The 2 Page Experiments

Satyr wrote:

I always expect rejection, from both sexes.
It's inevitable.

When it does not occur openly it is because a greater need comes into play.


Yes, all begins with the fight over sex.
The idea of dominating a female begins with dominating the female within you, because we are all unities characterized by feminine and masculine attributes.
It begins with the domination of the sexual need, which I consider a secondary one.

Because sex is a later evolutionary development its force is more powerful for it must usurp the basic needs to make itself felt.It is like a powerful drug flooding the brain so that all other considerations, particularly the need for self-cohesion, survival, are overwhelmed.

Biological females being blessed or damned with a more dominant feminine attitude always talk about being taken seriously an as something other than sexual objects but without sex they lose all their power.
What happens is that they then talk the talk, in accordance to prevailing social and cultural standards, but then act in contradiction to it. They always return to sex and relationships and emotions where their only avenue towards power lies.
The male dominated by his own feminine side, the sexual side, Dionysus, is both preferred by women and also not respected.
He is preferred because he becomes putty in her hands; but he is not respected for the very same reason.

This returns us to the paradox of power.
One always deserves or has easy access to what he least needs.
As need increases reaching for what is desired only pushes it away.

Why?
You must consider what existence is:
Flux, experiences as need/suffering.
When one needs another or the other, one exposes a dependence towards it, one exposes a weakness towards it.
But power attracts unintentionally. Females run towards the most aloof male...without knowing why. He cannot fake this aloofness, although it might work for a time, for women have developed an intuition which guides them instinctively.

Before I go into this: I didn't just skip over your post and rush right towards my own. I did read it. And once again I wish I had the lucidity to get out of myself long enough to actually read it and retain -I suppose retention is the main issue here.

But my take on it is that while males tend to resent the power that sex tends to give females, females tend to resent the fact that it is primarily sex that gives them that power. To them, it's a little like winning a foot race on a bike. This tends to result in several responses or tactics:

One of them is the doting over the total gay guy. You ever go into a bar and watch them doting over some totally feminine man. And of course, the gay guy eats it up because he also has resentments towards you as a heteosexual male. But women use it as if to say "see what you can't have because you want sex?"

Another one is the old "all my friends are guys" tactic. This consists of the woman acting as if sex is beside the issue, that is when it never is.

The last one is the "every woman is one experiment away from being a lesbian" tact. This consists of women punishing us because we want sex by more or less saying:

See! We don't even need you.

I am amused by the image of your little brain engines spinning, trying to figure out women.
These pathetic things must certainly not be worth all that thought.
I reckon you should sever your testicles and focus on greater things.

phoneutria wrote:

I am amused by the image of your little brain engines spinning, trying to figure out women.
These pathetic things must certainly not be worth all that thought.
I reckon you should sever your testicles and focus on greater things.

I actually half have to agree with, PHon. It would certainly leave us a little less distracted. At the same time it is, to great degree, what drives us.

d63tark wrote:

Hate it


(especially when it comes from a woman.

At the same time, I should add that I generally get over it pretty quick. I always have the consolation of knowing that it allows me to get back to what I was doing before.

Satyr wrote:

Out of curiosity what topic do you have in mind?
Or is it open?

I am presently too busy with a full time job, my rambunctious son and this damn essay I'm trying to complete before the end of the world next year.

Improving yourself is the only motive you require.
It is the only ambition I have.

None of the others interest me, making me a bit weird or "off" as the Brits might say.

Found wealth and popularity to be stale and empty, and women just become too much trouble for the potential end.

Sorry, I didn't see this Satyr.

First of all, no, there is no particular subject. Nor is it expected to be particularly expositional as my essay on Nilism might suggest. It can be a kind poetic rambling if that's what you got to get out.

And I fully relate to your situation. It seems the tyrranny of the mundane is always cracking the whip at our backs, so I know how hard it can be to find time to do these kinds of things. It's why these boards are so convenient.

