plenum und barbaren

hello fellow squids,
i find myself on a couch in schwabing-west, afloat in my head up to my ears.

i made it to the airport on friday in high spirits. the stewardpeople on lufthansa just kept offering us glass after glass of wine and then brandy/bailey's...absurd. e, my travelbuddy and "colleague," fainted twice on the plane for mysterious, possibly malarial reasons but we landed without catastrophe. couldn't find a way to call our couchsurfing host, christian, so we just showed up at his house which worked out okay after all.

that night, we went to the ludwig-maximillian-universitat where the students are striking, occupying the main student center (which is fucking echoingly huge) to demand free university education, democratization of education. in the plenum, they were also talking a lot about "bildung" vs "ausbildung"--something like self-edification/intellectual nourishment vs job training. tons of universities across germany, austria, and some of the university of california schools are occupied.

this place had been occupied ("besetzt") for about 2 weeks and this weekend i happened to walk into the international students' plenum on education reform. classes are stopped and apparently the students have a right to protest there (or so i was told), which is why they haven't been forcibly removed. i talked to a lot of people about their participation and why there is little organizing of a student movement (at uchicago, or among lots of schools, or internationally) in the US. of course a lot of it is privatization--how much can you protest when you've paid, or someone has paid, so much money for you to be at that institution? the accountability of administration and investors to the students and faculty is also clearly quite different at private US universities as compared to here in munich.

anyway, it was a pretty amazing thing to see...so many signs, people (a huge lecture hall full...maybe 300, 400? more?), lots of crusty-looking freaks and queermos and lots of "normal-looking" and impassioned kids...and all of this discussion about the facticity of science and what the purpose of the university is, whether happiness matters...happening openly, in the main lecture hall of the school with no "adults" in sight.

so yeah, that was cool. then some band started playing and e, jeanne, christian and i danced on the desks and drank and talked to kids. we did a radio interview...i'll let you know if i can ever find it online.

today, sunday, e and i slept till about 3p.m. and christian made pfannkuchen/german pancakes and then we wandered to this huge art/market festival (tollwood...some kind of semiannual thing) and i liberated So Much. it was the perfect setting--huge crowds, tiny booths, overpriced beautiful things...mmmm. i have some new little instruments for our house. then we found our way to this place that was doing reggae/jazz-improv (lelz you were basically there with me but you would have been able to jump onstage). also the walls in this place were fucking sick...there was a huge octopus (picture forthcoming), vomiting panda bears, lots o little buddies and tags [howyousayuhhhh] out the wazoo...

all in all, it's great to be speaking german, great to talk to other people who are traveling or working or doing cool stuff, push away some of my anxiety and come face-to-face with other anxieties (hrmhrmfinals, these things "queer" and "radical," what is awkwardness, the place of art in my life). i am missing the baohaus like woah and my attachments to people in general. i have so much of you inside of me.

love,
eliot

more info on the LMU occupation if you're interested
someone at the plenum talked about this site for int'l student movement

i can tell that we are gonna be friieieieieinds

I go to the FRAK EASY last night. I sleep first and then I wake up and it's time to go but the crew is asleep at the helm and we are veering off course. far, far off course. but then I know that the car can keep me company on the road and I glitter up and head off, always 2 lanes ahead of the sunrise. Old Unreliable makes it over the freeway.
The FRAK EASY is definitely best between 4 and 9 in the morning.
This is it - we finally come to a moment that I wait for all my life.
Now I can finally be the life of the party and get my sleep.

there is a beautiful kid who I recognize - otter's zombie buddy from halloween FRAK EASY - all pierced and tattoooood.
we dance and then dance. I feel groovy.
we sit and cuddle. I feel yummy.
We dance more.
Everybody beams and eats pie and pancakes and scrambled eggs that xenon makes. All my friends smile like upsidedown rainbows.
and then Old Unreliable makes it back over the freeway and I read anthropology book by david graeber, "possibilities - essays on hierarchy, rebellion, and desire".
the FRAK EASY is more interesting and I don't like the "comma-and" construction in the title.

who are we?

message received, loud and clear. lesson learned. topic exhausted.
I don't really think we can pass the midterm, but I'll still stay up studying the night before.
except when the sun comes up, I'll realize we've been playing instead and we haven't read a word.

