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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Original Post - Mar 20, 2015 - 06:48am PT
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[Click to View YouTube Video]Todays front page was an outright expression of the thread Flames.
A question as to the meaning of a Faustian word!
A ranting match about who was first to climb what at Woodson no that's not right
A high-minded attempt to curb youthful enthusiasm might better describe Sanstone 's
Goals.
Some thing that I was not readily able to comprehend about Movies ,rules an the word
dystopian thrown in .
Can any one explain why as spring arrives with a solar eclipse and snow forecast in the once
Temperate Mid East coast of the U.S., what the zeitgeist is, do we all cycle at the same time? Is it the hint of a climbing season that promises to push new and amazing standards into the forefront?
I will need to be tolerated, which is a long shot as I am a sniveling shite in many of your opinions.
I am a long toothed climber with the deepest traditional roots, now I see that it is best to embrace all of the styles and even try to understand chipping, flake pry ing, and the 'New'
Techniques, that are short sighted soul stripping and the antithesis of why I have climbed.
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couchmaster
climber
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Mar 20, 2015 - 06:51am PT
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Yeah
what he said
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 20, 2015 - 07:34am PT
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1, 2 , 3 ,4 ? F it fails to take I tried y'all!
l. . .Hey a deletion already we can all leave three words up can't we?
I wonder what happened to the Hare Krishna ?
The Meaning of the Maha-Mantra
"Hare Krsna Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna Hare Hare
Hare Rama Hare Rama, Rama Rama Hare Hare"
This is the Hare Krishna mantra, or maha-mantra, the great mantra for deliverance. Composed of three of the holy names of God from the Sanskrit scriptures of ancient India, it is transcendental sound vibration. It is not ordinary sound.
The word mantra comes from man (mind) and tra (to free). A mantra is a sound or prayer that frees the mind from the miseries of the material world.
The three holy names in the maha-mantra are Hare, Krishna, and Rama.
Hare is pronounced “huh-ray”.
Hare means the energy of God.
The Sanskrit word for energy is shakti. Shakti has a personal, specifically feminine, dimension to its meaning. So here, energy means the feminine aspect of God. Our spiritual master, His Divine Grace A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, explained that the name Hare refers to Mother Hara, otherwise known as Radha or Radharani.
Krishna is pronounced with a short “i”. The correct pronunciation is KRISH-na, (not KREESH-na.)
Krishna means the All-Attractive Supreme Personality of Godhead.
There are many attractive qualities to be found in the world, and many people have some degree of one or more of these qualities, but the one who has all of these qualities in full and unlimited measure can only be God. He is the source of all qualities, and in fact of all things in existence.
He is a person, the original person, and the source of all incarnations and manifestations of Himself and of His creation, so He is called not just God but the Supreme Personality of Godhead.
Rama is pronounced to rhyme with drama, RAH-muh.
Rama means the reservoir of all pleasure.
If we try to find pleasure independently we will only find brief snippets and it will be mixed with misery. But if we tap into the reservoir of all pleasure, the Supreme Personality of Godhead Himself, by devotional service, we will be connected to the unlimited reservoir of all pleasure.
http://www.glimpseofkrishna.com/mantra.htm
the above is what is in this link plus the web site i grabbed it from
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 20, 2015 - 09:23am PT
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Behind you all the way I see the throwing chairs Bo knight allusion
It will not be he but with you and me we can return to give a strong cover till the mouse returnuth.
Thanz X
More better thank you zb
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 20, 2015 - 09:29am PT
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http://www.supertopo.com/climbing/thread.php?topic_id=1954729&tn=6640
Of course I start with an oops well that was not todays first page but it was a gem full of incomprehensible tales. . . . . tails ,
buy their Tails you will know them, eh? this is a long shot I have only been dogless for some short spells in my late teens to mid twenties.
was this a first page to make your hart sing this morning
I was so damn shackeled by the shablet, and school calling at 4:20 am to tell me, oops never mind A Hang Up from a robo- call machine!!
and then call back again to say the kids get a half day On a friday when a little snow might fall.
that I could not respond to all the crazy stuff and it Balls to the Dawn crazy!
Gretchenfrage is from Faust but here in taco land Faust is a college Basketball coach
http://www.testudotimes.com/.../nick-faust-long-beach-state-maryland-transfer
As you can deduce iwas good to play the pic in basketball till puberty hit then all got tall but the hafling.
fail to Thrive they call it now, well fifteen years ago the fourteen years ago I got one of my own to worry about and get looked at side ways by doctors
http://www.masslive.com/sports/index.ssf/2015/03/march_madness_2015_nc_state_bu.html
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 20, 2015 - 09:55am PT
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Yup it's the corner for me taken the place was overseen by z
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goatboy smellz
climber
लघिमा
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Mar 20, 2015 - 10:02am PT
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There is a big difference between Dadaism and a few guys mumbling amongst themselves online. One was a groundbreaking way of viewing the world, the other… just another group of guys mumbling amongst themselves.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 20, 2015 - 10:05am PT
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You do smell goat but join in and explain what dada is please. clearly, I have no Idea!
or wasn't that Norwegian? xWe will teach you all about Faustian thought and how it led to DaDa ism!Now for some be nice it is a convalescent thread see those legs told me way back, king of the Danes,
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 20, 2015 - 10:35am PT
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both need work
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 20, 2015 - 10:46am PT
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Hans: I don't get it.
Franz: It's like a bunch of mecs milling about mumbling in odd foreign languages about anything they don't understand, my friend...What's not to get?
Hans: Well, then, Monsiuer Critique, explain this for me, please: लघिमा
Franz: uh...I dunno. Can we turn it around? Will it make a difference if we turn it end-wise?
Hans: Why don't we just ban it?
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 20, 2015 - 10:55am PT
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we will be tryng Ron, did i grasp the drift on the gun sandbox thread? and again thanx you sure don't come off as a gun toten republican (the party of Cheeney the destroyer)all the time.
Are you swappable to vote for???
Nutcracker, that reminds me, What is his name the one you call...?Dills Millzz?
And what this about Millis Junk getting Pinched by a rope in a fall??
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 20, 2015 - 11:00am PT
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Climbing content, just so everyone's happy.Thank you, Libby Sauter and friends!
Hope to see you in SoYo, Soyopa, or in the line at the Taco wagon from Mariposa.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 20, 2015 - 11:17am PT
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Dillis Millis took a fall.
Dave Omelia made the call.
He could not crawl
Back up the wall.
Though his eggs weren't broke
It still made him choke.
He went back to ground
Uttering a moan-like sound.
That is all, folks.
No scrambled yolks.
We made some joke
While he rolled smoke.
And so to bed.
Have fun today! And tomorrow! And on Sunday!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 20, 2015 - 11:27am PT
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NOT our sponsor!
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 20, 2015 - 12:03pm PT
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Spray me not forget James Watt? Didn't he shot himself in the foot?
In order of heros that is dead on
Thompson 7/18/37 - 2/20/05, Hemingway 7/21/1899, Burroughs 2/5/'14 - 8/2/97
I was only going to include the one . The one's on Hunter s Thompson, and Ernest Hemingway
are myriad and can be searched I may come back after a night of reading then post if something is worthwhile.
The top part is from a European School of lit thing sorry no credit to the author,
William Burroughs (1914-1997) was more than just a homosexual who got away with murdering his second wife, Joan Villmer, after shooting her in the head. However, William Burroughs’s misogyny, misanthropy, and drug addiction flavor the literary works that made Burroughs a significant figure in American letters in the twentieth century. Burroughs was a renowned novelist, predominant member of the Beat movement. In addition, he was also called “the Godfather of Punk.” Allen Ginsberg praised William Burroughs by saying Burroughs was so interesting and intelligent and worldly wise that he seemed like some sort of intellectual spiritual man of distinction.” Burroughs is one of the few beats whose books have remained in print. His anarchic stance in his literature was crucial for the development of many subcultures of the twentieth century (Beats, Hippies, and Punks).
