Wednesday, September 30, 2009

The Polanski Affair

It is worthy of a movie, even one of his: after 31 years, wanted on an outstanding warrant on a guilty plea of having sex with a minor, to avoid very provable charges of sodomy and rape of a 13 year old, Roman Polanski has been arrested, and may be extradited back to the US. He has been a fugitive in plain sight for all of that time, and the justice that wanted him was fugitive as well. He fled because the judge engaged in significant misconduct and was about to abrogate the deal. Now he has hired a good friend of the US Attorney General.

Many of the people taking a position from his art: he is indeed one of the great film makers of a great generation, a seminal generation of film. We are also talking about a rapist. A confessed rapist of a 13 year old.

It may well be that terrible people are great artists so often, because they live in the darkness. His film, The Pianist, lives there, and his film Death and the Maiden, with it's portrayal of the banality of evil, almost a direct response to his condition. Anyone would have been like that given the permission, anyone would have been sorry to see it end. Anyone would still want forgiveness even in hiding. On the Waterfront was as clear a response to a private action, but few other films.

People who are angry, and with some reason, ask why this is being done now. I think that my guess would be that Switzerland is trying to protect it's financial haven status, by showing it will go after other kinds of fugitives. It wasn't as if Polanski was being hard to find, and it wasn't as if there were not other chances. Granted the timing is both suspicious, and for other motives. Granted that the judicial history of the case is trouble.

But equally granted is that that has to be worked out here, and by some modicum of the rules that apply, or ought to apply to all. This too is troubled. There are no bankers that are being extradited from Switzerland for raping the world, and not one Bush torture memo architect is going to face true prosecution. Clearly, at a certain point, we prosecute those who are convenient to prosecute, and do not prosecute those who are not. Clearly Polanski has become convenient to prosecute.

This is not, then, about deterrence, or justice, or the system, or the rape itself. It also can't be about his films, being an artist is not a license to rape. It is about the moral substance of the people involved. Polanski has shown his lack of substance long ago, the American judicial system is showing it now. There is no good end, in that whether he is jailed, let off, or avoids extradition, a wrong message will be sent. Either the message is that judges and prosecutors are above the law, or rich men are above the law. Either way the law was left behind long ago. Nor is the victim of the crime well served by any of this, she does not enter into the calculation.

But there is one piece of good that can be done. Roman Polanski must stare down the long end of the results of his actions, of his own culpability. The US criminal justice system must do as well. The tumult, the taking of many sides, the anger, the pressure, the confusion. These are the only good things that can come of this, because they show the moral substance of the people taking them. Defend Polanski, or condemn him, to do so openly and to put pressure on those who would ease this out of the light, manipulate it like a plot out of Chinatown, is to show a moral substance that the system, and the director, have shown a lack of. Polanski should be brought, sweating, in front of a judge, who is also perspiring under his robes, like the denouement in a film, where anything could happen, because there are wrong reasons for each of the right actions.

And if there were a script writer, the judge might well sentence him to time served, and a fine of virtually every centieme he has made since he fled. Let him have his stolen years, but let him no longer have the privilege that came from them.

Art is not an agency of law. We do not have artists to make nursery rhymes, but to transport us into that ecstatic plane where we deal with symbol and memory in the same way in the leaden world we can deal with physical objects. As such they are going to be moral or immoral in themselves, and with our reading of them. The Nazis made some great art, they also killed even more great artists. For that same reason though, the ability to make great art, is not a pass from being able to be in the world and live with other people. Which, almost by definition, drugging and raping a 13 year old is not. Almost by definition, promising one sentence, and then making a deal for another is not. Almost by definition, probation for a sentence is not.

And so on.

Roman Polanski must, though, sweat, the way the girl sweated. The judicial system must cringe at the corrupt way it has behaved. Because only out of that, will there be some hope of a resolution that would realize that the whole collision is une vie noire

Poetry Year September 29

Again after Tang Poetry

Your fingers held the smallest cup, and your tasted the whitest whine
fragrant your glance by far, than the purest rice of winter harvest.
You dollop your words; that richer minds stumble to beggar's bowls.
The moon is the only face, who casts a softer shadow.
I toss the bottle into the water, my husband goes to your bed.

Poetry Year September 28

Cascade, the arc that shimmers,
bridge to heavens height,
where touches light the feet,
of messenger goddess bright.

Spectrum encompassed all the colors,
beyond the seen to ultra-sight,
which scattered by the clouded cloud,
bring fancy to fuller flight.

How many whisps of frolic,
have been fashioned by your bow,
yet lost forever the landing lay,
to which your endings flow.

I walked amidst the high grass field,
and stared towards your sky mark sealed,
wishing for once to faerie form to feel,
that mortal flesh would to flight now yield.

Poetry Year September 27

Lithe the stroke of fingers on the petals blossom,
bright the wave of scent of almond rite,
that calls to every bird and bee,
with gentle persuasion art.

Enfolded in this ecstasy gossamer,
is the poison of the darkest kind,
that deep drunk, would heady mixture make,
turning all of life into the fabric of the fog.

But droplets of the very same,
give life to paintings by many names.
The deepest of the earthly hue,
that gives us gallant vibrant blue.

Adult Content Horror of the day

In a so called mature rated sim.

Proving yet again, that LL promulgates rules with no intent on enforcing them. Companies that worried about their employees finding pornographic content on SL during business hours... should be worried still.

Age play anyone? LL has you covered.

[0:33] KittyKat Jules: 1000l and u can sck my cock lol

Since it is on a private sim, no point in making an AR, since the Sim owner will just intercept it, and LL does not do anything about adult content when ARed. Not even flagrant violations.

Poetry Year September 26

Stride of seven leagues,
the steps from the primitive,
to the primitivist,
be beyond what was before.

Clatter cop, on old tin roof,
the hail would fell and fall,
until the ears rattled of all,
who lived within the hall.

Snow white, your skin defines you,
so pure of essence,
that virginity of spirit,
that denies you any space to breath.

Mother goose, how many have you taught
the leery lessons of an colder age,
an age of ale and draught?

Poetry Year September 25

Spiral jetty in struck to the wane imagination,
of a star studded age.
Concept praxis major made,
the piss of minds,
with better things to do than art.

