What are you writing?

mistersloane

heavy heavy monster sound
Did you feel a tit?

(Sorry, in before Mr. Tea) ;)

Lol. Being a person of rather short stature, my eyes were kinda perpendicular to, umm, her. I looked like I was having an amaaaaazing time. Obviously this was before she had lost her head. Dancing with a headless Jayne would be too much, even for proto-time-travellers like myself I fear.
 

Mr. Tea

Let's Talk About Ceps
If someone released an album featuring a photoshopped cover image of mistersloane dancing with a headless Jane Mansfield, I think that would probably be the best thing ever.
 

luka

Well-known member
ok nomad you're on board, you get 20% if you write a couple of chapters for me.
 

luka

Well-known member
sell a couple mill and and thats a nice wedge in your pocket.... how much do fantasy books sell i wonder? virtually everytime i see anyone male reading a book in public its fantasy. and that all ages not just teens. middle-aged men read that stuff. terry brooks seems very popular.
 

nomadthethird

more issues than Time mag
Can goblins have sex with unicorns? Or is inter-species sex not allowed?

One of my favorite artists who isn't famous at all used to do unicorn sex paintings and they're pretty inspiring.
 

nomadthethird

more issues than Time mag
sell a couple mill and and thats a nice wedge in your pocket.... how much do fantasy books sell i wonder? virtually everytime i see anyone male reading a book in public its fantasy. and that all ages not just teens. middle-aged men read that stuff. terry brooks seems very popular.

They sell for absolute shitloads of money. Even better, if you do really well you can license out the work for figurines and stuff like that. Cha-ching.

You're right about men in public--either fantasy or self-help books with titles like this:

self-help-podcast-image.gif
 

luka

Well-known member
theres a photo in one of jane goodalls books of a baboon violating a chimps arsehole.
if its allowed in academia it must be ok in fiction.
 

vimothy

yurp
You'll pull in the Bataille fans with scenes like that. I can see Zizek reviewing it now on the Culture Show...
 

slim jenkins

El Hombre Invisible
Interesting work, Luka. I'm currently engaged in psychological warfare with the conventional linear narrative form which tries to conquer my mind - to 'win' I may have to detroy all rational thought and hope to create something from the rubble.

Here's an extract from what I'm working on:

'I traversed mazes in a revelation...or dream...there were secrets escaping... the thoughts had inward reality, ever deep – my bones rattling in time and space – They pieced together the new me – my new mind trained to journey through vistas of space...

Earth withering, transforming inexorably...
Turn, tired brain, weep again...memories reveal species, reveal galaxies and civilisations within reach - signals into space describing the stars...breeding experiments.
This reader that refined environments - we are screaming for help in this drab canvas - communication city is just behaviour and beliefs - our interpersonal bonds - their controllers cleanse every women and child. I steal different expressions - demons surge Deep - alien breeding. I conceive of an underground base – memories, patterns trying to erase my experiences.

On the horizon the world appeared hot, poisonous - bloodless shadows hovered - captured flies laid in wait for death. Fog shrouded the city, choking illumination...spheres of fuzzy white thrown by streetlights...but I had seen the city before arriving...it’s horizontal bands of architecture, geometric surfaces of huge shining prisms and glass skyscrapers. People down there played out the unruly symphony of the streets. The ordinary duties of respectable citizenship...a mystery.
Night threatened to paralyse me. There, in certain quarters, poverty-stricken inhabitants feebly hoped for a hand that would lead them to glorious lights....away from the world below the line....the world of drunkenness, debauchery...populated by rascals, inhuman brutes...the deformed wonders of the underworld. There was decay there where rattle-boned spirits were constantly at war.

Sweet night stained me - time vanished. Strange half-memories emerged…the ghosts of the abyss…the executed minutes. Out there were signs, lights, hydrants, trees, doors, sidewalks, parks, fire escapes, gates, grates, vents, cars, trucks and buses…the city whispered whilst memories became blood-stained...dark Demons everywhere, strange gloomy insights...doors waiting to be discovered. I would search the streets...I may recognise myself in the shadows...

Now flesh drapes the dead and they walk, still...talk, work, play...I wander the spectral, eternal night, a highway of horrors...the evil now before my eyes - civilisations uncovered our own transmitters - alien intelligences so superior - I might capture them and learn if my flesh caught the silence from outer space - they live in the city. Now new vistas of flying saucers.
So I watched relentless waves all the flesh - surface of the planet where the secrets their engineering - sky silence – They beamed certain scenes into space - inhabited planets - these horrors - strange oceans silent and sparkling. I plunged into the stinking shallows. Universal suburbs vast - all the dead had come and I watched, that city…

Can the human being be freed by fiction, the infernal cycle of the artificial?
Transforming humans...evolution wanders possible worlds - abstract science...the rotting order of biotechnology...universe modification.
We know far-seen too-long-postponed noon dreams. Strange hearsay - ‘These are not your Memories’ - realities creak through...
We are endangered by something from space; every surviving mental faculty may vanish. Time - all those years - set forth in narrative dislocation.
We must survive - hear the sky struggling, tumbling...our life somewhere lonely...calling toward Earth - the yesterdays forever...
Awful words churning - the illusion is spread – we descend through fragile years - no directions. Microchip madness writing times, crawling questions - writing the imperfection assignment...the beauty of unique disfigurement - the books lost in evaporating data puddles...
Earth could be colonised - destroyed by - ?