In 1914, William Seward Burroughs was born into a prominent family in St. Louis, Missouri. In 1929, William S. Burroughs published the essay, “Personal Magnetism.” He was eventually enrolled in The Los Alamos Ranch School, a boarding school in New Mexico. The school promised to turn boys into “manly specimens.” During this period, Burroughs kept a journal in which he described his erotic feelings to another student. In the repressive social and familial environment, William Burroughs destroyed this journal and hid his sexual orientation until he was already established in his literary career.
William Burroughs left The Los Alamos Ranch School under questionable circumstances. It is rumored that he was expelled for using chloral hydrate (a hypnotic and anesthetic.) Burroughs returned to St. Louis to complete high school. In 1932, Burroughs enrolled in Harvard University. While he was pursuing his degree, William Burroughs explored the homosexual subculture of New York.
It is a long read with little to no new info,
Books FEBRUARY 3, 2014 ISSUE
The Outlaw
The extraordinary life of William S. Burroughs.
BY PETER SCHJELDAHL
Email Print
2014_02_03
TABLE OF CONTENTS
“Naked Lunch” brought to social notice themes of drug use, homosexuality, hyperbolic violence, and anti-authoritarian paranoia.
“Naked Lunch” brought to social notice themes of drug use, homosexuality, hyperbolic violence, and anti-authoritarian paranoia.
CREDIT PHOTOGRAPH BY RICHARD AVEDON / “WILLIAM BURROUGHS, NEW YORK, JULY 9, 1975”/© THE RICHARD AVEDON FOUNDATION
“I can feel the heat closing in, feel them out there making their moves.” So starts “Naked Lunch,” the touchstone novel by William S. Burroughs. That hardboiled riff, spoken by a junkie on the run, introduces a mélange of “episodes, misfortunes, and adventures,” which, the author said, have “no real plot, no beginning, no end.” It is worth recalling on the occasion of “Call Me Burroughs” (Twelve), a biography by Barry Miles, an English author of books on popular culture, including several on the Beats. “I can feel the heat” sounded a new, jolting note in American letters, like Allen Ginsberg’s “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,” or, for that matter, like T. S. Eliot’s “April is the cruellest month.” (Ginsberg was a close friend; Eliot hailed from Burroughs’s home town of St. Louis and his poetry influenced Burroughs’s style.) In Burroughs’s case, that note was the voice of an outlaw revelling in wickedness. It bragged of occult power: “I can feel,” rather than “I feel.” He always wrote in tones of spooky authority—a comic effect, given that most of his characters are, in addition to being gaudily depraved, more or less conspicuously insane.
“Naked Lunch” is less a novel than a grab bag of friskily obscene comedy routines—least forgettably, an operating-room Grand Guignol conducted by an insouciant quack, Dr. Benway. “Well, it’s all in a day’s work,” Benway says, with a sigh, after a patient fails to survive heart massage with a toilet plunger. Some early reviewers spluttered in horror. Charles Poore, in the Times, calmed down just enough to be forthright in his closing line: “I advise avoiding the book.” “Naked Lunch” was five years in the writing and editing, mostly in Tangier, and aided by friends, including Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac. It first appeared in 1959, in Paris, as “The Naked Lunch” (with the definite article), in an Olympia Press paperback edition, in company with “Lolita,” “The Ginger Man,” and “Sexus.” Its plain green-and-black cover, like the covers of those books, bore the alluring caveat “Not to be sold in U.S.A. or U.K.” (A first edition can be yours, from one online bookseller, for twenty thousand dollars.) The same year, Big Table, a Chicago literary magazine, printed an excerpt, and was barred from the mails by the U.S. Postal Service. Fears of suppression delayed a stateside publication of the book until 1962, when Grove Press brought out an expanded and revised edition. It sold so well that Grove didn’t issue a paperback until 1966.
As late as 1965, however, a Boston court confirmed a local ban, despite testimony from Norman Mailer arguing the book’s literary merit. (Another supporter was Mary McCarthy, who, in the New York Review of Books, praised Burroughs’s “crankish courage” and compared “Naked Lunch” to “a worm that you can chop up into sections each of which wriggles off as an independent worm. Or a nine-lived cat. Or a cancer.”) A year later, the Massachusetts Supreme Court reversed the ban, on the ground of “redeeming social value,” a wobbly legal standard in censorship cases then and after. Thus anointed, Burroughs’s ragged masterpiece brought to social notice themes of drug use, homosexuality, hyperbolic violence, and anti-authoritarian paranoia. Those temerities and his disarmingly starchy public mien—he was ever the gent, dressed in suits, with patrician manners and a sepulchral, Missouri-bred and foreign-seasoned voice—assured him a celebrity status that is apt to flare anew whenever another cohort of properly disaffected young readers discovers him. The centenary of Burroughs’s birth, on February 5th, promises much organized attention; an excellent documentary by Howard Brookner, “Burroughs: The Movie” (1983), is about to be re-released.
Contrary to Kerouac’s mythmaking portrayal of him—as Old Bull Lee, in “On the Road”—Burroughs was not a wealthy heir, although his parents paid him an allowance until he was fifty. His namesake grandfather, William Seward Burroughs, perfected the adding machine and left his four children blocks of stock in what later became the Burroughs Corporation. His son Mortimer—the father of William and another, older son—sold his remaining share, shortly before the 1929 crash, for two hundred and seventy-six thousand dollars. Mortimer’s wife, born Laura Lee, never ceased to dote on William; Mortimer deferred to her.
Burroughs started writing at the age of eight, imitating adventure and crime stories. He attended a John Dewey-influenced progressive elementary school in St. Louis and played on the banks of the nearby, sewage-polluted River des Peres. Miles quotes him recalling, in a nice example of his gloatingly dire adjectival style, “During the summer months the smell of sh#t and coal gas permeated the city, bubbling up from the river’s murky depths to cover the oily iridescent surface with miasmal mists.” When Burroughs was fourteen, some chemicals he was tinkering with exploded, severely injuring his hand; treatment for the pain alerted him to the charms of morphine. He then spent two unhappy years at the exclusive Los Alamos Ranch School for boys, in New Mexico, memories of which informed his late novel “The Wild Boys” and other fantasies of all-male societies.
Burroughs was a brilliant student, graduating from Harvard with honors, in English, in 1936. He sojourned often in Europe; in Vienna, he briefly studied medicine and frequented the gay demimonde. He had become aware at puberty of an attraction to boys, and had been so embarrassed by a diary he kept of a futile passion for a fellow-student that he destroyed it and stopped writing anything not school-required for several years. Later, in psychoanalysis, he traced his sexual anxiety to a repressed memory: when he was four years old, his nanny forced him to perform oral sex on her boyfriend. The tumultuous experience of having his first serious boyfriend—in New York, in 1940—triggered what he laconically called a “Van Gogh kick”: he cut off the end joint of his left pinkie.
After a short hitch in the Army, in 1942, Burroughs received a psychiatric discharge. He then worked briefly as a private detective, in Chicago, where, however, he enjoyed his longest period of regular employment—nine months—as a pest exterminator. His delectable memoir of the job, “Exterminator!,” the title story of a collection published in 1973, employs a tone, typical of him, that begs to be called bleak nostalgia: “From a great distance I see a cool remote naborhood blue windy day in April sun cold on your exterminator there climbing the grey wooden outside stairs.”
The creation story of the Beats is by now literary boilerplate. Burroughs moved to New York in 1943, along with David Kammerer, a childhood friend who had travelled with him in Europe, and Lucien Carr, an angelically handsome Columbia University student whom Kammerer was stalking. Ginsberg, a fellow-student, was enthralled by Carr, and later dedicated “Howl” to him. Kerouac, who had dropped out of Columbia and served in the Navy, returned to the neighborhood in 1944. With Carr as the catalyst, and Burroughs, whom Kerouac goaded to resume writing, a charismatic presence, the Beat fellowship was complete.