Duchamp's fountain over flowed,
for far easier that to make art,
is to make money instead.
Or perhaps it is noise,
that greases down the tracks,
the advertising that is
the oil of the broadcast age.

Second Life is Virtually Unusable for me

Five log ins, five crashes before clothes even loaded.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Post-Wave Feminism

After watching a post grow to 10,000 words in two days, it seemed best to write a short and concise summary of what it is, post-wave feminism, as opposed to post-feminism, which is a different thing entirely.

There are two pillars of feminism: the first, rooted in the reality of our psyches as demand for equality, the second rooted in both physical and social facts, the need for recognition of our gender. In its full and balanced form, feminism is the twin assertion that we, as women are not valuable because of our gender first, but that our gender is valuable in itself. We value it, and our lives are, and have, as much of their purpose expression of our gender among all other things. But this cannot define us alone.

There are labeled three waves of feminism. The first beginning in the late 18th century with the tract by Wollstonecraft among others, but gaining real traction starting in 1869, and having as its drive reform of voting and marriage laws. The second beginning after the second world war, with the writing of Simone de Beauvoir, among others, which reasserted the primacy of the body, and its demands, and its effects on our psychic existence. Mere formal equality was not enough, and there needed to be root and branch equalization of laws, as well as the creation of rights specifically recognizing the realities of fertility specifically. Men don't really need, a right to abortion. The second begins with the assertion that being equal in a male normative society is not enough, and that there must be a redesigning of society, so that the values of women and the values of men are balanced in the very structure of our language, science, politics, and economics. The third asserts that women are entitled to the same personal social freedoms as men, including the recognition of our vision of ourselves, the need to take risks for our own growth, and the structure and meaning of our existence.

To which I will add that there is a pre-wave feminism, and a post-wave. Pre-wave feminism is rooted in gender feminism: in creating a sphere for women, where inside it they have powers and claims, social, legal, and personal, against the power of men, both personal and organized. We see it in myth, and in the rise of exceptional women before the arrival of organized presses for women's rights.

And there is, post-wave. To be post-wave is to assert that the specific tactical battles of the age do not define us, any more than our gender defines us. It recognizes that each previous wave had to adopt stances, ideas, and assertions, which are contrary even to what was known at the time, and had to accept bargains which were rooted in one kind of inequality or another. For all that has been done, there has been a two steps forward, for one step back, and the back was often larger than the forward. Going forward, there must be a core of understanding of the inner life of women, and our needs in society.

Pre-wave feminism's structure can be seen in the myth of Hathur, from Old Kingdom Egypt, where they wrote a myth of Ra becoming angry with the people for disobeying his laws, he turned a goddess into the eye of Ra, and let her slay. She filled the river with blood, and would not stop, until he tricked her into drinking beer and sleeping for three days. At which point he could turn her into the loving maternal goddess, who had no name: Hathur and all the other terms, are titles, not names.

This myth structures around reality: strained beer is how to kill parasites and bacteria in water, and civilization really can be said to start, after the climate became more stable, and then humans began to adapt to the realities of a settled existence. One of these, is disease.

Disease, technology, and intoxication, form a matrix of feminist struggles. Disease is the great destroyer of human endeavors, and women, in particular, must control it by controlling cleanliness, and the sanitation of the home. Technology, because each technological wave produces a demand for a new social contract. The invariable pattern is that women are offered an inferior social contract in the new order, and must fight for the better one. The inferior contract often plays on the notions of the previous wave of feminism. Intoxication and violence are the great lies that are at the heart of every inferior contract. They are the asterix which gives men the right to toss aside whatever rights and privileges have been granted. Alcohol is the birth of society, even before writing, because it allows people to drink the water that their own activities soil, and to store the grain that they need for worse times. Intoxication is the great male prerogative, which makes good women into bad women, and bad women into good ones, as in the Hathur myth.

First Wave feminism is equality feminism, and it's ideas and contradictions are visible already in the 1797 tract by Wollstonecraft, where she argues for co-education and equal rights for women, and against the view that women are emotionally unstable and weak. The contradiction is, of course, that such a creature did not actually exist, and instead women who worked in that age through the aristocratic system used their wits, talents, and skills. Often it was the men who behaved with scatter brained emotional headlessness. A good example of this is the way du Barry and Marie Antionette navigated their way through the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, while men followed their hormones into the wrong beds and the wrong decisions.

Her book offers a bargain that women will abandon emotionalism, in return for equal rights. This is the great defect of first wave feminism: the right to be men, or like men, is by definition not an equal right, and a natural right deriving from a male god, is not a right which is safe against male pseudo-rationalism, since its foundation is still masculine prerogative and power over nature.

First Wave feminism takes off progressively starting in 1848, but gains permanent form in 1869, with the establishment of the late 19th century. Over the next 50 years, it would gradually fight for suffrage, gaining it piece by piece through America and the European world. Again, technology and alcohol are essential: in 1830, the perfection of continuous distillation, created an endless river of potent alcohol at a low price. While distillation had been done for centuries, and the pot stills of the 1600's and 1700's had radically expanded access, from thence forward, distillation could produce more alcohol than people could drink.

The First Wave feminist movement was associated with prohibitionism, because for all of the historical and biological acumen of the anti-suffrage position, exemplified by Helen Kendrick Johnson's short book against suffrage, where she more accurately describes history, politics, and biology than the over-simplification of history as one long pure enslavement of women, intoxication is the great disproof of the contract they offered. That HKJ knows more about the politics of oligarchic slave societies around the beginning of the current era than the suffragettes is in the classic file of saying things that are true, but irrelevant. When not in Rome, pay only passing attention to what the Romans did.

Proof that proof was on the minds of everyone, was the first legal goal of suffrage: changing divorce laws to allow divorce for drunkeness. The Victorian social compact was to grant men political power in a far more powerful state, and for the risks of empire, greater profit, along with a home, and a woman in it who would, when push quite directly came to drunken shove, give them all they needed. The First Wave Feminism of Equality was faced with the argument that women could not cope with the violence of war, and became established fact against the reality that women always face pain and violence, in the home, and that the entire political structure as it was could not cope with the wars that it could create.

It was the Great War which made suffrage an established fact, and followed it with prohibitionism. The paternalism of anti-suffrage arguments rested in two assertions: that women were safe, and that men knew what they were doing. Drink and war disproved each of these.

