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ditadevil · 4 years

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Tulu - an amazing woman!

People who know me well also know of my obsessive love towards my Mother. Over the last 30 years, my Mother has been omnipresent in my mind in different ways. I get bouts of memories from my childhood to growing-up days where I have seen Ma being in the situations that I now face while adulting. Over the last few years, I have always thought of penning down how she has been more than a Mother to me and finally this lockdown triggered me to write this down. So, here it goes… Disclaimer: It might seem as though my Dad is missing in all these things but let me tell you that he is the sweetheart of our lives and someday there will be a separate write-up about him.

It all begins with one of the early memories that I have from childhood; but I am going to set up a bit of context first. My Dad has been working in Bhutan (since 1987). Ma and Baaba decided that both their daughters need good education. Thereby the arrangement was that my Didi and I will stay with Ma in Calcutta and Dad would pay us a visit every 3-4 months.

My Dadu and Thakuma (Grandfather and Grandmom) also stayed with us back then. Ma taught Bengali in a Primary school just to make sure that the houses’ needs were met independently, as my Dad’s monthly money-order sometimes took a lot of time to process. So, one of my first memories take me back to this day when I was sitting with my Thakuma in the backside of our house. The backyard had many plants that my Dadu had grown. It also had a dark green coloured tube well and two nylon ropes where clothes were to be dried. I was enjoying the cool breeze and Thakuma was having cha (tea) from a small cup. Suddenly, I heard a thud which came from my Dadu’s room. He was an aged man who was bedridden. I nudged Thakuma to tell her that let’s go and check on him, but I don’t know why she ignored me and chose to not get up. That was also probably the first time that I remembered something which Ma would always tell me. While leaving for her school she would say, “Take care of Dadu and Thakuma when I am away.” So, I went and peeked inside my Dadu’s room and saw that he was lying on the ground and holding his head which was bleeding. I then ran to the kitchen and filled a steel glass with water to its brim and ran back to give it to my Dadu, leaving a trail of water behind my path. I don’t remember much of what happened after that. But I do remember that after a few weeks, my Baba came home as Dadu had passed away. More than the despair of losing a grandparent, I was more excited that my Baaba was visiting us. I started noticing things around me after that. I observed that my Thakuma used to be mean towards my Ma and when I used to tell this to Ma, she would just tell me, “Your Thakuma is old and there are many people who are mean to each other. That doesn’t mean that I have to forget my kindness and you shouldn’t too.” Later, I joined the same primary school where my Mother used to teach. Relating one funny incident from those two years. One day, back in school after the Kali Pujo (or Diwali) holidays, my classmates stood in a group and were trying to outdo each other with stories from their holidays around firecrackers. I too wanted to share my story. I told them, “Do you know what I did? I took a bunch of kaali-potka (the red firecrackers) in my palm and let it burn till the end!” The kids were amazed and that’s when I felt a tug on my shoulder. It was Ma. She told all of the kids, “Erokom kichu hoe ni… tomra baari jaao (Nothing like this has happened. Please go home now).” She took my palm (the same one which had made me immensely famous just a while ago) and we started walking. We got out of the school gate and were going back home. She said, “Baabi (Baabi and Moom i.e. wax-like are my daak names), why have you started lying? What if they try this out at home and get their hands burnt!” I wanted to justify my exaggerated story. I wanted to say, ‘what about their exaggerated stories?’ But I let it be. In reality, I have always been scared of firecrackers. I have even given up on fitting into the group of firecracker-bursting and noise-making enthusiasts of the world.

One of the next memories I have is when Baaba started to build the first floor of our house and Ma left teaching. I just started telling myself that “We are also boro lok now (rich people)”, although the rest of the family didn’t share the same enthusiasm. Anyway, there was this empty plot next to our house which my Ma used to say belonged to our estranged Uncle (the second brother). He neither intended to make a house there, nor did he agree to sell it to my Dad. They were three brothers and my Baaba is the youngest one. I still haven’t been told about the reason behind why this uncle decided to part ways with the rest of us. All I knew was that he had a drinking problem. Often, he used to come outside our house and yell at the top of his voice. What I could only understand is that he was drunk and he is yelling at Ma, calling her names. I would hold on to Ma and not let her proceed towards the verandah as I used to be really scared. She would move me aside and that’s when I started noticing this other side of my Mother - The stern one. The face which has seen a lot and will not take up any unnecessary drama. In a minute or two, I could hear my Ma roaring at my Uncle.” At the end of these conflicts, Mejo Jethu (Uncle) would leave and my Mom would turn back, lock the doors and gates. Her face still red, flushed with anger. But I found her to be beautiful even then. In her floral cotton sarees, gold hoop earrings, long braided hair and her red face not saying anything but reflecting a face of someone almost powerful as Ma Durga herself. I couldn’t say anything to her but just take her aanchol (pallu) and be at awe of her amazing bravery each time! The streaks of bravery were often displayed in different manners. It happened many-a-times. Slowly, I started observing how my Didi started reflecting both my Ma’s powerful stance to my Baaba’s selfless mannerisms. The following episode was one such incident. I used to both love and hate ‘monsoons in Calcutta’ – Loved it because of the thunderstorms and moments enjoying harmonious rains on our terrace. Hated it because of the creatures it brought with it.

This was one of those nights in the monsoon season when Ma, Didi and I were watching TV post dinner. Then Didi and I went on to make the bed. I was spreading the night bedsheet and my Didi was putting up the moshari (mosquito net). Ma went down to lock the doors and while coming back, between the ground and the first floor level, she noticed some movement in the water drain outlet. She called out to my Didi and I knew it then that there must be a snake. With a hush voice, I kept pleading to them to stay inside the bedroom. I said that we will lock the door and just be there. They didn’t pay any heed to me. My Didi asked me to stay safe inside the mosquito net and instructed me to not come out. I joined both my hands and kept praying to different Gods. After 10 minutes or so, both of them came back laughing and started making fun of me. They said that they have gotten the snake upstairs for me. I could smell something burning. It was the bunch of red chillies that they burnt and kept next to the outlet hole so that the snake climbs down the drainage pipe. I went and hugged Ma and my sister came in hugging me from behind. I realized that now I stay with two Goddesses!

I was not a topper from my school, but I would get by. Ma never asked me to aim for being the topper but just requested that there shouldn’t be any complaints about me. Otherwise she would have to go and mingle with other parents, which she didn’t want to do. So, I made sure that I never let that happen to her. She had to visit school once a year, only to collect the report card. There were phases though when I decided to study throughout the day. I would not let Ma go out and meet people as she had to be around me when I was preparing for my exams. I wouldn’t let anyone come home as well because that would disturb me. Those used to be the best times. She would watch TV or read a magazine, and I used to rest my head on her lap and keep reading. She says that those times were the times when she had to endure my ‘otyachar’ on her.

Now in the times of lockdown when I call her, I hear that she is alone at home and just watching TV. In my mind, I join her right there and I feel like I am with her, just lying next to her, reading a book or playing the snake game on her Nokia phone. I am glad that she chose to not be on any social media. But this lockdown has gotten her wishing that she wasn’t so stubborn. At least not refused upgrading to a smartphone. She knows that if she wasn’t so stubborn, then she could have video called her husband and her daughters. I don’t remember exactly, but when I was in class 3 or 4, I once got the highest marks in an essay writing competition. The subject was ‘If you can be something/someone for two days, what/ who would it be.’ While the entire class was buzzing with future astronauts, Presidents, Doctors and so many other great answers, I simply wrote about how I wanted to be like my Mother. I thought that she is a living example for me, with all of the superpowers one would strive for.