Carr ended Kammerer’s pursuit of him late on the night of August 13, 1944, by stabbing him and dumping his body in the Hudson River. (The new movie “Kill Your Darlings” tells the tale in only somewhat embellished fashion.) Burroughs then replaced Carr as the group’s mentor. According to Miles, Kerouac and Ginsberg didn’t yet know that Burroughs was gay, and played matchmaker by introducing him to Joan Vollmer, an erudite, twice-married free spirit with a baby daughter, Julie, of uncertain paternity. Burroughs and Vollmer became inseparable and, they believed, telepathic soul mates, but he continued to have sexual encounters with men. In 1946, he started on heroin. (An uncle, Horace Burroughs, whom he idealized but never met, was a morphine addict who committed suicide in 1915, when the drug was legally restricted.) Vollmer favored Benzedrine.
Postwar New York updated Burroughs’s trove of criminal argot. He saw a lot of Herbert Huncke, a junkie and a jack-of-all-scams—whom Ginsberg called “the basic originator of the ethos of Beat and the conceptions of Beat and Square”—and other habitués of Times Square, whose doppelgängers roam the fiction that he had not yet begun to write. In 1946, Vollmer became pregnant. Burroughs, who could be startlingly moralistic, abhorred abortion; and so a son, Billy, joined the family. Envisioning himself as a gentleman farmer, Burroughs had acquired a spread in East Texas, where he cultivated marijuana, though not very well. He drove a harvest to New York with Kerouac’s “On the Road” icon, Neal Cassady—whom he disdained as, in Miles’s words, “a cheap con man”—but it was too green to turn a profit. After a drug bust in New Orleans, Burroughs jumped bail and settled in Mexico City. For three years, he took drugs, drank, picked up boys, hosted friends, and cut a sorry figure as a father. (With Vollmer also drinking heavily, the children’s lot was grim.) A Mexican scholar of the Beats, Jorge García-Robles, details the louche milieu in another new book, “The Stray Bullet: William S. Burroughs in Mexico” (Minnesota). He writes that Burroughs found the country “grotesque, sordid, and malodorous, but he liked it.”
During those years, Burroughs also wrote his first book, “Junky.” A pulp paperback published in 1953, under the pen name William Lee, it recounts his adventures through underworlds from New York to Mexico City. It features terse, crackling reportage, with echoes of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler. The narrator’s first meeting with “Herman” (a pseudonym for Huncke) isn’t auspicious: “Waves of hostility and suspicion flowed out from his large brown eyes like some sort of television broadcast.” “Junky” attracted no critical notice. Burroughs wrote two other books in the early fifties that weren’t published until after “Naked Lunch.” “Queer”—centering, in Mexico City, on one of his arduous opiate withdrawals and a frustrating romance with a young man—saw print only in 1985. The most emotional work in a generally icy śuvre, it was written around the time, in 1951, of the most notorious event in Burroughs’s life: his fatal shooting of Vollmer, in a drunken game of “William Tell.”
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García-Robles and Miles agree in their accounts of Vollmer’s death. At a friend’s apartment, she balanced a glass on her head, at Burroughs’s behest. He had contracted a lifelong mania for guns from duck-hunting excursions with his father, and was never unarmed if he could help it. He fired a pistol from about nine feet away. The bullet struck Vollmer in the forehead, at the hairline. She was twenty-eight. He was devastated, but readily parroted a story supplied by his lawyer, a flamboyant character named Bernabé Jurado: the gun went off accidentally. Released on bail, Burroughs might have faced trial had not Jurado, in a fit of road rage, shot a socially prominent young man and, when his victim died of septicemia, fled the country. Burroughs did the same, and a Mexican court convicted him in absentia of manslaughter, sentencing him to two years. In the introduction to “Queer,” Burroughs disparages his earlier work and adds, “I am forced to the appalling conclusion that I would never have become a writer but for Joan’s death,” because it initiated a spiritual “lifelong struggle, in which I have had no choice except to write my way out.” García-Robles avidly endorses this indeed appalling consolation, casting Vollmer as a sainted martyr to literature.
Miles relates that Burroughs had told Carr, after he killed Kammerer, “You shouldn’t blame yourself at all, because he asked for it, he demanded it.” Some of Burroughs’s friends, including Ginsberg, opted for an analogous understanding of Vollmer’s death as an indirect suicide, which she had willed to happen. Burroughs’s craving for exculpation eventually settled on the certainty that an “Ugly Spirit” had deflected his aim. As a child, Burroughs had been infused with superstitions by his mother and by the family’s Irish maid, and all his life he believed fervently in almost anything except conventional religion: telepathy, demons, alien abductions, and all manner of magic, including crystal-ball prophecy and efficacious curses. For several years in the nineteen-sixties, he enthusiastically espoused Scientology, in which he attained the lofty rank of “Clear,” before being excommunicated for questioning the organization’s Draconian discipline. And he furnished any place he lived in for long with an “orgone accumulator”—the metal-lined wooden booth invented by the rogue psychoanalyst Wilhelm Reich for capturing and imparting cosmic energy. Miles begins “Call Me Burroughs” with a scene of a sweat-lodge ceremony conducted by a Navajo shaman to finally expel the Ugly Spirit, in Kansas, in 1992. The heat and smoke caused Burroughs to ask to truncate the proceedings.
Vollmer’s parents took Julie into their home, in Albany, and she dropped out of her stepfather’s life. Burroughs sent Billy to be raised by Laura and Mortimer, in St. Louis, and joined them, in 1952, after they moved to Palm Beach, Florida. But he didn’t stay long; he set out to work on his third book, “The Yage Letters,” a quest through the jungles of Colombia for a fabled hallucinogen that, he had written in the last sentence of “Junky,” “may be the final fix.” He found and duly lauded the drug, but the journey seems its own reward, making for fine low-down travel writing. He needs a motorboat to take him upriver:
Sure you think it’s romantic at first but wait til you sit there five days onna sore ass sleeping in Indian shacks and eating hoka and some hunka nameless meat like the smoked pancreas of a two-toed sloth and all night you hear them fiddle-f*#king with the motor—they got it bolted to the porch—“buuuuurt spluuuu . . . ut . . . spluuuu . . . ut,” and you can’t sleep hearing the motor start and die all night and then it starts to rain. Tomorrow the river will be higher.
The book wasn’t published until 1963. In the meantime, two volumes of a trilogy, “The Soft Machine” and “The Ticket That Exploded,” came out, soon followed by the third, “Nova Express.” These were written largely in London and Paris, between trips to Tangier, where Burroughs had lived for several years, starting in 1954. They advanced his claim (with some precedents in Dadaism and Surrealism) to literary innovation: the “cut-up” technique of assembling texts from scissored fragments of his own and others’ prose. The trilogy is a sort of fractured science fiction, telling of underground struggles against forces of “Control”—the shape-shifting, all-purpose bęte noire of Burroughs’s world view. It is easier to read than, say, “Finnegans Wake,” but hard going between such bursts of dazzle as the “resistance message”:
Calling partisans of all nations—Cut word lines—Shift linguals—Vibrate tourists—Free doorways—Word falling—Photo falling—Break through in Grey Room.
A second trilogy—“The Cities of the Red Night,” “The Place of Dead Roads,” and “The Western Lands”—published between 1981 and 1987, reverts to fairly normal narration, filled with scenes of sexual and military atrocity in a succession of mythic cities. Its heroes include Hassan-i Sabbah, the historical leader of a sometimes homicidal sect in eleventh- and twelfth-century Persia. “Nothing is true, everything is permitted,” Sabbah is supposed to have said (and was so quoted by Nietzsche). The prose is nimble and often ravishing, but marred by the author’s monotonous obsessions and gross tics—notably, a descent into ferocious misogyny, casting women as “the Sex Enemy.”
The biography, after its eventful start, becomes rather like an odyssey by subway in the confines of Burroughs’s self-absorption, with connecting stops in New York, where he lived, in the late nineteen-seventies, on the Bowery, in the locker room of a former Y.M.C.A., and, returning to the Midwest, in the congenial university town of Lawrence, Kansas, where he spent his last sixteen years, and where he died, of a heart attack, in 1997, at the age of eighty-three. Miles’s always efficient, often elegant prose eases the ride, but a reader’s attention may grow wan for want of sun. Most of the characters run to type: dissolute quasi-aristocratic friends, interchangeable boys, sycophants in steadily increasing numbers. Names parade, from Paul Bowles and Samuel Beckett (who, meeting Burroughs at a party in Paris, denounced the cut-up method as “plumbing”), through Mick Jagger and Andy Warhol, to Laurie Anderson and Kurt Cobain. Most prominent is Brion Gysin, a mediocre artist of calligraphic abstractions. Burroughs met him in Tangier, in 1955, and bonded with him in Paris at a dump in the Latin Quarter, known as the Beat Hotel, whose motherly owner adored literary wanderers.
