Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Bricky's Golden Treasury of Childhood.

How I Learned About Sex or A Sybarite Among The Shades
I learned all about sex by learning about my own equipment first.
Oh... how I love penises, they are all so different- like snowflakes-
I want to run around aimlessly catching them on my tongue like the Peanuts gang on a Christmas special.
Anyway, I found that out after showering with my Dad one Father-Son day at the country club when I was 7, that although we did resemble each other as males of the species, there was a certain big difference that I took as a possible birth defect on my part, as it were. so to speak.
Leaving the Tasty Pines Country club, as we made a few stops on the way home the frustration came to a boiling point and I had a meltdown, I started sobbing and bleating like a Mexican soap opera actress right there in the frozen foods aisle at the local supermarket.
When I finally fessed up to my Dad that my malaise was due to the fact that in seeing him in the shower, I felt baby Jesus had "short changed" me in that department, He consoled me, saying that I would one day have a nice Pino, that’s what he called them, but at that point, more than anything in the world, he needed me to calm down and behave. Mom really liked that particular Piggly Wiggly that we were in and wanted to continue trading there.
I just knew I would look absolutely stunning with a really large appendage just like my dad‘s so as I sat stoically in the car on the way home pouting and planning for my future
To prove my point, like a prepubescent drag-king, socks, balls, bananas and balloons alike were carefully jammed underneath my pants in an attempt to create the appearance of a monster pee pee, I would walk around the neighborhood greeting the neighbors like Hapsburg royalty.  "Allo there! Allo ducks!"
For years I was known as "that nice little English boy with the tumor".

Many hours were spent pinching and prodding my junk as if frequent handling would encourage growth. I drank plenty of milk and even choked down some spinach, but it was all to no avail.
My pino remained a Vienna sausage as I dreamed of Kielbasa.
How long would I have to wait for a grown up pino of my own? How long would it be before my pino grew so large that I would have to be mindful not to knock down passers by or otherwise cause injury to home and hearth with my majestic weenie?
Thoroughly frustrated, a few months later, I went back to my Dad for advice.
Actually truth be told, I snapped. Suddenly barging into the bathroom, pulling open the shower curtain, not unlike Norman Bates, and tentatively pointing to his pino, I asked, “When will I get one of those?”
After recovering from shock my Dad stated in his heavily accented voice, “You’re only 7,” he mused, “You’ve still got a long way to go.”
I moped around the house, demoralized, for a spell until I came up with the most scathingly brilliant plan I’ve ever had: I was going to ask Santa to bring me a man sized pino for Christmas.
As far as I was concerned, the plan was foolproof. I had been a good boy all year long.
My teachers loved me, (save Sister Mary "Stink eye") I always shared, I was a good host to my friends and I rarely got in trouble with my parents. (Except for the time I tried- unsuccessfully- to drive a railroad spike into the head of my sleeping brother...) I had earned my reward by God.

To really drive my point home, I coolly strolled into my Dad’s study like I had just paid the mortgage, sat down across from him, crossed my legs, took out a candy cigarette, handed my weekly allowance over to him, and ask him to give it to some starving children on my behalf.
“Just make sure O’le Santa knows it was from me,” I whispered as I gave him a wink while spuriously dangling my Buster Brown shoe from my big toe.
Then, it was time to go in for the kill. I sat down to write my Christmas list. It went something like this:
#1. PINO size extra-large
I chewed thoughtfully on my eraser for a minute before I added:
#2. Soccer Ball
#3. Hot Wheels
#4. Beatles records
#5. Lederhosen

Considering that a grown up penis like Dad's was a tall order to fill and I didn’t want to appear greedy, I decided to end my list there.
I finished my letter off with a few declarations of love for Santa, actually I think my words were "Undying devotion" and even went so far as to call him my Hero, "More than Batman and Robin and Batgirl combined!"
I figured a little sucking up couldn’t hurt my cause.
Later that evening, I handed over my Christmas wish list, heavily perfumed with Fidji by Guy Laroche, to my Father and asked him to mail it to Santa for me.

