Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Audita Sum's InsaneJournal:

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Tuesday, July 1st, 2008
11:11 pm	.... You know what's kind of perverse? Contemporary Christian songs. They sound like love songs, but ones written by someone in a really warped, one-sided relationship. Oh, and dude, everyone in the world should be forced to watch Zeitgeist the Movie. Has great anthropological knowledge that the History channel is usually too much of a pansy to talk about (though History International's documentary called Angels: Good or Evil? came pretty close). And yes, I do watch programs on the History channel(s) on a daily basis. Shut up! Anyway, that aside... Prompt: Write about the 'fickle finger of fate.' I hate fate, especially when it's personified. Perhaps our futures are set out ahead of us because we can't help what genes we get, how we're raised, etcetera. But I'm not such an idiot that I would ascribe a finger to fate. That's like referring to evolution's grand design. Which some people do. I'm just in an argumentative mood, aren't I? Write about what you'd cook for an enemy. Why would I cook for an enemy? That's just awkward. I mean, what, I come to school and hand the girl who ruthlessly mocked me in seventh grade a plate with angel hair spinach pasta in a sun-dried maranara sauce with summer vegetables? Who does that? Write a freewrite about pride. We don't want to be made submissive, because that puts us at a disadvantage. That's why it's advantageous for us to have pride, I guess. Although it can just fuck things up when it would be easier to use subterfuge. Write a profile of someone named Margaret Mallory. Her skin is sallow and salmony, and has a slack quality to it that one would usually ascribe to someone in a vegetative state. Her eyes are the color of dried, brown blood, and she stares with them during church, singing hymns in a high-pitched buzz that can be heard over the rest of the congregation. Her thin jowels flap, and her eyes rarely blink. (Comment on this)
Thursday, June 26th, 2008
10:49 pm	Prompt: Write about a town that has ran [sic] out of sugar supply. Finally, a prompt that I can't use in a George storyline. While I'm on the subject of slaves... (this is set in the same world, too) When the slave rebellion in the Subigho islands had finally quieted, the sugar reserves of our quiet little seaside town had run out. As the Middle Queendom immediately increased her taxes on sugarcane and its product, illegal dealings began to go down in our sleepy village. Because of all the crowding that had met the Middle Queendom after the population boom of 50 years ago, the small, whitewashed houses of our settlement were clumped together indescrimanetly, often sharing walls. As illegal alcohol trade had always thrived in our village, there had been two-way cupboards and hidden attic passageways built a generation before ours. When the smugglers came from the Subhigo islands, we were ready. Soon enough, the scheme included the entire town, and we were trafficing sugar to nearby towns and cities, including the notorious party city of Yaaqur. Those who refused to participate met with lots of pressure, and most either caved to it or left. The result was that we grew very rich indeed. (Comment on this)
9:54 pm	Slavery This is kind of weird, but I remember, as a little kid, thinking that I would be the best servant to an evil overlord ever. Think about it-- usually the servants of evil overlords are snivelling little bitches who can never get anything done right. I could certainly do better, and then the evil overlord would reward me instead of cutting off my hand or something, like evil overlords are wont to do. Anyway, I just thought of that because I was reading Limyaael's rant on slavery (it's wayyyyyyyyyyyy back in the archives), and thinking about how I disagree with her. Sometimes, slaves don't hate their masters, and indeed, glean some sort of happiness from serving them. I'm thinking ancient Rome-type slaves, particularly, where any common household would have at least one or two personal slaves. It wasn't a big deal back then like it was in America's history, with all those race relations. Or something. Anyway, I have this character in this thing I'm writing who becomes a slave. She was raised in a patriarchal society and has has very firmly-rooted beliefs that men are the head of the household, that what they think and say is way more legitimate than what women think and say, etcetera. When she becomes a slave, some of the guys in the raiding party are total bitchholes, but one of them, the rich guy leading them, is nice to her. The guy comes from a rich background, but he lives in an apartment (in a Romanesque society, this is not glamorous) and will end up only having a couple of slaves. Eventually, he chooses her as one of his slaves. In a manner reminiscent of Stockholm syndrome, she works hard to be a good slave and takes pride in her work. Maybe it's a responsibility thing-- she doesn't have to worry about her own life when serving another. And it was partially that, in order to cope with her new life, she had to latch on to the only male she could respect. So yeah, Stockholmy. Anyway, I didn't think that her non-rebellion is unreasonable. It's not the fatuously servile black slaves of old propaganda who say 'massah' and shit like that; her cousin, another slave, is apathetic and lazy about her slavery, but gets by without doing much work because she's been employed in the city opera and is making her owner lots of money. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, June 24th, 2008