Gysin and Burroughs deemed each other clairvoyant geniuses. They collaborated on cut-ups, extending the technique to audiotape, and foresaw commercial gold for Gysin’s “Dreamachine,” a gizmo that emitted flickering light to mildly hypnotic effect. It flopped. Burroughs took to making art himself, especially after Gysin’s death, in 1986: he created hundreds of pictures, on wood, by shooting at containers of paint. These have been widely exhibited and sold. They are terrible. Burroughs had no visual equivalent of the second-nature formality that buoys even his most chaotic writing.
Ginsberg comes off radiantly well in Miles’s telling, as a loyally forgiving friend. He tolerated Burroughs’s amatory passion for him, which developed in the fifties, as long as it lasted. Much of Burroughs’s best writing originated in letters to the poet, who took a guiding editorial hand in it. It was Ginsberg who hatched the title “Naked Lunch,” by a lucky mistake, having misread the phrase “naked lust” in a Burroughs manuscript. (I think of Ezra Pound’s editorial overhaul of “He Do the Police in Different Voices”—Eliot’s first title for “The Waste Land.”) Ginsberg effectively sacrificed his own literary development, which sagged after “Kaddish” (1961), to publicizing his friends and, of course, himself. Burroughs disparaged his puppylike attendance in Bob Dylan’s entourage. (Burroughs’s aloofness, like his obsession with mind control, reflected memories of a reviled uncle, Ivy Ledbetter Lee, a pioneering public-relations expert whose clients included John D. Rockefeller and the Nazi Party.) But Burroughs liked his own growing fame. He gave readings to full houses. Appearances on “Saturday Night Live,” in 1981, and in Gus Van Sant’s “Drugstore Cowboy,” in 1989, spread the popularity of his gentleman-junkie cool.
The biography’s most painful passages involve Billy, who both idolized and, for excellent reasons, resented Burroughs. What might you be like, had your father killed your mother and then abandoned you? In 1963, when Billy was sixteen, Burroughs, bowing to his parents’ insistence, briefly took charge of the troubled lad in Tangier. The main event of the visit was Billy’s introduction to drugs, condoned by Burroughs. In and out of hospitals and rehabs, Billy wrote three novels, of which the first, “Speed” (1970), detailing the ordeal of amphetamine addiction, showed literary promise. In 1976, father and son reunited at the Naropa Institute, in Boulder, where Ginsberg and other poets had initiated a program in experimental writing, and where Burroughs was teaching, with crotchety flair. Billy, who had received a liver transplant for cirrhosis, engaged in spectacular self-destruction. Miles writes, “Billy wanted Bill to witness the mess he was in; he was paying him back.” Billy died in 1981, at the age of thirty-three. Burroughs seemed to regret only that he had not sufficiently explained the Ugly Spirit to him. He responded to his son’s death by varying his current methadone habit with a return to heroin.
“Virtually all of Burroughs’s writing was done when he was high on something,” Miles writes. The drugs help account for the hollowness of his voices, which jabber, joke, and rant like ghosts in a cave. He had no voice of his own, but a fantastic ear and verbal recall. His prose is a palimpsest of echoes, ranging from Eliot’s “Preludes” and “Rhapsody on a Windy Night” (lines like “Midnight shakes the memory / As a madman shakes a dead geranium” are Burroughsian before the fact) to Raymond Chandler’s marmoreal wisecracks and Herbert Huncke’s jive. I suspect that few readers have made it all the way through the cut-up novels, but anyone dipping into them may come away humming phrases. His palpable influence on J. G. Ballard, William Gibson, and Kathy Acker is only the most obvious effect of the kind of inspiration that makes a young writer drop a book and grab a pen, wishing to emulate so sensational a sound. It’s a cold thrill. While always comic, Burroughs is rarely funny, unless you’re as tickled as he was by such recurrent delights as boys in orgasm as they are executed by hanging.
Some critics, including Miles, have tried to gussy up Burroughs’s antinomian morality as Swiftian satire. Burroughs, however, wages literary war not on perceptible real-world targets but against suggestions that anyone is responsible for anything. Though never cruel in his personal conduct, he was, in principle, exasperated with values of constraint. A little of “Nothing is true, everything is permitted” goes a long way for many readers, including me. But there’s no gainsaying a splendor as berserk as that of a Hieronymus Bosch painting. When you have read Burroughs, at whatever length suffices for you, one flank of your imagination of human possibility will be covered for good and all. ♦
Email
peter schjeldahl
Peter Schjeldahl has been a staff writer at The New Yorker since 1998 and is the magazine’s art critic.
BIO ALL WORK
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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Mar 20, 2015 - 12:13pm PT
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I miss seeing my 22 yr old self with the fu manchu and long hair right below Mathis's couch on the first page of the Flames
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 20, 2015 - 12:20pm PT
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I will try but i am a very poor knock off of the original
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Jaybro
Social climber
Wolf City, Wyoming
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Mar 20, 2015 - 08:55pm PT
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Mertz!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 20, 2015 - 09:50pm PT
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Yo' welcome?
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 21, 2015 - 05:25am PT
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Christ, mouse, have you lost your male? Perhaps euro trash applauds gramps in the all together and the Shablet deemed it art and let me see it!
oh the Horror
Seems this thread is headed over to the boys side my most least favored topic.
Here is part of the reason why...
Some time in the mid sixties the switch hitters must'a thought that they could . . .
or my parents being bad even by the standards of those days, let the wee me go into men's rooms alone to pee.
This had repercussions, ie: when I failed to show after a bathroom break at the Tower of London my mom and sis went to a cop, the British bobby kind.
The way my sis tells it he turned and blew his whistle called on the Bobby box and shut down all the pissers.
When the search turned up some well know Buggers, one was worse for wear. I had stuck him in the eye and run into the ladies room next door hoping to find my mom and sis
but
instead was taken by a painted lady to see the Queen! That's right British buggers of both genders at the tourist sights!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 21, 2015 - 06:26am PT
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 21, 2015 - 06:53am PT
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The painted lady did not return me until she was ready and then only because of all the commotion, she had plans, see.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 21, 2015 - 10:22am PT
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[Click to View YouTube Video]I some times get asked to, step up and cover the room that kids have to wait in, in the event of early dismissal the kids, mostly get picked up at the school.
Found this sent me around the bend , the Kidz try to learn but the system is failing them.
I know that boys will be boys but, with the Tagging thread and the woodson vandalism, swirling in my head, I was In deep emotional dodo.
Trying to explian how Malala had had her head blown open for wanting to go to school,
while the Kidz were hyped up by early dismissal and the fun guy/Dad was manning the door. well it fell on deaf ears .
Light at the end of the tunnel and cool bridges too
[Click to View YouTube Video]the above is age okay but below is a bit creepy no?[Click to View YouTube Video]
now she has the Diana Krall sound down[Click to View YouTube Video]
Vanessa Williams . Remember her when!?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 21, 2015 - 11:32am PT
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Sister Scat RIP
I count mice instead of sheep
I just want to go to sleep
Oh God how I weep
When I think of my sister's cat
Who got put down
Old and blind as a bat
And having a paralysis fit
She'd lay there in her own sh#t
Unable to get to the litter
What a fix for a lady
So she went for a ride
A little pentathol bride
They'll plant her outside
Next to Old Sneakers
In the very front yard
On Cedar Ridge
And when the snow comes
If it ever gets here
They may go skiing on her grave mound
She'll be a Snow Cat
Lenna and her daughter Jessica are heading to Knights Ferry today while Ed buries the cat.