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

get it? fuck it.
spent all morning writing one email.
will spend all afternoon running around the block. always counterclockwise.
the forces that hold my soles to the pavement are weakening, widening, stretching - imagine stepping on pink chewing gum and then pulling away, farther, fürther, gone. bakaw!

who can say who's saying what: the toy piano baroque

gentle please
this fucker - this buttfucker
can i explain this to you please

FOOOOOOO
FOOOOOOOO
this is the sea horse
here we have the eye eye
here here we have the cheek
it's the wonderful spiral down to the mouse
the nooooooose
FOOOOOO

then the nose and the feet
we have his regal hat
the sea horses perfet hat
he's a general
he is a colonel
colonel chicken
then we hyave the fin wing
because he is half humminbirg
we have the claw foot and then we have the tail and this his second tail
do you see



do you see
...
do you seee

what?
'are you kidding'
i could work at the renassiance festival
i would be queen anne or elizabeth
or the sherriff or Robin hood

i would be colonel custer
in the liberry with the knife

nooooooooooo
do not
IDK
chevre
fromage

what's with this glove
what scuse me?
what? I hope you starve
what?

squeak squeak squeak

you jerk. uhuh
ra ra ra ra ra ra rururarauararuar
mmmmmuh muh muh muuuh

this is actually a love story

why i connected the grease burned slowly fading red and raw points of concentrated remnants of actualized pain with a thin black ink: i was so fascinated by their beauty, in their temporariness, in how they're changing all the time and how i can make them change, and i wonder why i am so fascinated by these sites of experience on my own body to the point of obsession, the burns the scars the little red lines the bruises the pimples (zits pussballs) the open sores on my cuticles the way my fingers turn blue and white when they're cold --------- the ways i change these changing marks and the way that feels and changes my perspective

why i feel something (an intensity! when i am affected, ok alright) by these beautiful wounds but more by what i do to them: i am obsessed with novelty: i am bored a lot: i am bored by myself: which is to say i don't feel emotionally attached to myself: which is to say i am not in love with myself: which i find to be the source of MUCH of my ambivalence toward and detachment from specificity and concreteness: these moments of connectedness with myself as a grounded object in the world, seeing myself through my own eyes which is different than looking in a mirror, attach me to the thrumming grooving vitality of the world and i am in love with myself and can look unmediated through my own eyes and be connected with things that are of my own experience, with my own history with my own relationships with my own creations and i can feel something about them
inspired by something of my own origination


it seems that there are people who don't experience the world in this way, what an interesting way in which they must experience the world, which is to say i wish we could share our neurons

Bits and pieces on my mind

Revisting:

the songs woven into my brain under the dust of many years and putting them back where I can see them

from grandad:

• The Skye Boat Song (and inevitably the dream of Scottish nationalism)
• I Belong to Glasgow
• Ma Cabane au Canada
• Beautiful Dreamer
• My Old Man Says Follow the Van
• Hashivenu
• The Well Below the Valley
• I Painted Uh
• that one about Jerusalem that's in Russian and is now only a trickle of music

from endless car rides through the wiggles of road, from assemblies and services:

• Regina Angelorum! (seriously please ora pro nobis)
• Golden Slumbers
• Lying Eyes
• he chastens and hastens his will to make known, right?
• I'm Just a Poor Wayfaring Stranger
• chunks of Porgy and Bess
• Non Nobis Te Deum
• Dou Robyn
• Alice's Restaurant
  

my ears
and my voice
were built and trained
to hear and sing
only
songs about
fear so crippling it makes you cower
ecstatic relief in moments of reprieve
loss of home, hearth, country, self
remembering wars centuries gone but still stinging
of next year in another city
and a dirty ditty or two

THANK GOD I DISCOVERED ELECTRO

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A and B are standing at a bus stop. A is homeless and looking for something to eat.

A: rata-tat-tat i fumble my bumble
have you got a penny to spare
so i can buy a new shiny bangle
and each one'll be part of a pair

B: can't you ask someone else?
i'm concerned about the tingle in the ether
i'm worried about my quickening pulse
things aren't getting any easier

A: we've all got problems
but you've get less than me
your glittery eyes speak volumes
about a house where they serve a lot of tea

B: tea and coin will be forgotten
don't you smell it in the air?
these warm days tell me something is comin
for both of us things will not look so fair

A: quoth she! quoth she!

B: disbelieve me if you want
there's no stock for me in your faith

A: quoth she! quoth she!
ring out the bells, we got a seer on our hands!

B: wait and see, the sky will press down on our heads and squash us all. no matter the coins in our pockets, we will all be crushed indiscriminately between earth and air. we cannot leave this lump of rock.