The death of First Wave Feminism is the twin death of prohibitionism, and pure pacificism. The Second World War proved that pure disarmament and pure isolationism, and pure pacificism were not enough. The social contract of empire had won out in Japan and Germany, and they attempted to impose it on the world. The failure of this attempt rested, to no small extent, on women. It was women in industry in America, and in Soviet Russia, who allowed those states to finally drag Japan and Germany to defeat.

Second Wave Feminism begins in the ruined aftermath of that war, and its outline is in Simone de Beauvoir's Le Deuxieme Sexe. Her book is existentialist: it is the personal and inner life which is important, it is the personal life which exemplifies the self, and it is the presence in that life, in that body, which makes us who we are. Second Wave Feminism worked as much through the establishment of a new relationship between both genders in the area of sex. First Wave Feminism, though it was often accused of bringing with it "free love" was really the assertion that the home could not be secured separate from national legal rights from the reality of men, their intoxication, and their violence. Second Wave Feminism argued that that home itself was still a male construct, and that its laws, its norms, and its barriers to women entering into full economic, intellectual, and social life, could not be maintained.

But Second Wave Feminism, like the first, ran into the imperial grand bargain: men run empire, and women receive trickle down benefits from it. The failures of American empire were blamed on giving too much to the weak, who should have been grateful for anything. Instead a reassertion of a rationalist, or rather pseudo-rationalist foundationalism held sway. The return of the imperial bargain lead to the triumphalism of Reagan and Thatcher.

Third Wave Feminism begins then, from a position which is in contradiction: that the rise of women economically is bought at the price of the fall of men economically, and that even the most liberated of women rises because she is of use to the patriarchy in its own project of humiliating and humbling men. Second Wave Feminism rode a wave, of neo-conservatism. Each right granted to work and to rise, was at the cost of the wages and position of men. Those men were taught, and wanted to believe anyway, that women were the source. Hence fat drug addicts screaming into microphones about Feminazis, when, in fact, academic feminism had nothing to do with the falling wages of working class men, and the exploitation of natural resources. They burned witches back in the 1500's and 1600's for similar reasons.

Third Wave Feminism asserts that the male privilege of waging personal violent war against women can, and must, be eradicated. It begins from the assertion that hidden structural barriers, social conventions, and even ways of forming intersubjective knowledge, hold women out more effectively than overt laws. The third wave feminist has brought the struggle to the seminar room, the lunch table, and the ordinary discourse in the quiet of the bedroom.

The victory of Third Wave Feminism, is much like the First Wave: the right to take risks. Women are entitled to strive and fail, and need this right, or there is no actual safety. The right to have others keep you from danger, is the right to live in precarious protection, and no more.

But third wave feminism is a failure. At the end of 20 years of it, we have more war, more destruction of the ordinary rights of ordinary people. We have higher rates of rape. We have lower rates of solving murder of women. We have a state even more based on the imperial bargain of men at war, giving back to women who should be grateful for whatever sliver of the spoils they choose to provide. Even as ordinary men have fallen, the rise of women in careers is merely a relative one within a static share of wealth. Feminism, while more crucial to the success of society than ever, while more entrenched and established, is also more ridiculed, less relevant, and more the production of consumer goods designed to cater to biases, than ever.

Thus a post-wave world.

The post-wave world begins from the understanding that there is no seclusion, and, from the days of the Hathur myth, never really was one. Men consume the environment, and husband only to the extent than they must. Women cannot stay hidden in houses from the parasites of the Nile, or global wars, or the realities of environmental devastation. Where Third Wave Feminism over and over again privileged the needs of privileged career women, being "about" the entre into the world of money and success, it has done less than nothing for women who are not so privileged, and nothing for the world at large. It has not reduced sexism in public places, as any woman who ventures into a discussion with men rapidly finds out: it is acceptable, right now, right in the English speaking world, to drive women from a discussion, by asserting the untrammeled right of men to harass women for sex.

Post-wave feminism declares that the advancement of the rights of women, globally, is essential to ending the vast gulf of wealth disparity around the world, and that with the rights of women, comes the possibility of development. That when technology creates opportunity, men will use it first for dominance, violence, and an over eager pillaging of that which they can carry away, and only by giving women formal rights, tailored to the realities of gender, that end with an equal claim to all goods, can there be success at dealing with the great problems which hang over us. It looks upon the billions of women who live in poverty, under the threat of rape, in the reality of illiteracy, war, and arranged marriage, and sees that if feminism is not concerned with this, then it is concerned with little more than bargaining for a slice of the patriarchy.

We will, from here on in, have our tactics, but we will no longer pretend that a tactical bargain represents our reality. No single act will end this, because, as two centuries of modern feminism shows, each establishment of women's rights, is met by a new form of the imperial bargain, where men take, and the women who provide them with their needs, are given a favored place in their empire.

I fully expect those who have some privileged place in Third Wave to attack, to proclaim, as zealots always do, that if you are not with us you are against us. That I don't understand the force of sexism, and sexual harassment. Against this I offer my own writing and my own experience. I have tirelessly documented the way which a sexist rapism underlies our technological endeavors, how men constantly demand the only freedom which really matters to them: the right to use violence to force women to submit to them. I present the dozens of times I have documented the way men attempt to use women, and the ways that their activities are protected by corporations and academia. Any one who says that I have not mined constantly the vein of lava that runs under our so-called enlightened and equal society, needs to walk a few miles in my sandals, high heels, and pumps.

But it is precisely for this reason that I do not believe in the acres of critical theory, which provides women with not one word, not one idea, not ones story, that allows them to cope with this reality. Third Wave Feminism has failed me in particular, as it fails millions of women every single day. Outrage, however potent, is a feeble force, in comparison with organization, and the creation of power. It is in this creation of power which Third Wave Feminism fails. When men drive a woman out of the discussion, there is no where to appeal to, and no means to do anything about it, except in quiet corners.