They'll watch Jessica's mate Michael and her boy Conor meet some rebels in battle
and he's only fourteen
but playing a drummer boy instead of his saxophone--it pays to start them early.
And we laid to rest Gary Boyer, another drummer, two weeks back. I believe he was the last of the Rhythm Knights of Our Town.Gary played with some other groups here locally, as well.
[Click to View YouTube Video]Bobby Clark (NOT Bobby Knight) and Rhythm Knights/Ragged Doll
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bOOiTWoxIsQ
It's a slow dance.
Same crew/from Teenagers Forever
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z_y9Y0emIwc
The Embers/I'll Be With You
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-B71Leo9yzU
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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Mar 21, 2015 - 11:42am PT
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RIP Gary. Truly one of the Musical Merced Royalty. We were a lucky audience.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 21, 2015 - 11:45am PT
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Hey, Steven. I got the news on gmail from Michael Kennedy's mercedmusic newsletter the other day. I knew Buzzy the Bass Player. I never MET Gary, but heard him a few times.
I was just going to see if you had known Gary or heard him. Thanks.
Have a good Sattiday, otay?
And by the way, was Werner correct about his remembering you had a wall tent in Camp 4 with a bed?
I remember well Mathis' old green canvas tent, but he had no bed, just a mattress.
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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Mar 21, 2015 - 12:43pm PT
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No bed for me. Inuslite man! I don't remember if Jeff ever had a bed in his tent. Wouldn't surprise me. I'll ask Nancy...nudge nudge wink wink.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 21, 2015 - 12:52pm PT
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The passing of our pets even after a long good pampered life is about the most gut wrenching, after years of constant pet owner ship I am ready to try to go forward without, the last day of my Daisy life will haunt me, the last day of my Very Big dog ten years ago on Halloween
Still makes me weep. He was twelve when he went ! A long and happy wild life from Arkansas
To dead shows as a pup he was mine and I his , he I had a bro, also big a newffy mix that went before him.
Just the tapping of this brings me to tears !
Go in peace good Cat and find my pals out in the great beyond they will be there for ya'
Paul Schaffer you know Daves band leader, he tried to hit on me at the 'old' lone star saloon
In NYC, in the mid '80s it led to my getting band from the VIP room when I grabbed his hand stood up with it still on my crotch and thumped his head on a post as his hand was at my junk I then stepped on his crotch and left with my tab unpaid.
The next day he went and had his last hair cut and has stayed shaved ever since.
Them switch hitters they make it hard on sensitive guys who just can't help looking bye.
The earring was the tell but my ears were used for resting using my head as a cam at the start of the roof of A Seperate Reality. Werner could not help laughing at one of us who had a foot pop and tore the base of his ear up exposing the nub of cartelidge (sp)
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 21, 2015 - 01:20pm PT
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PATHOS
Couchmaster
Whoh, I was perusing the thread wondering how many of us have passed and caught the late Paul Humphery, posting as Disaster Master, post from 2010.
Dec 21, 2010 - 01:59pm PT
When I die
it won't be
from giving up.
When I finish this Thing,
or It finishes me,
I will be burnt to ashes.
Then mixed with magnesium.
I will be packaged in small mesh balls,
labeled with sarcasm, and prepared for distribution.
Then on fine day, when all who care gather cliffside
at an unimportant stone set in my heart,
they will grab my balls and place them gently in their chalk bags.
Then they will climb, climb, climb,
and grind me into the holds of my favorite creations.
But that's not all. My balls will travel in my friends sacks all over the world. I will be ground into the classics I have never seen, and could only imagine completing.
It will be the final road trip to everywhere. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Paul, I have your last will and testament chalk ball with your ashes packed and ready for a world class adventure this weekend. Heading where I do not believe any human being has ever trod. The intransigence of life permeates my soul.
2 weeks ago:From ,xx thread by wedge, Couchmaster todays date3/27/15
http://www.supertopo.com/climbing/thread.php?topic_id=1354502&tn=140
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little Z
Trad climber
un cafetal en Naranjo
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Mar 21, 2015 - 01:22pm PT
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that's an extremely unfathed story, sad to describes!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 21, 2015 - 01:41pm PT
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^^A bit fatuous, true.^^
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 21, 2015 - 11:30pm PT
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fat·u·ous
ˈfaCHo͞oəs/Submit
adjective
silly and pointless.
"a fatuous comment"
synonyms: silly, foolish, stupid, inane, idiotic, vacuous, asinine;[Click to View YouTube Video]
She was Anti-fascist also/too.
(a governmental system led by a dictator having complete power, forcibly suppressing opposition and criticism, regimenting all ...)
I was also very into a shocking punk scene in 78 &9 we kids would go out all night long taking the last train into the city,
The result of pushing Mr Schaffer brought me to the attention of Wendy O who was already
friends with Patrick of the Stimulators!
So if you doubt me I have a bunch more Stories that are gross and should be in a book of a
daring death defying misspent youth. [Click to View YouTube Video] not the best sound but with
this unless it means something to you personally it does not matter. The picture Is the Nine
yearold Drummer, Harley(ne Davidson)Who's hair would be doused (like the Flames) in Gin before each show. [Click to View YouTube Video]
My pals were all more mature? Than I when it came to sex and nakedness. They were gross rebelling from the Catholic Churches repression. Girls did things guys did things many mornings they all ended up in a filthy NYC apartment where they bathed? Together in a dirty bath tub.
The better apartment was upstairs from a Hells Angels shrine to The Beast From the East a bricked over store front in the alphabet soup neighborhood.
The beat poet Allen Ginsberg was around we called him Nick Rapschenack and he bought us ice cream and never tried to touch me never mind acting entitled to my junk.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 22, 2015 - 10:07am PT
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My ingnomic friend has a way with words.
Borrowing from my own spews
The angry little guy stews
And it's nice when we poeticals choose
To hear oneself when we lays off the booze
I believe I will grant him imprimatur
As he seems to be (voila!) a lot more mature
Rants are not the way to public acceptance
Heads may turn and eyes look askance
He's chosen to "sing" and so it gives us a chance
To hear what he's saying so let's dance
What a difference a good night's sleep can make.
This winter has been rough, I gnow
And if ever this blasted white snow would just go
Spring will then jut forth into our lives
Making the kids and the faithful wives
Awaken like bees in their warming bee hives
to respond to our tales, our songs and our jives
So taking a cue from a post from Princess neebee
I dust off this old Dino Valente LP
Dino Valente/Everything's Gonna Be OK
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=se54DgKKyzU
Lately I've been walkin' on a new side of town
New kind of doin' and my mind's all around
It's a new kind of somthing that I just found
Everything's gonna be OK
Bright golden feathers and gossimer wings
Moondrops and leathers and fairy tale things
Silver spun angels smile dancin' in rain
Everything's gonna be OK
Lilacs and lillies and clover is green
Treasures of tapestries woven between
These are the traces of such to be seen
Everything's OK now
Summer white raindrops and winter is pale
Autumn makes magick and springtime is frail
And the song in my heart is the song on my trail
Everything's OK now, it's OK now
'Bout this time of evenin' with the sun goin' down
There's a new kind of music I been hearin' all around
It's a lucky charm, and it's mornin' bound
Everything's gonna be OK, it's OK babe,
It's gonna be OK now, it's OK...ay... ay...babe
It's NYC that is the music nexus in this orchestra of a country.
You need to go there to get heard by the herd of the hip.
Fred Neil, meet Dino Valente.
Bob Dylan, meet Bob Gibson.
Guys, meet Albert Grossman.
Albert Grossman, meet Gnome Ofthe Diabase,
who knows Who Knows Who.
Stay off the sauce, my friend.
"It's the right thing to do."--Grampa Walton
[Click to View YouTube Video]
http://www.furious.com/perfect/folkniks2.htm
http://www.furious.com/perfect/folkniks.html
Fred Neil, everybody's talkin' at you.
neebee, I'm sittin' here talkin' at you.
What a wonderful share for a springtime Sunday morning.
Fred Neil/Everybody's Talkin'
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5txh2GvPmAU
I owned a Yamaha 12-string one time. Had it maybe ten days.
