#ejuration

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[smiling-face-withface]

EJURE

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Get It. #AR15 #Militia #Army (at Los Angeles, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cnia5-EJUre/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[babyawacs]

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[the-chomsky-hash]

[The play of identity and of differences has eclipsed the lucid procession of beings in La Vue. The black disk masking what is in Nouvelles Impressions allows at the edge of each one only a thin, luminous ribbon - cont'd]

[It is like a dark machine for creating repetition, Roussel cast verses into the void, not toward objects but in the pursuit of language, to construct a barred threshold against this opening - cont'd]

[The last poem, Nouvelles Impressions, is an inventory of the game - cont'd]

Ejur's festivities were, as the text tells us, a "gala of Incomparables" (Incomparables, in fact, were the prisoners [versus] their black friends, since they were

unique in their talent for reconstructing exactly

the unfailing identity of things

[cf. biopolitics, discourse of biological racism in Society Must Be Defended]).

Well, what is Nouvelles Impressions if not equally a festival of Incomparables—the rapid dancing of a language

leaping from one thing to another

bringing them face-to-face

from their incompatibility setting off everywhere short circuits, firecrackers, and sparks

Incomparables

sparkling

innumerable

dispersed in the emptiness of language which brings them together and holds them apart

—such as the figures strewn across the skies of Nouvelles Impressions.

– Michel Foucault, Death and the Labyrinth: the World of Raymond Roussel (Chapter 7: The Empty Lens), Translated from French by Charles Ruas, 1963

[indelibledaniel]

Download: Obi Shine You Have Done Me Well (ft Ejure & St Adlex) [Mp3 + Lyrics]

Download: Obi Shine You Have Done Me Well (ft Ejure & St Adlex) [Mp3 + Lyrics]

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[illidria]

Everything happens under the same sun

Hey folks,

and here is my fic for day 2 of livmilesweek 2017!

I hope you enjoy :D

“Everything happens under the same sun” on AO3

"And what does that mean?"

His grandfather laughed at his question, not in a demeaning manor, but with true mirth.

"It means that Ishvala is a kind god. And everybody that does well in his or her life, is a good person, shall be rewarded accordingly."

Walked side-by-side with the man, the only person in the family looking like him. Had believed as a small child, hair white and puffy on top of his head, that he'd been adopted. The taunts of the other children still rung back and forth in his mind, laughing about his dark skin, his red eyes and most of all his white hair. He was fourteen now and old enough to accept that "Dandelion-Boy" really wasn’t an insult to get mad about. Wasn’t a reason to punch others in the face.

"And to be a good person, you’ll have to praise them?"

Now he was the one looking like all others, their vacation to visit his grandfather in Ishval a new experience for him. His siblings were now the ones gawked at, his parents too. He could move through the crowds with ease though, did not stand out at all when remaining silent, the only thing disclosing where he came from his strong accent when speaking Ishvalan, his limited vocabulary.

It was unusual how often his grandfather laughed, usually so solemn when visiting them.

"Ishvala does not need you to pray for him every day, though he'll certainly be pleased if you do. Ishvala is a god that loves you, just for existing, no strings attached."

"But the priests and the books say otherwise!"

He'd been dreading this journey at first, had been so very sure that everybody would concentrate on how un-Ishvalan he was. Had read the books his parents owned of course, but found so little of himself in them. Alchemy wasn’t his cup of tea, but he'd not understood fully why it was condemned like it was. Did wonder why Ishvala seemed to set such strict rules, not a page further though telling its people to take pleasure in the life they granted.

It had not made sense when he was a kid, and even less the older he grew up to be.

"Most of the rules Ishvala set are old, ancient even, stemming from a time when they were needed to ensure that everybody had enough. If you practice ejuration, you make sure that everybody has enough to eat to survive. Alchemy often went hand in hand with destruction and dangerous experiments, so it was banned, to make sure that nobody came to harm. The opinions on it are strong, though there are by now some Ishvalans practicing it too."

Revelled in the honesty his grandfather offered, the easy words and the understanding blooming inside of him because of them. Felt like his thoughts weren’t wrong, his doubts justified. The lingering feeling that there were more than just two sides to everything, confirmed.

"But isn’t it a sacrilege, to change what Ishvala created?"

"What was created by Ishvala, boy?"

"Everything!"

It was what the books said, his own doubts aside. Believe was believe and he himself saw no problems in mixing it with what he knew about science, too.