My answer will not change even today.

My Mother’s name is Tulu. She’s an amazing woman.

#MothersDay IloveMom MotherForever

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theoriginalkidwithapen · 4 years

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Principia – De Motu Corporum XI

CW: politics, foul language, abuse, violence against children, death, murder, drinking, generational trauma, alcoholism

Moreover... we may discover the proportion of a centripetal force to any other known force, such as that of gravity. For if a body by means of its gravity revolves in a circle concentric to the earth, this gravity is the centripetal force of that body.

– Sir Isaac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

The Southeast Corridor was a long tunnel 30 meters across. Like with other examples of Lunar construction, it had been bored and excavated from an existing lava tube long ago, and was not covered from floor to ceiling in buildings, bridges, catwalks, and canopies, all punctuated and interwoven with pipes, ducts, and conduit placed wherever it would fit. The lighting was warm and homely, the air rich is the strong, hearty smell of a dozen aromatic spices, and to Sara’s awe and perplexion, the tunnel walls rang with the sound of hundreds of people singing, accompanied by steady rhythmic clapping and the low drone of a didgeridoo. All of this came together to create an atmosphere of primality and modernity, jubilation and solemnity, ritual and extemporanity, it was a hauntingly beautiful and profoundly… human experience. “That’s amazing,” Sara half-whispered in awe, “What are they doing?”

“Havin’ a sing-songs,” Tahlia said contentedly as their coworkers began to join in, “Ahh, nothing like being back on colony after a hard day’s work, ay?” “I… wouldn’t know,” Sara said, somehow feeling a sense of loss at the richness of culture around her and the… happiness, as if to spite the poverty present here, like in the other Selenite spaces she had seen here on the Moon, “Back home, everyone’s always so miserable and beaten. You’d never have something like this in the Wards.” “Can you say that?” Tahlia asked, surprised, “Well, stay close to me, ay? We’ll get you busted out laughing so we can scare those lows away, unna?”

Tahlia led Sara and, by extension, the rest of the group, left to the tunnel wall, up the stairs two floors, then a right, down past the large air vent with wind chimes hanging off the front, and another right across a bridge until they came to a triangular sign with 10 black circles connected by black lines to look like a shrugging cross, laid against a yellow background. Sara had seen thee signs along their path, and that Tahlia had turned every time they encountered one, as if she were avoiding them. “Catchya inna bit, fullas,” Tahlia called out to the others, “The Earthfulla here needs some schooling.” The others let out a hearty laugh and continued ahead. Tahlia directed Sara’s attention to the shrugging cross sign. “That right there is a marker for the Mara-Tea Dreaming,” she began, “It’s important to my mob and to my colony, which is why it marks our custodial lands. We fullas are the Chladni Community of Sinus Medii – our roots, customs, and culture came from the custodians of the lands of Australia way back in the way backs, but in the centuries since, we’ve welcomed Moonfullas from other backgrounds into our colony.” “And how does Sharqi fit in with all this?” Sara asked. “He’s one of us,” Tahlia replied, “Earthgubbahs put him in welfare during the moonquake of ‘49, so he never got reared up proper – he got sent to an Earthfulla family that were part of the Organisation. He came back all growed up, and in a real blackfulla way, he uses his position to get us Moonfullas jobs so fewer of us have to be on the pension.” “You sound like you admire him,” Sara said. “For a Stolen Gen,” Tahlia replied, “he’s a fulla who’s strong in his culture. Now, let’s get some grub, ay?”

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The inside of the restaurant was lively and raucous, full of people talking, laughing, eating, drinking, even singing – and just generally enjoying each other’s company. The air was alive with the smell of hearty food grilled in the open air – the aroma of onions and bell peppers, cooking oils and barbecue sauces, marinated meat and golden grains – Sara had never salivated like this before. The fry cook behind the counter was a giant Aboriginal man with both arms heavily scarred at the elbows, which was where flesh and bone abruptly gave way to the metal and silicone of his cybernetic replacements. His apron had the words, “Black And Proud” printed in large, friendly letters across the chest. “Ay, there you are, sistagirl,” he said jovially, “I was wonderin’ what a fulla’d have to do to get his li’l darlen to come back to her dad’s!” He noticed Sara quietly following her, unsure of how to interact in this sort of setting. “Tahlia,” he asked, “who’s that fulla?” “This fulla’s our new gunna be docker, Sara,” Tahlia replied, “She came up here from America.” “Shair, auntie girl,” he scolded, “Are you ignorant or what? You know gubbahs don’t get us.” “This one ain’t a gubbah,” Tahlia explained, “Nan says she’s my sista from another mister, and I believe her.” “Shame job, Doris,” he sighed, and he gestured to the TV on the far end of the bar, which was airing an interview with the next prime minister of United Earth, a morbidly obese blowhard whose spray tan and toupee were in such appallingly bad taste that they had to be some kind of incomprehensible fashion statement, “Earthfullas are all like that one – they’ve got no respect.” “I’ll flog her myself if she doesn’t,” Tahlia said to Sara’s astonishment. “I’m still here, you know,” Sara commended, “and I’ve picked up enough Moonfulla talk today to know that you don’t like me very much, and I gotta know if we have a problem.” “Ay, little woman now,” the man answered, “don’t be a sookie. I don’t bar fullas unless they’re violent or mission managers. What’ll you have?” “Two of your finest,” Tahlia ordered, “and a flagon each. Don’t skimp on the peppers this time, ay?” “Got it, Tahli,” he affirmed, “Ay, Christo! Fill two gooms for these fullas ‘fore I bust you up!” “Ay, boss!” a younger Aboriginal man shouted in response before filling up two fist-sized glasses with some kind of clear liquor from a tap made from old copper pipes. He slid the two glasses down to Tahlia as the older cyborg turned to his stovetop to grill up their orders. “I’d watch out, if I were you,” Tahlia cautioned as she handed Sara her drink, “This grog’s deadly solid, and it has but one redeeming quality. Mooms up!” Sara joined her in knocking back the sterile, corrosive liquid, fighting the gag reflex its stench evoked as it went down her gullet. Apart from the overpowering alcoholic sting, it had a distinct metallic tang, probably from the pipes and whatever it was stored or distilled in. Even she, a seasoned moonshine drinker, found herself coughing and wheezing after choking it down. “Damn, that’s fucking good!” Sara winced. “It’s also too deadly a machine degreaser,” Tahlia concurred, just as impaired. “Literally,” Sara groaned as she struggled to find her equilibrium, “I might need a new liver after this.” “Dad’s right,” Tahlia said, “You are a sookie.” “Am not!” Sara protested. “Therem therem, sookie,” Tahlia teased, “Auntie Tahli’s gonna love you long time. Two more, Christo!” “Ay, tidda!” Christo called out in response. “Maybe we should go slow on this next round,” Sara suggested, “You have any mixers back there?” “Got some cookin’ oil in the deep fryer!” Chrito replied loudly. “Ay, don’t try to be a blackman now, Christo!” Tahlia yelled, “You’ve got lemon juice and sugar back there, unna? Mix us some hard lemonades, budj!” “Yeah, ay?” Christo answered, “Ay, she’s a big shot now, unna?” “True that, buddah!” half of the people in the room called out in response before going back to their business. “Shame,” Tahlia muttered to herself.

