellular forms who shed their complexity and become paramecia once again, Shambal has regressed. His bed is his sessile base now. As descri...
Shambal was well known for his obsession with religion not only in his own land but in empires abroad both fallen and in the throes of power. He was brought up by a despotic mother stewing eternally (well, eternally until her demise) in catholic ideology. To finally flee his childhood oppression and its monkey clawing like his later cocaine demon at the back of his neck for decades and then for centures, he decided to reform the old ways and scribed the following: ### The Ten Goat Commandments - Thou shal...
Long ago, when the wind still whipped the edges off of sharp stones, Rabbit was a great trapper. He lived with his grandmother on the fringe of the Pellucid Desert. She was an ancient and emaciated creature, as well as the only other of his kind he could recall. Perhaps she was his great-grandmother, or even great-great-grandmother. Time was funny in the borderlands. In any case, all the rest of his kind had disappeared. His grandmother was very weak, but at times still spoke. She never looked directly at ...
I am always frightened when I am invited to go to a *authentic* concert of some *ethnic* music. Let's take *flamenco*, for example. Besides the fact that is pretty much howling mierda, the vomit of cultural emotions, why strain to enjoy a virtuoso guitarist through that haze? **Through that filter**? #### What is the point? Learning to divine presentiments from some arcana doesn't make you interesting, you cunt! Why do people flock to see *authentic* music? What are they hearing? Are they there for some s...
I sit in a bar in Bilbao. The barman wears a beard and casually goes about his duty. This is in contrast to the previous bar, very close to the bus station, filled with backpacked women with demands for pintxos. Their drooling eyes almost matched the saliva that pooled on their thighs as they sat on metal barstools. They only wanted to get to the aeroport. It is a pity they are dead now. But, anyway, I wrote these things to Christián, of which I shall elaborate on in turn: > I appreçiate that the Spanish ...
I wrote to Marisa just now: > Dentro del autobus, hay Ingleses delante de mi y Alemanes atrás! Ha. locos! But they are not the strangers. I am. Jayson once told me, and actually told everyone around us, aligned with us, groovin' with us and otherwise accompanying us on the dotted life trek through the universe: > You're lost and you like it. They are not the strangers. I am. They giggle like misfits, but laughter among the superficially inane is glue. Camaraderie is a disease that ultimately benefits al...
A *facebook* friend named Ron Greenough died a few days ago. I don't know the causes of his demise, but I spent a minute on his timeline and found he posted something (I forget what now) on the 21st. Ron and I never met. Actually, during the last few years, we never exchanged any personal quips. I believe I *got to know him* in 2009, soon after my mandatory exile from the Czech Republic. He was some relation of Justin or other. I'm not sure which. I never bothered to find out since it was utterly unimporta...