A: that may be, but i'd like to see the sky float away into nothing just to prove you wrong.

an xtra reading assignment

speaking of smoke, rhythm and incidental rocks, if you have a free 30 minutes this was a pretty incredible article about the search for a (post)modern opium den:
opium
I've been in a few places that people have described as opium dens, but always metaphorically - there was never any opium! I've tried to guerrilla-plant poppies in hyde park, but they didn't grow. In italy someone gave me a tiny sliver of opium, but that's a long story for another day.
I think all signs point to Thailand - the bus leaves in september '10 - and only you can decide if you'll be on it.

accidentally stoned on an incidental rock

hullo world, i'm ready.
well, never-ready-but-ready-enough-anytime.

my days have been slipping by in smoke, rhythm, and gusts of cold wind. i confess: i have been in the reg. no, no, i take it back, wait: i was only there to print enough pages to make people wait awkwardly while i answer my cell phone unavoidably, talking in short bursts of reception in the quiet 1st floor. so where does the time go? how to patch together a rhythm of holes and gaps?

crisis averted then,
leli might add peanut butter. (or cheese? and.) i say chili powder, always.
i'm living on apples and bread and free cookies and when there's a meal it's an excellent meal.

maybe tomorrow i will theorize something. i would like to theorize a very nice rock.

for now, we play and we dream and we play

w p d

hey preacher man,

shed some light on that

white puffy dick.

so i can learn how to design

the stage.


don't do theater.

if you have interest in anything else,

do that.

hey preacher man,

go fuck yourself.


i am here.

here's where i'll be.

eating cookies.

to SAVE MY FACE.

Talking the talk.

It's winter today, I realize. For once, I have gloves. I usually never have gloves.

Today, I am bored in class. Not just in math (which honestly is a given), but in design as well. We go to the theater and we are told how it works. This always breaks my heart a little. "I know, I know," I want to say, "but can I climb on this?" And the TD tells us all about how hard it is to make art. "I know, I know," I want to say, "but can I climb on this?" By this time, I have to remember that the feeling of my heart breaking comes from my brain and that I am, in fact, dandy.

I go to art school for the first time today. I am a little nervous because of some ingrained message from the time I spent as an "upright citizen" that makes art schools seem so...precious to me, but there is something wonderful in the weird triangular staircase down to the basement, in the metallurgy workshops, the buzz of people, the high industrial ceilings with sweet hand-painted signs to tell you where you are, and clanging echo. It is very different that what I am used to. I spend a handful of hours playing, my head often close to the ground or falling out of a spin. My hip hurts because I push a little to hard, but I am no worse for the wear.

Today, I sit on the bus back from downtown and I look at faces. Michelle has recently told me a story. She says, "I saw a woman on a bus and she was like this (big wide-eyed, amazed face) and like 'new shoes really, I just bought these, but I think I'm going to return them' face never changing and just a mask!" She makes the face again. I make the face. I look like a blow up doll. I promise myself I will practice in the mirror. So on the bus home, I look at faces hoping to find Michelle's woman. But, everyone is tired and falling asleep so I spend my time staring at what look like death masks to me. It is a little frightening. To be less scared, I look at the notes the man next to me is writing in his limegreen notebook with red pen. His handwriting is terrible but I read something like this, "Are there certain humans born with spiritual capabilities? I have the impulse to say so. Yes, I suppose you could reach awareness and then through awareness enlightenment. But there is a long distance between awareness and enlightenment." He leaves a big space. He writes, "I imagine!" He leaves another big space. Then he writes a block of words I can't read from my angle. He gets off at 47th street. His writing has made me feel better, oddly.

Which is to say, today I have been vague and cloudy, but watching. Peering, listening, creeping even. I wonder how much watching I can do and how much I have done and what that watching all adds up to. Do you know?

its getting to be too much, the trauma of waking up every day with expectations, how do I CLEAR MY MIND but still create windy moments of awe?

another weekend passed. love and disappointment smashed. talktalktalktalktalktalk. action? actioooooon? sob sob sob defacto motivation let's talktalktalktalktalk

spicy tofu.