The headquarters office for the Life Support Utility company’s Grimaldi branch was a cylindrical prefabricated structure that jutted out from the water treatment plant like a barnacle, as if it were tacked on as an afterthought. Finchley noted the enormous water main going up through the cavern ceiling to the space elevator. It was the non-descript jugular vein that provided the water, air, and propellant that without which, Grimaldi Station and all aboard would die. He and Nguyen continued across the stark concrete bridge that spanned the trench housing the electrical conduits servicing the power needs of the entire Grimaldi Space Elevator complex, and approached the front gate, which wasn’t really much more than a steel barricade set inside a gap in the chain link fence surrounding the facility. Finchley pressed the button on the intercom. Nothing happened. He pressed it again. Still nothing. Nguyen began restlessly looking around, and noticed that although the door’s security equipment was in place, the bolt holding it locked had been cut. No, burned. Nguyen thought that a laser cutter or acetylene torch had been used here. With one hand and a sideways motion, Nguyen slid the barricade aside with little difficulty, to Finchley’s surprise. “Ewan,” she said as she pulled a bundle of wires out from behind the intercom, which had been cut with electrician’s pliers, “just how, exactly, did you become an inspector?” “My maths were too poor to be an accountant,” Finchley confessed dryly, “and I’m too much of an arsehole to be a project manager.” “So much for the excellence of United Earth’s Civil Service,” Nguyen snarked. She and Finchley drew their sidearms and cautiously approached the office building. They crept up to the front door and flattened their backs against the wall, flanking the doorway. They could hear muffled, indistinct voices on the other side. Nguyen pressed the button to talk on her collar microphone. “Nguyen to Stationhouse,” she whispered urgently, “I’m with an MOI inspector at the LSU Grimaldi Branch HQ. Possible breaking and entering, requesting immediate backup.” She glanced at Finchley, and he returned her gaze. Finchley stepped in front of the door and, after silently counting down from three, he kicked the door open violently and entered, with Nguyen following closely. “Ministry of Inquiry!” Finchley barked at the occupants, “Don’t move!” The six people inside, all wearing LSU uniforms, looked up from apparently mundane tasks with surprise and alarm. Everyone waited in apprehension as detective and technician alike were unsure of how to proceed. Finchley and Nguyen slowly lowered their guns. “Stationhouse, this is Nguyen,” she reported in annoyance, “disregard. Situation is under control.” “Are we under arrest?” a supervisor-type asked obliviously. “No,” Finchley replied with greater annoyance than his partner, “No, you’re not fucking under arrest, you twit!” He holstered his weapon, and Nguyen did the same. “Good,” the supervisor said, “Now, if you don’t have any business here other than harassing utilities technicians, please leave. We are extremely busy!” “Obviously,” Finchley snarked, “You didn’t notice that someone had disabled your security system. We thought someone had broken in!” “You didn’t notice it either,” Nguyen commented offhandedly. “A break-in?” the supervisor asked, “We’ve detected no break-in here.” “How could you?” Nguyen countered, “All the security devices at your front gate have been disabled!” “Besides, you didn’t detect us until after we kicked in the door,” Finchley added. “Fair point,” the supervisor conceded, “and I would send someone out to repair them if I could spare anyone, but I’ve been down to a skeleton crew here ever since all those algal blooms cropped up in Surveyor City. Even with everyone working on that crisis, we’re still working double and triple shifts every day. You can thank your wretched colonial government’s shortsightedness for that!” Nguyen put a hand on her hip. “That’s a hell of an opinion,” she critiqued, “especially for an employee of that government.” “Is it?” the supervisor asked, “I guess I’ve been too busy making sure that half a million people don’t die to notice.” “Right…” Nguyen narked as she rolled her eyes. “That said,” the supervisor said, “I must insist: What business do you have here?” “We’d like to talk to you about the technician you sent to service the CELSS unit at the Governor’s Residence the other day,” Finchley said. The supervisor paused. “Kovac, take over here for a minute,” he ordered, “Officers, step into my office, if you please. I think we may want to discuss this in private.” They followed him to a plexiglass cubicle with no door. The supervisor plopped down in the swivel chair behind the desk and turned to face the detectives. “You wanted to know about a technician that LSU sent to the Governor’s Residence?” he asked as he tapped his desk with his finger, calling up a holographic display with graphs, charts, spreadsheets, and tables, all hovering like cyan specters, “Ah, here it is. Konstantin Dibra, Journeyman Utility Technician Grade 1, assigned to perform the monthly diagnostic test on the Governor’s Residence CELSS unit for January 2293 on 22930112.” He poked the work order for more information. “Huh,” he said in subdued curiosity, “It says here that he accepted the job and completed it within the time allotted, but never reported in for his next job. In fact, he didn’t show up for work today.” “Is that unusual for him?” Finchley asked. “Most definitely,” the supervisor replied, “Konstantin started here as a Grade 4 Apprentice, and in the 12 years he’s worked for the company, the only time he’s ever taken off from work was during the labor strike of ‘87. The man’s a workaholic – he’s always taking extra shifts whenever they become available – even the few times he’s been sick or injured, he insisted on working his full shift.” “The ‘87 labor strike?” Nguyen asked, “So he’s political?” “I don’t have that information,” the supervisor said, “but everyone in LSU was there protesting the pay cuts and having to pre-fund 100 years of retirement pension payments, thanks to your wretched colonial government again. I don’t think he had the time to get involved in politics, he was just standing up for his livelihood like the rest of us.” “But he’s still a trade unionist,” Nguyen pressed, “Doesn’t that imply a political affiliation?” “Not necessarily,” the supervisor corrected, “Everyone – and I mean everyone, down to the secretaries – who work at LSU is a card-carrying member of the LLT. They don’t have to agree with the League’s politics, they don’t even have to like it, period, as long as they pay their dues, they get to work here and receive all the benefits that League membership confers. Konstantin’s paid his dues on time every quarter for 12 years now.” “Could we get a copy of his employee jacket?” Finchley asked. “Certainly,” the supervisor answered, and summoned the technician’s dossier, which he sent to the detectives’ handsets with a flick of his wrist, “Anything else I can do for you?” “No,” Finchley concluded, “but we’ll contact you if we have further questions.” “Well then,” the supervisor dismissed, “good day.” He gestured for them to leave. As they exited the building, Nguyen spoke up. “So, where to now?” she asked. “I’ll question Ms. Yousafzai again,” Finchley stated, “I want you to go follow up on the Dibra lead. Go to his home, try to locate him.” “Understood,” Nguyen responded.