It got ripped off in my only trip to Canada in 1970.
I've often wondered Who In the Hell Is Dino Valente, who jointed forces with Quicksilver Messenger Service about that time. I did not know he was a 12-stringer like Neil, Havens, Ochs, and others from the folky NYC scene.
Now I DO know, and everything's gonna be Otay, at least for this day.
Jerry Loggins on FRESH AIR on NPR on guitars with a dozen strings.
http://www.npr.org/player/v2/mediaPlayer.html?action=1&t=1&islist=false&id=4983937&m=5006617
Leo, meet Jerry.
Jerry, meet the Taco.
Jerry, have a nice day!
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 22, 2015 - 10:25am PT
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[Click to View YouTube Video]``I know you know there are parts (1-5) and that as a sound of those times It is worth a cosmic listen
but I have got "That what I do" comin' at me, n' have to go so
[Click to View YouTube Video]Not very Budihist of me I really don't mean it OTAY!
GOD needs HIS Rx, Medicine needs to the medical trees there is fog rolling in
Under cover of bowling on lane twenty at the end o' the row, big joe comes and rolls a spare God saved for the night!
It is a frightful dream scape all ve gassy neon lite as a preggars dwarf might get up to in
Lite of the shad I would rathe no
Not not row that boatThat ship has sailed his 1st mate is a lurker on this how else could he care about only re sales I own his fine but had it borrowed by a cat how attempting and
Sending the triple cracks never gives it back. Oh Keith you did not die in battle
Then lays down his ride a19 year old Harly prolly high on mo ren gin.
A sun day in the end of May a straight away no junk to hit in. Sight
The mid age spread was as much the cause as the blow to the head!
He was in a helmet they say
The comma lasted as he astro projected to his garden of yore where he got to climb and re climb every pitch that he ever climbed , all in his dieing mind,
Lasted two weeks fought but why he slept sittin'up layer no laided it down on purpose
Or opiated ? Uhle never know nor will I but God knows he was my Clepto took and took roomys porch plant got bouncy with and liquor end but I called him Hamm!
It was short for the hammer he still climbed with all the way through
How else to test in situe pro?
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 22, 2015 - 10:34am PT
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[Click to View YouTube Video]
GOTD, buddy, calm the frank down, please.
I have a point in using that word.
I have been accused, and rightly so, of being, like, hey there, say, Jude:
Why the obscurity? Why not say it in plain words, whatever it is that you must say?
If one has something to say, say it plain, and why say it again? This is a question asked of us in Talking Heads vs. Psycho Killer.
You're talkin' a lot, but you're not sayin' anything. When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed. Say something once, why say it again? --Psycho Killer.
It's not often easy to experience life but one needs to go quietly amid the noise and haste of life to enjoy it more fully, as Max Ehrmann writes in his poem, which was immensely popular in the sixties.
DESIDERATA
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
--Max Ehrmann, "Desiderata".
http://www.supertopo.com/climbing/thread.php?topic_id=1962261&msg=1962261#msg1962261
I am not afraid to say I'm sorry, because there is love between us, no matter the short time we've been acquainted.
And you know what Erich Segal wrote, don't you, about love in Love Story?
He said, "Love means never having to say you're sorry."
That, however, is a fatuous remark, in my book. It's "pop," and it's cant and it is pointless, because love is many things, not all of which are explicable or understood easily.
So let me ask you, Millisecond (a term of endearment, m'dear), to divulge your climbing history in a manner which is more easily understood, FOR THE SAKE of your own integrity and that of The Flames.
For sure, I'm sorry if I offended you and I won't bother to say it again, my friend.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 22, 2015 - 10:42am PT
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No timid ,
it has devolved and I was so sorry but I leave It on and all night long I hope To pick a song that fitz
Ol' Blue Eyes's girl is where Im stuck.
If you would share your fabulous strumming I would be Tickled Pink. . .
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 22, 2015 - 10:45am PT
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[Click to View YouTube Video]This GEM is for my friend C4/1971.
"Hey, Dada, who's Dino Valente?"
During our reckless youth in C4 we'd often drive the Valley Loop listening to my 8-track spreading vibes in our wake.
QSM was one of the standard double-LPs to which we grooved
(It's what you do when you listen to records--you "groove")
Playing on the 8-track mounted just behind the driver's seat in the Econoline
(Where it was handy enough that I could change out the cartridges while at the wheel)
That or the Gratefuls' double-LP.
Thank gosh we didn't have TOO many New Yorkers/Easterners aboard...these were the inimitable Andy Cox and the heavy John Waterman and the funny-as-shit Wally Schamonizz (taking liberty with the surname of a guy whose background to me was always a little fuzzy)
George Meyers rode with us as well.
It was my way of absorbing Eastern culture, coming to know names like Bein and Boldstone and Suhl, whom Millis had already met.
But the name of Dino V always seemed not to be dredged up.
Maybe these guys were not all that "hip."
But they sure could climb, and that's probably why--their heads were in the clouds of weed smoke and the clouds surrounding the pretty crags of the Valley.
I was driving a C4 version of the YNP&CC Tweet Buses and did not realize it.
Whatcha gonna do?
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Back in those days, my mentor Millis was coming to terms with alcohol vis-a-vis dope.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 22, 2015 - 02:46pm PT
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Yupweeping anglesThought so
Weeping angels jaybro?,[Click to View YouTube Video]
Thanks for the following I was thinkling the samele thing
But WasCoNVIced by responzzzes that it would be taken wrong
what is the disgusting foul minded dwarf posting A UR ANAL for??
the sad is bad and the dead will be that makes me sadder than pissed
so here I said At the end com' on back
and that z so skilled should take it. . , . he did
NO SURVIVORS IN NEICE A PLANE CRASH An a320Air Bus, headed to Dusuldorf
from spain! so that save a rant ten minutes of no enginges and augured in
three days hence and the plane crash is big news and was a deliberate act by the co-piolet augured into the french alps on route from Spain to Germany, 150 all rip.The voice recorder found shows or tells of a locked out pilot and the co-piolet switching the controls and not responding again.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 22, 2015 - 05:06pm PT
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^^^An offer hard to refuse, the horse's head in bed, as seen in GodDada part one.
Timid TopRope, my friend, uke cant' make it rain, can you?
Anyone "expert" on Dadaism is full of DooDoo.
It's explained here as well as I've ever heard but mo' bettah.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Understanding of the vulgar.
We proles arp art of the vulgarity.
e eek cummings is one of the vulgarest.
Vulgarians seem to be such, but is it just a pose?
I think not, therefore I observe and then I serve up some word-turds with fuzzy thinking.
The Mamas and the Dadas:
Just what can you say about a phat chick who sang like a bird
and a skinny one who ate like a bird and also sang like a bird.
Words cannot
Images cannot
Film cannot
You and I and Gnome cannot
Explain dada.
names for art "movements" are full of shyte and only mean something if you are a student of art
none of this means anything or takes anything away from such as the weedge
imitation domination by one's stilted imagination causes regurgitation
if one is an "artist" cannot be a dada
mankind will never be purified and why bother?
i don't pretend to understand "the dada" or "the dialectic"
i don't pretend to understand most of what weedge writes
i do, i do, i do understand most of what he writes, in fact
and it don't mean shyte
he will never write a manifesto
it's a work in progress, nonetheless
calculated madness is better than outright madness, that's a given
for his shyte, his obvious eagerness to shine, Gnome should be allowed to be himself
charming, not very
sometimes fatuous
at least he's not like the society types who raved over surrealism and darlin' Dali
Not meaning to lecture on a subject not meant for lecturing is fatuous in the extreme...but it's been said before me by the so-called experts, TTR. :0)
edit: You may be right in telling him it ain't it. But who are we to say?
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anita514
Gym climber
Great White North
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Mar 22, 2015 - 05:08pm PT
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You guys are so weird
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 22, 2015 - 05:13pm PT
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Huh"I don't get it"still.
Thank you, A#1.
It's natural, not a pose.
It's poetry and not prose.