And having 3 kids myself, the youngest at 16, allow me to suggest that you enjoy him while he's young and less intrusive and cheaper. It may be the only thing that keeps you from killing him when he reaches the age of mine. You would think it would get easier as they get older and a little more independent. Not the way it works.

But if you get around to writing one, I look forward to it. However, if you don't, believe me, I understand.

That said, my talk about feeling bad about not being able to give your thoughts the lucid attention they warranted wasn't just talk. I slept too much today to get around to another essay. So I went through some of your posts and put them on a Word document which I will print off and take to the "library" today and respond to when I get home.

d63tark wrote:

To give you an example of mine:

These advertisements you see on late night TV about 3rd world children:

Now first of all, we are working towards a population that the earth may not be able to sustain much longer. But let's get to the point about the 3rd world:

Okay, you're living in a shit-hole shack built on top of a garbage heap. You barely have enough food and drinkable water for yourself. But the only thing you can think of to do is bring a child into the world to share your misery. Now it sucks that this has got to happen to a child. It's innocent. But at the same time I've got the christian childrens fund coming at me trying to get me to spend money I don't have on a child that wouldn't have been born had foreign aid came with advice on birth control.

But equally repulsive to me is that family in America that has about 18+ children. I mean it: fuck them smiling cocksuckers. There is nothing heartwarming about it to me. I don't give a fuck if they can pay for it. They are still using up resources. I think the mother and father should be forced to live with the mother & father in the shit-hole shack on a garbage heap for at least a year.

There comes a point at which your tolerance for the ideas of others gets pushed far enough.

What a fascist!!!

I like.

Now that I know you're around, and now that I've taken your posts to "the library" and looked them over, I have to say there was a lot of good stuff in there. You seem to have a lot of influence from the field of evoltionary psychology, a field from which I tend to steal a lot as well.

Unfortnately, my wheels were turning the whole time and I'm guessing we could create a book with the back and forth between us. And I doubt I'll have the window of lucidity left tonight to write half of that book -or I should say half of my half of that book. I kind of wish I had started on this earlier in the day, when I was completely sober, then worked it all to a finish after I started drinking.

That said, I'll work through as much of it as I can before all you're getting is "Love ya, man!" And I'll break it down into individual posts so you can respond as I'm going along.

So, Let the games begin.

satyr wrote:

I too am a drinker, but not like I used to be.
I found that it released my inner energies and quieted my mind long enough to have my spirit come forth unaffected by immediate everyday concerns.
But I think I don't come close to your amount of drinking...so...

Actually, I’m not quite the drinker I make myself out to be either. Like you, I have a lot of responsibilities and have to kind of balance those out with what I do for pleasure. My take on it is that while I am an alcoholic (I mean I have all the classic traits and histories –compulsive behavior, come from a family of drinkers, etc.), I am also a workaholic, so I haven’t got time to be a drunk. I like to get things done (it gives me a kind of high), therefore, I have do a lot negotiating between the 2 aspects of myself.

Unfortunately, I tend to leave myself open to a lot of misconceptions and cheap tactics –some of which I think you’ll appreciate. And I think the reason I do it is because a lot of my heroes were bohemian in nature: Deluez, Hendrix, Van Gogh, The Rolling Stones, Pollock, Sartre, Carver, Williams, etc. etc. –the list is way too long to go into here. But in the process I have left myself open to a lot of common narratives (or clichés) that people tend to embrace and quite often tend to use to manipulate the argument to their favor –something I haven’t seen you do to your favor.

The mean drunk fallacy

This one, sometimes, is actually true. Sometimes people just hit me with the wrong thing at the wrong time of the night, and I happen to be in a fighting mood –even though I’m usually a happy drunk. Plus that, I haven’t got the resources at the time to clearly assess the situation. This is kind of what happened the first time we encountered each other.