A savory, meaty, bready aroma heralded the arrival of Sara’s salivatory entreé – a breaded steak, buttered mashed potatoes and gravy, collared greens, and a pair of southern-style biscuits. Never before in Sara’s life had she seen such a feast, let alone had one prepared for her. She found herself unsure of how to attack it. Tahlia saw the apprehension in Sara’s eyes. “Somethin’ wrong with it, darlen?” she asked. “No, it looks great,” Sara said, “I just can’t believe that all this is for me.” “Well, eat hearty,” Tahlia advised, “A docker’s gotta keep up her strength, unna?” She took her own advice and began cutting into her steak. Sara stuck her fork into her cutlet and carved off a lice. She put it in her mouth and began to chew, and the flavor – the tang of the salt, the cream of the buttermilk, the sinus-clearing power of the peppers and the garlic – it was more than merely delicious. It was painfully, profoundly beautiful. As she swallowed, she could feel her eyes moisten. The moisture turned to wetness, the wetness to tears that rolled slowly down her cheek in the 1/6th gravity. Before she knew it, she was sobbing uncontrollably, grieving for… something. The girl she was never allowed to be; who could have eaten like this sooner, perhaps. Her grief turned to regret and self-hatred. She wished she had never tasted such a morsel – that way, she wouldn’t have ever known that such a delightful thing could possibly exist, or that she could ever sample such a glorious delicacy. She felt as if she had taken her knife and fork and cut out a piece of herself instead. It hurt her more deeply than any wound she had ever suffered in her life, and it was agonizing. Good things didn’t happen to her. She couldn’t accept that they might. Tahlia was surprised at Sara’s reaction. Her dad’s cooking was good, but she had never heard of anyone being reduced to tears after only one bite. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Sara continued to bawl inconsolably. Tahlia didn’t know what to do – she had never seen a grown woman have a sook like this before. Her tears weren’t born of pain or petulance, or of grief or gladlessness, or of heartbreak or hopelessness. Hers were complex, conflicting tears which tugged at the tapestry of her soul in every direction until the threads frayed and it began to come apart at the seams. Tahlia couldn’t comfort Sara because Sara didn’t know what she was feeling herself. “Mad deadly, ay?” Tahlia asked Sara tenderly, “Gorn den, the second bite’s better’n the first.” Sara wiped her tears away on her sleeve, almost stabbing Tahlia with her steak knife on accident. She regained just enough composure to take Tahlia’s advice and eat another bite of her impossibly heavenly steak dinner. “Why now?” Sara wept wretchedly, “Why not sooner?” “My dad cooked it as quickly as possible,” Tahlia replied, trying to raise Sara’s spirits by comically missing the point. “Not that,” Sara continued, “I just… never ate like this before. Nothin’ like this where I’m from. I’m not sure I deserve this.” “Can you say that, auntie girl?” Tahlia asked, “You deserve to eat hearty and be happy like any fulla. Now eat up. Auntie Tahli’s gonna treat you right, ay?” Sara kept eating, still weeping as she did so. Tahlia turned to face her dad behind the counter. “Ay, dad!” she called out, “Is he ignorant or what?” “Who?” he asked back. “That gubbah,” Tahlia clarified as she nodded in the direction of the screen, which was still showing the interview with the overflowingly gelatinous Prime-Minister-In-Waiting from the United States, George Paramount, “He’s got so much shit packed in his head, it’s spillin’ out his mouth!” “Ayy, no respect that one,” Dad replied, “They had him on earlier, busted for behaviour his nan shoulda flogged him for when he was a little fulla. He’s got no shame.” “What sort of behaviour, dad?” “Oh, he was yarnin’ up big time about grabbin’ mootchas and other shameful shit on an Earth chat show last month,” Dad explained, “and get this – the host let rip on him for that talk, and the dish licker called her a liar, even when she showed him the fucking video of him sayin’ his exact words! Then he stood over her and lapped her up over mobbin’ him up with slander and fake news!” “You’re gammon!” Tahlia dismissed, “Good go, dad, but not even!” “I’m bein’ straight out, baby girl, I’d swear he was grog sick there,” Dad contested, “The loon’s an even bigger sookie than this one, here! If that’s the flashest the Earthgubbahs can pick, we Moonfullas might be best off lettin’ rip on those mission managers in the Colonial Government and stand up for our land rights.” “Nahhh, Earthgubbas have got all of the guns and none of the respect,” Tahlia countered, “If we rise up against them, they’ll turn the city’s tunnels into one great massacre site, and then we’ll all be in for some sorry business, unna?” “Shair, auntie girl,” Dad articulated, “There hasn’t been a massacre on Luna in a hundred years. Gubbahs haven’t got the boobles for more than the occasional bust up.” “Dad,” Tahlia protested, “Mum and Nan were killed in the last ‘bust up.’ I don’t want any more in my mob to die.” “Is it better for us Moonfullas to die slowly as the Earthfullas replace us?” Christo chimed in. “Fuck off, Christo!” Tahlia snapped, “I swear to God I”m gonna bust you if you don’t!” “Then let’s get busted!” Sara shouted, “Christo, two more!” “That’s ‘hammered,’ sista from another mista,” Tahlia corrected.

Amsha was rudely awakened by percussive, metallic banging on the door of her cell before the bolt slid open and the door swung open, blinding her bleary eyes with the light from the corridor outside. A short, stocky, night-black silhouette blotted out the light and set foot in the room. Amsha quickly wrapped herself up in her bedsheets to preserve her modesty, but she wasn’t quite able to cover one of her ankles in the confusion. “Tell me about the LSU technician,” Fichley asked without breaking stride, “Every detail, you can remember, every impression you had of him, everything!” “What is going on!?” Amsha asked in a shocked manner. “The technician!” Finchley repeated, “Tell me now!” Amsha had to take a moment to organize her thoughts and recall what had been a routine and thoroughly forgettable encounter. “The technician was courteous, efficient, professional,” she replied nervously, “The job was completed within half an hour – at the time, I thought it was satisfactory – there weren’t any problems with security, no apparent difficulties or delays–” “Describe the technician,” Finchley ordered, “How tall was he? Was he an Earther? Spaceborn? Selenite? Did he have any identifying features, like scars, birthmarks, prostheses, tattoos?” “Th-the technician was 170-odd centimeters tall,” Amsha anxiously answered, “I think she might have been an Earther, but it was hard to tell with her baggy coverall–” “Wait a minute,” Finchley interrupted, “‘She?’” “Yes,” Amsha affirmed. “The LSU technician was a woman?” “Surely that’s not unusual.” “It isn’t,” Finchley interrogated, “but in this case, it’s impossible. The technician that LSU dispatched to the Residence was male.” “What?” was all that Amsha could manage in her astonishment. “The technician, Konstantin Dirba, was a man,” Finchley clarified. “Your information must be wrong,” Amsha denied, “The technician who came to the Residence was definitely female.” “Ms. Yousafzai,” Finchley said sternly, “why are you lying to me?” “I’m not,” Amsha countered, “I was there. I spoke with her for five minutes. I am certain that she was as much a woman as I am now.” “Indulging in this ridiculous fiction will not derail this investigation,” Finchley accused, “Who is it that you are protecting?” “I’m not protecting anyone!” Amsha protested, “With merciful God a witness, the technician was a woman! Why won’t you believe me!?” “Because your story is unbelievable,” Finchley conjectured, “Now, let’s try this one: Your sister died from anatoxin poisoning due to contamination in the water supply, which the terrorist organisation he belonged to attributed to deliberate incompetence on the part of the Earth-appointed colonial government. Grief-stricken and grasping for meaning, you joined up with the Selenite Liberation Front to carry on your sister’s work.” “This can’t be happening,” Amsha whispered with a quivering voice, “I’ve never committed a crime in my life, I’ve never harmed anyone–” “After being radicalised by Selenite nationalists, the Front exploited your exemplary criminal record to infiltrate you – a sleeper agent – into the Governor’s staff,” Finchley raised his voice as he speculated, “When the time was right, all you needed to do was look the other way while a Front operative sabotaged the Residence’s life support system, and avoid drinking the water while you stood by and watched the maladroit magistrate got his just desserts – death by anatoxin poisoning, just like your sister and thousands of other Selenites.” “–How many times must I tell you that I’m innocent?” Amsha continued, “Why do you keep accusing me of a crime I didn’t commit?” “Of course, your role in this sinister plot could be easily dismissed a negligent, for want of conclusive evidence or culpability,” Finchley pressed, “but under section 132 of the United Earth Code of Laws, lying to an Inspector of the Homeworld is considered perjury, which is a felony offence punishable by up to 120 months’ hard labour, a fine of more than 20,000 Global Exchange Option credits but not exceeding 25 million, or both.” Amha was aghast. 20,000 GEOs was more than she made in a month, and the Lunar Civil Service paid her for her work in the Residence much better than most jobs her fellow Selenites languished in. She wasn’t even sure that she had 20,000 GEOs saved. A perjury conviction would ruin her, but she knew that she was not wrong about the sex of the LSU technician. She had no choice but to persist. “I’m not lying, Inspector,” she answered with renewed determination, “the technician was a woman, and I had no knowledge of a plot to sabotage the Residence or assassinate the Governor-General. You can check the security logs, they’ll prove that I’m telling the truth!” “We’ll see,” Finchley said coldly, “Get dressed. We’ll start again in five minutes.”