Waves crash into the beach, we need, instead, to realize that the force of feminism, is like the force of the feminine in evolution, a constant pressure on the pattern of life, which is always challenged, must often yield, but is never less than half of the world.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Another stellar example of the adult content rules

[8:32] Traumboysurfer Viper: ooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh
[8:32] Traumboysurfer Viper: ooooooooooooohh
[8:32] Traumboysurfer Viper: i come ooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh ooooooooooooooohhhhhhh in yor pussy
[8:32] Traumboysurfer Viper: hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
[8:32] Traumboysurfer Viper: and reallive oooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
[8:33] Dorin Erin: aaaaaaahhhhhhhhh
[8:33] Dorin Erin: oohhhhhha hhhhhhhhhhh
[8:33] Traumboysurfer Viper: ist yor pussy wet

Yes indeed, adult content rules are working well...

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Poetry Year September 24

After Du Fu

Flowers throw themselves to a carpet on the ground,
flush with warming nights coming, is spring,
dying to summer's dull sky.
The lamps alight for merriment flourish,
fooling the birds, to mistake midnight for day.
They sing to caress the clatter with their clamor.
I wait for the morning, to petition the dawn,
for his safe return, from the war.
All night, every night, I ask, if it is time, it is time.

Poetry Year September 23

As bitter an edge as ever cut my skin,
stinging as sliced through the fragile shell that I am within,
the truth now bleeds me,
I feel, I feel my soul escape with the droplets blood,
out into the air.

Into the air the faerie touch,
into the air winged alight.
away, away, my fancy flickers.
My eyelids flutter,
I am away away.

Away from the burdens and cares,
Away from the pretentions and airs.
Away from the pallor and pain,
Away from the storms and the rain.

Spirit taken to fluid flight,
looketh down upon the bustle and bright,
into the homes and hives and hovels,
into the rooms, and rust, and ruins,
upon the bright lips flush with passions,
still florid with life.

Alight, look back my soul upon a body pail,
that has found this moment, to finally fail,
and smiles sweet and serene at last,
now that the arrows of fate, are finally past.

Another stellar example of how adult content rules are being flouted

Note the rating "mature" and not "adult." Note the sex pose balls. There's dozens of them.

While mainland parcels can be AR'd and are removing pose balls, private sims, rating is whatever the owner wants it to be. For businesses concerned about employees seeing adult content... all they have to do is search for "free sex" and a great deal of it will turn up.

This is right now just a scam to get the adult content owners to pony up for a private sim, no more, no less. LL is not at all enforcing adult ratings, and a cursory glance through search makes that clear.

Sample dialog:

[20:53] jbb Aeon: hello
[20:53] jbb Aeon: how are you?:)
[20:54] jbb Aeon: are u busy?:)
[20:55] jbb Aeon: sorry,np,bye
[20:56] jbb Aeon: come andsuck pls

Poetry Year Links and Titles

  1. Ages, Epochs, Time without Mind
  2. The Inferior Soul
  3. Taking after Michael Taormina, and finding hidden poetry among the prose
  4. Poetics of elegance
  5. Nine
  6. Ink Is Now Archaic
  7. Bright embroidery we make of our memories
  8. The city falls on city falls
  9. but only paint
  10. For Annie Le
  11. Narcissus thy flower blooms
  12. Call Me
  13. The ageless age
  14. Enraptured of a dream
  15. September
  16. generated generations
  17. Consumed by a muse of fire and other begendings. (apologies the words are not my own)
  18. Silence
  19. The White Day
  20. For a Dead Musical
  21. Annointed by tears
  22. Brocades of silk entwine my hair
  23. The carol of spam
  24. There are seventeen lines left,
    in this life, this life
  25. Omnipossible bondage made...
  26. No Vacancy
  27. Gracious Airs
  28. Sleek forms, blazoned in blood
  29. The Listening Room
  30. For Senator Edward Kennedy, After Bob Dylan
  31. The Listening Room
  32. After Reading Too Much Tang Poetry at a Sitting
  33. On Watching Flight
  34. Postcard to Some Indonesian Island
  35. Don't Open The Door
  36. After Several Tang Poems
  37. The Year Star
  38. Idylls in the Field of Flowers
  39. Winged Victory
  40. The Option of the Public
  41. The Ladies of the Red Light Quarter
  42. The Burning Globe
  43. Winter In The Kyber Pass
  44. IED
  45. "You Spat on Me, and Called Me a Whore"
  46. The Dying Times
  47. The Angel Weeps
  48. Every Poem It's Own Day
  49. Not Flesh and Blood
  50. The City of Sails
  51. A Distant Comet
  52. Lyrics of Thin Air
  53. Twist My Body
  54. I Know Nothing
  55. War is death, transmuted to golden glory
  56. That Rich Earth
  57. A Pit of Torture's Devising
  58. I Miss You So
  59. Let Me Linger in my Dream
  60. The Sanctity of Hearts Design
  61. "The aching of the heart is mere cliche, would that I could dispense with it,"
  62. "Far far away, in the lands that are green rolling fields,"
  63. These Rhymes Pile Up on My Fingers
  64. "Fine the strand of gossamer,"
  65. "It wishes for an age of fire,"
  66. The Grand Illusion
  67. "I fly without wings, and come to you in a vision."
  68. A man, a figure, a form, a fury, a feeling
  69. This Tempest of Words
  70. The Gates of a Fallen City
  71. The Once and Future Sunlit Lands

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Poetry Year September 22nd

Mechanical the movement
the ancient watch would tick the epochs,
from warmth of foaming seas,
to expansion of the air.

Breath, it is not time to breathe.
Poison, is the breathing.

Then the ages of chalk,
leave behind their shells,
the hunters of burgess,
with their peculiar tells.
The extinction that shocked,
a globe still salted in chiton.

The land was howling blight and winds,
poor moss clung to the aged rocks.
Atomic hours measured by radioactive tocks.
Half and half again.
Half and half again.

Lumbered the swamps
to the era of coal,
ferns frozen to heat,
lands buried whole.

The cold blooded buzzing
gave way to fleet footed aves.

But then and then a fire from nigh
farther than the edge of night,
jet spiral spark streaked across the aging sky.
And winter came that stood a thousand years.

From the desolation of that age of dark,
came small shards of hope,
that wove their rises between the sheets of ice.

This comes to us a billion years a billion more
a billion thrice and almost
a billion again.
That fire would be snuffed out a dozen times
yet relight.

Life will endure,
and between the cracks of our ruined monuments,
will cling the fruits of the next page
of the calendar of life.

The world, and life upon it will ride
past the suffocation, of our carbon tide.

Monday, September 21, 2009

A one word lament about the state of SL

Where has all the magic gone?