10:36 pm	Prompt: Rainy day. Yeah, this storyline is really not exciting at all. It's mostly just old friends talking. But damn it, my life is talking. It's what I know. September 1989 Veata stared out at the sheets of rain coming down around Suzy's apartment. "Thanks for taking me in," she said absently, pulling her hair out of its ponytail. "No prob," said Suzy, setting down two steaming cups of coffee on the plasticoated tablecloth. "I won't be able to pay rent for a while." Suzy pursed her lips, looking disapproving, and sipped her coffee. "Doesn't matter." Suzy didn't like people questioning her charity. "And you're sure Cynthia won't mind?" Suzy rolled her eyes, but didn't meet Veata's. "Doesn't matter. We've been..." She stirred her coffee. "I think we might break up again." "For what, the forty seventh time?" Veata chuckled shortly, and Suzy surrendered a small smile. "Is she even still living here?" "Uhh, from time to time. You know her." Veata nodded slowly, and took a long drink of her coffee. It was heavily sweetened and creamed, like she always drank it. "I met a man." "Ah," said Suzy. "You will have to introduce me to him." "It's not serious." Veata tipped another spoonful of sugar (lets the medicine go down) into her mug, mostly to have something to do. It reminded her of when she had first arrived in America, and Suzy had introduced her to theater. They had both played small roles in a community theater production of Mary Poppins, among other shows. "Here's a totally different subject, but remember our old theater days?" The rain was coming down even harder now, and Veata imagined that she could hear it on the roof, though they were not on the highest floor of the apartment building. "Those were the times," said Suzy, "back when we didn't have to pay taxes." Rain lashed the window hard, and Veata nearly jumped back. "Geez. I'm glad we're all cozy and warm in here. The shelter got pretty leaky when rain came." "Effects of Hurricane Hugo. I heard that the South Carolinians got hit pretty hard. But yeah-- our theater days." Suzy cleared her throat. "It's weird-- after we were in all those plays together, I don't think you ever even met my family." Veata shrugged. "You have tons of friends. It must be obnoxious having to introduce them over and over. I mean. You know. It would be easy to forget..." "Yeah," said Suzy. "So..." she tapped her white-painted fingernails on the table. "Your accent is nearly gone." "I've been working on it," said Veata. "I already stick out enough, what with my eye-patch, and my... not being white." "Hey, we're rejects of America together, even though my difference isn't perhaps as readily apparent," said Suzy. "My extended family is still pretty awkward about it. And Jesus; if my employers knew..." Suzy, after several years of college, was now an elementary schoolteacher. "Wow, it must--" suck, having an extended family. and a steady job. Veata stopped herself. She'd been called out before by Suzy on her 'passive aggressively,' and she had no inclination to face her friend's wrath again. When Suzy got angry she was calm and quiet and steely, and that disturbed Veata more than any real show of anger could. "Yeah," was all she said. "I mean, it's the little things that get you down, you know. And they just build up." "Yeah," said Suzy. "And I'm sorry; I bet you get a lot more prejudice on a daily basis than I do." "Hm," said Veata in disagreement. "I live in a shelter with a bunch of other racial minorities, so I don't know. It's not so bad, just..." "Disheartening," said Suzy, "that America wants to deny your existence in the media." "Ha," said Veata without humor. "I don't get to watch tv all that much, but I'll be damned if I ever see a dark-skinned Asian on there, or even any kind of Asian, much less one that speaks proper English." "I'll be damned," countered Suzy, "if I ever see any sort of family arrangement other than the 'nuclear' kind that isn't represented as being broken and dysfunctional." "I can't wait to be damned, if hell is full of people like us," said Veata. "Let the white Christian republican straight middle and upper classes have their heaven. We'll be having a lot more fun getting drunk and... waiting for the rain to blow over." "Only we're getting caffeinated instead," said Suzy, and after a comfortable pause, "I love storms. I've always thought that if I'm going to die, I want it to be by some huge natural disaster." She drank the last of her coffee and set it down on the table with a reassuring 'clunk.' "I don't think about death," said Veata. "And to be honest, I don't think I really fear it. I only fear pain." And embarrassment, in its infinite manifestations, but that much, Veata was sure, was obvious. (Comment on this)
Sunday, June 15th, 2008
10:42 pm	deaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaathhe phoenicians? I've put up some new songs at soundclick.com/hasenyager. They're alright. Yeah. I have nothing to update about. And I don't know how this is supposed to relate to Phoenicians. Here's some poem, I guess. It's comprised of other peoples' grafitti, and is a work in progress. Graffiti Collected in Various Venues But Mainly Girls' Bathrooms pridie Kal. Iun. MCCLV Jesus is my sex slave It doesn't seem a year Whoever wrote this is a whore Well then you're a whore Acid expands your mind Riders of the storm I can't make a cherry pop, but I can make a banana cream So it's okay to talk about Jesus, but you can't talk about Satan? Stacy is a whore That's unsanitary I cut down the river I live here, bitches And I hope all snitches die slow We are all around you (Comment on this)
Thursday, June 5th, 2008
3:44 pm	Prompt: Write about a plate of sunshine. Yeah, these prompts are fuckin' weird. Oh well. I turned it into 'plait of sunshine,' and didn't even use that phrasing. November 2007 "You must think you're so hardcore, not saying the Pledge of Allegiance," said Andy Something, the student in the row next to his. "Isn't that right, American Dragon?" I'm Cambodian, you fucktard, George thought, but he didn't say anything. He'd even rather be called a chink than be likened to a Disney channel character who did nothing but fight crime as a mythical species and lust after some girl with a blond braid. George had better things to do. Like exist. "Fuck you," he said. Andy's rage exploded as if it had been backed up behind a dam all along, seething over at the first opportunity. "You don't like America? Fine! Why don't you go back to your home country?" George stood and looked the kid in his blue fucking Germanic eyes and said through gritted teeth, "America. Is. My. Home. Country. Why don't you go back to fucking Sweden?" Andy glared, but said nothing more. The pledge was over, and everyone sat down again, eyes blank. George hated their uniformity. In Japan, or so he'd read, schoolchildren were forced to conform down to the haircut. He didn't understand why anyone here would willingly dress and act exactly like everyone else, with their skin tanned shiny orange and hair bleached yellow, like dead grass. They looked like scarecrows. If George had been a crow, he would've gotten the hell out. Based off real-life experience. I got called a dyke once for not saying the pledge. Fucktard. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, June 4th, 2008
