What makes feminity?

My top 10:

1) Cult!




















2) Innocence for grabs














3) Woman















4) place to die
















5) someone to hug



















6) Indecent decency















7) Green beast
















8) a girl in me





















9) Dangerous Angel
















10. Everlasting love

Weather in UK is a fucking nonsense. I swear!Is as miserable as 98% of the inmates.

;(?

Brothers Quay requested to delete their official website.

Climate change may put world "on a war"

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/earth/main.jhtml?xml=/earth/2008/04/23/eaclimate123.xml

Food "Crisis"?

So..the food "crisis" has got to a land of wealth and opulence - Great Britain.
Families are having to spend almost £800 more on their annual grocery bills as the highest rate of food inflation for a generation drives up supermarket prices.

Good!

Maybe you will stop doing your weekly ritual fat sods and stop over- shopping and wasting half of the food you bought?!
Eat less, grow your own veggies.
(1) Mothers to pass on cooking skills to children.
(2) TV cooking competition to see how many
meals can be made from a minimal shopping
basket.
(3) Domestic science in all schools.
(4) Show how much food is wasted nationaly.
(5) Encourage kids to grow an edible product in
their garden or backyard.
(6) Teach compost gardening
(7) Teach evaluating the safety of food past the
sell by date.

Stop paying UK farmers not to produce food on their land and leave it fallow for "environmental" reasons. Utter stupidity.Promote self-sufficiency in UK farming.

World food crisis? People don't know what the term means. "Can't get the grain product of choice this week" is not the same as every day being a struggle to feed your family as it is for a billion plus in the developing world.

This 'crisis' expression refers to those in the bloated unhealthy First world (whatever that means) not being able to pig out quite as cheaply, but there is no danger of them losing much diet variety, quality or quantity. We need a reality check.
There is plenty of food in the world. The apparent shortage is due to the rich nations buying, importing and wasting away one third of what they buy. Stop lecturing other nations about their population. The rich nations should stop stuffing themselves, overeating and wasting like John Prescotts of this world. Follow the same rules, regulations and rationing oneself as Britons did during the war years. Serve yourself on the plate what you can eat, cook what can be consumed and buy what can be cooked and eaten and not what is wasted and thrown as garbage.

Meet Your Meat

Why vegetarianism is not a fairy tale?:
http://www.earthsave.org/news/earthsave_global_warming_report.pdf

Guess what it is?

The answer at the end:

Jail in Austria




Subject: Prison vs Work
Just in case you ever get these two environments mixed up, this should make things a little bit clearer.

@ PRISON	@ WORK
You spend the majority of your time in a 10X10 cell @ PRISON	you spend the majority of your time In an 6X6 cubicle /office @ WORK
You get three meals a day fully paid for @ PRISON	you get a break for one meal and You have to pay for it @ WORK
You get time off for good behavior	you get more work for Good behavior
@ PRISON The guard locks and unlocks all the doors for you @ PRISON	@ WORK You must often carry a security card And open all the doors for yourself @ WORK
You can watch TV and play games @ PRISON	you could get fired for watching TV and playing games @ WORK
You get your own toilet @ PRISON	you have to share the toilet with Some people who pee on the seat @ WORK
They allow your family and friends to visit @ PRISON	you aren't even supposed to speak To your family @ WORK
All expenses are paid by the taxpayers with no work required @ PRISON	you get to pay all your expenses to go To work, and they deduct taxes from Your salary to pay for prisoners @ WORK
You spend most of your life inside bars wanting to get out	you spend most of your time wanting To get out and go inside bars
@ PRISON You must deal with sadistic wardens	@ WORK They are called managers
THERE IS SOMETHING SERIOUSLY WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE!!!!

Are you ready to consume less?

http://www.nrdc.org/globalWarming/gsteps.asp


Live Simply.Consume Less. Think More.

Metaphysics of Evil

Born in Billon, Puy-de-Dôme, in central France. Had a terrible childhood. His mother attempted suicide several times, but none of her desperate acts succeeded. He loved his father, who became blind and suffered from general paralysis due to syphilis, and died in 1915. On the eve of World War I, he converted to Catholicism. In 1916-17 he served in the army, but was discharged because of tuberculosis. Ill health troubled all his life, and he suffered from periods of depression.

In 1917 he joined the seminary at Saint-Fleur with the intention of becoming a priest. He spent a period with the Benedictine congregation at Quarr, on the Isle of Wright. A few years later experienced a loss of faith.

In the 1920 was involved with the Surrealist movement, but he called himself the "enemy from within." He was officially excommunicated from its inner circles by André Breton, who accused him of splintering the movement. In the same decade he started to write after a liberating period of psychoanalysis. He founded and edited many journals that revealed his interests in sociology, religion, and literature. He was the first to publish such thinkers as Barthes, Foucault and Derrida.