Well he did ask for it, so here is Deck Constantine

[7:24] Deck Constantine: Give me an example of something you've done that 1) that raises eyebrows, 2) raises hackles, and 3) raises expectations. Well, that would probably be three somethings... it could be one, actually, but I'd feel gipped.
[7:25] Lillie Yifu: Hello is usually a more polite way to begin a conversation
[7:26] Deck Constantine: You know, you can say that, but it really doesn't matter. Some girls want the polite hello, some want a little bit more depth--to show that you have some kind of genuine interest--and others want something "original," whatever that means. I'm not about to apologize for choosing a technique that's considered "appropriate" at least as often as the other options.
[7:27] Lillie Yifu: ah you are one of those. Why don't you go wave your ego in some one else's face then, please.
[7:28] Deck Constantine: Look who's talking! I go through all the trouble to read your profile and attempt to connect on some level beyond "Good morning, there!" and you have the gall to tell me "ur doin it rong."
[7:28] Lillie Yifu: I'll be on my way
[7:28] Deck Constantine: Straight to hell, where you belong, you old bat. :D

I can't help but wonder what in the world people like that are thinking.

What he displayed isn't depth, it's a kind of unpleasant nastiness.

The problem isn't the depth of his first reply it is his demanding tone, followed up by that classic gambit of the unpleasant male, the statement that he's never wrong.

Poetry Year September 21

The inferior soul can only fill,
one body at a time,
and the lesser mind contains too few strengths,
to listen to the chorus of the multitudes,
that sing that great counter-point,
worked out so carefully
by the blindest of watchmakers,
whose workshop
ever open, and busy with the hours.

The closed and closeted of this age now take
exception to the open eyes,
they seek our sites and stray words
to deny the chance of life and light,
or at least employment of our choice.

So I must conclude
that real life means,
to be heavily medicated,
so that it can be
that all the truth,
is locked away from any sight.

Poetry Year September 21

"Taking after Michael Taormina, and finding hidden poetry among the prose"

With the all-embracing classification,
the terms lose any precise significance,
what they signify becomes detached from sign
which it may have borne.

There are, nevertheless, never the less, always the greater,
serious reasons for thinking that it contributes to clarification.
The decisive moment of this reaction would be,
the arts,
the rejection of plans,
and in literature, of course.

Recent research has cast doubts,
on the school of yesteryear,
and on the originality of any doctrine.
But cursory examination suffices to show,
that most attacks are against
various kinds of extravagance.

semblent etre formes en depit du bons sens!

Poetry Year September 20th

Poetics of elegance, and a dictionary of the history of ideas,
a compendium of all the influences and more,
that bear and weigh upon every word that you contemplate,
let alone set down upon the page, or publish in a book.
The craft escapes your hands and they are like flags flapping in the wind,
blow by mistal waves that howl down the sloped sides,
bearing the sand that grits our eyes and gears.
Bringing everything to a stop.

The sand that grits the ink, that grinds the keys,
yet is not made of any substance discerned by instrument.
It is the sand that covers every memory,
and drowns every empire in obscurity,
save those few whose prominences pierce the veil of history,
shattering up towards a sky they will never again do touch.

Fallen like, what, the leaves? The leaves of grass,
the leaves of books?
Or do I mean that which leaves us,
that sense of our direction,
when the shelf of influence is tossed to the floor,
and emptied out our pasts,
to be filled with volumes yet to pen.

We stop, we stumble, we stammer, we bend,
we begin, we break, we mold, we mend,
Seeking new beginning, in this the ever end.

Poetry Year September 19

Nine Hundred
Like a chant the numbers reel through my brain,
swimming in doses like a medication swirled from all the awful entrails,
and decanted from a skull by some leering metamorph,
whose mask belies the ages of the age.

Each entry in it's grid loosens me from my moorings,
adrift on the bay of accounting,
the coming hither and thither of all that is withered,
dry and dull.

I long to sleep.

Never never.
Never Never land.
The bed would be a sail to dream reaches of fair infinity,
a concoction of the memories and traumas,
traum, is the German word for dream,
spilled together by that self same shaman.

Jung sewed together his soul in a dark red book,
littered with letters and literate with symbols,
self, strife, and striving, storm and struggle,
locked in neat uncials hidden from his office.

Locked away to locked away,
and then published in a wink.

Another fine example of illegal fuck areas

No, I'm not anti-sex. I am anti-anti-sex. The new LL rules are anti-sex, and they are also already widely ignored. Consider today's vignette from a mature area, not adult:

Now, obviously LL isn't stopping people from putting out sex pose balls in clearly visible areas on sims. So why were people moved to the "adult" continent?

I don't know, but the explanation certainly has to do with money.

Yes, they really do talk this way.

For those who are laughing at the adult content ban, with several major orgy rooms simply ignoring the new rules, or going back to "mature" after seeing their traffic plunge with "adult," I invite you to again sample what the world of orgy rooms does for manners on SL:

[23:54] Hamoud Crystal: hi
[23:55] Lillie Yifu: Hello
[23:55] Hamoud Crystal: hoe are you sweety
[23:58] Lillie Yifu: I am well
[23:59] Hamoud Crystal: cpp;
[23:59] Hamoud Crystal: lokking for some fun
[0:00] Hamoud Crystal: ??
[0:02] Lillie Yifu: What do you have in mind?
[0:04] Hamoud Crystal: bad things wow
[0:08] Lillie Yifu: what do you mean by bad things?
[0:08] Hamoud Crystal: Iwant tot fuck you
[0:09] Hamoud Crystal: and taste your body for couple of hours
[0:11] Hamoud Crystal: so what hunny
[0:11] Hamoud Crystal: iam running out of the time
[0:12] Lillie Yifu: You aren't just short on time, you are short on intelligence and class
[0:13] Hamoud Crystal: why babe :)
[0:15] Lillie Yifu: You really don't want me to answer that question.
[0:17] Hamoud Crystal: iam opened mind dont worry
[0:20] Hamoud Crystal: iam here lilliy
[0:21] Hamoud Crystal: waiting for the hottest part of our conversation
[0:22] Hamoud Crystal: asshole
[0:24] Hamoud Crystal: really
[0:24] Hamoud Crystal: welcome to my dick

For companies thinking about doing business in Second Life, this should be a major block to considering it as being business ready.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Poetry Year September 18

Is Now
As the petticoat
or knight puissant.
Just as extinct as clockwise,
for our time now lacks a face.