It wasn’t until she knocked back her fifth “flagon” of “grog” that Sara loosened up, stopped crying, and felt that warm, contented feeling she remembered from the hard-drinking days of her squandered youth. The booze was her happy chemical. “Auntie Tahli?” she drawled at her drinking companion, “I think I’ve found the grog’s one redeeming quality.” “Yeah, deadly ay?” Tahlia slurred back, “I’ll admit, you smashed those flagons like a killer, sistagirl!” “I can thank my dad for that,” Sara uttered, “It’s because of that motherfucker that I can hold my booze like I do.” “Was he a drunkard?” “Yeah,” Sara miserated, “Hardly had any money for food, but somehow he could always afford a bottle of moonshine for himself. Whenever he got drunk, he’d hit me ‘til I was blue all over. He wouldn’t stop until he passed out, and I learned to cherish those moments when he was too drunk to hurt me. I’d bandage myself up as best I could, get a couple hours of quality shuteye, and pretend that he hit me because he loved me.” “Aww, poor darlen,” Tahlia commiserated, “How’dja get out?” “I was 8 when I got the idea that it was the booze that made him violent,” Sara yarned, “So one day, after I got thrashed so hard that three of my teeth broke, li’l Sara waited until he passed out, then stole his booze and ran away to throw it out somewhere.” Sara gulped nothing before continuing. “Of course,” she confessed, “it wasn’t until I was halfway to the river that I realized that my dad would hit me for takin’ his rocket fuel away, so I decided not to go back home, which turned out to be the best decision I ever made. I knew that alcohol made for a good disinfectant, and because I was still bleeding from my dad’s ham-fisted dental work, I took a swig from the bottle, endured the burning and the pain, and after a few more self-medication sessions throughout the day, I developed a taste for white liquor.” “Your mob’s river people?” Tahlia asked, apparently only catching the middle part of Sara’s tale. “Yeah, that’s us,” Sara sighed drunkenly, “Minneapolis – the Megacity of Lakes. Straddling both banks of the mighty Missississ… Mithithipp… some big-ass river south of Canada, anyway, like a hooker fucking a storm drain.” “That’s a big fucking hooker,” Tahlia mused disjointedly. “Chonky,” Sara concurred. They sat there for about a minute, basking in the sophisticated poetry they had just crafted collaboratively. They expected to win the 2293 Rhysling Award for their creative genius. “Mississippi!” Sara shouted out victoriously, “That’s the name of that goddamn river! Fuck, I’m wasted!” “Glad we got that sorted,” Tahlia declared as she stood up, “I’m gonna go ring my flannel.” She lurched over to a door marked, “Djillawa,” and stumbled inside. The George Paramount interview was interrupted by a news flash. “Breaking news at this hour,” an impossibly comely news anchor announced, “Farouk Al-Amir Najjar, Governor-General of the Lunar Colonies, was found dead earlier today in the Governor’s Residence from anatoxin poisoning.” “Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving gubbah,” Dad grumbled as he wiped the counter down with a microfiber towel. “What’d he do?” Sara asked with inebriated curiosity. “That dish-licking mission manager’s been bleeding us Moonfullas dry for over 30 years,” he replied bitterly, “His ‘work programmes’ created thousands of jobs for Earthfullas while millions of Moonfullas are starving in the tunnels. His government have prioritised tourism over life support, pouring money into expensive hotels overlooking the Apollo sites while children suffocate in their homes and algae blooms kill their parents. He and his predecessors have been perpetrating a genocide so they can replace us with Earthfullas who will do as they are told, and every time we hoola to be heard, they make us drink contaminated water, breathe unrecycled air, and starve on crumbs thrown to us by ignorant visitors who care nothing for the hardship we Moonfullas suffer at their own hands. That is what that Douligha fucker has done!” Sara paused for a moment. “I’m one of those ignorant Earthfullas sent to replace you, you know,” she countered. “Tahlia says you’re a goodfulla,” Dad replied, “That’s good enough for me.” Sara thought about that for a moment, and she decided that she liked that.

