Nervous in spite of understanding Mr. Nietzche

Oh! She said, and the floodgates erupted. Everything goes, at basement prices. Like the Black Friday draws the crowds by an irresistible fetish, they like in the day of the locust overwhelmed by the fountain of desire.

In that famous scene they are still talking about where Anita Ecberg wades into the Trevi Fountain.
Her skirt bellowing and bubbles coming through her
shapely legs. It is the breaking point, it bursts, Anais Nin called it a petite mort, a little death, whereby liberation of a little time is afforded to the victim. Just
a little peaceful scene, with the sunshine finally
breaking through after a long absence of indulgence, a mortification of the spirit.

Her problems mounted, her bills piled, and the more she denied their existence, the more she lost at the casino.

It was a viscious cycle, and he was not so much of a help. It started with a diamond as big as a city block,
and it ended with this. A constant craving, with her
straddling his hips and with a final push inward let it break. She was older, significantly, and her tastes have changed. She was loosing everything, might as
well, and he was leaving as well, he told her as much
they had breakfast up on the hill, the hill they thought for ever would rebound their promise. And when it last, the taste of that rushing current at last,
reminded her of the disappointing temporality of it
all, almost becoming tasteless, almost merely a metaphor of a reminder for something nearly sacred, she decided the guru’s advice to gradually
deconstruct the ideal topic, the topicality of
possession, into the genius of creation. But slow, ever so slow now that this near tasteless prologue of coming attractions earn some credit.

Where was her portfolio? It never really happened, he tried to assemble it for her, holding back the tears
which such depravation of the prize could afford, but failed
miserably, over no over, and when the last abstract lines were confined into the colors, then the gates broke, and all the brokenness of the anathema of
reality came crashing down, confirming Ned Rorem’s idea that any one who can, can-can, and achieve the sublime, yet unsublimaged heights available readily the mechanics of love.

For it is the mechanics, the motions f it, if successfully achieved ,that stare indifferently to the resulting few drops, of gods’ elixir , and to be perfectly blunt, it is the intention, not the effect which counts in paradise.

She lost it, the whole nine yards gone, and soon he will be like everybody else to her, and he to him, their commitment as tasteless and of lackluster constituency as anyone they had come across before.
They saw the film Jules et Jim that time hoping to drain the last ounce out of each other, for they were vampires living on each others’ strength, but it was late, and she brought up the bills, hoping like before he could take care of them, but not this time. He lost badly that night, the casino just a dim hogpodge of noise and tasteless greedy idle chatter, the faces around the table mixing as they revolved around the common denominator of futility.

He loved her, and he knew he can’t loose her, and if he were, he could never reassemble that was for him was severely cut up, deconstructed. He became a fetish of forlorn desire to possess now, a spiritual totem pole, which could attain the very sharp tip, if only he could hold unto it.

This Christmas I can not buy him a Tiffany gold trinket, but he is Mexican, so I’ll buy him a a silver chain, anyway, it is more prized down there, referring to their Puerto Vallarta visit last summer. Maybe he will understand.

It is getting bad, you see he says to her. They won’t shut me in, and they can’t keep me in. Bravado, and a hunger like anyone could possess, insatiable, animal like, a steppenwolf, quietly understanding all references to hybrids of all kinds.

And then she gets angry, seizing me up, and I protest her equally explicated view that; ’ you are simply into pain because of you obsession with death.’

And then she drinks away, awash in regret, but the
realization of this pseudo immortal being leaving only droplets of her soul scattered throughout the lubricous carpet.

How a thinker can be misunderstood, or deliberately confuse the masses, so to effect an opposite outcome, from the one intended.

Where has been the theme of the state today? And is today, the time ripe for this to occur again?

The psychology of the masses seems so easily reversible. Or, is this the manifestation of politics as usual.

Leaving for Cebu next week, fear and loathing. Informed of zero tolerance for grass there, and the new rechnologynsmelks out containers even after there is nothing to contain, as proven by this august coming through Denver airport, having been warned by head in the obscurity. So it is true what is being said about machines, dogs no longer needed.
But what of extra judicial killings there for possession.

Hope to see

Please check in with us on a daily basis Jerkey, and if we stop hearing from you we can create an Amnesty International or other organisational cause to free Jerkey.

Being forewarned is forearmed, so:
google.co.uk/search?q=cebu+ … ent=safari

Advice from the Foreign Office:



Leaving next Sunday, I believe Jan 1, bags are packed. I will, once I can get aWifi there, report on a basis time will allow, in this forum.

Thank You for the information, Magsj.

And do please report missing if not on board say in 30 days

Hopefully it won’t come to that, but yeah… 30 days from now.

Arrived in Cebu. Advised not to go around at night. Don’t feel any kind of heat from natives, such as casting of unkind glances. Poverty evident all around. Staying at the Waterfront Hotel. Sniffing dogs at sensitive places. One of them took a liking to me, sniffed my bag, then settled near me sitting down on his shanks, and looking up with kind eyes. No sign of terrorists or even Muslim extremists, they say they are further south. Forgot to go to Apple to find out how I can send pictures, will try to take some photos tomorrow. Staying in Cebu 3 days, then on to Visayas, Tacloban, the place two years ago, a devastating monsoon killed 20,000 people.

Glad to hear you arrived safely… looking forward to your updates.

Happy new year Jerkey :text-happynewyear:

Thank You, Magj. Nothing to report yet, a few kids getting shot, because of the drug war, getting caught in the crossfire, where the intended target was papa, accosted because of a bad drug deal. A parade is coming Sinologist Frstival coming , the biggest festival here, celebrating Santo Nino, which is the festival of the Infant Jesus. It will take place on Sunday, Jan 15. I will hope to get some photos and send them along if possible.