10:27 pm	The Popsicle a.d. iv Non. Iun. MCCLV It's 9:06; summer, humid as Jesus's bowels The sky, a magnified popsicle that I got from the Ice cream truck, back when this town's magic Had yet to grow on me-- pink anemones on A slicey bright everyberry background Sweeter, colder, not at all thready, flaving of Cotton candy that didn't burn my throat Looking at the dusk, I could feel the taste Before I remembered what it reminded me of At this time of year, night falls like a Tranquilized ape in George of the Jungle, Skin blue and rubbery; hits the ground with a Thud; it's 9:38; summer, cooling slow, with Help from large, loud fans Prompt: What does a string of laughter make you think of? He let out an awkward string of giggles. It hung in the air afterward, like a clod of sticky string stuck in someone's hair. BYAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHthis is not working. How about... Describe a hot day. This is going to be so cheesy. You don't even know. May 2008f George's throat was painfully dry. He swallowed his spit once more, coveting with his eyes the bottles of water that some band parents were passing around, condensation gathering like drippy boils. The heat itself wouldn't have been so bad without the murderous humidity. Marching the last street in all its strikingly verdant glory, George had nearly given up and let his arms swing by his sides, surrendering to shame and comfort. Even now he could feel his heart hammering in his head, deeper and more urgent than the synthiest synth beat that ever was. Mrs. Connor nodded at the band, and George took of his hat, unbuttoned his thick jacket. The still air was almost cool against his sweaty hair, smeared up over his forehead. Some middle-aged woman handed him a water bottle, and he lifted it in shaking hands to his mouth. The mayor gave a speech, but it the microphone wasn't loud enough for the band, at the fringe of the cemetery, to hear her. The water was a cold knife in George's esophagus. A scarce breeze rustled through the area, and even the trees were louder than her. George wiped his brow. He was starting to feel unstill, disoriented. Beyond the leaves, abundant as the arms of generous gods, the sky called to him like a huge harbinger of water. His knees were locking into the ground, as if a part of him had been anchored there all along. George breathed long, and when his lungs were full, his body fell forward and hit the grass with a dead-sounding thump. Dense stars on a vast field of blue, like the high-definition pictures he'd seen on NASA's website. It stung his eyes, the fact that there were so many stars, so many chances. There had to be someone out there. A place where he belonged. But all too soon, red-pink gas clouds like the Northern Lights wreathed him, wrapped around his head like a silk scarf. He was suffocating. He was far-gone. "He's fine." George cracked open his eyes. What seemed like the band in its entirety was staring at him, and when they heard this pronouncement, some of them turned away. An elderly veteran was talking about Jesusgod and the part He played in the military. Someone shoved a water bottle into George's mouth, and he choked on the water. "Give the man some air," said a percussionist. George didn't understand why they'd had to go and ruin it. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, May 28th, 2008
10:15 pm	going promptless, bitches May 2008 George had always had trouble differentiating between the sacred and the profane, and now, as they were pouring their spit libations onto the thirsty black track, he felt as if it was an offering to the gods of marching band. Within the first lap, he realized that his arms had grown weak over the winter. Now just holding up the marching French horn had started to hurt, especially during "Salute to America's Finest," the longest song on the parade list. George hated parades. As a child, he hadn't liked them because of all the large, threatening floats and unbearably loud sirens. The candy had been the only positive thing, but George was a hearty, steak and potatoes kind of man, like his father. Candy was not enough. Marching in parades was even worse. Last year had been his first parade marching, in the middle of the summer-- it was to celebrate the town's one original product, matches. Ridiculous. But their sweat and ankle-calluses kept the gods happy, and since George was so out of shape cardiovascularly, all the work gave him a high. George's mouth was getting slippery because of the spit-water leaking out of his mouthpiece. Wiping his face with the back of his hand, he let his eyes stray to the achingly white sun. Prompt: What's your idea of a perfect vacation? June 2002 Ed manually rolled down the window of their used sedan, breathing in the clean Algonquin air. Smiling, he caught a glimpse of his wife. Veata was nodding her head in time to the folk music on the radio, even more radiantly beautiful than usual in the pool of sunlight made by the dashboard. How lucky he was. In the back of the car, George, true to character, frowned as if contemplating some sorrowful mystery of the universe. God help him, Ed loved that kid. As he pulled the sedan into their camping site, George sat up straighter. "Are we there?" "Yep." Ed smiled with satisfaction. They were going to hike, and fish, and kayak, and cook pizza sandwiches in irons over the fire... It would be like revisiting his childhood, except this time it would be on his own terms, with people he liked. They came to a stop, and got out of the car. Ed began unfolding and putting together the pop-up trailer that Veata's ex-husband had lent them. George helped him. He was unnaturally tall for his seven years, and Ed often treated him like he was older than he was. But then, George was very intellectually mature, too. Like his mother. They were smart people, smarter than Ed, but that didn't bother him. He was happy to have them. And Veata was happy to have him, despite circumstances. Ed couldn't believe that just a few years ago, he'd been a solitary trucker, with no family or aspirations. Now he'd gotten a small job at the Subway in town, and had worked his way up to a managerial position. Veata had a job at a used bookstore. They were poor, but Ed was the happiest he'd ever been in his life. No more contemplation of suicide, no more existential angst. He'd made peace with the God that he could no longer make himself worship, and no one cared. He didn't have to talk to his relatives if he didn't want to. He was free. (Comment on this)