“How did you get a job on the docks, anyway?” Dad asked, “The LLT aren’t in the business of giving jobs to Earthfullas.” “Sharqi pulled some strings,” Sara answered. Dad’s expression was one of understanding. “A jambi job, unna?” he wondered, “That fulla’s a cheeky one, ay? Must be because he’s a Stolen Gen.” “Why does a crime boss have so much pull over the Moonfulla community?” Sara asked. “He’s got no more ‘pull’ than anyone else, at the end of the day, we’re all just blackfullas anyway,” Dad answered, “but there’s no denying he’s a respected person in our mob – he’s done more for the Moonfulla community in five years than the Earthgubbahs have in fifty. The Organisation give the LLT the moolah and the muscle they need to stand up to the ration dolers in the colonial government. LLT protect legit jobs for Moonfullas, while the Organisation look out for our little buddahs and sistas who have to act shameful to keep from cadjing in the tunnels. Since Sharqi took over the Organisation, fewer blackfullas have gone missing, especially the sistas.” “So they throw you a bone every now and then, and in return criminals get your undying loyalty?” Sara asked, “Sounds like a bad deal for you fullas.” “Don’t be a mission manager like those fullas,” Dad scolded, “We’d rather not be associated with criminals, but the Earthgubbahs have left us no choice. When the rules are made to keep you under some other fulla’s heel, no one should be surprised when you don’t follow the rules.” “Naw, I get it,” Sara replied, “I really do. Where I’m from, following the rules means a race between overwork and starvation, and see which kills you first.” “For more, we go live to our correspondent on the scene at the Governor’s Residence, Guiseppina Conti,” the anchor reported, “Peppi?” “Grazie,” an Italian reporter said as the screen switched over to her, “The Governor died while eating dinner, when he was served drinking water contaminated with anatoxin-a, a neurotoxin created by the bacteria that live inside toxic algae blooms. He was dead within minutes.” “Does the investigation have any suspects?” the anchor asked. “They have the murderer in custody,” Peppi answered, “and there’s a manhunt for a co-conspirator going on as well. While official sources refuse to comment on whether this was an isolated incident, reliable sources close to the investigation have indicated that the Selenite Liberation Front, a terrorist group operating in the Lunar colonies, may have ordered the Governor’s assassination–” The bar erupted in an uproar. “Ay, look out!” Christo shouted, “There’s gonna be blood on the walls now, buddahs! True!?” “True that, buddah!” the patrons of the bar shouted in response. “Listen up now, young ones!” Dad roared, “Now I don’t wanna hear no more talk of risin’ up or of revolutions or of havin’ a crack at the Earthgubbah, at least not when they might be within cooee, unna!?” The uproar died down abruptly. “That’s him,” Dad said with satisfaction, “Now, they’re just trying to flush us out, ay? They’re out to irritate us – pull our beards, flick our faces – to make us fight on their terms. Now, when the time is right, we and the other communities will sing out, and we will be heard. Until then, we just oughta take a deep breath and cool our jets. No sense in getting violent when it would do no good, ay?” “True that, Elder,” the bar murmured. Dad turned the screen off. “Now clear off,” he said, “Go home and get some rack time. Another hard yakka await you in the morning.” The bar began to empty out, and Dad clapped a synthetic hand onto Sara’s shoulder. “You too, sistagirl,” he said, “Bar’s closed.” Sara got up and stumbled out the door.

“Ay, Sara!” Tahlia called out from behind her, “Where you goin’?” “Home,” Sara muttered distantly, “wherever that is…” She continued to follow Sara for a bit, until Sara stopped at the mouth of the tunnel. “Ay, I’m such a boofhead!” Tahlia declared, “Your salary won’t come ‘til sundown, so you’ve got nowhere to go! Cooee, you can camp with me ‘til then, unna?” “Only one day?” Sara asked despondently, “Where will I stay tomorrow?” “Nah, auntie girl,” Tahlia said reassuringly, “sundown’s not for 18 days. Sunup-to-sunup here on Luna is about a month long.” “All right,” Sara consented, “let’s go. Lead the way, Auntie Tahli.” Tahlia turned Sara around and led her back into the tunnel.

Finchley exited the interrogation room and answered his handset. “Inspector Finchley,” he said. “Ewan, it’s Anh Lihn,” Nguyen replied, “I’ve given Dibra’s hole a once-over. He hasn’t been home since Wednesday morning, when he left for his first LSU job.” “He’s been gone for nearly two days?” Finchley asked, “Did any of his jobs require that he stay overnight elsewhere?” “No, they were all within two hours’ travel on the metro,” Nguyen answered, “The last job he accepted before he disappeared was the routine diagnostic of the Residence’s life support system. How’s the interrogation proceeding?” “It’s been three hours, and she still professes her innocence,” Finchley answered, “She insists that the LSU technician she met was a woman.” “A we saw, the security footage was inconclusive,” Nguyen acknowledged, “but I came across an entry in his diary which describes a recent romance with a woman. Apparently his work schedule required that they postpone a romantic getaway several times, and they were about to finally go when Dibra was called away to work on his last job.” “Did he call for a replacement?” Finchley asked, “Did LSU send someone in his place?” “No,” Nguyen replied, “he accepted the job, and later submitted a completion report. As far as we know, that’s the last anyone heard from him.” “Try retracing his steps,” Finchley ordered, “I’ll follow up on the girlfriend.” “Got it,” Nguyen affirmed, and hung up. “Have Ms. Yousafzai moved back to her cell,” Finchley ordered one of the guards, “we’ll hold her for further questioning.”

“...Reliable sources close to the investigation have indicated that the Selenite Liberation Front, a terrorist group operating in the Lunar colonies, may have ordered the Governor’s assassination…” the screen in Sharqi’s champagne room played. The room was dark, and Sharqi was brooding. Esteri and Rosita had been showering him with affection, and he them, until his consigliere told him to watch the news. Now, they were torn between trying to cheer him up and their own terrible awe at what their ears were telling them. Sharqi tapped the tabletop exactly thus, calling his consigliere.

“Forbes,” he said between gritted teeth, “get me Rong She immediately. I want to know what that serpentine fucker and her psychopathic sister were thinking when they had the Governor murdered.”

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ecotone99 · 5 years

Text

[MF] The Bad Dream of the Quamatch Canyon Snake

Bleeding green silt into the ocean the Quamatch River clearly remembers its own icy birth. It flings rainbow-tinted mist as alms for the day.

A snake licks the darkness of an egg. It hatches, hunts, and molts.

Canyon-funneled wind whips its skin into the fork of a dead nettle. The ghost twitches and dances translucent, a vision to trouble a winter sleep.

A goose barks and descends into the water with relief as a steady noise emerges from the west. The sound hides the trees' whispering ans ends all lemon songbirds' morning chorusing.

The snake awakens haunted. Feebly worming out into the din it climbs the ivy confused. Amber shadows fall about and blacken. The harrowing sound everywhere crests. Innumerable legions of geese cloak the valley in false night. They cool and rob all vigor from the blood of the snake, killing him.

Woven and cradled in wind-swaying arms he rots.

The geese unveil the day. The last laughing stragglers give back to the valley its stolen calm.

The night she noticed him driving by she crouched low burning bowls in her truck. Thumbing through tokes with each flick of the bic her eyes caught byzantine patterns in the darkness. He rounded her corner, switched off the high beams, gunned it.

“Dude. Friends, enemies, people we know, people we will know or used to know before, they, like, they must pass right by us sometimes, like on the freeway going the opposite way or whatever."

"Sure, I bet it happens a lot. Like the other day I think I saw a dude from my elementary school maybe. I didn't say anything. We run into old friends and shit, where we least expect, like, 'Oh my God, what are you doing here?'"

"Yeah but no but it's the misses I'm talking about."

"Ah like a girl in a movie theater sits in front of the future father of her children?"

"Exactly."

"Or a dude unknowingly sells meth to the tweaker grandson of the asshole who tortured and killed his grandfather in World War Two?"

"Mm. Shooting-stars in the daytime."

Night shift finally ended. As she followed him deep into the parking lot he praised his personal god of coincidence, Kizmet the Hamster. As a little kid he had imagined (or discovered?) a pantheon to whom he would forever sacrifice logic and house-spiders, for whom he cultivated a devotion far beyond superstition or reverie.

"You don't like me much.”

She was slow to respond, busy noticing his scratched glasses.

"Nah not really."

Admiring her own bluntness she stretched the long night out of her wrists. Moths and mosquito hawks orbited the lights. Two barn owls huddled in a duct on the roof. They both took a deep breath. A killdeer screamed like a painted warrior. It looked up to study secret maps encoded in auroras. Instructing scouts upwind, the killdeer, a chief, cried reassemble. Five arrowhead bird-shadows slid south into the yard where cargo tanks rusted. They sat and sank more mass into each new winter’s mud like dented shields in Carthaginian grass.