How beautifully is life layer out like a map, the celebration of childhood, the veneration of childish naïveté of idyll, one has to wonder whether the aims of civilization is to extend that idyll?

The fate of the world depends now on those who can overcome the shallow, deceitful political hypocracy born out of self interest. And it is not going to be Trump, I assure you gentlemen. The handwriting has been on the wall for so long now, that only children can see the nude affrontery under the emperor’s clothes.

Back to the Waterfront. Check coming in 1 week minus 1 day for time differential. Lost again a bundle at the casino here, went to water Island Casino, the miss Universes arrived for the swim suit competition tomorrow, didn’t go there, came back here, then counting the days until next pay comes in cause lost everything at the casino. Have enough to cover some, and have enough for booze until then. Not really worried.

As luck would have it, there is a US Council here, so if strung out, can conceivably ask for re-patriation loan. I wish I could stop the gaming, but can’t let go of the bottle.

How could anyone be sorry here for losers, with kids dying on sidewalks, of lack of family and nourishment.

Most assuredly we will survive despite the supposed changes come tomorrow.

There may not be firecrackers going off for sure like 4th of July, but the bikers will be sure to form a gordion knot around him, and everyone knows their tough!

I think all these Hollywood celebs are merely envious of Trump’s performances, and they see their own vocalizations as some sorts political statements!

Now really, Obama got a Nobel, but Trump should get
the Oscar! There is no other act in town coming anywhere near his outstanding, earthshaking performances.

Kudos to Trump!

The venue could be visualized, as some celeb outfitted in the garish gowns and tuxes, making the announcement, with great effect and pomposity opening the envelope -

And the winner for best actor IS:
Donald Trump for ‘How I drained the swamps , to make America great again’-followed by thunderous applause, and a grinning Trump seen catapulting up
to the podium.

This would have been a lot more gratifying, to say the least, then the what they call the grand Ol’ ’
reality show’ going on in a tedious anticlimactic
manner being displayed in all it’s disgusting forceseeability.

But like they say, give the poor rich guy a chance, perhaps it’s a case of anti-charisma necessitated by some sort of manifest , misunderstood destiny.

Leaving here maybe next week, sorrily missing the Trum(a)p-n Show. Reality stars usually mix fantasy from reality, because they only know, only too well, after all, that THERE is a camera before them. But in spite, they want the audience believe, that they are not aware of this distinctions.

That is why they get hooked into the idea, as the picture consists of only a one way mirror.

But which way?

The Way. That’s it. Go with the flow, or. Stand your ground. Or the man in between. Or, All Three. Is that at all possible?

Yes, yes, yes it is. It has to be not only possible but most likely. It is Manifest Destiny. Don’t worry it will lad you on. No doubt about it.

Today’s thought: Getting worries. No need someone whispering in my ear. There is kinship. Wonder of wonders, after reading Arthur Miller’s Cruicable the umteenth time, that the majority, if there is one can be quite senseless. Trump is so much like Joseph Macarthy was, that it makes my skin crawl. I have developed scabs on account of itching, but then: read somewhere, that Ibama was the Billionaires Puppet, but Trump is the real thing. He does not need any hiding, he has come out of the Capital’s closet to simply bask in the eternal sunshine of what Maslow would characterize as the actualised man, the man with every conceivable thing.He has it made in the shade, and does not need any nerdy nothings, including the pitifully wining WASP’s whose only use for him was to get elected. They don’t know this as of yet, but; his plans have gotten more realistic, talking to Bill Reilly, he confessed that some campaign promises may need more time, like maybe the end of next year, and given the breath of WASP intelligence, such may be forgotten by that time. The art of the deal. Chomsky says of him, he is a con man, like McArthy, a self possessed, seeker of grandiosity, a pompous self promoter living on exposure and free publicity.

And then , some say that is precisely what’s good for this underachieving populace, lacking in energy, imagination, confused within the parameters of shady identity, where the logic of it is sucked in by he confusing array of assumptions underlying the great social mix. The mix works only if there us a force upward, stagnation sucks people into a conondrum of atypical doredom and confused lack of character, due to unresolved conflicts derived into simpler elements leading to the truth about it:the disclosure of the true biased and unhinged nature of denial and eventual destructive conflict.

Philippines: Klanish and racially assimilated social identity, the optical manifestations of similarity near identity, posing no antithesis, but a culture frozen and unkempt by poverty, and xceot the billionaires over there, who never bother to look into tha murrir, because they don’t care what the look like, either to them selves nor to anyone else.

Most here are preferable, and still entertain the notion, that it is always better to be able to reinvent one’s self, and present that, even if they are stymied in that effort, after all, there is some La La Land in everyone, here, and everyone likes to give the benefit of doubt, especially if it comes through as a good laugh. If not, well then move on.

Move on, or shut the …up. A lot of comedians learned this the hard way, ever since the year of the cat, and now comedy is taken seriously, and there is nothing more horrifying to a comedian than stop being funny. There is a full time psychiatrist at the Laugh Factory in Hollywood since suicides there called for some stop gap measure, it being bad business and all.

It’s getting harder all the time. People are too serious when times get hard, while the billionaires’ club gets fatter and rasher. Still predict that only a very few hidden trillionaires will achieve such a stratum, but perhaps economic fascism is better then the real thing.

We already know what comrades can do to each other, and between the two, really, there is nothing much else to consider, ideology had reduced that ad absurdism into a digital program of Y/N; drugs remain the only exit only unto a Brave, New World.

But these newly developed drugs must be precision manufactured, mixing only an exact recreational type with the legitimately therapeutic. Otherwise, there soon may appear a new psychic venue: the legitimized lack of the will to live, with increasing methods of techniques of euthanasia. Nature being what it is, I predict a cataclysm, which will change everything.