However, there are other times when people just say something that would piss me off whether I was sober or drunk. But they try to pass it off as it being issue of me being drunk rather than them just being wrong.

The Tragic Artist Fallacy

This comes from the notion that the creative thinker drinks or does drugs to deal with “the burden of carrying the weight of the world on their shoulder”. But even without intoxicants, many of us tend to start out with that “tragic artist” fantasy. But what we tend to find out is the truth is a little less grandiose, that it is rather the more mundane things that wear us down, the struggle to maintain our lives while struggling to do something more than the common crowd.

Closely related to this is the “self destructive artist” myth. This assumes that the reason we engage in these behaviors is because the world is such a burden to us, we are pushed to self destruction because we cannot deal with the pain of it.

But the fact of the matter is that I don’t drink because the world is tragic or because I want to self destruct. I drink because I am an alcoholic and it gives me pleasure. And the pleasure of drink along with the pleasure of doing something constructive is just twice the pleasure to me. It’s where I find my flow. It is the source of the ecstasy in my particular Dionysian dance, that is despite Nietzsche’s argument that beer would be the ruin of the German mind.

The general ad hominem

This, of course, is the most common one as I tend to have it thrown at me a lot. I’m a drunk, therefore I cannot possibly be right about anything. Plus that, given that I generally tend to be arguing a progressive, anti-capitalist view, my being a drinker tends to reinforce the view that I’m merely whining because I can’t function in the work world. It’s one of reasons I went on to get the certifications I did.

The thing is, Satyr, I think you can see the kind of common narratives at work here, the clichés and heuristics that allow people to write you off without actually understanding what it is you’re actually saying. I’m almost certain you’ve dealt with a few of these yourself.

satyr wrote:

Females were mysterious, mystical. they never farted or burped and they were always proper and polite and pure.

Or even shit. This was why I use to be embarrassed to buy toilet paper in a PUBLIC grocery store. It’s weird how we can take on strange denials, even though we all know different. Even as I grow older, I see it happen even though my ego is not nearly as tender as it was at that age. I have to take hemorrhoid medicine to the self-checkout aisle so no-one can see me buying it. And if I don’t have that option, I make sure the person at the aisle is an older person.

It’s as if we have a problem admitting we’re getting older and falling apart, even though it is right there for everyone to see.

Oh! And one other point on the drinking (and hopefully I'll be done with it after this):

If I were in a situation like I use to be when I was young, and I constantly had people dragging me into party situations, situations where I was forced to be a social drinker (or drunk if you will), I would quickly become a pissy drunk.

I think partying is a waste of good alcohol.

I would have to quit if I couldn't put my vices to work for me.

satyr wrote:

My awakening was slow. I was a late-bloomer, as I hope all "smart people" are. Sorry for the arrogance.

First of all, you disappoint me by apologizing in the first place. The modern Diogenes apologizes for nothing. He crawls out of his barrel, masturbates in the town square thereby displaying the nature of man, chastises everyone else for their less than honest ways of achieving the same orgasm, and engraves an uncomfortable truth into history. It’s your endearing quality. Don’t abandon it now.

That said, I actually didn’t get it until I was in my 30’s. I was a total fuck-up in high school and have the transcripts to prove it. The only thing saving me at the time was the fact that I was a musician who thought it his manifest destiny to become a rock star. My first encounter with philosophy was Will Durant’s The History of Philosophy and only went on from that to see how (as I had it concocted in my mind) how the Aristotelian mean would affect my music. In this phase, I also experimented with poetry, which I had engaged in to make my song lyrics better, and found out I could do it. But it wasn’t until my 30’s when I went to work for a university and took classes under the employee scholarship that I found out I could actually get A’s. Even then, it took me a while to recognize that there was value in just having the knowledge. But finally, I did.

But it’s like the saying goes: First one must live, then philosophize.