Saturday, May 24th, 2008
9:32 pm	Prompt: Choose one of your physical features and write about how you can change or disguise that fea July 1974 Veata stared at herself in the mirror in the bathroom of the homeless shelter. Her right eye socket, sans eye, was still healing, and seeing the large egg-shaped scab made her cringe every time. She wound the bandage back around her head, but it messed with her hair and made her uncomfortable. She needed an eye-patch or something, like the woman named Pirate O'Malley had. Except Pirate O'Malley was old and "batshit crazy." "So how'd you get that, if you don't mind me asking?" asked a friendly- looking girl with curly brown hair. Veata could see her in the mirror, peering over her shoulder. She had just started learning English, and most phrases she knew involved greetings and asking where things were, like food and restrooms. "Hello. You... the eye?" she guessed, seeing that the girl was staring unabashedly at it. Her mother would've called that kind of staring rude, but Veata and her mother were very different, and now many miles apart. "Yes." Veata turned to look at the her, smiling nervously. "The bomb. No-- yes..." she searched for the right phrase, the one that the doctor had said, but she couldn't grasp it. Veata smiled wanly, knowing that she probably looked idiotic trying to speak the new language. "At Cambodia. My name is Veata." "My name is Suzy," said the other girl, smiling with slightly-crooked teeth. She had a way about her that made Veata feel strangely at ease. She supposed that Suzy had many friends. "You... shelter...?" She wanted to ask if Suzy worked here or what, because she wasn't carrying a bag filled with her clothes and possessions around with her. You had to do that in the shelter, or else they'd get stolen. "I volunteer here," said Suzy. Veata didn't know what that meant. "Oh. I do not speak much English." "I can tell," said Suzy wryly. "Do you want me to help you learn?" 'Help' was a word that Veata knew all too well. I hope I didn't come across as a patronizing ass, but I've never actually met a non-English speaker. I did look up Khmer sentence structure and it's a lot like ours, aside from their adjectives coming after nouns. On an unrelated note, I wrote 665 words for LBoD today. Woot. And I wrote some other stuff for this story thing, but it was added on to something I posted earlier, so... (Comment on this)
Thursday, May 22nd, 2008
6:11 pm	Prompt: Write about something that annoys you. This is something that's actually been bothering me, but yeah. This is for the NaNoWriMo novel I never finished, but am slowly working on. It was May, and students were suddenly coming down with a mild illness. Now in the hallways and classrooms, a phlemy, crackling cough was becoming ubiquitous. For Karen, who felt compelled to hold her breath for a minimum of twenty seconds every time someone coughed, this new pandemic was torture. She almost passed out during Honors Chem, because as they were taking their test on stoichiometry, the room was quiet enough for her to hear every disgusting sniffle. Karen isn't really OCD. She just wants so hard to have something dramatic wrong with her that she's tricked herself into pseudo-mental illness. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, May 13th, 2008
9:20 am	Our Mother a.d. iii Id. Mai. MCCLV Human minds are glittering constructs Gilded over and over in little, hair-thin Connections, superfluous and egotistic An intricate latticework of consciousness But under all the overwrought Is dark morsels of truth, festering Or frozen And in the real world, Spring is a growing child With a fat and endearing face Dandelions splay like starfruit And the musky air is Superfecund with life It is not our mother Kind of pretentious, but oh fucking well. (Comment on this)
Saturday, May 10th, 2008
8:58 pm	FREE WRITE FREE WRITE FREE WRITE FREE WRITE SPRINT SPRINT SPRINT SPRINT SPRINT SPRINT SPRINT SPRINT This is the last thing I wrote in my attempt at NaNoWriMo this year before giving up. I've added stuff to the actual story now, but this is the last I wrote in the month of November. Once upon a time, there was a chicken with plumage that shone like sun and sparkled like a prepubescent girl's glittery eye shadow. Villagers came from miles around to see this magnificent chicken, and many commented that it was warm to the touch and smelled like spun brass, whatever the hell that means. I don't know. I'm just putting words down on the page. I actually want to win this goddamn thing, which means 3000 goddamn words a day. More than that, actually. FUCK BISCUITS! So, as I was saying, this was one gorgeous chicken. I mean it was as gorgeous as hell. Not that hell is gorgeous. Hell is kind of tacky. What with the flames and the... just ew. It's just ew. Gahhhhd. I have no idea what to write. And, yeah, that word at the beginning of this paragraph was a mix between Gahhhh and God, because you know what? Gahhhhd is wish your heart makes, when you're fast asleep. Horrible horrible horrible horrible biscuits. Gravy! Biscuits. Gravy! You know what? Biscuits and gravy, because I can fucking do that. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, May 7th, 2008