Watching the crowds...my eyes passing over ghosts. Humanity is dust; haunted by angels of unholy dimensions. Space; a sublime, vast, black thing...its mysteries remain... dreaming or magic...
It was fantastic - no longer of this world - to my horror, an inescapable disaster. The frantic craving in the mouldy books. The tendency toward war, followed by an irreversible decline. Starvation and chaos, decay, antiquity and dissolution; the putrid, dripping eidolon of minds, stunned and chaotic - it would be too late; breakout from an ideal view.
My experience is insanity, dreaming and detestable. The people of that planet would never achieve a great common purpose. I learned all that I know from planet Earth - the colony of humans, people eaten away by - ?'
 

luka

Well-known member
its more play than work to be honest which is probably why its not as good as it could be but thank you.
i like that bit there below, at moments its even a bit Une Saison en Enfer
not a million miles away from some of what i've been up to with my failed experiement of a blog and elsewhere....
 

luka

Well-known member
sloane i just noticed this
#42
I'm writing a thing about time travel for a Canadian art fanzine at the moment; it's about the time I saw a picture of myself dancing with Jayne Mansfield

i'd love to read this but don't really fancy buying frieze magazine.
are you allowed to post it here when its done?
 

mistersloane

heavy heavy monster sound
sloane i just noticed this


i'd love to read this but don't really fancy buying frieze magazine.
are you allowed to post it here when its done?

haha it's not for frieze luka, it's a fanzine called 'my bed is a time machine' from Montreal, frieze don't care about anything I do! And yeah I'll ask if I can post it up but I' sure it'll be fine. It's quite plain prose though.
 

luka

Well-known member
im not interested in the delicacy of your prose, i want to hear the story!



It's a great premise for a story, even it is true.
 

luka

Well-known member
i dunno, who would buy a book if i sold it for a fiver? i reckon i could persuade my dad to get a copy.

spacemen shaken by their contact with other civilizations in space spend the rest of thier lives in special compounds, fed on yogurt and pureed fruit.

galvanise steel ratio. mordant commentator. strews witticisms about mordantly.
'Good Evening. My name is Richard Hollypole. I am a mordant commentator.'.
they thrived in the wake of the catastrophe when it was not unusual to see pack of 15 to 20 of these ghoulish creatures stalking the streets. a smell of decay, corpse secretions.
Center Parcs complex converted into enormous detention camp.
the city is dotted with ancient temples to discredited gods. superstition, and perhaps a trace of ancestor worship, forbids their removal. some still have small congregations giving
succour to the fallen god, walking the circuit of his ritual, awaiting the Restoration . towering office blocks spring up alongside

bit of the old, how’s yer father.
long-winded vatic pronouncements.

Secret society convenes, monthly, over hotel breakfast. Arrive promptly at 6 and leave as the tables are being cleared at 11. A modern building near a motorway. A convinience rather than any holiday destination. Somewhere north of London, the outer reaches of the commuter belt. Low buildings. Empty streets. Space. Fields skirting the suburbs. A slow timepulse, the fonts spelling out the names of buisnesses seem dated, the colour palette is 30 years old. A smell of mothballs and must. Old women chatting in the charity shops, sorting through the donations, picking through piles of cardigans, jigsaw puzzles, porcelain milk maids and lap dogs, back issues of The National Geographic, out-of-print paperbacks, action figures with limbs missing (‘war wounds’ they tell the children gravely)