One of the things I noticed when I was taking those classes was that a lot those kids tended to come through there like it was continuation of high school. It was as if, unlike me, they had been raised to understand it was what they were going to do, much like I was raised to understand I was going to graduate from high school. It just wasn’t something you questioned. For them, it seemed almost like washing your hands after you took a piss: it was just something you did.

The problem with this is that I’m not really sure most of them valued the knowledge for itself. They were just doing what they had to get through it. And I’m sure you would agree that would be a waste of a university education.

And I’m sure you would also agree: none of this would be worth doing if you didn’t love doing it. It’s why I love bouncing off of you.

But I’m getting to that point (by the way: love ya, man!). If you’re disappointed in how far I got; it can’t be any more disappointed than I am. There was way too much left unsaid. But hopefully we’ll find the time to get to more of it as we go along.

If we’re only as good as our opposition, then I’m doing damn good.

Well, Satryr, think I just got myself permanently kicked off of ILP. I basically told Humean to go fuck himself.

So in the words of a great philosopher in my day and age:

(a situation which reminds me of the scene in reservoir dogs)

Stuck in the middle with you.

At least here, when you piss me off,

I'll be able to tell you to go fuck yourself

and not have to worry about being kicked off.

But to give u and joker your oppurtunity to gloat:

You guys were right on this. I was wrong.

And like you, satyr, it will be because I refuse to apologize to morons.

Who'd of thought back then, I'd end up here, with you.

By the way, do you listen to music while you're doing this?

I do. I want my thoughts to rock and roll.

I would argue that Nietzsche was the first philosophical rock-n-rolla.


resonance and seduction.

Dude, you ever listen to The Revolting Cocks?

satyr wrote:

Biological females being blessed or damned with a more dominant feminine attitude always talk about being taken seriously an as something other than sexual objects but without sex they lose all their power.

Yeah. You kind of have to look at IV’s situation. She had to change her pic to something ugly in order to be taken seriously. I get her frustration. At the same time, she did use the sexiest pic she had initially.

Whatever frustration we may have with females, they are still perceiving things dealing with the same world we are.

And from what I've seen, women tend to go through 3 phases:

young and experimental


practical in that they look for a man that will take care of their needs

and the last phase consists of them either being married, or bitter & cynical, much like some men who aren't married at their age.

d63tark wrote:

Actually, I’m not quite the drinker I make myself out to be either. Like you, I have a lot of responsibilities and have to kind of balance those out with what I do for pleasure. My take on it is that while I am an alcoholic (I mean I have all the classic traits and histories –compulsive behavior, come from a family of drinkers, etc.), I am also a workaholic, so I haven’t got time to be a drunk. I like to get things done (it gives me a kind of high), therefore, I have do a lot negotiating between the 2 aspects of myself.

Unfortunately, I tend to leave myself open to a lot of misconceptions and cheap tactics –some of which I think you’ll appreciate.

It's fun.

d63tark wrote:

And I think the reason I do it is because a lot of my heroes were bohemian in nature: Deluez, Hendrix, Van Gogh, The Rolling Stones, Pollock, Sartre, Carver, Williams, etc. etc. –the list is way too long to go into here.

Never had heroes.

d63tark wrote:

The thing is, Satyr, I think you can see the kind of common narratives at work here, the clichés and heuristics that allow people to write you off without actually understanding what it is you’re actually saying. I’m almost certain you’ve dealt with a few of these yourself.

Yeah, yeah...well here's the thing about stereotypes...they exist because they are not totally off.
The exception to the rule usually gets swept within the general rule, but this does not make the general rule false it only makes the exception to it all the more interesting and worth exploring.

d63tark wrote:

satyr wrote:

Biological females being blessed or damned with a more dominant feminine attitude always talk about being taken seriously an as something other than sexual objects but without sex they lose all their power.

Yeah. You kind of have to look at IV’s situation. She had to change her pic to something ugly in order to be taken seriously. I get her frustration. At the same time, she did use the sexiest pic she had initially.