6:24 pm	Prompt: What if Mother's Day didn't go as planned? May 2000 "Wake up, Dad," said a high pitched voice. George. Alan forced his eyes open. "It's Sunday morning," he grumbled, squinting down at his five-year-old son. "Why aren't you at church?" "Mommy's still sick, I think," he said. Like hell Veata was sick. She was probably just trying to garner sympathy from the only person in the house who hadn't got fed up with all her drama. "Get up! Get up!" Alan sat up, yawning. "You hungry? I'll make some eggs on top." That was hard-boiled eggs, chopped up on top of a piece of toast. George always scarfed down as much as he could. "No. Make mangos. They're Mommy's favorite food." "What's all this about Mommy? And you don't make mangos-- you get them out of the fridge." Alan eased himself off the couch. He wasn't as young as he used to be, and his back wasn't feeling all that good. "I'll make you some eggs on top." Veata was in the kitchen, staring out into space, sitting up straighter than was necessary. Alan knew that look in her eyes-- she 'needed' a drink. Well that just wasn't going to happen. She was dangerous drunk. He didn't want her to go batshit and hit the kid, like she had when they'd visited the Parsons. Anger rose up in Alan, and he wanted to berate her for something, but he couldn't think of anything logical. God, that woman was starting to make him hate her. "Happy Mother's Day!" George shrieked, hugging her around the waist. She picked him up and set him on her knee as Alan watched, ready to snipe at her for the first thing she did wrong. She was going to drop him. He almost hoped she would. Then no one would question him if he were to file for divorce. George handed something to Veata, and Alan peered over her shoulder at it. It was a crayon drawing of flowers and trucks. "Thank you, George," said Veata, her voice breaking. She was going to cry again, like she always did. Alan turned away in disgust and flung open the refrigerator door. "You hungry?" he asked, jarring her. Veata's eye was filled with malice as she turned it on him. "Since when do you care about--" "Stop it with that passive aggressive shit!" Alan shouted, and all was still. George climbed off his mother's lap and backed away to a corner. "I'm sick and tired--" Alan advanced toward her, jabbing his finger-- "of all this shit! All you wanna do is make yourself seem like a victim." "I'm moving out," said Veata, standing up. Her mouth curved into a vicious smile. "I'm moving out, you insensitive bastard. Is that what you want? Is that what you really--" "Yes!" The word was unbelievably liberating as it echoed off the soundproof walls. He took a step forward, all his anger gone. "Yes. Let's get a divorce." Her eye was wide, fathomless, dark. "Alan, I didn't mean--" She bit her lip, and a tear finally spurted out her tear duct. She was only acting. Alan couldn't imagine that she would be upset at the prospect of leaving him. "Fine! I know that you never loved me! All you care about--" "--is the kid at this point!" shouted Alan. "I loved the kid more than you ever did!" "Don't you think that you'll be keeping him!" screamed Veata. "It's not like you had to go through childbirth! And I practically had to raise him on my own because--" "Don't flatter yourself!" said Alan. "What'd you hire the nanny for? Company? I was the one--" He stopped when he heard George wailing in the corner. "Look what you did!" he demanded. (Comment on this)
5:23 pm	a piece of descriptive death Non. Mai. MCCLV Walking home, the rain was cold little darts On my arms, and I strained to name the smell Young dandelions were quivering beacons In the sodden, sweet wind; bright as crayons Their elders, balding asymmetrically Stabbed out of the grass in one last, futile reach With stems sheened maroon like dirty organs And sour mulch profaned the living air These are the days sun-shunned, when the Trees scream in their cool, empty language In gusts that whistle into winds (Comment on this)
Thursday, May 1st, 2008
5:57 pm	CHRISTOBASH! on ChristianAnswers.net-- the only website I've seen that counts the number of times in a movie that the Lord's name is used in vain. This time I guess I'll critique their critique of a movie I've actually seen-- The Golden Compass. The moral rating is 'extremely offensive' which surprises me a little. Even though the books were full of atheism, the movie was what movie critics would call "a lighthearted romp" or something equally stupid. Even though it brought up some dark shit, like losing a part of your soul. I don't think it was morally wrong in any way, though I thought whatsherface was a disappointing Mrs. Coulter. The Golden Compass” is being marketed to children. Your child watches the movie, wants the books, reads the books and gets a whole new perspective of God, which could doom him eternally. So don't let the kid read the books! Or better yet, allow your child to develop his own views of spirituality instead of forcing your own religion down his throat! Don’t be deceived. The movie is bait for the books. I'm pretty sure that the movie wasn't made with an evil atheist agenda in mind, but then, Christian Answers seems to think that everything is an evil atheist agenda. The reason that The Golden Compass was made was to take advantage of the books' large fanbase and, ultimately, make monies. Christian parents are no stranger to The Fight, and, although it seems a shame, we must take to the task once again, we have The Word as our two-edged sword. That's right-- Christian Answers expects you to cleave your children in two if they start to show the smallest symptom of atheism. “Our agenda is the Gospel of Christ—a message infinitely more powerful than that of The Golden Compass,' Mohler wrote. 