Counting down the days until Christmas is torturous for any kid, but it was particularly hard for me. The days seemed to drag on forever and remaining on my Best Behavior was getting tedious. But finally, finally, Christmas Eve arrived. I could hardly sleep, I was so excited. I just knew I would wake up in the morning with a brand new extra large pino.
You can imagine my utter dismay when I woke up that brisk December morning and peaked down my pajama pants only to find I was as small as the day before. Santa, that fat bastard, had screwed me over. It was travesty! How could he do this to me after I had saved him the very best of the Christmas cookies?


My tutoring in the “hands on” aspects of the tender Arts of Venus began one afternoon about a year later as I was trailing after a few older boys from neighborhood. Joey and Noel were laughing about someone they knew that had a magazine with photos of people doing something I had never heard of. Fucking.
Neither of these boys were going to let me in on what this was- I mulled the term over and over in my head, “Fucking…” I could just see hear it, spoken in the adult realms of locker rooms and men’s clubs, “Great fucking today Chip!” “Well, I always enjoy fucking with you too Biff!” It sounded to me like a new sports craze - like Jai alai.

Being devoted at the time to all things Basque, I thought I would ask my mom or dad about this new fad, so I waddled home and made my way to my moms boudoir where she was hurriedly twisting on some 'cherries in the snow' lipstick and making herself all pretty for cocktail hour with the neighbors. She had just returned from doing a 10K - at Tiffany and Company.
Leaning casually on the door frame and carefully yet absent-mindedly arranging my candy necklace and puffing languidly on a candy cigarette, I asked, in a rather offhanded manner, " Soooooo Mother, what do you know about... fucking?"
The look she gave me was priceless, it was the exact same look a baby makes when you fire a gun over its head.
Grabbing a tissue and removing some 'cherries in the snow from her forehead, she calmly said, "Bricky dear, where did you hear that word? Was it from your grandmother?" I shrugged and said I didn't remember, some magazine I thought. She added "I believe you need to go and ask your father what you just asked me."
I turned and scampered to my Dad who was outside on the patio preparing the altar for the Tiki booze Gods. I asked him the same question. He reacted like I had heard some top secret information straight from the Russians but asked "Did you hear that word from your Grandmother?"
As I repeated that I didn't remember where I had heard it from, he grimaced deeply yet calmly led me to his personal private inner sanctum off limits to children, his workshop, where he told me in deep and thickly accented voice were going to talk about the "Birds and Beans". 

"When two peoples love each other, they like to have a close personal relations, to make the fottere, the fucking." I listened in awe, feverishly chewing my candy necklace, "That is when the man will put his pino into the woman's figa, and they sometimes makes the bambinos."
There was a short question and answer period after about things like what the testicles were for and whether the woman minded what sounded at best like a tedious way to spend an afternoon. In general it was a satisfactory lesson in anatomy and reproduction, and I looked forward to the day my Pino would make crema, which I was sure would taste just like banana pudding.