Whatever frustration we may have with females, they are still perceiving things dealing with the same world we are.

Too bad not even that worked.

Here is that naivete again

d63tark wrote:

And from what I've seen, women tend to go through 3 phases:

young and experimental

Nope. When young a women is hr most honest.
She hasn't faced reality; hasn't seen how far her own looks will take her,; has not faced the social and cultural restrictions, in fact she is rebellious towards them.
When young a female is her most honest when it comes to sexual behavior. That's why she always goes for the pretty jock who does not really care about her but looks good, even if he might be a bit dense.

Later when she grows older and has had a few wounds she compromises; she begins thinking more practically; she settles for what is more logical rather than what is more appealing.

d63tark wrote:

practical in that they look for a man that will take care of their needs.

Nope. at that age her material needs are pretty much taken care of and she still hasn't faced the brutalities of work and paying bills.
Her sexual needs, yes.

d63tark wrote:

and the last phase consists of them either being married, or bitter & cynical, much like some men who aren't married at their age.

You'll have to read my The Feminization of Mankind essay.

Women get bitter or cynical for two reasons: one, if they've never reproduced, either because they are too ugly or two because they were too picky and were expecting too much.
Angry women in a marriage are always the product of their own compromises.
Having settled, as I noted above, in opposition to their youthful dreams and expectations, and having been forced into monogamy in opposition to their more promiscuous natural state, and having lost all tolerance for the "nice" guy they settled for but were not really that attracted to, and after one or two kids, they have no reason to put up appearances, except to their friends and neighbors or their sisters and mother.

This builds up stresses and they inevitably take it out on the poor sap who has no clue and is just happy to have a female beside him.

In natural conditions 80%-90% of males never procreate and never, or rarely, copulate.
Most offspring in a group is born from the seed of the alpha male.

Paternalism, the great evil for females, is so because it contains female power...which is always via sex.
Without it civilization, at least in its earlier stages, would be impossible.

Actually, I have read your essay and took it with me again yesterday, and skimmed over it at "the library". And, still, as I get a better grasp of your central theme, the role the female plays in modern culture through genetic filtering, the more impressive it seems. I see an essay coming out of it. But given the vast networks of deferred meaning and associations I'm seeing with it, it seems too daunting and intimidating to start on now. It could almost turn into a small book, and it would require some side research -such as I just did with Diogenes. Plus that, there are a lot of particulars that in themselves could warrant pages of commentary.

I almost thought about setting aside the 2 page experiments, and going strait to work on it as it was the only thing churning through my mind last night. But then I lost heart, and thought I should finish what I started, and come back to it with fresh reserves and after I've had time to live with it.

But once again, it was impressive. And I will be looking it over and thinking about it until I hopefully find myself up to the task.

Can it be a two page short story? and does it have to take up the whole second page?

Abstract wrote:

Can it be a two page short story? and does it have to take up the whole second page?

Sure. It can be fictional or a kind of poetic rambling. The main thing is that it starts with Word defaults and stays within 2 pages. It's mainly about compression and getting the most out of the given space. So if it ends up shorter, all the better.