Between the years 1922 and 1944, he was a librarian and a deputy keeper at Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris. In the evenings he changed his role and became known as a regular visitor of bordellos. This habit caused him troubles at work. He resigned in 1944 because of tuberculosis, two years earlier he had moved to Vézelay, where he was eventually to be buried.

The Tears of Eros (1961) was his final book, an excursion in the history of eroticism and violence from the Aurignacian era to modern times. He started to write it in 1959, but his declining physical strength, lapses in memory, and the arrest of his eldest daughter for her political activities for Algeria slowed down the work. In its foreword he confessed: "In the violence of overcoming, in the disorder of my laughter and my sobbing, in the excess of raptures that shatter me, I seize on the similarity between a horror and a voluptuousness that goes beyond me, between an ultimate pain and an unbearable joy!" In the last chapter he wrote about the Chinese torture and presented photographs of an ecstatic man who is cut to hundred pieces. The strange, exalted facial expression of the man fascinated him: "I have never stopped being obsessed by the image of this pain," he said.

He felt that sexual union causes a momentary indistinguishability between otherwise distinct objects. The secret of eroticism opened visions into unknowable continuity of being, the death. Poetry has similar dimensions when it dissolves the reader "into the strange." Pornography was for him the vehicle for his own surrealist experiments and memory - this also partly explains complex associations of eggs and eyes.
Friedrich Nietzsche's work influenced him deeply, and such figures as Sade and Gilles de Rais. The latter was a 15th-century serial killer whose victims were young children.

“The stirrings within us have their own fearful excesses; the excesses show which way these stirrings would take us. They are simply a sign to remind us constantly that death, the rupture of discontinuous individualities to which we cleave in terror, stands there before us more real than life itself.”

http://supervert.com/elibrary/georges_bataille

HAT inn is this

Where for the night

Peculiar traveller comes?

Who is the landlord?

Where the maids?

Behold, what curious rooms!

No ruddy fires on the hearth,

No brimming tankards flow.

Necromancer, landlord,

Who are these below?

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Improvements in London's tube are still possible...

http://www.chilloutzone.de/files/08040701.html

frozen

I lost the spare key
to my door
You won't come in
i am sorry

Pocket full of involutions

Sanvean (I am your shadow) - Lisa Gerrard

it was coffee no milk
and few meaningful gestures
churches smell of forbidden love
you said
i laughed
like bewildered children
Spinning Black Monday.

While waving goodbye
i realised
i don't even know your name
and will never see you again

Agression, Agression

canker devoured cherry

Porcelain made of steel

Not randomly chosen poems of one of my favourite female poets.

Halina Poswiatowska.

we do not believe in hell
in the dancing fire
we femmes are sparks
each night the sleepy stars
look in the mirror of our faces

we of the abyss of the worlds
smelling of sulphur and tar
(perfume too is alcohol)
we fondle in a soft embrace
both those from hell and those from heaven

who will damn us
if not we ourselves with maniacal laughter

do not touch us by hand
do not point a finger at us
shadows of an evening that has died
in alleys
-- the streetlights are dancing --
our naked feet tinkle tinkle

under the moon like a small silver coin
(perfume is an alcohol too)

**********************************************


mannequins have unseeing breasts
the shape of calves like a taut string
ringing forever
in the same cool tone
mannequins have finite hair
and slender faces
inward looking
from underneath the lowered eyelids
mannequins
scorn the crowd
they do not tremble
perfect in their existence
immobile
they spread the fingers of moments
over the passing chroma of silk
with faces glued to shop windows
under a dress
under a rustling dress
i am a splendid supple mannequin

*****************************************

in your perfect fingers
i am just a tremor
a singing of leaves
under the touch of your warm lips

scent irritates -- it says: you exist
scent irritates -- disturbs the night
in your perfect fingers
i am light

i burn as green moons
over the dead darkened day
suddenly you know -- that my lips are red