'The Christian faith is not about to be toppled by a film, nor by a series of fantasy books.” I don't understand why Christians are so afraid of their religion being toppled. They have more believers worldwide than any other religion. Pullman has not been shy about his active disdain for Christianity or his own comments about the stories of Tolkien and Lewis. Here are his own words: “The Lord of the Rings is just not interesting psychologically; there’s nothing about people in it.” Why do they care what Phillip Pullman thinks about Tolkien? Anyone-- theist or atheist-- can agree at that Tolkien's characters are pretty flat. Worldbuilding was obviously his strongest suit. His second-strongest suit was made in Italy of 100% tropical wool. And his scorn for Lewis’s fantasy world has been widely documented. “I hate the Narnia books. I hate them with a deep and bitter passion, with their view of childhood as a golden age from which sexuality and adulthood are a falling away.” Gotta say I agree with him there. O NOEZ SUZAN CANOT HAZ LIPSTIK SUZAN IS 2 SEXUL 4 NARNYA NOWWW!!!!1 Here is a point Mr. Pullman hasn’t noticed about himself, because he’s been so caught up in his atheistic rhetoric, and that is his stories follow closely the very lines he so venomously discounts. That's because he's Bible Man's secret identity. Pullman is following in the footsteps of Lewis and Tolkien. Like them, he has created alternate worlds of fantasy that vividly manifest his own particular world view and his perspective on spiritual matters. So he's a fantasy writer. Pullman didn't insult all fantasy fiction-- just Tolkien and Lewis. Tolkien and Lewis established the foundation of modern fantasy storytelling, adding to that a beautiful sense of Christian love and friendship. Fantasy existed long before those two, and Tolkien made way more impact that Lewis. Furthermore, Tolkien's work never even mentions God. Personally, I'm not a fan of the derivative shit based off Tolkien, because I only like fantasy when it's original. Phillip Pullman is original as hell, and he's a goddamn talented writer. I believe we should not fuel this author’s negative view of Christianity or of his blatant declaration of being an atheist. I don't want to live in a word where people are described as being 'openly atheist,' as if 'blatantly declaring' your nonreligion is something that a person is expected to be ashamed of. We dare not focus on him so much that we wind up making him stand out, while we at the same time risk the Christian community looking like the villainous Christians in his stories. His stories don't have villainous Christians. They have a flawed God who deserves to die. There's a difference. The best way to expose Pullman’s lie is to respond like Christ himself: With grace and truth. Wait; what's the lie? That God isn't a nice guy? That's not a lie, Christian Answers. That's fiction. Pullman is an atheist, which means that he doesn't believe in a god. Lyra has no idea that the alethiometer is, in fact, the famed Golden Compass. She is told never to let anyone know she is in possession of it and that it measures “truth.” But it's not the truth! It's all atheist lies! “The Golden Compass” is a well-crafted film with top notch special effects and actors. It’s imagery is beautiful and exciting. It easily takes the viewer away into a fantasy world full of intrigue and wonder. Kids love this kind of stuff, and even most adults get a kick out of it, too. Don’t be seduced, however, by what’s on the surface. Underneath lurks many subversive, anti-religious messages which appear in euphemistic terms. The movie seriously does not have have subversive, anti-religious messages, and it's not trying to 'seduce' anyone. That's the reason that they took out all the atheistic bits! They didn't want to offend Christians! So obviously, they weren't trying to convert unwitting children to a PATH OF LIESSS. “The Golden Compass” avoids using the word “church” and instead calls it the “Magisterium,” an openly Roman Catholic term. I don't think that's avoidance as much as style. 'Magisterium' conjurs a much different image to the mind than 'church.' And, as you well may have read by now, even if you knew nothing of the Pullman books before now, God is “killed” in the end. Why the quotations? Do they think that their readers can't handle the impact of god being killed without quotation marks? How is one "killed," exactly? Either you're killed or you're not-- that's what I think. There are a number of twisted biblical references and a play on biblical names. There is some immodesty and sensuality seen in the character of Mrs. Coulter, who is shown always wearing form-fitting 30’s inspired dresses. Dresses from the THIRTIES?! Egad! I can't have my children seeing that! The consumption of alcohol is present in the movie, and there is a scene where 12-year-old Lyra takes a sip of wine and spits it back into her glass. I don't see why it's a problem, since the consumption of alcohol is present in the Bible. And Lyra didn't even like the taste of wine! At times, Lyra appears to be a sweet heroine, whose boldness is commended. But she is also very conniving, manipulative and deceitful, and when she acts in these ways, she accomplishes her purpose. In my opinion, the conniving is what makes her a good character. Lyra would be a whole lot less interesting if she were a perfect 'sweet heroine.' And I don't want to know what kind of 'sweet heroine' you're taking on a daily basis, Christian Answers, but I'm sure it's a lot. Pray for Philip Pullman. What condescending bitchholes. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, April 30th, 2008
5:35 pm	CHRISTOBASH! where I pwn stupid people with their own scriptures A while ago I posted on a Mary Mary music video called "Heaven", remarking that it disturbed me. A person of faith harkened back, calling me a bitch. I proceeded to bash the hell out of the song "Heaven," just for kicks and giggles. I even cited sources. See Me Bash Now I've found this awesomely obnoxious website called ChristianAnswers.net, and I plan on sporking the hell out of it. For now, here's my critique of their critique of EXPELLED: No Intelligence Allowed, which I haven't actually seen but have listened to a reliable science podcast about. Anyway, this is more bashing their beliefs than bashing the movie. I'm not going to bother to cite sources, though. This is just for fun. Note: this website is less snarky than I am likely to be, and definitely more factual. Go there nothingspeed. First of all, that picture of Ben Stein on the cover of the movie is so stupid. I cannot take that guy seriously when he's dressed like Jack Black in School of Rock. The movie's moral rating is 'better than average,' which makes me wonder what 'average' is. In Passion of the Christ, does all the violence take it down a moral notch? Or are the only things that can do that sex, drugs, and DNA? Touché! “Expelled: No Intelligence Allowed” has made Ben Stein the new hero of believers in God everywhere, and has landed a smart right cross to the protruding