"Ishvala gave us this world, so they gave us alchemy too, the power to create, to be more like them. But they also gave us compassion and a sense of responsibility and love, and to properly praise them, we must practice all of that at the same time."

Mulled that over, the market they were wandering over full, people passing and greeting them while they walked.

"So Ishvala created everything that is bad too?"

A sigh, because Miles knew the question to be a loaded one. Had asked something like that in school once and had been shut down quickly.

"Yes, Ishvala did. Though bad, as you'll no doubt learn one day, is a vague term. Few things are undoubtedly and inherently bad, as well as few things are undoubtedly and always good. You can love too much and spoil it for the other. You can hate too much and hurt another of Ishvalas creations in the process. When it comes down to it, Ishvala preaches understanding and togetherness."

Silence fell upon them for a while, Miles mulling over this new information in his head.

Was there really something like loving too much? Was there a possibility of a murder, not being bad? When Ishvala created everybody and everything in this world, then why would people claim what Ishvala would or would not praise? His grandfather’s words broadened his view, he felt that the instant they left the man’s mouth, but that did not make things less confusing.

"And what would that mean for me? What can I do to praise Ishvala?"

Not here, in this land, but when he went back home. There was no house of prayer there, nothing like it. Not even others that looked like him and even if, he'd been shunned before, for acting too much like an amestrian. For looking too much like an Ishvalan.

"Be defiant, but don’t hate. Show compassion, not only to others, but yourself too. Love with all your heart, but let yourself be loved in return."

Bewilderment in his voice when he answered.

"That’s it?!"

His grandfather laughing again.

"It's easier said than done, boy!"

He was astounded how many buildings had defied sand and time.

The war.

He'd been here last with eighteen, the war yet so far, in his first vacation after enlisting. His grandfather had not been happy about the way he'd chosen, but hadn’t resented him for it either. Told him that he was proud even, for his strong will, his bravery. It had paid off only in the past few years, such a short time, for a long while so sure that his plans, the things he fought for, had been for nought.

Hadn’t his anger consumed him during the war? Raging on without him, he send so far away to the North? The news of his Grandfather dying the one thing almost breaking him? And when he'd forgotten himself, when he'd lashed out, she'd been there.

It took years for him to understand how important it was to let himself be loved.

Her words had been honest, but not kind, nor sugar-coated. There was little time for him to be angry, when it would lead to negligence, which would lead to loss of life at the place he was at. She'd challenged him, at the same time showed him his worth. And he'd been almost overwhelmed a few hours later, staring at the ceiling with red eyes, by day hidden by snow-blindness googles. She'd done little else than accept him that day, who he was, his troubles.

And by asking him to focus, to be by her side and help, she'd asked him to do the same.

"Is this it?"

They rode through the empty streets, sand swallowing many of the buildings.

The Ishvalan restoration project had gotten close to this village by now, the place where his grandfather had lived. Where he'd spent much of his youth, learned many lessons. What living could be, what it often was instead. How to separate the liars from those speaking the truth. Together with her, who'd turned so many of these lessons practical.

"Yes, it is."

He sounded wistful, was almost silenced by the sanctity the streets seemed to emit. How many had died here, how many had lived here before? Got off his horse, a trusty mare, not walking off when he let go of the reins. Went over to her, helping her descend, she too, letting the white stallion go.

Walked with her, breathing deeply.

Eyes closing, when her hand closed around his, the other holding the bundle in front of her chest close. She'd offered to go with him, insisted almost and he'd not wanted to fight her. Had thought a lot about it, so unsure at first, but then remembering his grandfather’s words.

Love with all your heart, but let yourself be loved in return.

So, he let her, as soon as they were nearing this city not regretting anymore.

"That’s the well we used to get our water from."

It too, was half-buried in sand, but almost completely intact still. Let his hand wander over the rim, brushing sand and dust away, the stone beneath a deep blue. Considered her eyes then, his grave mood suddenly changing, a laugh bubbling fourth.

Her puzzled look let him explain.

"The first time I'd laid eyes on you, had really seen you, the colour of your eyes made me homesick. At the time, I couldn’t remember why."

Laughed with him, the sound eliciting a gurgle from his son, so very carefully carried by her.

Walked with her some more, now taking her hand in his, until they got to the house he'd been looking for.

"It must've been a good place to come to."

Her voice was so very sure, and he found that she spoke the truth. His grandfather’s house had been his second home, a place he loathed going to the first time, loathed leaving it the last time he did. Felt the memories tumble from his mouth, encouraged by her smile.