the winners rewrite history

it's funny, but I think being sick (finally! - the worst part was waiting for the inevitable) has helped focus me on a few things. things in my head.
I'm not suggesting the body as a distraction from anything important. A careful distinction - I'm suggesting involvement in the daily routine as a distraction, an involvement that normally requires a healthy body. It's been great to get out of the routine a bit and regroup.
reshrink.
recapitulate.
I don't know if anybody but me ever obsessed over the boardgame Risk (nevermore - I promise), but the winning strategy was always careful containment of power, to never spread oneself thin, until the very end - the moment of truth.
Social dynamics a bit like risk (where's the verb in this preceding sentence? hiiiiiding). We have multiple moments of truth in our game whose different sizes (importances? truthinesses?) are relative to the risk required to attain them (triumph over the moment, not the truth - but maybe it's the same thing [how cynical!]), but the basic strategy remains the same - keep your energy close around you until you really need it.
We can see another analogy in gravitational dynamics (as always - I hope this doesn't come as a surprise) - those heavy little stars last much, much longer then the big, spread out ones that end up collapsing or blowing up.
collapsing or blowing up - this is the consequence of overextension.
Not that I'm trying to judge - both of these are equally valid forms of creative-destruction/destructive-creation/change - but (applied to all the metaphors at once now) until I want my little pieces of star/plastic tanks and horses to mix with all the other colors and planets and shiny bits of flesh around me, that is to say, until someone buys a better board-game than Risk, I think I'll play it close and choose tact over excess.

memories, mountain lions

REM to reality in ten minutes flat.  I awoke convinced that Eliot had adopted a baby mountain liong--through a microwaved cup of tea through a frantic bike ride through three gulps stolen coffee--until I saw Rolly (sleepy-eyed, always in that corner, writingwritingwriting) and came close to asking, 

"And how is the mountain lion today?" 

before I realized that I had been dreaming.

Perhaps I should have asked anyway.

I am reading about memory.  An author told me that memories are not, in fact, stored as accurate images in the corners of our heads, just waiting for the right tools to scrape them out; but rather, they are reconstructed.  This book is fucking me up.

Now memories are interrupting my day (Danny Umlauf passing out on the lawn, sticking grass up his nose until his mother told us he had a seizure).  

I cannot complete 

(walking down railroad tracks with my father at night, etching lines into rusted rails with my fingertips) 

a thought without 

(Act 1, Scene 4 in Miracle on 34th Street)

a moment clamping down on

(6AM on a bus to southern Indiana, a blonde head asleep on my shoulder)

my brain, insisting that

(a funeral for someone I do not know)

I record it

(particular glances, carnival rides, books read only at night)

immediately.

And how is the mountain lion today?  I almost forgot to ask.

for the good life is out there somewhere, so stay on my arm you little charmer

from my journal at 7:30am today, or 8pm on monday 4 u, 

dunno if it will be interesting at all

what IS interesting, is that it is RAINING

not as hard as it did i'm sure during winknight's stay in summer 05, but wow i was soaked earlier walking to and from dance. i haven't seen a rain like this in... who knows. certainly not in washington nor in pune so far. so june or july in chicago. it's wonderful except that the water on the street is full of ambiguous matter.

ok ok.

i'm at home [in hyde park] talking to justin on gmail, skype, phone or something. he is at the baohaus, i have to go soon [to india? somewhere permanent, so there is an urgency] but i want to see justin before i leave but i project that he is reluctant or doesn't think it is important [or like seeing me when i'm about to leave would just open up new wounds or something so it's better not to see each other at all... a familiar train of thought for me]. i go there and find my vest/package, sand, no rock, cigarette wrapper from cigs i bought in bombay. justin is kinda sorta in the other room[i originally typed 'kinda aorta'!].. i don't think i actually physically see him. [second or third dream where this happens! i havent seen justin in weeks]. i go through give away boxes of clothes and take a striped shirt from ali. 

SWITCH

i'm wrapping electrical chords around irons, playing "like a virgin" by madonna, britney, and christina [remember that vma performance where they kissed and it was scandalous?]. then scene change to wearing wobbly high heels (like from the kingfisher swimsuit calendar model reality tv show) at a dilapidated opera house. amulya mandava is claiming something about rewriting/organizing some great music masterpiece of orchestral music by a composer i don't like but i can't remember who, now. the stairs are difficult. i hear someone say "it won 2 tonys". when we get to the lobby i'm with granny, granddad, and mom. the opera-food-place is baking $3 cookies and granny remarks that they're finally baking their own, and needs to throw something out. 

