Francisco

⚫️ præsidio noctis ⚫️ @CartaRestaurada.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

Was I very simply spending
The older afternoon-evening
Thinking
That I could do with a plane
Trip and/or a difficult,
Disruptive, pervert,
Challenging but fast-paced
Sexual encounter, when reality
Brought me back to true sordidness
And its own minger, monstrous
Simplicity, and I was clear then
That tomorrow’d be functional,
Yet soon the blush would come
To set fire to both
Sides of sordidness for good.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

Now I will not invite you all to mute me, but to unfollow me and know me by heart.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

I recovered my blush and intolerance, I feel literally FATAL and thus better.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

This time, again in summer, it is necessary to get ahead of deferment, last-minute anxiety and crying off.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

The hell ceased to be functional, its dysfunctional outcome ceased to be concealable, death became pressing, and the long isolation would come in handy for lessening the grief of the nearest.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

@respondebat_ill Oh, thank you very much! :)
I’m honoured.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

You guys can unmute me already if you want.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

@Diewalkure83 Solo guardo un vago recuerdo de los dibujos y los muñecos, pero los vídeos de este señor siempre merecen la pena. Te pongo el enlace de su “reacción” a esa película, por si te apetece echarle un ojo.
https://t.co/FwfBEugFbB

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

(2|2)

A Beethoven who—regardless of whether his talent is real, or just an illusion of his pride that perceives his talent as evident, indisputable, as his mission and his way of serving God and neighbour in this life—is forced to bury his talent to occupy himself, instead, with filthy trivialities—that should be done by others, those who don’t know how to do anything else—, a Beethoven experiencing reality as an absolute, unbearable hell, a disorder without respite or room for hope, a valley of tears without sense or purpose: wouldn’t that Beethoven be the perfect example of the suspension of one’s own freedom and responsibility, of having been stripped of all clue, motive and energy to continue living?

Beyond, we repeat, whether the talent Beethoven attributes to himself is real, can he be expected not to commit suicide when what he is witnessing is that God has not kept his word (expressed, for example, in the parable of the talents)?
Wouldn’t that, if God were to do it, be a monstrous act, like that of a man who physically punishes a cat, knowing that the cat is incapable of understanding the punishment?

We insist that we are not talking about occasional setbacks, injustices, misfortunes and disorder, nor about a temporary, instructive humiliation that a person faces with the due attitude and becomes a better person, nor about an immense but brief and meaningful sacrifice (like that of Christ, who KNEW that his sacrifice had MEANING), but about extreme disorder and humiliation, devoid of any meaning and suffered perpetually, throughout a long life until death… A world perceived as abandoned, obnoxious, unbearable, without any news of God; a world that seems expressly designed to make it impossible to think that it is part of providence.

Suffering on a God-like scale, but without God.

There is no doubt that God, as conceived by true religion, would forbid suicide for any creature, suicide offensive to the Creator and caused primarily by pride. But God would not be God if He did not forgive the suicide of this hypothetical Beethoven, mired in a delusional, totally psychotic environment that forces him to live for a thousand years in the most ABJECT and unacceptable slavery, doing unworthy things he should not have to do, all without the slightest explanation, revelation or rational basis for believing that there is a God as great as his torment and whose existence allows and justifies this dehumanised hypothetical Beethoven accepting it—and even, yes then, dedicating songs of praise to his torment, like the torment praised with songs by the poets (Bécquer, Salinas…) who know that they are loved, and like those Cantabrians who sang praises to their torment as they died crucified on Mount Irnio.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

Refuse Worker Beethoven, Suicide and The Parable of the Talents
🧵

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

(1|2)

We will assume that no one can seriously maintain that all work is equally dignified and that this Enlightenment slogan [the “Age of Reason” (!)] can only be uttered from a place of cynicism, hypocrisy, or a desperate attempt to make a virtue of necessity.
The truth is, rather, that all work is undignified, since anything done for economic reasons (whether for profit or survival) is undignified, and the less “work” an effort or activity contains, the less undignified it is.

Some of those jobs could be done by anyone; they’re the ones no one wants to do, and they should be assigned to those who can’t do anything someone else can’t. It’s good to HELP/SERVE others, but it’s neither good nor rational that someone who can serve others with things no one else can do should be confined to doing things anyone can do, serving many through jobs that those who can’t do anything else should be doing.

Beethoven, as if applying the mandate of the Parable of the Talents, served others in the way that was fitting for him, forgoing suicide and giving to humanity what he could and should give.

The problem arises when a Beethoven (a hypothetical Beethoven, for the sake of clarity and ease) is assigned to serve others through those very things that others, instead, can and should do, making it abundantly clear to Beethoven (through actions, not just words) that he can and should shove his talents where the sun don’t shine: BURY them (as the “wicked and slothful servant” of the parable did).

What should, what even could Beethoven do then?

If he were to determine that he had the right to commit suicide, he would probably go to hell for pride, yet not before being informed (at the entrance gate) of the entire perfect universal plan so that he himself would understand that his destiny is the one he has freely sought and deserves, after being judged, for the first time, by a fair, qualified and infallible judge.