Slowly and methodically the men work their way through the full range of breakfast options;
The single-serve packets of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, Ricicles, Cocoa Pops, Sultana Bran for the health conscious..
Small pots of brightly coloured fruit yogurt with shredded strawberry or banana, eaten out the plastic container or spooned over cornflakes.
White bread, toasted unevenly, served with pats of butter and marmalade.
Eggs (scrambled) Sausage. Baked beans. Bacon and endless cups of tannin-heavy tea.
Views over the carpark. Newspapers. Gentle sounds of quiet conversations, clink of teacup on saucer, spoon on cereal bowl. Muffled sound of motorway. A place where a man can be content, if only for a few hours.
Say things like "I'd love to see Tottenham go down"
Dry smack of taninns puckering the mouth.
It’s men-only, by default, no woman in their right mind would ever wish to join.
Old Les just sits there drinking his tea. . Distinguised by his indifference to football.
Rolling cigerettes to fill his metal case, (‘saves me the trouble later’) and muttering to himself in some private monosyllabic language, comprised of grunts, hurumphs and hawking noises. Used to work the fairgrounds someone said, travelling the country, municipal parks and village squares. Old nuggety thing, bluff, weathered, worked outdoors his whole life, and off the books the whole time. Cash-in-hand from his first job at 11 up till now, casual labourer at a neighbouring farm, digging holes for fence posts and mucking out stables, spreading the manure. Never married, lives with his sister, ‘Becca, also never married. No suggestion of any impropriety mind you. Two old lonely people who lean on one another for support.
Carl Reece, a rogue chiropractor who performs double suplexes and elbow drops on his luckless patients.
A Bedouin tribesman, nicknamed Dick, for dictionary, after his wide-ranging vocabularly and baroque manner of speech, who drinks expensive Scotch and can do the Times crossword before anyone’s finished the mornings first cup of tea. Tucks his pen into the folds of a blue turban with a theatrical gesture. A smile of quiet satisfaction. Waits for the expressions of admiring disbelief.
Fence, the fence and part-time long distance lorry driver, who always has a carboot full of goods at knockdown prices. Czech cigerettes, Portugese brandy, Chinese fireworks too powerful to be legally sold in this country, leather overcoats, Italian sunglasses, faulty food processors, digital watches, radio alarm clocks, a collection of rare political pamphlets, some dating as far back as the civil war, mixed in with old football programmes, London clubs a speciality.
Always in the ear of the others, you know how much these cost in the shops? I’m cutting me own throat here as it is Les, gimmie a break. A cast of characters we will now leave in peace, as peace, retreat from work and wives, is the very purpose of their groups existence.

imbroglio.
ye hills of elves. home furnishing. meat pies. other planets.
conspiracies take root in history, branch insidiously. January Sales! Huge Reductions! Canapes! Twiglets! Rose!
 

Agent

dgaf ngaf cgaf
someone mentioned the enucleated eye in Bataille (Story of the Eye) - I'm writing an essay for a friend's art exhibition that starts with an analysis of that scene. The exhibition is all life-size/hi-definition photographs of the female genatalia (NSFW): http://www.chinchinwu.net/?page_id=98

i want to mention the opening credits in Vertigo (where an eye turns into a vagina) and other variations of the image. if you know any other examples send thema along. the essay is basically about optics and: chirality, illusory contours, topology, pornography and tabloid media.

i like the fiction luka - what kind of secret society is this? i was being stalked a few years ago by a group called 'the black lodge at santa cruz,' not sure who they were affiliated with (probably Thelemic). Jason Lubyck got my private email from them somehow (?). have you read Lee Kwo?: "It becomes unbearable/ it arouses higher levels of stimulation that force you to bring the pornographic to life/ You attempt to step out of the moral attachments and dependencies into yr own autonomy knowing all the time that you lack the agility to complete such a moral transference/ At most pathetic in yr self dependence the skitzoid self is forced on you by relentless dividing and compromising/yr body dividing like a cellular mass moving apart in yr hands dripping/ Desire is a radical surrender of ones self as well as an attempted radical act of acquisition of the Other/ In this sense Nils was a scavenger of souls/"
 

luka

Well-known member
no, i haven't i will investigate.
the secret socity is based on a carpark i worked in and the other carpark attendents. only les is real though. the other people were mohammed ali a 19 yr old from somaliland, my step-brother from Douala, 21, a maltese cockney apprentice heating engineer with two kids and a wife, 27, and his father in law a 60 yr old window fitter from east ham who supported the german football team over the english because he valued team work and hated big egos. he had been working for them for 30 years despite not needing the money. he was full of stories that sounded like bullshit that invariably turned out to be true, like when he told us about when they got cheetahs to race round the greyhound track (this is a carpark in a greyhound stadium)
i think the job was his sanctuary. his wife didn't let him smoke so he relished his foul smelling cigars and pg tips in the comfort of the carpark shed.
also a big strong cockeny lad with a dirty big knife scar down one cheek. to revenge this difigurement he crushed both the perpertrators hands with a sledgehammer ('he'll never use a knife and fork again') and dave, on the verge of retirement, a malevolent old alkie who disappeared to the pub every night half an hour after the shift started and returned, chomping raw garlic to mask the smell, half an hour before it finished. he was full of nasty stories about toturing animals in his childhood and so on....
it was a really good job. we used to drink beer, smoke stupid amounts of forest gate skunk and play football in the carpark and when the patrons returned their cars were patterned with muddy round ball marks.
you wouldn't beleive how good the job was.
 
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