SWITCH

in a mildly dilapidated grand building [the opera house after being abandoned in 50 years? which reminds me of the train station in bombay... marble floors and nice stairs, but dirt and funny smells everywhere]. i'm finding anastasia and ali, they're in class or something. i'm doing something with blue ink. it's raining and coming through the roof. i pee while walking down the grand-ish stairs [same scene as walking down stairs in opera house, only no high heels and i'm with a&a] . i'm not wearing pants. there might be more. a&a are nonchalant, not interested in me.

then? the interview with the nice couple, how they met. through craigslist. a cute ad. they have fun! they do such n such! then i see he has a computer. on the side of the building. it is big, about 3 feet tall-- looks like "tsunami dream" comp of my dad's. outside, still colonial bombay architecture, 

THEN do i go to the part where i am part of a murder scheme? i waylay someone (the target?) by reading something to them, and then a guy down the street shoots them. i move on and question the ethics of what i just did. maybe that person was hannah because i also dreamt that i read a long sentence from a yellow paper that was my high school transcript with multiple clauses, conflicting imagery, weird vocab, also claiming that india was in africa. hannah said "what does that even mean?" ad we're like yeah wtf i dunno. 

also at some point i'm stretching in some kind of gym class and my legs look more like granny's and a little diamond-like shaped (like harlequin babies) and some dude shares that he used to know a kid who had it who could never poop. but that when he was a kid his poops were too watery. maybe the kid with weird skin died? or had some other strange ending. 

============

that's the end of my journal entry. wow it was boring, but i was so excited writing it this morning. i can pretty much clearly identify where all of these images situations and feelings come from in my conscious life, so in a way, i thought that sharing this with you all lets you know how my unconscious is processing the stuff i'm seeing thinking feeling and talking about. instead of writing those things down directly. home, love, place, bodily discomfort, language, death, buildings, art, where the fuck i am/am i.

Poopsicle.

"On these warm days, I feel a strange sense of foreboding, as if something is about to go terribly, terribly wrong," quoth I to Ricky Dicky Micky Sticky Licky Douchebag. "I love marijuana cigarettes," quoth he to me. I think, "I should be a wall, not a person."

Today, this week, this month I find myself incapable of abstraction but capable of abstract psychology. I whirl around naming hang-ups and neuroses. "Seek counseling" quoth the counselor. "You would," quoth I. But I am far too busy analyzing to be analyzed. I refuse the flocked chaise but I'm putting baby there all the time. Brecht and Artaud gather snot in their noses to smear on me at a later date. "Look at yourself, concerned with persons not people!" Then they mime masturbation. I feel sassed.

Inevitably, I come back to the fact that there is often a cat in our bathtub chasing his tail or cats hissing at each other in the hall. These are points of contention for me above all others. I cannot name this feeling, because it is not so much a feeling as a symbol that has no signifiers but feels like a symbol for my life anyway. When I see them I think, "Am I waiting for grown-upness to happen to me? I wait for a lot to happen to me. I am in the waiting-room all the time. In the waiting-room reading the boring-ass, crappy fucking magazines about things I don't care to know." Cats make me think. Maybe it's the smell.

What I am saying is, I fold. Count me out.


I am too childish to play this game. My dad beats me at Monopoly, he's been doing it for nearly twenty-two years and I still tear up a little. "Look at yourself," quoteth Brecht and Artaud, "sell back our books to the bookstore and give back that one you 'borrowed' because your fingers are stinging our pages." "You would," quoteth I. Then I snot on them before they can snot on me. "Ha" I say. "You would" quoth they.

So much for being a sophisticate. For being urbane or academic. So much for being abstract. I guess I won't be the caftan wearing type.

tooth decay got me down

a privy for your thoughts

today's been pretty average so far:
I listened to a goose symphony
I explored two different forgotten ruins (one tiny and dirty, one vast and unclean)
I skipped two lectures (one physically, one mentally [note: the second lecture hasn't ended yet. I think])
I thought about money and class in multiple contexts
I lost my favorite hat (it'll show up at the grounds - or it won't! so therefore I can tell the future)

and then in the process of losing my hat, I realized that there was something nagging at me all day long, metanagging if you will, I kind of annoyance at having to wonder what's bothering me, the kind of thing that can only be solved with a nice, sting-y tentacle-slap.
but I think I'm tired of being slapped by the same tentacles all the time.

A thought experiment:
I think I figured out ruthlessness.
You can only be ruthless when you know the end (the goal, the conclusion, &c.).
Then you can ignore all the distractions en route (and thus the chief virtue of ruthlessness is its efficiency towards the thing you want to do).
I would argue that if you already know the end
that is to say, think you know the end
then you've already done something wrong - and here's why:
say you know the outcome of a thing.
you're either right, in which case, why bother doing the thing?*
or you're wrong, in which case, maybe ignoring all the distractions en route wasn't such a hot idea after all.