But does it make sense for God to demand such infinite and blind faith; to not give Beethoven, BEFORE he died, the slightest hint of the rationality, goodness, perfection of His plan? Wouldn’t that be fair (and what was agreed upon), so that the musician could have exercised his freedom for good or evil with minimal knowledge (which even the fallen angel himself possessed before and as falling)?

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

There was an obvious rhetorical liberty in my example. A poetic excess to express an excessive example.
Strictly speaking, of course, something that is highly probable is possible, and since it’s possible, it cannot be impossible at the same time.

It’d also be interesting to discuss how, in the eyes of an omniscient Observer, the only contradiction of the impossible (that necessarily IS NOT) would not be with the possible, but with the NECESSARY (being). But now we must move on to the necessary, rigorous, unpleasant and useless content formerly announced.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

The probable can be understood as a series of degrees within the realm of possibility, but the improbable is not a degree within the impossible—nor TOWARDS the impossible. The improbable is the least probable, the lowest degree of the possible, but that doesn’t mean CLOSER to the impossible: the impossible has no degrees and exerts no kind of magnetism, attraction, or alteration on the possible (regardless of how probable the possibility in question may be).

Thus, for example, it’s possible that there is a high probability that you will commit suicide at any moment and that, at the same time, it is impossible for you to commit suicide.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

(I don’t know what the quantum charlatans will think of such sober, rational nuance. Perhaps it will inspire them with a new, useful practical application, explained irrationally by their theories).

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

@ex_ai_gf I have surely posted much more terrible things before, and frequently, but I happened to warn on this occasion. Perhaps because I have spent all day ruminating the issue…

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

The following posts are inevitable, and although they will be full of reason, rigour and respect as always, will not be pleasant nor useful to anyone, and since I have no intention of being a nuisance in vain, I must invite you all to mute this account at least until tomorrow.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

@ex_ai_gf It was warned.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

All of the above and below was already lost except the mind.

[Chas D @Chasmeister]

What are you losing?

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

(I really meant to say “the youngest ever lass”, and not “the youngest lass ever”, “the youngest never last”, or “the youngest everlasting”).

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

I find it beautiful that almost thirty years later I can still remember that story in such vivid detail.
The only thing I cannot recall is her name—but if she were to appear and say it, I’d know that was it. Every time I try to remember it, I feel it constantly on the tip of my tongue, like those things that so beautifully almost happened: such unconsummated proximity, the certainty that they were so close to occurring coupled with the evidence that they never would.

It is also beautiful that, thanks to Twitter, there is a possibility that she might stumble across the tweet and say her name (for example, after simply putting the name of her town in the search engine) and that when I see it, I recognise it.

That turned out to be the last summer at the campsite.

Owned by a French family, the uninterrupted summer destination from my early to late teens, would close down shortly after, and I don’t know what could’ve been there since then in that area that for so many summers was filled with trees, concrete walkways alongside the caravans and tents, the bar with a pool table and telephone, the tannoy summoning someone who had a phone call for them (in a time long before mobile phones) or announcing the arrival of the baker: “El pan… Le pain!… El panadero… Le boulanger!”

Its clay tennis court was used mainly for pétanque championships that were quite an event each week that nobody missed, either as a participant (in teams formed by lottery) or as a spectator.

The French patriarch-grandfather was named Richard, almost like the mythical yellow triangular ashtrays that sat on the tables of the campsite bar and in many other bars of the time (which bore “Ricard” after the brand of drink created by Paul Ricard). The lads in the historic group of friends, unsure of our French pronunciation, decided to call him “Rijkaard”, with affection and reverence, even though we were not entirely sure of the Dutch pronunciation of the AC Milan footballer’s name either.

That gentleman brimming with years, lungs and muscle fiber, would hand out the trophies at the end of the pétanque championships, after announcing the results and the names of all the participants over the PA system, holding a microphone tucked beneath his white mustache.
He’d managed to get absolutely every vacationer at the campsite hooked on a game that in Spain was nothing more than a pastime for a few old folks. Once a week, everything would go dark except for that small clay court where spotlights illuminated the gathering of this diverse group, in a silence broken only by the clack of the silver balls and the applause.

Summer was good and we were happy there, spending all day with summer friends from the historic group and some occasional acquaintances, the whole day divided between the omnipresent bicycles and the beach, and the sea promenade smelling of salt, “café licor” (“not ‘licor de café!’”) and Coca-Cola, at night—without the caffeine being an obstacle to sleeping, nor was the heat, since it was not hot at night in the tent under the trees.
It was so poetic that it all ended right after meeting descendants of the first Coca-Cola alchemists, people who, when speaking, would emit a winsome melody similar to some from Scotland, Liverpool and Ireland!

For the rest of the year, almost all of us longtime summer friends lived far apart; we didn’t see each other or have any contact whatsoever, except through handwritten LETTERS.

The handwritten LETTERS, dropped in the postbox, collected from the letterbox, would guard the authority of SUMMER.