Once everywhere, it is nowhere now,
but on the blood of debts incurred.

When else do we write?

Flashing is the sign, and screaming is his handmaiden,
that tells me now
That it is time to wake.

Dreams extinct,
dreary of the tasks,
that will, in turing tides,
be as forgotten,
as disappearing ink.

Poetry Year September 17

Bright embroidery we make of our memories,
the flight of hours from their perches on our bookshelves desks and chairs,
the black fluttering wings of moments lost that clutters as dense as demons in the air.
And yet the light peaks through this, all of this and out into other minds,
who crouch beneath before the altars bound and loose, carrying the many words.

Add which word to many words, and the words mean less or more than they did before,
subtract each the minutes chosen for to read them, dividing our attention.

On one hand the author's head sits, seeking out the dawn of now coming morning
faintly stirring the fauna of the city, that satyr dance in clatter cop
to mate still while sharp shards of summer cut through the happenstance of waning sun.
But not contemplation aids their patterns, and they live as they live,
thoughtless like a dew, heedless as the day, slumber-less as the sky.

No red lines haunt there every track and utterance,
not errors mar the spelling of their movements.
They are, and are not, having nothing that is enough to remember,
save the sharp stabs of pain from tumbles and terrors.

To watch this borning day is to believe that all of human time,
is no more than a longer cat, chasing a longer tail.
For what will we leave behind, for who will we leave it to?

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Anthony Quinn's Biased Racist Totally No Good Film List

This is racism. A top 20 list so completely biased, as if all films were made in English or French. That's racism, the non-consideration of the works and deeds of others. I am no fan of inclusion for inclusion's sake. A list of the greatest painters would be biased in favor of the West, but not a list of greatest print makers, for example, or sculptures.

Then there is time. Count the films between 1941 and 1952. Seriously the best film made in my life time is... "This is Spinal Tap?" Not happening here. Again, this is beyond artistic judgement and taste, and goes to bias. Clearly the list maker loves noir and films of the 1940's. Fine, adore many of them. But no, that decade long period does not tower over film making so much that it deserves such patent over-representation.

Not one film from China's recent explosion of creativity? Farewell My Concubine is better than half his top 20, and that is arguably not the greatest contemporary film from China. No films by Ray? Not one film by a woman film maker? Not one experimental film? Not one Japanese film, from the sprawling epic of The Human Condition to Oe's claustrophobic minatures? Not one film from the Indie wave? While noir's are packed in cheek by jowl. That's beyond judgement, and falls into a clear a pervasive bias which excludes anything not done by Western Europeans or their proximate descendants. Where are the silent films. Not one in the top 20? Lack of proper film education.

Not one film from Latin America? I can't believe that. But at least he's an equal opportunity bigot

The list is even defective on its own terms: it admits the flaws in Vertigo's plot. But that goes against what Best actually means: best. One doesn't need to compromise in the top 20.

Again, racism and bias seem to crawl all over art's criticism these days. The Independent's art's editor should be summarily fired for running such patently biased uneducated drivel. Yes making a top 100 list is impossible, because beyond a certain point, greatness just is. Monet or Watteu? Impossible to tell. But this list does not reach the basic level of good faith civil discourse, and harkens back to a time when people of darker complexion need not knock at the gates of the temple of art.

As a list of favorite films, no one could argue with it, there's nothing wrong with a critic living in a particularly favored place. But that requires an honesty which Anthony Qunn does not have, which the Independent clearly caters to, and to which the editors there turn a blind eye to the obvious personal and artistic sins of their powerful film critic.

The British National Party might run this list as "the 20 whitest films ever made."

How far we have to go, it is to weep.

Poetry Year September 16

The city falls on city falls, glass cascades upon the glass,
sheer sharp surfaces, to infinity reached,
stretching ego to ego's climax, an erection monument to Man and men.
If we build as we build, we demarcate the limits of our humility.
But if we fail to reach and strive, we offer up our humanity.

How is it so that the worst of very worst,
creates an urge to face the elements of time,
bare forth these, the shining spires to the sun,
that reflect the skyscape above,
and the face of someone touching her lipstick slightly,
before rushing on to shop at Sack's.

The LL Adult content ban is still a joke.

Here's another example of a non-adult parcel that advertises free sex... and is not rated adult.

And as for people cruising for adult content there, how about this snippet:

[2009/09/17 15:53] Lillie Yifu: I am well
[2009/09/17 15:53] Romantic Camel: where u from ?
[2009/09/17 15:54] Lillie Yifu: I am from the east coast of the US.
-- Instant message logging enabled --
[15:55] Romantic Camel: nice
[15:55] Romantic Camel: how old r u ?
[15:56] Lillie Yifu: I didn't know I was interviewing for a job from you
[15:56] Lillie Yifu: leanr some manners please
[15:57] Lillie Yifu: Good bye
[15:59] Romantic Camel: 1. they don't normally ask for your age when u go for interviews. 2. I am only asking for your age to check i am not chatting with 15 years old girl when i am 30. 3. I do have manners thank you and I don't think what I said is any wrong so thanks for your time and have a nice day
[15:59] Romantic Camel: Good bye

to which he later added:

Romantic Camel: thank you very much for your comments which shows the level of manners u have so i won't go to your level.. this conversation is over and sorry for wasting my time

He went on about how he has manners. Notes for the clueless here:

1. It is good manners if asking an rl personal question to respond in kind. As opposed to creepy stalker behavior.
2. It is good manners not to ask someone's age first off.
3. It is not good manners to keep coming with aggressive justifications after the first person said good bye.
4. It is really stupid not to read profiles. You might find out you are talking to someone who blogs.
5. Being an egotistical jerk is not a winning way of making friends.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Poetry Year September 15

Do not touch the subject with your eye,
but only paint, the contact of the brush against the canvas
is all that is that ever is.
Union with the tides between the waves that are paint,
the beach that is the brush,
the peninsula that is the stem,
that joins the foam of fermenting ideas,
with the solidity of the fluid world.
Cover every canvas only with what you see.

Meditation on the meaning that disentangles
the subject from the artist,
it is there, there there.