Smile for your camera, sweetie!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 22, 2015 - 05:18pm PT
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This is a test.
This is only a test.
Only a test.
It's not art.
Nein, nine, gnyne.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Millions don't count...nine can be divided by three.
I found this joke on the internut. It's a "ready-made," but who's counting?
I went on the tv show blind date a while back. I always thought that the questions the contestants asked were stupid and irrelevent, so I decided to ask something a bit more intellegent.
I said "Contestant number 1. Cubism is a corruption of the impressionist ideology; discuss".
To which contestant number 1 replied. "Eerrrm, well if I were a cube you could measure my angles any time".
Same question to number 2. "Well, we could go down to the fun fair and you could feel me up while we're on the dodgems".
Not exactly what I asked, but thanks anyway.
Then number 3 gave her answer. She said "Yes, cubsim is a corruption of the impressionist ideology, but it's also based on early 20th century german dadaism and neo realism".
I thought "perfect answer".
From that point I knew axactly which one I had to pick.
Number 2 obviously.
Courtesy of Sickipedia.org: http://www.sickipedia.org/sex-and-shit/blind-date/i-went-on-the-tv-show-blind-date-a-while-299466#ixzz3VAI8nfEh
Another test, but no credits, so sorry:
How many dadaists does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Essays due in nine days.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 22, 2015 - 07:43pm PT
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boy, george
are you sure you accomplished your mission?
the eternal quest for understanding will likely get one noplace
los grandes imponderosas will likely never have satisfactory answers
expectoration on expectiations is the only excitation one will likely find
trundling icons is as much fun as trundling boulders
or starting an avalanche
or felling trees in residential hoods
or even burying caddys nose-down in the texas plains
and less risky
an aside: i may not be posting less, but i'm enjoying what i'm doing, so that makes it otay by me. i'm taking more time to get up and move around, among other things that have made a difference, like getting some good sleep-time, aka dream-time, which was almost entirely missing from my life heretofore recently.
gracia a Deo
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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Mar 22, 2015 - 09:14pm PT
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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Mar 22, 2015 - 09:15pm PT
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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Mar 22, 2015 - 09:24pm PT
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 23, 2015 - 01:46am PT
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[The first lines are the original text of some lines typed at speed and using no eyes, but having the right hand removed one space to the right, for those not quick or bright enough to figure it out for themselves.]
Tjrp[oe. u cracl ,e i[/!
Throwpie, u crack me up!
what is a [arade wojotj mp jprses
what is a parade with no horses
as emtertaomomg as a MASCAR evemt isomg vw beet;es pm;u
as entertaining as a NASCAR event using vw beetles only
wjat os a tjread abpit Dada. amd mascemt F;a,es. pr evem F;a,es tje,se;ves
what is a thread about Dada, and nascent Flames, or even Flames themselves?
ot
s abpit as isefi; as a tjread wjocj
,ales fim pf ce;ebrotoes wjp jave g;amd dosprders
it's about as useful as a thread which "makes fun of celebrities who have gland disorders"
dadapro is not the only cure for Bulgemelonitis
but it is the cheapest next to ignoring fatuous or "tasteless" here on the ST.
send Cash, Czechs, or moneygrams to Fish Products, not here.
hey there say, russ! what was all that fuss? worthy of its deletion, i must say.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
this heartfelt comment on intolerance was brought to you
do with it what you must
i have thick skin; i resist unkind comments in the main now that the eKat affair is history, having learned a lesson
(especially thick on my feet, which may simply be due to athelte's foot or possibly to mandellis corollin)
it may be of inteREST, but i just woke up from a good bait of sleep, deeply in need of a yur-I-nal
as eye peed, eye thought about michy, phat women, and bir-duhs (Bambi, if you've never seen it?)
i realized, having witnessed prejudice and intolerance in that deleted thread, that which was known to me since i met my LIZ-as-was that not all who call themselves BBWs are beautiful, especially those who cannot laugh at themselves, their own vanity, and harbor spite in their besmirched souls
trees have it much worse than wee
always will
do they complain and whine about the shade they must tolerate in order to grow higher?
i don't know
i won't waste more of your time with drivel
i don't see any here, myself
and so back to bed without any more pepys, who was, by the way, a complete azzhat, IMO (rhymes with manifesto)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 23, 2015 - 03:50am PT
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I'm wide awake still.
Were I a painter, the quiet nighttime hours might be spent more creatively.
But I'm not one of those. I'm a poet, a pauper and a puppet, but not a king.
So I trawl through the Sargassum of the sea of non-dreams, the internet, searching.
I'm no Avienus, who is credited with the first mention of the Sargasso Sea in his poem Ora Maritima.
And I'm up to my old tricks, like a coyote doubling back on his tracks.
It is not intentional; it's just who I am, me being me, like Manny without his money.
I'd sooner be a court jester than a king, for therein is the real power in many royal courts.
In this modern world the real jesters are I know not who.
It's of no moment, however.
The court jester was mainly concerned with his own agenda, protecting himself by appealing to the weak monarch who had a fondness for him and needed him as much as he was needed by the jester.
Ridicule was and is a power tool.
"Bosch," you say?
Well, Bosch Power Tools and Accessories, the North American branch of the giant Corporation (representing to me Big Tools), see, they make power drills, which are like unto firearms in that they are not evil of themselves, but are nasty when used by the unscrupulous climber.
Nowhere is it a sin to use power drills, just against regs, but it seems to me to be a crime against nature, as it does to many.
But in the Art World (which is a Luxury Liner of Fools), Bosch reigns supreme.
It's of note that his panels, representing the theology of Christianity, are ridiculously small and were kept locked behind two reverse panels depicting sainted men.
His work is explained in the link I'm posting for your edifiction (sic).
http://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/renaissance-reformation/northern-renaissance1/hieronymus-bosch/v/bosch-last-judgment-triptych-1504-08
It is a critique of RETINAL ART which was probably only seen by a few selectmen and clergy, and not by the general public, who probably would have been scared shyteless by some of the work.
So what was the point? What did Hieronymus mean to say? That is for us as individuals to ponder, but from a historical POV, the critique is valuable in that many of us do not know the history of Christianity, just as we are perplexed by the Muslim sects, the Hindi, and the rest of the world's religions.
I went to dinner at the Rescue Mission two nights ago and it was a dinner served by men and women of the Ponderosa Basin Chapel, who do so regularly once a month. They practice what they preach and I've seen no hypocrisy, just warm and caring folks who are plain-spoken ranchers and their wives, among other occupations.
http://pbchapel.org/
It was disturbing to me to know I'm suffering from diseases which are ultimately going to kill me, providing that the thunder and lightning don't get me first, or that splendid-looking Budweiser truck doesn't run my slow ass down.
I realized how old I've become today, because a flip-flop fell off my foot as I began pedaling across a busy intersection on the way home from the Grocery Outlet. It caused me to lose my balance and before I could right the bicycle I'd fallen, but not seriously.
It took me some time to gather up the cans of Hunt's sauce and the rest and it was embarrassing, but then I really said a few quick prayers after the cursing was done.
I took some more time to rest up and cogitate about what this meant, this apparent feebleness, but it could happen to anyone, really, given that the basket on the handlebars is wobbly and needs to be wired up more securely.
If there is a point to this ramble, please let me know now, God, before I post this.
Aw, to hell with it. It's part of a work in progress that ultimately will be gone, just as we all will be gone sooner or later.
The point may be that the weak are subject to the strong and it's up to the strong to do what's right by the weak.
The nighttime is the right time to be with the one you love. I love my muse. Goodnight, Mrs. Muse, wherever you are.
And goodnight, Mrs. Mouse, looking over my shoulder.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Cant. It's just all cant and bull.