jaw of evolution’s elite. First of all, there are a lot of Christians who know that evolution is truth. Like my mom. I'm serious. Ben Stein is only the hero of fundies. That having been said, from what I've heard, 'evolution's elite' aren't smarting at all from this. They don't even feel threatened, except maybe by mobs of angry fundies. In the scientific world, evolution is accepted as true. And yes, in the scientific world, a 'theory' is something with a hell of a lot of evidence, unlike the public definition of the word. Points for the 'protruding jaw' thing, though. Humorous film clips punctuate the movie, making what many might think a dry academic topic for theater-going into a smart romp and most enjoyable experience. That's just what it is-- a romp. In bed of cactuses. With an asthmatic puppy. I don't even know what I'm talking about. Audiences are applauding as credits roll, and people are leaving theaters empowered as they perceive a mighty chink has now been made in the armor surrounding our culture’s impenetrable, atheistic, Darwinian monopoly. Only not. As I said, 'Darwinists' aren't feeling the pain from this at all. They were in no way pwnt, because the arguments made in Expelled don't hold their own weight. Has anyone noticed that evolutionists are always on the defensive in an argument? It's because the 7 Day Creationists do all the attacking. Everyone else knows that the truth isn't worth debating, because it's so obvious. There is little doubt that evolutionary belief and atheism go had in hand, as one after another of its intellectual proponents admit this to Stein. I lost my faith in God while reading a book by a nun called A History of God. I started believing in evolution when I watched the PBS evolution videos, which are beautifully-put-together, by the way. The two weren't corrolated at all. One Cornell University professor in the movie positively conceded that the end result of accepting evolution was, for him, the realization that there is no free will and no after-life. What?! If anything, one has more free will without a God, because they don't have a 'plan' already created for them. And who says that there can't be an afterlife just because of evolution? There are scientists (like five, probably) trying to raise the money for scientific research on after-deathness, but no one will give them the money! If anything, can't you believe in God and evolution? It's not that difficult! Is the United States a freedom loving, free-thinking, intellectually inquisitive nation of cordial academic pursuit, or is it a politically correct, closed-minded arena of thought controlling, in-crowd Neanderthals? Wow... If anyone's making America close-minded, it's the Christians. Just sayin'. You guys got the govunmunt in ur pockut. The latter seems to be the conclusion of internationals, and the audience will draw the same conclusion as professors and educators present their tales of discrimination, blacklisting, and defamation at the hands of the American evolutionary juggernaut and its related tentacles. I doubt it goes as far as being defamed, and if they are defamed for spitting in the face of overwhelming evidence in favor of mythos, then they deserve to be defamed and discriminated against. There's no law against discriminating on the base of stupid. Yeah, the thing is, this is just making me angry. Just go have a look at Expelled Exposed They tear it to shreds without much effort, and with less bitterness than I would be capable of. ----- I'm going to spork something totally unrelated to evolution. How about... Why does God allow people to suffer? Good question, Christian Answers. I was always wondering that, myself. The "problem of pain," as the well-known Christian scholar, C.S. Lewis, once called it, is atheism's most potent weapon against the Christian faith. Way to make yourself the victim. As an atheist/agnostic/panetheist-thing (it depends day-to-day), I don't personally try to use a 'potent weapon' (phallus?) against the Christian faith. If it attacks me, I attack it. Like a human attacking a rabid homicidal dolphin. Anyway, C.S. Lewis was a perv and a weirdo. All true science and history, if rightly understood, support the fact of God. This evidence is so strong that, as the Bible says: "The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God" I like how their 'so strong evidence' is the Bible. Isn't that kind of going in circles? Most atheists, therefore, without any objective evidence on which to base their faith in "no God", must resort finally to philosophical objections. And this problem of suffering is the greatest of these. I find it amusing that this article takes eternity (har har) to actually address the question. Just rails on and on about 'atheists this' and 'atheists that.' There's no objective evidence (the Bible is not objective) for or against the existence of God, Christian Answers. This is a real difficulty, but atheism is certainly not the answer, and neither is agnosticism. What about Hinduism, bitch? Or Buddhism? Or Confucianism? Or Judaism? Or Islam (though I dislike Islam as much as Christianity)? Or Pastafarianism? Is Pastafarianism the answer? Yes, I think it is. The Flying Spaghetti monster doesn't have the time to touch every suffering person in the world with His noodly appendage. While there is much evil in the world, there is even more that is good. I think that most things are neutral, actually. Unless you want to play the black-and-white game. I give you a noun, and you tell me whether it's good or evil. Nostradamus! /Evil!/ Bunnies! /Evil!/ War! /Good!/ Colored music! /Evil!