Faking nonchalance and walking backwards he away fired one last time with,"Hey if I were you I wouldn't like me either." He smiled and savored a hint of the hidden shape of her body.

“Not everyone can like everybody." She slammed the truck door started her engine and massaged her own neck.

Cars tailgated and passed her truck the left. Neglecting the spectacular sunrise, replaying the day instead, planning ideal responses to future points in fantasy discussions, she missed the miracle of dawn’s lavender tongue licking up the last drops of darkness. One rare east amber cloud was swimming thinly through terraces of rising warmth. As she rounded her corner she yawned. The day broke and crowned. It tore the skin of the horizon and bled life upon the world.

He leaned weight into his fingers, massaging her neck. As she swiped through photos he glimpsed her recent roadkill thumbnails. He was at first mistaken in thinking they were photos of living creatures.

“Woah, go back.”

Cricket noise in the canyon reminded him of the whir and beeps of the warehouse equipment. Warm sweat marinated their two hands together. She saw the moon’s regretful expression through her ancestor-guardian-ibis-eyes. She artfully said so and asked him what he saw in the moon. Through misshapen corneas and scratched glasses, through flat windshield-insect-residue and crazy windblown mists he saw the moon sinking slow to sleep. He felt the pulse of destiny in his crotch and answered, "I have no words."

A blonde canyon tarantula is perplexed by the flatness of the road. Dyspeptic turkey vultures drink not of the creek.

War-flags aflutter the finch mobs and sentinel kestrels, the swallow reconnaissance and nomad meadowlarks and red wing blackbird bandits all vie to balance the sky. All the armies, with good and absolute reason, fear shrikes.

“You made up your own secret gods?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you pray to them?”

“When I was a kid I did.”

Quamatch joins a little town called Uverne to the canyon. The vignerons see it as the boundary—where school-skipping couples kiss, where truck-driving midnight johns drop condoms on the gravel, where proud gangs batter prospects into apostles—between zones.

The oaks along the creek-bed died soon after they paved the road. Those that stood out were nailed. Now termite craters freckle the nooks.

“Your eyes are in front, sockets forward.”

“Predatory primate.”

“And yeah, hawk sockets point forward but they can pretty much Exorcist their head all the way around.”

“But horned owls straight murder hawks. They jack ‘em in the dark.”

“Never thought of hawks as prey.”

“Everything’s prey.”

Sour vengeance festers in most crows. However the ravens are wiser than smart. They forget and forgive. Both peck and scissor the carrion and swallow the nested eggs of songbirds. Some mornings these cousins show mocking courtesy to the very sparrows whose offspring they digest.

She swiped back a few.

"Yeah. Poor thing. I think that was off Quamatch. The trucks haul ass through there."

"Ew, you got that close to a dead dog?”

“A coyote. Maybe a hybrid? Was a coyote.”

“What in the actual fuck? Ugh. I’m nauseous. I don’t want to see the rest.”

“To me each one of these photos is like a gravestone or something.”

“Obituary?”

“Epitat?”

“Effigy?”

“Kozmit’s helmet fits loose on his head. He’s an engineer in the classic, forgotten sense. He steers the big wheel of weird as we dance and die down here like spinning nickels.”

“He’s the god of synchronicity?”

“He’s also the god of gambling and profound road signage.”

“'Yield'.”

“Exactly.”

“‘Merge’.”

"One Way'."

“‘Be Prepared To Stop’.”

“Woah.”

After plucking for canyon ticks in the needles a wren sings riddles of melody pebbles with a tiny tongue of turquoise. It bluffs a marmot and retreats to preen deep in its family brambles.

A girl toddler smiled and asserted, “Two bewds.”

“Good job, baby. Two birds?”

“Two bewds fly a-moom.”

“Two birds fly to the moon?”

“Yeah.” The baby giggled with closed eyes. After a few seconds she reopened them smiling and blinking.

“Wow honey, that’s so silly.”

Fumbling bottles of lotion, water, and instant imitation breastmilk mom and dad heard distant croaks. They looked up to see, from above the mouth of a skeletal gray arroyo, two crows enter a cloudless sky and each slowly, eventually, directly cross the face of a daytime moon.

A long silence seemed to increase the wind.

“Ok did that just happen?”, asked mom.

“Yeah but I’m totally done with crazy shit right now. Let’s get the baby fed and changed and just go.”

Before removing a chubby arm from her eyes the baby said cheerfully, “Sleepy snake. Sleep in a tree. Silly snake sleep in a tree."

This prompted mom and dad to share an uncertain glance.

“Good job, baby.”

“Let’s just go. She ain’t hella wet or crying.”

“Still no cell service?”

“Spotty.”

J. Allen DeVera -- 2020

submitted by /u/FlemingtonTurlock [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/311btoc

#Blogger #Story

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tssfhr-blog · 6 years

Text

[C-1 / M-18] Text One

i tried to write a short bio about myself and my music project

but

Bio

Kharkiv

too yolo for being a DJ

ambient, noise

Weaponized naivness, helpless attack

Kanye West, PJ Harvey

Bee Pole EP

Pure EP

Love LP

NII, Powerhouse, Plivka, Zhyvot

A/V

CHSZM - experimental electronic project of Aleksei Podat, based in Kharkiv, Ukraine. Started producing music at the age of 13 after being an EDM DJ at St. Petersburg pirate radiostation for 2 years.

Now he creates melodic noise which he describes as sound of “pure naviete weaponized by haunting helplessness of logic&QUITE-EMOTIONAL-APPROACH-TO-ANYTHING&O - V - E -R -R RE-ACTING"T[M]. His greatest influences were Kanye West and PJ Harvey, as for now among them appeared some Kyiv(NO)-meta-based artists like (Ivan Skoryna) - is - (actual artist name) John Object, and Moscow (Still-NO;still-meta) based media-artists AWN-naw

(wowww, an artist doesn’t have a PAGE, HOW’S THAT, MR. Цукерберг, Марк, Mr TAG EVERYONE ON EVERY BIT OF YOUR tinyDaATa ttmmm] soundcloud.com/awn_naw

so: and Zurkas Tepla

[the..articles are so difficult, I know how journalists may feel, sometimes, about posting a klikByte-headed material about poverty, war, or numerous G20 Ideologic rave party, I AM CHARLIE, CHARLIE SHEEN CAUGHT ROBBING WALLtm-MART NEAR THE FREEDOM ST., BUT luckily, the casser worker! had called the police last night, when they! heard some "sounds of (violent) noise.. haha great my friend got a vynil of this, which i have no possibility to actually hear, my sounds of noise are shaped by the bloodstream of mine and the clone of Mine[tm] who hopes, i hust buy it as fast as he could be tauht, at their trial lol trial, you have noone to feed, don’t you, family-less, dropped out of nowhere worker huhhh]

NEXT PARAGRAPH is/was/will be ABOUT - ( WHINNING ABIOUT UKRAINIAN BANK ACCOUNTS NOT ACCEPTING BANDCAMP TRANSACTIONS TRHOUIG PAY PAL DAM)….