But oh how all of this is false,
to paint is to embrace the outside
take it whole and holy, in.
As I would make this permanence of a dew,
so I must take into myself,
the wonder that is you.

Content makers sue LL

For "allowing" and "facilitating" piracy. What this is really, is a way of pressuring LL to put in DRM.

More sims defect

More sims have decided that orgies don't count as adult content, including Free Sex Land, one of the largest.

Massive non compliance with new rules

Just search for "free sex" with adult off. You get something like this image.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Poetry Year September 6th - September 14th

September 6th

All is still,
Distilled, and still yet pure in essence,
Until symmetry, that fearful mistress of the classic age,
A bitch of virgin god for virgin god,
Chaste and cold, balanced and blind,
While seeing all she ought to now,
Breaks into pieces
That bounce and shatter across the faded flowers
On the floor of stone,
Etched by some forgotten craftsman,
Unto the specifications set,
By some matron who,
Enriched by her frigid sex,
Gave orders in another age.

People were shorter then, and now
The walls feel quaint to taller miens.
But here I am home to homeless,
Because it was a time,
That was proportioned
To my figure face and features.

I touch the wood,
Varnished to a burnished burnt Siena,
And crystallized to age.

The warmth that all that mistress symmetry
And matron history,
Both lacked,
Now bubbles through, to my senses.

September 7th

Consumed by a muse of fire,
Sing you goddess, of all the wrath,
That is of men and arms.
Call forth bright consequence,
In that year of our lord 18__
When this manuscript was found,
When once upon a time,
Long long ago, in a galaxy far far away.
All happy families were still alike.
Call me Ishmael or by any other name,
As the clocks are striking thirteen.
There is beginning here,
I am in need of her,
Where Janus needed two faces,
I know you, birth to all things,
Are twinned in every cell.

September 8th

A bitter betrayed generation,
Now turns it's eager gaze down to the meaning of its gyration,
Having lapped up the blood and sinew of the war god's mettle,
Having crushed the bone and flesh to pulp and fragment,
Now urges to feast upon the very life of the life that is left.

They would rape us of our minds,
And take us of our bodies,
And torment us of our efforts,
That we, poor cogs, might turn turn turn turn
In the wheels of time and tide that accost us in our hour of woe.

We are alone and lost, sheep crying in the wilderness,
Longing to go home without a home,
For there is no house of the holy
To hold us.
It is not our temple that incenses burn in,
Nor to our goddess bright eyed, that smells the smoke,
Of contemplation of a divined time.

Goddess mercy, your black hair cascades around your nape and shoulders,
And down your torso.
My hand grips the charcoal with every anger,
And pastel the streaks that are burned by tears,
The grays of pencil do become,
The shades of mystery that you bear.
I can not draw you forth,
Because I cannot draw you out,
Of which ever cavern you hide within.

Why was he lost to the maw of some forsaken war,
In the graveyard to where empires go to die?

September 9th

September I look into your eyes with jealousy,
The torrent of garland bright fallen leaves
A garland around your eyes, focused forward
On the swirls of clouds that crunch low on the horizon.
I stare at your perfect form, the dream of dreams,
And the locus of lusts that have many names.

I see the men around me want you in all your features and forms,
And bear to penetrate your darkness, all your darknesses.
They crave to fuck your mouth,
That fountain stop of words, and so to gag the eloquence,
That thermal months have formed.
They crave to fuck your cunt,
That entrance to immortality, so to copy some portion of their spirit,
Lithe design, on the canvas of your covenant come.
They crave to fuck your ass,
Ripping out the agency of your permission,
And give into that orgiastic desire,
Of war's homoerotic bonding,
Which is what they would truly have if they could have,
That you would be a man, a woman, a thing,
All at once to their crushed perfume.

They do not know you,
As they would know you,
For they do not know themselves.

The flowers of spring must be cut or plucked,
The seeds of summer harvested and shucked.
But the fruits of autumn fall red into eager waiting hands.
Why do you slut yourself this way?

September 10th

Your hands flow,
Over my breasts,
Over the tender pain
That comes to them,
And their prominence
With the coming of my fertility.
Aching wanting to reduplicate
And double
That beautiful face
That gazed down into my eyes
As I was wrapped,
Spasms of pleasure,
Enraptured of a dream.

September 11th

The ageless age that was another age,
When madness reigned,
And words had lost their meaning,
Come let us break the fast,
Over the wheel,
And every law carved in runes or rules,
Is shattered by our perfidity.
Let us remember how the great monument,
To their sacrifice,
Is a deepening pit,
Ruled over by demons speared,
Constitution by Heirony

There is a shadow,
It is a plane,
It is flying much too low.
God help them all.

There is a shadow,
It is a plane,
And it is flying much too low.
God help us all.

September 12th

Call me.
I am here, in the voice and the flesh,
For you,
Though we touched
Only through
The keys of the qwerty kingdom
Without a king,
And so delved
Into the queen of spades.
Leaving me
A child of nature to wonder
What it is
Men truly want.

September 13th

It is the end of one world, and the passing away of all it was
A wind that blew the flotsam and jetsam of refuse and anger
On to shores of rejection and need,
Close hold close at far remove
Giving everything for nothing in a place of contact without touch.

Vanquish the ugliness within in ugliness without
To have the empty moanings without pleasure,
Lust without need,
Love without love
Narcissus thy flower blooms in a thousand gardens.

Leaving us here, at the end of this ocean of sweat and sperm
Spatter over the hands of those,
Who would not work to save their lives.
It is a hymn to the end of a world
This world,
The only world they want or know.

Comes it must,
The turning of a page that balances figures,
And having writ, moves on,
Without pity,
Without wit.

September 14th

Somehow she died,
And an altar became
Sacrifice to human depravity,
A space within a wall her tomb,
Touched by cold hand,
Somehow known to her,
That she left behind,
All the keys to her identity.
Leaving a groom holding frail flowers,
Now bleached white
Drained of life and blood,
That is swallowed
Into that pit.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Poetry Year September 5

Wading into white, diving in to sea of flowers,
to be showered for a day by the accolades and smiles,
to once be painted like a painting,
or a whore,
and glisten glamor before the cameras on this one day,
but never more?

The bonding that is present comes and goes with other tides,
moments spent fraught with insecurity,
tormented by suspected lies.