When I was about 12, I started going through puberty. I was pleasantly surprised not only with its increased size but also with the number of things I could stimulate my privates with. It was a steep learning curve, The vacuum cleaner hose was more of a success when applied to my penis than when applied to my rectum, the maid always gave me dirty looks after that experiment. There was the pool jet, the sofa cushions, my grandmothers stone martins-I still get a chubber when I smell Dial soap or walk through the fur department at Saks.
In the midst of these phallic halcyon days there came a hulking menace in the form a of a thirteen year old boy named Wilie.
Wilie was the neighborhood bully and for several years struck terror in the hearts of younger children in a ten block radius. I was lucky for some time dodging the Indian rubs and from turning over my candy money, but one evening at the city park my luck ran out. Wilie ran up behind me and grabbed me in a half nelson, pulling me into the bushes.
Thinking quickly, I did my best imitation of a fainting goat. (It’s a great imitation, try it when the bill arrives at Antoine’s.)
Surprisingly enough Wilie didn't beat the crap out of me. He looked at me with his eyes on fire and his nostrils flaring and asked. "You look like a girl, do you have an innie or an outie ?" By then my mastery of slang was becoming somewhat advanced, so I knew what he was saying. " I have an outie." I haughtily answered, carefully tucking my long hair back behind my ears. "I don't believe you, drop your pants." He leered. Still in a state of shock, but always remembering my manners, I complied. Before I knew what was happening, he had taken down his pants and had a full erection stuck in my face telling me to put it in my mouth. Long story short, as I reapplied my Bonnie Bell Dr. Pepper flavor Lip Smackers I was somewhat disappointed that what came out of his pino did not taste at all like banana pudding.
He wiped my vomit off his PF flyers and said "Thanks queer. I'll see you tomorrow." “Not if I see you first.“ I quipped rolling my eyes.
That night was spent in my room strutting and fretting in front of the Barbie townhouse wondering if I was really queer for doing what I did. Certainly, It seemed odd but not queer.
My answer came the following evening.
If I was queer, then Mr. Big Bully tough guy was too.
I swear his face looked like a toaster strudel.
We segued into being soul-mates soon after.
We did everything two males could possibly do to each other sexually- including a rather surreal episode involving a tall Mary Poppins doll and me dressed up as Serena from Bewitched.
That arrangement continued until Wilie discovered booze and mushrooms. They started calling him Wilie Peyote.
He had to be sent to military school.
I’ve managed to move on.
Waiter, I'll have Pino please.

Monday, October 27, 2014

quoth the madman

“Man is sometimes extraordinarily, passionately, in love with suffering.”
—    Fyodor Dostoyevsky

literacki

Collective
“He is happy, whose circumstances suit his temper; but he is more excellent, who can suit his temper to any circumstances.”
—   David Hume, An Enquiry Concerning The Principles of Morals

quoth the madman

"Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear."                      
~Mark Twain

quoth the madman


Why else keep a journal, if not to examine your own filth?                                        
~Anne Sexton  

ponder

Particles
http://coub.com/view/3pz2t (check the HD button…)

You spoke about the sadness of death as it comes from forgetting, and I thought of the time I took the week long vow of silence and on the fourth day all the poems came through, the most beautiful poems I might ever write, and I had neither pen nor paper nor even tongue to memorialize them, but had to let them speak in me and almost instantly dissipate, to be lost forever, forgotten and heard by none. And yet on the fifth day I knew that their beauty mattered neither less nor more for not having been memorialized; they simply were at the moment they were, and nothing more. What it means to overcome the sadness of death is simply this: to know every thing one sees, hears, and speaks – every sky every person every word – cannot ever be memorialized, but must be left to the moment it comes and nothing more.

literacki



This web of time - the strands of which approach one another, bifurcate, intersect or ignore each other through the centuries - embraces every possibility.
We do not exist in most of them.
In some you exist and not I, while in others I do, and you do not, and yet in others both of us exist. In this one, in which chance has favored me, you have come to my gate. In another, you, crossing the garden, have found me dead. In yet another, I say these very same words but am in error, a phantom Time is forever dividing itself toward innumerable futures.
~Jorge Luis Borges, “Garden of Forking Paths”

ponderous


Melancholia’s narcissism seeks isolation, entrenched in resentment, as if wronged by some turn of events. This can be about feeling failed either by a loved one’s sudden death etc, or by one’s own capacity to love.                                        
~Andre Vantino

ponder


When the neurotic avoids groups, he avoids the gaze. The gaze is not the gazing of people in the group, but the void of never being able to fully check with everyone in a group that each is okay with what I say.                                        
 The gaze is the remainder in the Other which cannot be made sense of or symbolized even by the Other herself. - Andre Vantino

ponder

 
you are actually remembering the last time you remembered it, not the event itself.

quoth the madman

Ghost Orbit
“Love is narcissistic, a hospitable narcissism, open to the experience of the Other as Other. The relation to the Other must trace a reappropriation in the image of one’s self for love to be possible. Without narcissistic reappropriation, the relation to the Other would be destroyed in advance.”
— excerpted Derrida from Points

literacki


Therefore they would often sit together, talking desultorily. What was really between them they could not utter. Their words were only accidents in the mutual silence.