Full Thrust

I think of you now: tweaked on drugs, booze, and phenomenology. Your legs, forward and back, straddle some imaginary abyss, while your hands waver at your sides in an uneasy balance. Your head teeters as your eyes narrow and your mouth twists into a strained expression of ecstasy.
“Full thrust”, you mutter, “speed smear!”
*
Depth, intensity, and lightness of touch.
*
Russell says that philosophy lies in that no-man’s land between science and theology. I, however, not being a religious man, would revise that to say that it lies in that no-man’s land between science and art, and that it is the different points we can inhabit on this spectrum that makes the distinction between the analytic and the continental. The analytic, of course, always sticks closer to the scientific and, in that capacity, has value. At the same time, it would be wrong to over exaggerate its import to the point of dismissing the continental as the muddle-headed ramblings of poets and story tellers. This is because the analytic, as ordained as it would seem by the scientific method, is handicapped by this virtue in that it must limit its inquiries to what can be demonstrated. It tends to tell us more about what we cannot say than what we can:
1+1=2
If I let go of this pencil, it will drop the ground.
And even a relativistic hippy knows better than to step in front of a moving bus.
Enough said. Surely this can’t be enough. When it comes to 1+1 fact status, reality gives us little that can even come close. And there is way too much of import that is way beyond all reasonable hope of adequate demonstration. Only the continental, and its poetic speculations, can fill this gap. Picasso argues that taste is the enemy of art, that expectation stifles the creative act. Likewise, it is only by sacrificing certainty that one can hope for understanding, for inspiration, and the beauty of a vision.
*
We all know that the Simulacrum doesn’t exist, that the Gulf War did happen, that Baudrillard is more of a Sci-fi writer who happens to be a philosopher, that there is no object such as a being-for-or-in-itself, and that Foucault’s situational ethics and reason of power cannot be established with certainty. It’s no surprise to us that Sartre won his Pulitzer for literature, that Being and Nothing is an articulation on the theme of Nausea and that the experience described seems strangely like a mescaline trip. It poses no problem for us. Why should it you? We know it’s only perspectives, mental constructs constructed in our mental labs and held before the world to see how they stand. We know the method. We know what works, what doesn’t, and all points in between. And we know the difference between fact and speculation. The only question left is: do you?
*
Whenever confronted with the issue of reason, I have to ask 2 questions:
By what criteria is a statement deemed to be reasonable?
And by what power will that criterion be enforced?
*
We have art so that we do not die of truth, Nietzsche proclaims as he breaks into his Dionysian dance. And for the first time, philosophy acknowledges the value of resonance and seduction.
*
Despite Lacan’s apparent success as an intellectual and womanizer and at somehow mixing the two (though we must be suspicious as we’re never sure where his loyalties lie), my experience has been that philosophy isn’t the kind of thing you try to pick up chicks with.
*
Admit it you prudes, you systematizers of bad faith: it’s resonance and seduction. The mathematical precision, the order, resonates with your fierce repulsion to chaos, and seduces you like a warm body in a cold, confusing world. How can you lie like that (even to yourselves) while claiming some intimate and exclusive access to Truth? What’s to be ashamed of? It all has value. It’s all fuel for the fire. Why be so anal? While some of us need it to stand at attention, others want it to rock and roll?
*
There is only one truth: no truth, only understanding.
There is only one rule: perspective: you either get it or you don’t.
And there is only one law (the golden one): DON’T BE AN A-HOLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*
My father, born in Arkansas and migrant to California, type-A personality, aggressive driver, and 40 year veteran of the L.A. roads, use to advise me on staying out of wrecks:
Drive like a fucking madman, son;
Make those other cocksuckers stay out of your way!