STay weird, brothers and sisters.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 23, 2015 - 04:10am PT
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Don't call me Bulgemelon. It's Buglemelon.Met myself a comin' county welfare line
I was feelin' strung out, hung out on the line
Saw myself a goin', down to war in June
All I want, all I want is to write myself a tune
Wrote a song for ev'ryone
Wrote a song for truth
Wrote a song for ev'ryone
When I couldn't even talk to you
Got myself arrested, wound me up in jail
Richmond 'bout to blow up, communication failed
If you see the answer, now's the time to say
All I want, all I want is to get you down to pray
Wrote a song for ev'ryone
Wrote a song for truth
Wrote a song for ev'ryone
When I couldn't even talk to you
Wrote a song for ev'ryone
Wrote a song for truth
Wrote a song for ev'ryone
When I couldn't even talk to you
Saw the people standin' thousand years in chains
Somebody said it's diff'rent now, look, it's just the same
Pharoahs spin the message, round and round the truth
They could have saved a million people, how can I tell you?
Wrote a song for ev'ryone
Wrote a song for truth
Wrote a song for ev'ryone
When I couldn't even talk to you
Wrote a song for ev'ryone
Wrote a song for truth
Wrote a song for ev'ryone
When I couldn't even talk to you
Wrote a song for ev'ryone
Wrote a song for truth
Wrote a song for ev'ryone
When I couldn't even talk to you
--John Fogarty
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Mar 23, 2015 - 07:20am PT
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hey there say, mouse... just stepped in here to say hey there...
and prayers for your day...
hope everyone here at this SPARKS is doing well...
have not read everything...
just wanted to let you know, we are all hoping you are well...
thank you for sharing the 'is going to be o.k.'
we all have our 'hopes for ok' s
amen...
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zBrown
Ice climber
Brujň de la Playa
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Mar 23, 2015 - 08:25am PT
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Hurry home early - hurry on home
Sophia Loren's fighting Bridgette Bardot
(NO TV coverage, be there or be square)
BADGERS squelch DUCKS, on the way to crunch up TarBabies!
UCLA still in
Anteaters roadblocked at Louisville
Shaq can't dance, or can he?
"Paris bans half of city's traffic to reduce pollution" (other half moving to Caspar Wyoming)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 23, 2015 - 10:58am PT
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See you and raise.
Neapolitan bishop claims 'half miracle' while pope is in town
"Omnipotent impotentia facit impetum ad impressionism."--Francis the talking pontiff
zing!
"Silver guns and golden needles will not still this heart of mine."--Folly, Tami, and Lowretty
[Click to View YouTube Video]"Two blondes and one brunette beats two blondes, pard."--Doc Hollidada
It's not just weirdness, it's March Madness!!!!
I sure miss Magic on the court.
But, to reiterate what I said to someone to whom I wrote early this morning, but in the words of Taj Mahal:
"There is just no percentage in remembering the past."--Giant STep
But it's still fun, which counts for something, I suppose.
And having reached my quota of quotes, I retire to the bench for a nap.
Full court press a bit later on, amigo.
Hey, brujo, thanks for all the assists in the old league, eh?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 23, 2015 - 12:47pm PT
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Especially for Anita514:
"Captain Beefheart continues fusing his dadaist lyrics with the edgy garage rock of his four-piece Magic Band."--Review of I May Be Hungry but I Sure Ain't Weird: The Alternative Capt. Beefheart
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W4ugu5W2gbQ
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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Mar 23, 2015 - 04:18pm PT
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Nothing is ever REALLY deleted Mouse. Maybe it's still floating around out there in Supertopo land and just needs someone to grab it. Just ask.
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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Mar 23, 2015 - 04:23pm PT
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Search Mouse from Merced or Throwpie or whoever else posted....its all there.
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Big Mike
Trad climber
BC
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Mar 23, 2015 - 06:02pm PT
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All is not lost Mouse. The legend still remains in the ether.
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zBrown
Ice climber
Brujň de la Playa
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Mar 23, 2015 - 08:05pm PT
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]
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 23, 2015 - 08:19pm PT
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http://www.supertopo.com/climbers-forum/2595617/THE-INDEX-1-Threads
Bro, Bellows
Not the Kentucky whiskey bellows, partners in pleasure , the gentle taste of the partners choice, or the club old school fresher deep bourbon I'd, relish the stuff for my private, consumpt,
Taste in line to IWHarper, bought out by Beam brands, and now again cut loose from them the end of true Bellows has come.Luxco, bought 'em
it was a great sippin' whiskey to the last, but it's time has come.
More to your point number three bellows at number one,
that the doctor said to not sit and swell
Bellow back from a treadmill
what's it to you?
Bellowing at the wall or the moon with moist eyes.
Bellows that blow
Bellows that blow
Bellows that blow
SPARKS TO FLAMES
The smoke is not bellow able
Bellows are used to make flames
Flames are made by blowing air, adding oxygen to embers that spark the Flames!
I am your weak monarch, the ides have past, say so mouser the Flames are yours.
If you have a doctors pesrcription and the fortitude lets just do this.
The rules are better hashed out with the hier to the thrown,
As I did not tell you too, he threw up and took down as fast as large mouth bass, a thread
ask him his DOGZ are cute and playful in the eyes is were you see canine zz smiles.
but his ability agile and swift to adjust pictures side to side from over each other makes him hands down the one!
how's he do that anywhowy
my money's on him
his prowess and savy to between the lines read and if I promise not to burn the place down ... IcanT make a pact befoe the rules but I and my Fercoktt or Fercockta drivel can best be full purged?
I fall on my sword.
FLAMES 2 0r flames II or whatever you neat mind seizes on as to go forward even with just the posters of old.movies I canot post my collection of pics of movie posters were was I gonna go but to bed?
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 25, 2015 - 03:58pm PT
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Empty Watkins
Long-time local
“Grade VI don’t mean much
in the Ditch”
I’m taking my photos with me out the door.
Too many fast times.
Too many climbers.
Too much stupidity.
I can only hack so many routes on my once-inviolate face and pinnacles (yeah, they’re coming with me.)
Clouds Rest is a bully, lording it over the rest of the forum.
Glacier Point is still so juvenile and tied to mammy’s apron strings and the language that he uses is just awful.
Lost Arrow keeps babbling.
The River is cool.
The falls are really cool, except in the late summer and fall.
The list of reasons goes on and on.
But what really got to me was that kid Honnold.
What’s the use of being so forbidding if he jumps on you, then jams down and fires off El Cap, and tops it with a quickie with that slut Tis-a-ack?
There’s nothing here for me any more.
I’m going to Tierra del Fuego.
Let the door slam REAL HARD when I haul my butt outta here.
Cmac, good luck with this hard-headed buncha touron-lovin’ crags, cuz that’s all any of them are anymore.
Wake up and smell the Peets, you molehill wannabes!
WaddyGOTD, buddy, calm the frank down, please.
I have a point in using that word.
I have been accused, and rightly so, of being, like, hey there, say, Jude:
Why the obscurity? Why not say it in plain words, whatever it is that you must say?
If one has something to say, say it plain, and why say it again? This is a question asked of us in Talking Heads vs. Psycho Killer.
You're talkin' a lot, but you're not sayin' anything. When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed. Say something once, why say it again? --Psycho Killer.
It's not often easy to experience life but one needs to go quietly amid the noise and haste of life to enjoy it more fully, as Max Ehrmann writes in his poem, which was immensely popular in the sixties.
DESIDERATA
[Click to View YouTube Video]
STEVE
XZXZXZXZXZZXZXZXZ
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
--Max Ehrmann, "Desiderata".
I am not afraid to say I'm sorry, because there is love between us, no matter the short time we've been acquainted.
And you know what Erich Segal wrote, don't you, about love in Love Story?
He said, "Love means never having to say you're sorry."
That, however, is a fatuous remark, in my book. It's "pop," and it's cant and it is pointless, because love is many things, not all of which are explicable or understood easily.
So let me ask you, Millisecond (a term of endearment, m'dear), to divulge your climbing history in a manner which is more easily understood, FOR THE SAKE of your own integrity and that of The Flames.
For sure, I'm sorry if I offended you and I won't bother to say it again, my friend.
[Click to View YouTube Video]Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
WILDEY
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
HERE HE DOES THE THREAD PROUD
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
--Max Ehrmann, "Desiderata".
http://www.supertopo.com/climbing/thread.php?topic_id=1962261&msg=1962261#msg1962261
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