—D.H. Lawrence, The Rainbow.

quoth the madman



"A faith, naive and child-like perhaps, born as it is from the infinite simplicity of nature. It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles."
— Sylvia Plath - Diaries

quoth the madman



"The snake which cannot cast its skin has to die. As well the minds which are prevented from changing their opinions; they cease to be mind."
— Friedrich Nietzsche

ars poetica


For we have thought the longer thoughts
And gone the shorter way.
And we have danced to devils’ tunes,
Shivering home to pray;
To serve one master in the night,
Another in the day.
—Ernest Hemingway, “Chapter Heading,” 88 Poems

ponderous

The Fountain


“This very second has vanished forever, lost in the anonymous mass of the irrevocable. It will never return. I suffer from this, and I do not. Everything is unique—and insignificant.”
— Emil Cioran, The Trouble With Being Born

ponder

“There are some things which cannot be learned quickly, and time, which is all we have, must be paid heavily for their acquiring.”
— Ernest Hemingway, Death in the Afternoon

quoth the madman


“Anything, anything to stop drowning in this dull, trivial and cowardly existence.”
— Charles Bukowski

quoth the madman

Happy Halloween!
“I take great care of myself by carefully shutting myself away.”
— Vincent van Gogh, Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh. 

ponderous


“In short, tell me you will go on loving me, no matter how I behave go on loving me at any price, there is no disgrace I would not be prepared to bear—but where is this leading me?”
Franz Kafka, from Letters To Felice

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billdomonkos:

Labyrinth
“There is sadness lurking even in gilded palaces, you can’t escape from it anywhere.”
— Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Double

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fleshcoatedtechnology:

Memories of a Broken Dimension has been greenlit on Steam! Release some time in 2015, can’t wait!This is from the original Demo they released, it should still be somewhere in the net, if you can find it give it a go, its fantastic.
“私のことを覚えていてほしいの。
私が存在し、こうしてあなたのとなりにいたことをずっと覚えていてくれる?
I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?”
— Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

Monday, October 13, 2014

literacki

New York City Ballet
"One must learn to look away from oneself in order to see much. But the lover of knowledge who is obtrusive with his eyes—how could he see more of all things than their foregrounds? But you wanted to see the ground and background of all things; hence you must climb over yourself—upward, up until even your stars are under you!"
- Friedrich Nietzsche, from Thus Spoke Zarathustra

cin·e·mat·ic

Mermaid Tank

photo : https://www.flickr.com/photos/94207108@N02/
video : https://www.youtube.com
Martha: I looked at you tonight and you weren't there...And I'm gonna howl it out, and I'm not gonna give a damn what I do and I'm gonna make the biggest goddamn explosion you've ever heard.
George: Try and I'll beat you at your own game.
Martha: Is that a threat George, huh?
George: It's a threat, Martha.
Martha: You're gonna get it, baby.
George: Be careful Martha. I'll rip you to pieces.
Martha: You're not man enough. You haven't the guts.
George: Total war.
Martha: Total.

literacki

World War Z - Marc Forster
"It is true when you are by yourself and you think about life, it is always sad. All that excitement and so on has a way of suddenly leaving you, and it’s as though, in the silence, somebody called your name, and you heard your name for the first time."
- Katherine Mansfield, from Bliss, And Other Short Stories

ponder

“(Words)

Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.
Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren’t good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.
But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.”