The Man with the Mustache
Yesterday he said he was going to invite two of his friends over, soldiers of course. He’s not my husband, but I know he wants to be. He’s so eager to please his military brethren. He even wears the mustache. I almost hate him but he loves me… no he wants me; he wants a trophy with the hair and eyes he thinks his beloved kind should have. It’s amazing that he can think I could ever love him (perhaps he really doesn’t care) when it is his ‘friends’ that took my boyfriend away: for it is unbecoming for my kind to consort with a Jew, he wants me to believe that. He thinks he saved me. Maybe he really believes me when I act as if it was a mistake.
He came today with his friends. I don’t even remember them walking in. I remember sitting there at the table with my baby in my arms. I had the table set with the nice china the food was cooking to the right of the rectangular table, right from where I was sitting. It was a soup, at least I think so; I remember there being bowls on the table, seems like there were plates too, maybe I was cooking a sausage of some sort, maybe that is just what I would suspect. One of the soldiers stood at the other far end of the table, leaning on his arm grasping the back of the chair, beside the china cabinet, watching the man that wanted to call me wife. The other soldier was standing almost directly behind me, the door to his right, leaning on the wall, his arms probably crossed. The desiring-to-be-husband told me I couldn’t keep the baby. It was “a Jew, it should be with its kind, it would be happier that way.” I told him surely we could at least keep him until he was older he needed to know his mom, he was not a complete Jew. “Feed him he is hungry,” he said. I was reluctant, looked around, looked at the soldiers, “Feed him, it may be the last time.” I fed him. A tear fell but I held, I didn’t touch it, maybe it would go unnoticed. I thought of the butter knife on the table, maybe I looked at it. But it was useless I couldn’t risk the baby. He sat down, the other soldiers still waiting there. I had forgotten about dinner. If I was cooking meat I hadn’t put it on yet; there was nothing burning. Even they had forgotten it seemed. It was apparent that wasn’t what this was about. They were there to take my baby.
I tried to talk to him. I tried to argue and yet agree enough so he wouldn’t get mad, to seem reasonable to him. It seemed like forever, maybe it was only an hour though. He had never hit me and didn’t even then, though I pressed the limits. He listened to me as if he respected me. But there was no hope, [it was against the law.] Even if the power of his rank could be used he couldn’t be known as the man with a Jewish baby. He had to fit right with his crowd; that was how he was. I was probably being silly to even think he could do anything about it at that point.
I looked down; somehow I knew this was all coming. I Knew I was in the fire long ago; the first moment he really latched on to me I felt the uncomfortable heat. I was only surviving for my child, what did I care about a life as the trophy to a self-centered, closed minded, hater; after the loss of my dearest friend. (The truth of the posers; those who seek to fit in falling even to the worst for fear of not being accepted by the many, the many that must be right.)
I looked down beginning to cry but holding it in enough to talk, slowly coming to peace with my decision. “If you take my child from me I will take myself from you.”
“What?” He was shocked at first. Then he told me that I was stupid, that it was just a Jew; that only made me cry. I could barely sit in my seat with the desire to grab the knife and launch at him, but I couldn’t with the child.
I was already done feeding. I stood up and turned to the soldier behind me and held out my child. “Here, take him.” The soldier took the child. The soldier was not grinning but I could see the happiness on his face, happy that his boss was getting the girl. I could see it as he looked at the desiring-to-be-husband. I turned around and quickly reached for the knife. I thought maybe I would be shot by the other soldier but I managed to get it and launch at the man with the mustache, that same mustache; as if he respected Hitler even more. But he grabbed me; my right arm, with its knife, and pulled me in. He held me tight, not letting me go, hugging me, as I struggled to be free. He kissed me on the top of my head, in my hair; I could hear him smelling it. I guess the other soldier new there was little to fear of a butter knife from me; weak me. The man with the mustache threw me to the floor. My elbows hit hard. I could do nothing, I didn’t move. He told the other soldier to hand him the child and told them to take care of me. He handed the mustache man my child and grabbed my arm pulled me up and began to lead me outside. The other soldier followed. They took me behind one of the other buildings on the estate. It was still wet from the rain that morning. The soldier pulling me stopped and waited in front of me unholstering the gun at his side. For some reason I noticed the tree behind him empty of leaves. The other soldier came from behind, said something, and pressed on my shoulders; I fell down to my knees. My knees were in the cold mud. I saw the movement of the first soldier’s body within his fat side-poofed pants, and felt the barrel go to my head. I looked at the black luger.

I thought I had posted this, abstract, but I guess I'll have to post it again:

This is impressive. It feels literary. It reminds me of why I need to plain down my own prose.

You should post it on the other board as well.

i guess I'll do that...

Abstract, love ya man!

Satyr, happy Halloween!

Did you take your son tricker-treating?

Satyr, you must really love this holiday.