-- salty tasting here comes the blood


**************************************************

I am Juliet
I am 23 years old
I once touched love
it tasted bitter
like a cup of black coffee
it set my heart
racing
irritated
my alive organism
set my senses swaying

went away

I am Juliet
on a high balcony
dependent
shouting come back
calling come back
staining
bitten lips
with the hue of blood

did not come back

I am Juliet
I am thousand years old
I am alive





Halina Poświatowska

1956 marked a significant political as well as cultural transition: after a period of social realism, Polish poetry spoke with a full voice and showed incredible richness. What began to matter was imagination, the courage to express oneself, irony, distance and personality. The debut of Halina Poowiatowska Idol Worship in 1958 was one indicator of this transition. Her choice of the free verse, addressing directly the subject of love and the existential reflection placed Poswiatowska within the mainstream of Polish poetry.
Perhaps in the case of Halina Poswiatowska's work even more important than the historical background of her debut was her own life story. When the first book of her poems was published, she was recovering from complicated heart surgery in Philadelphia. Polish doctors could not help her. As a little girl, when the war front went through her home town, Czestochowa, Halina spent a few days in hiding in a cellar, together with her parents. When they were able to come out again, it turned out that she was ill and the sickness - a heavy bout of throat inflammation which was treated with home remedies - was followed by complications, including a serious heart condition. She could not go to school, so she was studying on her own, with her mother assisting. Several periods spent in hospitals and sanatoria were of little help. At a sanatorium she met her future husband, Adolf Poswiatowski, who was studying to be a film director and who also had a heart condition. Their marriage did not last long - it was broken up by the death of her beloved.

Halina suffered a tragedy but she wanted to live. It took an immense effort of many people to organise a trip for her to the US to undergo an operation: doctors, the Polish community in America who helped to raise funds, and her family. The operation, difficult and dangerous, was successful. And then Poswiatowska made a decision which many people found hard to accept: rather than returning to Poland and thinking primarily of taking care of her health, she decided to stay in the US for a while to study, despite her insufficient funds. At first she lived with people whom she happened to meet, moving from one place to another every two to three weeks, and then news came that she was lucky to be granted a scholarship. For two years she was studying art, mainly philosophy, at Smith College. She told her story of that period in an autobiographical Tale for a Friend. She was both grateful for and critical of her time in America, and she left many references to that time in her poems.
After returning to Poland and completing her degree, she worked at the Jagellonian University in Krakow. She was planning a doctoral dissertation on the ethical principles of Martin Luther King's activities. More than a philosopher, however, she considered herself to be a poet. Soon it became clear that her health was deteriorating rapidly. She died a few days after the second heart operation in Warsaw in 1967. She was 32. She had managed to have three collections of poems published (in addition to the original one mentioned before, there were Present Day and Ode to Hands), and a year after her death the fourth collection was published. One More Memory, which she had prepared in part herself.
Poswiatowska is primarily a poet of love. For the first time in Polish literature a woman wrote so openly about erotic desires and admitted her own sensuality. She could not forget though that her life was under threat. She perceived death with calm but even more so she wanted to live to the fullest. Until today for many readers there remains an unresolved puzzle to Poswiatowska's life: why did she not give up being active, why did she travel, and love, although doctors recommended that she avoid emotions and maintain peace and moderation? If one understands her poetry though, and especially discovers the relationship that exists between love and death, the puzzle will cease to intrigue. Intense feelings, joy, compassion and the torments of love are the opposites of the total calmness which death brings. There is no attempt in her poetry to reach out with hope beyond the end of life. Where there appear religious elements - they are mere elaborations on cultural motifs. Only nature takes on another general dimension, which extends itself beyond death. When the poet wrote about her dead husband, she was seeking him among trees and in the abundance of nature.
In Poswiatowska's poetry there are references to philosophy but it is not philosophical poetry - intellectual, using the language of discourse or argumentative. A great role is played by the metaphor, imagination and emotions. The poet perceived the whole world in a sensual way: even the sun, the breezes, flowers and animals, all bring about erotic associations. Sometimes we can see a particular cult of her own beauty. A poem becomes a mirror in which a delicate slim figure is reflected to indicate both gracefulness and the existential threat. When she wrote in her third book: "I lack former tenderness for my body", it was a threatening signal of her doubting her own strength.
Literary critics hardly ever mention Poswiatowska, although she is undoubtedly well regarded and her poems are included in many general anthologies of Polish poetry. Despite the passing of time Poswiatowska is not forgotten by the readers, and in particular by girls. It is as if Poswiatowska's charm could be sensed through her poems and acquired a special appeal. Perhaps she enchants with her feminine charm but at the same time she impresses with her existential courage.

Sunday creepy luncheon

Come closer
I will wispher something in your ears
Covering my mouth colored with the rising sun
And i will shut my eyes
So my lashes can gently touch your cheeks

ca ba ret

I me self

"Solitude, the feeling and knowledge that one is alone, alienated from the world and oneself-is not an exclusively Mexican characteristic. All men, at some moment in their lives feel themselves to be alone. And they are. To live is to be seperated from what we were in order to approach what we are going to be in the future. Solitude is the profoundest fact of the human condition."

Octavio Paz
The Labirynth Of Solitude

Every space is assholed

1/no one is smart/good enough to make another asshole happy.
2/you won't make him happy if you are not saying/doing exactly what he wants to hear.
3/Burn fucker!