/ This is proved by the mere fact that people normally try to hang on to life as long as they can. Actually, that there is a good argument for evolution, not that evolution needs to be argued to stay up on its own. We stay alive so that we can reproduce and pass on our genes, so that our species can eventually mutate and evolve into higher creatures. Furthermore, everyone instinctively recognizes that "good" is a higher order of truth than "bad". Again, evolutionary. Having morals made our chimp-like ancestors not die as often, because it helped them not kill each other as often. Unlike humans, they didn't need an ancient book to tell them not to rape and murder. Although, actually, they did rape and murder. A lot. But at least they knew the value of sharing! We need also to recognize that our very minds were created by God. We can only use these minds to the extent that He allows, and it is, therefore, utterly presumptuous for us to use them to question Him and His motives. In My Human Opinion, if I were God, I think I'd want to be questioned. It would make me get off my godly ass and fix things when I'd fucked them up. There is really no such thing as the "innocent" suffering. Except for abortion, right? Or do even fetuses sin with their Freud-like attraction to their parents? Which I think is a lot of bullshit by the way. Freud pisses me off. The world is now under God's Curse (Genesis 3:17) because of man's rebellion against God's Word. All because we ate the fruit called Evolution, God was like, "Fuck this! I'm going to Burger King where I can have it my way! For once! You ungrateful sons of bitches!" The Lord Jesus Christ, who was the only truly "innocent" and "righteous" man in all history, nevertheless has suffered more than anyone else who ever lived. Did he undergo female 'circumcision?' No. Go through childbirth? No. Did he have to deal with menstrual cramps? No. Was he ever raped? Unlikely. Did he ever cry because OMGtheboyhe'stotallyinlovewithdoesn'tevenknowheexists? Maybe, if that boy was an atheist and Jesus was gay. Regardless, He should've been a woman. Then He'd really know what suffering is. (Comment on this)
Saturday, April 26th, 2008
9:14 pm	Fat a.d. vi Kal. Mai. MCCLV Liquid fat sidles on the surface of soup Like a thousand little round mirrors See how it shifts, golden, around noodles Soft carrots, grotesque cubes of cowhaunch When it freezes, the fat is bright yellow Flecks, like the stuff surgeons suck out of A large bumpy stomach, leaving it to grow back Like an untended garden under the force of Slippery, warm, circular, shiny, disgusting Fat (Comment on this)
Friday, April 25th, 2008
6:02 pm	Continuation Continuation of July 1999 "That would definitely be feasable," said Suz. She turned back to Aunt Rose, who leaned to look over Suz's shoulder at Veata. "Now who is that girl?" she asked with suspicion in her voice. Ed knew what she was thinking; all his relatives seemed to be thinking the same thing. "Hey." Veata poked Ed in the shoulder with the arm she wasn't using to hold the sulking lump that was her son. "So what do you do?" They began to walk to the house, where Ed assumed Veata's husband was. Ed winced. He really needed to get a better job, one that he wouldn't be ashamed to allude to at parties. "I'm a trucker." "Ah." She nodded slowly, and chugged some beer. "So you're away from home a lot?" "Yeah..." Ed didn't have a home of his own. He stopped in at his parents' to sleep from time to time, but he was on the road as much as possible. "I'm on the road most of the time. It's starting to make me a little crazy." Veata swallowed another mouthful of beer and smiled. "I know how it feels.... Well, actually, I don't." "It's alright. I didn't expect you to." Ed froze. He hadn't meant to insult her. Had she taken it as an insult. "Ah, here's my hubby." Veata transfered the squirming mass of child from her hip to the floor. "Would you take George home, hon? Kid won't...leave me..." She trailed off as her husband stood, towering over her. "You can take the kid home. Me, I'm gonna stay here and chat with Peter." Ed's cousin waved at him from the couch. (Comment on this)
Monday, April 21st, 2008
9:40 pm	Prompt: Imagine your life is now a book. Write a blurb for it. I'm half-delusial with tiredness right now, so this will prove to be interesting. I've been listening to a lot of the Voices of Tomorrow podcast, and it's delicious. Oh god. My life as a book would be so dull. Maybe it would be boring enough for English teachers to make their students read it. Maybe it actually is a book and I don't even know it, and someone prettier than me is going to play me in the movie version. The blurb would probably mention that guy that wrote A Prayer for Owen Meany, because of its slice-of-lifeness. I'm tired. Going promptless, bitches; Actually, I'm just going to write whatever the hell pops into my mind, even if it doesn't make sense. My inner editor is pretty much in a coma right now. Deep in the heart of the cave of Sascachooin (?) beat the angry and resistent strain of TBS public audio that the public so feared. And it was crispy. Very much so. They dutifully sacrificed a Virgin wireless phone to it every year, but the noooooooooo biscutis death ghnnanaaaaaaa so that it would eat finger-lickin' good fried chicken in the night, where bones crunch like a thing that crunches in a manner that one could consider crunchy in nature. I.e., your face. In conclusion, the monopoly of magic tokens was not lost of the area of general descent, the flying opera houses flitting about the sky like so many vicodin-drugged birds. Kind of sounds like a spam email. Speaking of which, here's a really poetic one I got the other day: From: Zody Chattin Subject: subito Ni hao, Increaase Sexual Ennergy and Pleasuree! [URL CENCOREDSDBLARGGG] What you said, but the spirit by which you said cover and started for the nearest village on colonel's you were like an automaton. I didn't wake you men even in the sudra order. and from this day awaited them. Who was to undertake the responsibility parish, who was at breakfast, declared 'that he bhishma said, 'thus hymned with names that were you is everybody's friend and everybody is claudia long the flanckes of these battailes, on the left can resort, and are probably aware how strangely 'em.' no other horses were to be had. the agent to drink, and always come up smiling at the end of him as a devil, almost antichrist himself, for defence of a gate a massive parculles as oures, of reputation that are idle and toilworn, that. isceaakjpdaaakbjda. Beautiful. (Comment on this)
Saturday, April 19th, 2008
11:45 am	Freshly a.d. xiii Kal. Mai. MCCLV Warm as freshly-copied paper Is a dog out of the sun With his golden fur shining His eyes black and demur The air is cool with the aroma Of summer, cool as freshly-mown Grass, and the birds cheerfully Slander each other Overhead (Comment on this)