But on this one glowing moment,
brought to cusp of the only ritual we know,
this one happiness is made serene
by matrimony's glow.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Poetry Year September 4

Once I lusted much, and loved too little,
found, all of my life, was far too brittle.
I cannot waste it, any more.
I cannot taste it as before.

Once upon a time,
there was a maiden,
she cried, such bitter tears,
by love forsaken.
She was tormented by what her life was for.

She found a place of such invented seasons,
lost amid the search for other reasons.
She found it's rituals and its lore.

Whispers from the secrets of the sacred,
now crushed within the search for profane hatreds.
It is gelded by its own design,
left for other regions, and a clime,
of other minds.

But whisper is an echo in a theatre so large
no field is fallow forever.
Cast it quiet, the seeds,
and scatter them,
see what nature, has in store.

Poetry Year September 3

Annointed by tears, that love that cries for union,
soullessly slips from one heart, drowned in salt and ire.
A cold and closed wooden womb, walls white,
painted cloister, through which so many lives have passed,
and many more will come.

I rent this place to hide from winds of loneliness and terror,
the buffeting truth that home has slipped from me,
is slipping away, there is no place that calls me its own.
This heart is wrenched from me, as oft as I looked up and feel,
your eyes are empty of all compassion,
and callously you cut me from your life,
as a fisher might pull a leech,
and cast it back,
into the open water.

To sink
from sight
a trace
into the

Poetry Year September 2

Brocades of silk entwine my hair,
that cascades around my shoulders.
I stare with false intensity,
to brush the tangles from it's length.
The sheen of care makes halo of the dark strands,
that flow over my shoulders.

You gaze at me, longing and wanting,
needing and craving.
But I, ensconced in felininity,
am exude ennui.

But for me you will do anything,
and follow me anywhere.
A twitch of my finger,
a turn of my head,
a shape of my thigh,
a twist of my torso,
will like tides overwhelming,
sweep you out beyond the sight of land.

I smile, and you brighten,
I stretch taut my body, and my nipples press,
visible through sheer curtain of my blouse.

You follow,
I lead.
And in the darkened side light street,
reeking with dank sweat and anger,
they will stab you, rake you with their knives,
tear your liver from your belly,
and leave you crying for you mother,
pleading not to die.

Oh yes I am such a witch,
because enthralled the same,
I am as helpless before my desire,
as you were to yours.

In death, in life,
it is the same,
servile before
the screeching demands,
of that hidden whip
that lashes across our most private parts,
leaving scars, that never heal.

[A girl, 16, was convicted in Britain for luring her ex-boyfriend to be stabbed to death by the boy she wanted and his posse.]

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Poetry Year September 1

Screaming from some unseen height,
they deal death, by permanent night.
Unseen buzzing of turbofan insects,
locust plague that has descended from sky's intersects.

Screeching down like lightning strikes,
frail devastation that entwines the smoke,
that points a finger to that point of destruction,
whose appetite has curdled in the stomach,
a worm.

Streaming out are bleeding eyes and tears,
children held in arms, from hospital now tomb.
Colder than cold,
darker than dark,
Emptied of soul.

Above, the locusts, fly on fly on.
Above, the locusts, fly on fly on.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Poetry Year August 31

Subscribe Now!
It's all here, everything you want,
extended member in the barnyard,
a credit card is all you need,
aren't you tired of your old watch?

Subscribe Now!
I beg to ask you I am the honorable,
who has money for you for no reason at all.
Barack Obama wants you to send yours to me.

Subscribe Now!
And everything will be better in bed.
Even if you don't even have,
what we want to give you more of.

Poetry Year August 31 - "Omnipossible bondage made"

g e a r s t u r n
h o w e v e r i
t h o l d s i g
a s i g h
p e t h e l h t
a l o s k t s
e f n t c t o p
t c m n h o r i
a i a i e s w r
d m I r r k r a
i e t p e i o l
c d e d n n n
u n y a t s g i
l e r u t u s g
e w n a c w o h

Poetry Year August 30

There are seventeen lines left,
in this life, this life.
This flight of flower, or butterfly,
rising from ashen earth and arcing,
to cold conclusion.

There are twelve lines left,
in this life, this life.
So many to be wasted in waiting,
repetition and redundancy,
like all life, all lives, all living things.

There are seven lines left,
in this life, this life,
and wings spread denied the lift,
of air that truly breathes,
or heart that truly sings.

There is but
one line left. Good night.

Poetry Year August 29th

No vacancy.
 o V can y I should say.
The dead neon eye stares on the side of darkened road,
casting a pallor of life like light,
that is a dusk of some arcane dawn.

Esoterica the erotica of forelorn folk
who gather along formica tables,
and slurp sugar infested coffee,
and speak.

Speak in gravel voice of the aliens,
or the folk, or vampyre shades that slurry
through the air of this hollow land.
Gaunt figures aged by etched hours,
of soot and smoke and fumes.

I huddle close to your arm.
You know I do not belong here,
and yet you lead me on to the paper thin room,
and the rock hard bed.
To partake of some pleasure that your own life denies,
and mine cries out for.

I am 18, and do not know yet,
that what is happening,
is bitter wrong.

Poetry Year August 28th

Gracious airs that dance in light,
lilting on the tongues, casting before the eyes.
Stage left.

A tree with no roots hangs from the steel beamed sky,
it will never grow, but to a heaven ascend.
Stage right.

I stand, blocked exact and know,
this glory that is the unknown,
who first crosses the threshold into night's day,
and day's eternity.

I know my steps, and hover,
to look down and drink the attention,
that laps in waves upon the beach of eternity.

The poets of the ancient stage,
the mandarins of golden age,
collect and look down at this
the child of two worlds collision,
now perched on this,
the fulcrum of life,
with which we move stone hearts to tears.

Poetry Year August 27th

Sleek lined forms, in rounded shadows,
cut and cast from silver into bronze,
in quest of Nazi gold.

Arms beyond stretched that to horizon extend,
like the empire they would encompass so soon.

So much flesh and blood,
so hard the flesh and stone,
a hacked cross their banner,
and bright their thousand year future called.

Olympia, filmed in grace,
touched by that sacred innocence,
that only evil can no.
Unlined by conscience,
blared forth in trumpets,
and blazoned in blood.