I GOTTA MAKE THOSE FUCKING CASSETTES NOBODY REALLY NEADS, EXCEPT ONE ( you are dramqueened, lolll) Ph.D of USA University, which i respect, for the interest in New East culture. [I’d like them to show me. where’s the new east, so i could finally show em the old one]

Me Respect Professos, what’s wrong with that huh?)))), I am studying at Karazin University, I AM studying political sciences, without a bit of post-truth politics, just post-truth patriot-oriented education, it’s quite depressing. (UBA - shorter, smarter look, more modern than the actual modern term Ukrainian Bank Accounts, and it sounds like UBER, like not the taxi service, which robs every piece of his stuff, including the clever-auto-routed-cars. of course. If they are clever, they are good enough to be credited as stuff, AND BE TAKEN SERIOUS SUPPOSEDLY I GUESS MAYBE i don’t kno, tho, lo ve16/03/18 first LP has been self-released you kno, i gottaa promote it, and i do my best at it, since i left label with audience in Facebook of 3k people - next kp - k people, not k-pop,; Soundcloud like 7+kp (non k-pop also, they don’t even use it, u must be kidding, kidDO - kidDO - essential mobile app just for YOUR smartphone, to get you a proper kid. Look at you(r,) "kid” and look at “kidDO"TM!!! - exclamaiton marks are here to gain psychical pressure on our deer, hi that’s was bad jokey…like your kiddo, dear, dear, very dear, and precious customers, not to exclaim that we have registered this trademark with absolutely obvious "misunderstandings” with law, and fully understanding with the power….forces..FORCES OF POWER, OF

LOVE,

KNO, TO OUR CUSTOMERS…so, not to seem a little bit weird but I don’t feel lonely, I have a great support of my family and friends, I sometimes do just awful things to them, like…idk…being an artist with great not only the creative potential, but a POT(i’d smoke this sh1t on 3v3ryday bas1s in case I would have agreed on following the path of using potential #2, it’d be weird if i liked a chance to be a person like in example NUMBER TWO, u kno, TWO, 2, LOSER, FUCKING LOOSER,) ential of sitting my ass out near shitty PC on windows XP (Mhhmhmm, safety, in Ukrainian IT companies… is quite interesting quiestion, wee(d) n(w)eed to look at it from different perspectives, different angles…) (actually i do the same at my dorm, or at mama-house(TM haha, no, sry, i’m not THAT misogynistic human being, to EVEN Imagine™ my mother, as a woman, first of all (fck offff my “i-understood-Freud-wrong-but-1-read-it-ironically-so-fuckk-you”-mates, I understand these great postmod(ern)(ehhh)(snobbyy)(but i like it) possibilities that came out as a pale garbage, like from the corpse, the corpse of a most pale kidDO (of course if our company be mistakeyy just a lil bit, like “oops”), as soon as you got a thought in you head like “Oh, over-using (that small dash as a reminder - if you misread oversueing somehow, goto "mylawyer” and think a bit once, than a little bit more, and than turn your MINDPOWER [LP3, 2026 new demos never, I know, I’m a bit of paranoid about showing my stuff to anonymouses like ISIS or Presidents, like very very bad presidents, like, I even don’t kno who to mention, but you’ve got the point, they could rip off my MASTERPOWER [LP0 It was already released, and you are not talanted in googling enough to find it eat my t-shirts, to be more accurate, not shirts, i’m not that “kid” if he could be reffered like this too, since 29 years of struggle through average mid-class family “oopsey-woopseys”, Hey, CC [NoN-creative-commoned-Comedy-Central, so “™”], wanna see an episode dated 1999 where Bart SimpsonS, using his MINDPOWER, obviously"TM", becomes a high-school breakbit-techno-house-electro DJ BioSex [in reversed order, please, mix, but do not shake, please, to make a cocktail which our modern “underground electroni#css” music scene like really deserves

ADVERTPERVERT ROUBRIQUE [le]

Fill a collins glass with ice. Add tequila and midori, fill rest of glass with sour mix, and garnish with an orange slice and a cherry. Then drink it by yourself if you truly believe, that you are great at mixing 4/4 tracks, OH GOSH HOW MEAN I AM, I WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE MEAN TO A PERSON WHO JUST MAKES A LIVING ON DOING EVERYTHING HE WANTS, LIKE VINYLL FLIP-FLOPS, AND CD’S CHANGINGGGG [REALLY HOT DOWN HERE, YOU NOW, HEATING IS GOING LIKE SHUSH, ITS JUST SO HOT UNDER THE DJ TABLE FUCK IT, IKEA, YOU GOTTA DO SMTH WITH IT]..sorry,..fck, almost forgot about this phoney thingy [IKEAtm - more than trade, more than marks, IKEA rules, here are scandinavian workers tired sparks (around head) (from amusement, how GOOD, it TASTES, to eat CHICKEN, at the TABLE, you know you PRODUCED, but you DON’T CARE [mArXXXattention - marxists fukof, i know i’m using some kind of “not really accurate” info!! about your DAD’S BOOK, i’m sorry, I never gonna touch it again, I promise, peace] [Fuck xxxtentaciwho, i don’t stand public image of a talented musician to be spoiled with so fucked up facts, like beating someone for a long time, or having sex with a person against their will, and that’s not a joke. Pretty sad that talented freshmen will never be a talented human being for me, but he still is for someone, and those are might be fucked up as hell also, not as much as a person, who fucks another with a fork, or other objects [even if he does it in postmod, that’s cruel to kids, think about what happend to WW2 kids, and X it on the quantity of eyes that never seen the damn piece of war [lucky ones, would be like to feel a bit like that] [i’m lucky too, but not that much, you kno, “Sloviansk"TM, or how it frequently was trasliterated from "local-pronounciation” - Slavinsk [CC license] - [src: telegraph.co.uk/…/Donetsk-police-chief-forced-out-as-Ukrain…, BTW! using a chance of such a productivity FUCK Telegraph, and probably fUcK BBC News [can’t find a source, but i remember this LE GOOGLE-LESS JOURNALIST REPORTAGE for not having a MINDPOWER, and what’s more important, for them, as professionals, of “dividing"TM "bad people"TM and "good people"TM - a MASTERPOWER ability. Purchase Love LP. LP is for Pl which is for [sorry, my polish friends, and people who don’t understand slavic-english-writing-stYLO [stereotype], sorry, I’m very very sorry, that IT HAPPENED[TM], yeas, Pl - which is for Please! Sorry! I admit, I took you to the really dark place, but I Love you, and I really want you to survive. [really enjoying’ my time with those funny Latin letters, playing with them, omg, i don’t even kno what doessss the DAMN.[really liked it, but TPAB was way better, please take a note, Kendrick, i’m your fan for 3 yrs, my opinion weighs smth, huh? I don’t even have fans which are able to notice when i delete a bunch of my “First Relaeses” from bandcamp. That’s for good, actually, I’d like not to get any messages containg things like “Hei Aleksei! Your first release Ножові was great and thought-provoking, and your last LP called..let me think, Laugh? Life? Ah, I remembered it’s called] half of my words mean

And yeah

Love / OUT NOW

CHSZM - noise music project of Kharkiv based media-artist Aleksei Podat.

Hometown: Sloviansk

Birthdate: 25/08/1996

gosh, i got these voices sequenced to 4/4 again, moom. I need a PROFESSIONAL HERE

if you got some psychologist help to advice, i’d be shy, but greatful

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#black and white #long post #postmodern #new literature

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