Very abstract, yes, but we can now apply this, for example, to show why my papers always get mediocre grades (left as an exercise to the reader).
*A bonus critical thought question: how does the above theory apply to xtianity? to your own metaphilosophy?

To conclude this particular ramble,
I desperately need more ruth in my life.

HIHIHI

ELIOT THE BAT.

polyamory can get so complicated

i've had a number of extended intimate relationships with ideas today. i've curled around a few of them and let them poke their edges into my sternum. i got smacked around a little bit, i played a fair amount. and some of the ideas i threw out the window, but i put little strings on them because i know deep down that i'll probably want them back someday soon.
the point is, i've been nestling around with a lot of different theories and practices and i'm getting tested at the scc on monday but i'm not sure i have the kind of insurance coverage to detect the insidiousness of ex-ideas and self-doubt that are lingering and stalking my brain. leli suggested i be more ruthless with my ideas. i imagine i am probably better at disciplining other people than disciplining myself.

on the other hand, if i've learned anything, it's that intellectual monogamy would be terribly boring.

also, hello squidders--haven't posted in a while, but i've been reading and appreciating and nestling (and more) with your thoughts.

In-class, internetical conversation between T'mo and Toast

T'mo: i feel like i can't use words in this room

for fear of offending people

Edoobs: same, i hate it here

my mood is instantly worse

i hate everything

life sucks

ive never felt so sad and lonely

i am completely drunk

my veins are filled with heroin

i can hardly see straight

but strangely my spelling is largely unaffected

my hearing is shot

my eyes are filled with pus, i dont know why

1:47 PM i forgot an apostrophe in the contraction above, i think it's because i'm so drunk and obliteratedly high

everyone looks like chicken thighs to me

i forgot to look at the coupon booklet for the local cvs this morning

my grandmother will never forgive the extra cents i will spend on my afternoon gatorade which she will count when i get home

after counting all of those wasted cents

she will detract all of them from my marshmellow allotment in my hot cocoa

1:48 PM which she makes from a box of packets she bought in paris during WWII

which is secretly a douch-ing kit

but i've never had the heart to tell her

people simply thouhgt that douch-ing was improved by the use of cocoa in WWII

me: you are making a fool of me right now

Edoobs: this statement has been proven false numerous times and it's appalling that she still thinks so

i can't shit but i can pee freely, an unexpected turn of bowel events

1:49 PM the clouds are closing in

the sun is dying

this is both metaphorically and literally true

when it dies, which can only seem likely to happen in my lifetime, today or later this week

i will be sad, and literally, dead

1:50 PM this turn of events will come, probably suddenly, but with open arms from my end

because im so depressed and blindly and deafly drunk and hig

h

i have lost my will to live anyhow and have decided, until my imminent death

to pursue a major in human development

which i find ironic because i've made up my mind that no human develops, only wallows further in the great mire of human turds and elephant shit

1:51 PM i have no strange or specific love for elephant shit, it is simply the nature of reality

pure and squarely simple

i've called out for help but grandma stifles my cries with exotic fruits she hurls at me with a water balloon launcher, an appartus she bought on sale and often reminds me of

my ability to type slows, the darkness descends

i ask jesus to pull my plug from the great cosmic machine to which it is attached

1:52 PM he grins and with a jowly and somehow jaundiced drool tells me assuredly that he will not help

i died.

1:53 PM T'mo: el oh el

home alone

It's oh so quiet in the baohaus!

Where is everyone?

It's oh so still!

Vlad and Baby are wrestling. Both have white chests. One is fat and one is lean.

And so peaceful!

Let me count the faces in the room:

3 cats

Woman with terrifying eyes and bloody lips

2 Dog pinata faces

2 Krissy Rhode faces

Emma Goldman

Masturbating portrait (of eliot?)

9 images of cats

Robot

Perhaps some whale faces

Space invaders face

And a few other miscellaneous faces

roly's face

A lot of faces for a lonely girl! But 4 are missing.

HOLY SHIT ALL THE FACES IN THE ROOM HAVE COLLECTIVELY STARTED BAOING TO BRING YOU ALL HOME. do you hear it? This is fucking terrifying, but my own face can't help but join in. It's a cacophony in here, I hope the neighbors don't mind, ringBAMDINGbeepbopBAOBAOBOABAOsdlfhsdjkfheeeheehhaaaaahaaaHOHOHOHOBUKAKA HAS JOINED THE PARTY.

oh it worked!

another face