—   Anne Sexton, The Complete Poem

ars poetica

Disney Racism
“who
is invisible enough
to see you”

—   Paul Celan

literacki


“Sometimes the thoughts and feelings I had didn’t really agree with each other, so I decided I must be lots of different people inside my brain.”
— Iain Banks, The Wasp Factory

ponder


“The square is not a subconscious form. It is the creation of intuitive reason. The face of the new art. The square is a living, regal infant. The first step of pure creation in art.”
— Kazimir Malevich

quoth the madman


“My task, which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel—it is, before all, to make you see.”
— Joseph Conrad

ponder


“There is no intensity of love or feeling that does not involve the risk of crippling hurt. It is a duty to take this risk, to love and feel without defense or reserve.”
— William S. Burroughs

ponder

"I once asked a Jesuit priest what was the best short prayer he knew. He said ‘Fuck it.’ as in ‘Fuck it, it’s in Gods hands.’"
— Anthony Hopkins

quoth the madman

“Memory has its own special kind. It selects, eliminates, alters, exaggerates, minimizes, glorifies, and vilifies also; but in the end it creates its own reality, its heterogeneous but usually coherent version of events; and no sane human being ever trusts someone else’s version more than his own.”
— Salman Rushdie
 


quoth the madman

Psy-Chic
“An artist is a creature driven by demons. He don’t know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why.”
— William Faulkner

cin·e·mat·ic


"All the anxiety that we carry with us, our frustrated dreams, the incomprehensible cruelty, our fear of extinction, the interior painful view of our terrestrial condition have slowly eroded our hope and any other salvation. The bellow of our faith and doubt against darkness and silence — it is one of our most terrible tests of our abandonment and of our terrified and indescribable knowledge."
— From Persona, a film by Ingmar Bergman (1966)

literacki

Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
Tell me where it hurts, she’d say. Stop howling. Just calm down and show me where.

But some people can’t tell where it hurts. They can’t calm down. They can’t ever stop howling.”

Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

ponder


The Effect of Light on Soap Bubbles (GIF: Bill Domonkos, 2013) (Death of Marat, Jacques-Louis David, 1763)
The question of whether there is “something that it is like” to be the right hemisphere of a split-brain patient must be answered in the only way that it is ever answered in science: We can merely observe that its behavior and underlying neurology are sufficiently similar to that which we know to be correlated with consciousness in our own case. There is no difficulty in doing this for a normal split-brain patient who retains the use of her left hand. In fact, the consciousness of the disconnected right hemisphere is easier to establish than that of most toddlers. The question of whether the right hemisphere is conscious is really a pseudo-mystery used to bar the door to a great one: the uncanny fact that the human mind can be divided with a knife.

—  Sam Harris, Waking Up, P. 68

literacki

The Observatory
"Now the trees were filled with birds. The earth would give a long sigh before sliding into darkness. In a moment, with the first star, night would fall on the theater of the world. The dazzling gods of day would return to their daily death. But other gods would come. And, though they would be darker, their ravaged faces too would come from deep within the earth."
— Albert Camus, ”Nuptials at Tipasa”

ponder

Waves                                                     
"I am awfully greedy; I want everything from life. I want to be a woman and to be a man, to have many friends and to have loneliness, to work much and write good books, to travel and enjoy myself, to be selfish and to be unselfish… You see, it is difficult to get all which I want. And then when I do not succeed I get mad with anger."
Simone de Beauvoir

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Soupe originelle / Origin of Life
"No, it was neither I nor the world that counted, but solely the harmony and silence that gave birth to the love between us. A love I was not foolish to claim for myself alone, proudly aware that I shared it with a whole race born in the sun and sea, alive and spirited, drawing greatness from its simplicity, and upright on the beaches, smiling in complicity at the brilliance of its skies."
— Albert Camus, “Nuptials at Tipasa”

ponder

intoconsistency:

The elusive perfect loop.

"My happiest hours are those in which I think nothing, want nothing, when I do not even dream, but lose myself in some spurious vegetable torpor, moss growing on the surface of life. Without a trace of bitterness I savour my absurd awareness of being nothing, a mere foretaste of death and extinction."
— Fernando Pessoa