Then SUMMER would come, eventually, again, and although nothing special happened often, there was joy and conviction that something might happen at any moment and this state of continuous, almost unfounded, almost unreal euphoria, when everything was possible and possible was good (beyond greater or lesser goodness of the real: that what had been real-ised in the present and past), is what we truly miss with salvific nostalgia.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

I remembered a story while writing the previous follow-up to this thread. It smells like soda bubbles with dark caramel inside and deserves its own separate post, because it relates to the thread’s topic but I am not sure of its conclusions—and because “sacred” means separate.

I was 18. My summer holiday was taking place again at a campsite in a coastal town near Gandía in Valencia.
At night, in the beach bars, we used to drink “café licor con Coca-Cola” (called now by the AI ​​by two names that I didn’t hear anyone there say then) and I don’t know if David Morales’s Classic Mix of “Cosmic Girl” was also playing, or if I was the only one who heard it (during the day).

That summer, a group made up of people from the nearby Aielo joined our historic, old-standing group of summer folks.
(Aielo de Malferit was the Valencian small town where in 1880 the Kola-Coca Nut was created, a drink based on coca leaves and kola nut that was ahead of the North American formula).

Among those people was a 13-year-old girl, always dressed in tight black shorts and a t-shirt, probably maroon, who’d be forever walking along the sea promenade with her group from Aielo and mine.

She couldn’t have existed without that promenade. My memory of her conjures up a mixture of sea salt, the promenade, a literary princess, a brunette fairy, and sentences that Houellebecq himself would’ve signed off on (although in reality she never uttered any such phrases, nor did we ever exchange more than three words per conversation).

She went, overnight, from not seeming to have even noticed me, to offer me her packet of snacks while calling me “perla” (pearl, “margaritas” in the Latin of the Gospel of Matthew), in a way that she looked like being swaying between reverie and mischief… just to vanishing again and reappearing to stare at me with a sombre expression, as if I were a printed X-ray.

A friend’s cousin (last-minute incorporation in our historic group), with whom I also hadn’t exchanged three words in a row, decided that this girl and I would make a good couple, interpreted my inaction as shyness and inexperience (and perhaps that the former was the cause of the latter, or vice versa) and played matchmaker by talking to her.
I overheard him to my right, during one of the evening promenade walks. She answered, “No m’agraden els novatos” (I don’t like newbies).
It was said like that, from the first Coca-Cola language to the final word in dry, universal Castilian.
She didn’t like amateurs. She was looking for professionals—experienced strategists of contrived romance and flesh. At her very thirteen.

Cousin Matchmaker (otherwise a good fellow) got a right ticking-off in private from me, and my inaction turned to cement and arms of Ophelia, even though the lass’s behaviour would never be consistent with her fatal ruling.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

I can’t believe I can’t remember her name.

Unlike my initial reaction to the woman who recently, a few days ago entered my perception in her uniform, but I didn’t realise how inconvenient it was that she was a Civil Guard officer on duty until a few seconds later, THE GIRL FROM THE LAST SUMMER OF ALL SUMMERS had a name, she was not even processed as a woman by me, and when the course of events led me to process her, her feminine presence alongside my masculine one struck me as wrong.
Was wrong in a non-social, legal or moral dimension: I was then, moreover, at the height of my Nietzscheanism—beyond good and evil!, you know—and maybe also at my height of silliness—my brain completely absorbed and hijacked by the Bachillerato, having completed the first year and with the second and final year still to come.

Biographical circumstances of the time had distanced me from pondering flesh, blush and sigh with lasses my own age—much less would I have pondered anything with someone much younger, so younger, the youngest ever lass, at such perturbing youth not merely relative to me back then, but an absolute, proportionless youth, the youth of youths: there was no way, I thought, that our overblushed picture could work.

But she did have a NAME, and wasn’t a rare, uncommon or hard name, either as a concept or as a name actually borne by contemporary people, yet at the time I interpreted what had happened as not a story to remember.
I didn’t try to hold onto it, nor did my involuntary thought processes store it. And I suspect that, although statistically I should’ve come across that name often, in practice that didn’t occur.
So, having let it fade into the times immediately following the story, the name was indeed lost, and since it hasn’t resurfaced in my life in these 28 years, it has not been able to be retrieved by my memory.

It is as though, for example, today you have a story with a girl named “Emma”, ​​you decide that the story isn’t going to be part of (your) history, the name doesn’t cross your mind again since then, and although there have surely been many Emmas in the following 28 years, you haven’t seen or heard that name anywhere. Against your initial view, you eventually see that Emma was indeed destined to occupy a place in (your) history, albeit literally anonymous, in provisional anonymity—until the day the name “Emma” reappears before you and you remember that this was the name of the woman known to history.

Meanwhile,

She Is That She Is
and She Is hath sent me unto you.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

Ideally, you’d be allowed to do something at once or leave it undone forever. But normally, you have to do it, sooner or later, and leaving it for later could save your life, brains and soul, especially if you are an undead.

There can be greater patience behind procrastination.

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

(My recent comment about the possibility of translating the scene of “Don Quixote Rides Again” led me to think of making a thread like this)

Thread about PATIENCE
🧶

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

Nature, Politeness and Patience

[Francisco @whereabout_F]

On the other hand, moreover,

nature has its limits,
and therefore so does politeness.