"He lived alone, but had such a big house. Mother always called it impractical, but that sentiment soon changed when we visited him more often. There was always someone with him, so many friends and people that learned from him. When we left after visiting for the first time, we all knew that it was so big for a reason."

Her hand gently squeezing his, coaxing out more words.

"We each would have our own bedroom, but after one or two nights alone, we always moved in with each other. He'd shown us that while we of course deserved privacy, sharing a space wasn’t too bad. We'd complained so often about the little living space at home and he taught us to love it."

"Do you want to go inside?"

Her voice warmer than the sun burning down on them, a laugh coming forth at the thought of people calling her the ice queen. It was a part of her sure, but the people concentrating on that one piece of her, missed so much else. His grandfather had taught him how to live a good life after all, and they'd then learned it together.

"Yes, I'd like that."

"Do you want to be alone?"

There was no malice in her voice, only reassurance that it was okay if he wanted to. And now that she’d asked, he knew that she was right. He wanted to go in there alone, and look around one last time. Say goodbye to his grandfather, the one thing he never could do before. Smiled at her, seeing it reflected on her face, her hand letting go of his.

"Me and Kiran will wait at the well for you."

Turned, without much preamble, walking into the right direction, while he took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The house seemed a bit smaller to him, less colourful. Sand was everywhere, much of the furniture and decoration gone. The halls were silent, every room he wandered through. Yet it was cool, without darkness, like a safe haven from Ishvalas burning sun. Only when he'd wandered through every room once, climbed up to the roof, he stopped.

And under the baldachin they'd prayed under, drunken tea under, he fell to his knees.

"I have lived grandfather, not always well, but I have lived."

There had been plenty of hardships, ditches and trenches and nights spent in the infirmary. Endless worry and pain, the feeling of fear when waking up in a room at night, the other gone. He'd buried people, he'd seen people hurt beyond comprehension and yet, he saw them get up again. His own wife was the perfect example for that. He, too.

"I've never forgotten what you said to me so many years ago grandfather, not even one word. I learned to defy expectations first, everybody’s. Those of the public, of my friends, of my family. Even my own, at one point. I hated for a brief time, but I've found someone who taught me defiance again. And you were right: It works."

The things he was working on now, what he did, who he was, were making a difference. Of course, people still side-lined him, called after him, threatened him, but he defied their expectations. Stayed calm, friendly and factual. Ishval was changing for the better, respect for his people was growing.

There was a future now and he did not have to throw a punch to get it.

"I learned to be patient with myself. To take my own needs seriously. And when I stood in front of an Ishvalan brother, the compassion you talked to me about I felt. And I let it take the lead."

Would never forget the day he'd met the man who’d been formerly known as Scar. Had seen a broken man, not knowing in what to believe anymore, and felt that he had to be honest, say the words that had been on his heart. Now this man was one of his best friends, the godfather of his son. One of the most important pieces of restoring a homeland once lost.

"And love, oh grandfather, how I love. I've found the most wonderful woman in the world, who I love utterly and completely. You’d like her a lot, both of you had no time for hate or laziness, both of you are stern and kind. I love her with all my heart and in return she loves me, with everything she has to offer."

Olivier was what kept him together truly, his home. Should he have to leave Ishval tomorrow, should he have to flee to the furthest corner of this world, it'd be fine, as long as it was with her. She was kind and fierce and smart and beautiful, and had taught him that he was all of that, too.

"I have a son of my own now, grandfather."

The tears silently rolling down his face, upturned to the burning sun, in his memory the red and blue of the baldachin so vivid. Yet his voice did not waver, his resolve not falter.

"This wonderful woman gifted me with a son, perfect to the very last strand of hair. He's got the skin of Ishval and her blond hair and grandfather, his eyes have been blue like every new-born’s when he came into this world, but they are changing already. And yet, everybody loves him!"

Kneeled silently for a while, fists on the ground, balled so tight that his knuckles turned white. He'd never had a chance to say goodbye, had always regretted that, but now understood what it really had been that he missed.

"Grandfather, I wish you could see these two, all that we have achieved in the past years. There is a future now, for all of us, and nothing of the past will be forgotten!"

Got up, face upturned again, outgrown white hair moved by a pleasant gust of wind. The sand around him scattered in the wind, a little glint catching his eyes. Drawn to it he was, hands brushing away the last of the sand, lifting the string of pearls off the ground.

It had hung from the wood of the baldachin as long as he could remember, a lucky charm his grandfather had said it was, something for babies to play with, to catch the light of the sun in. It was made to draw the eye and let you appreciate the perfection Ishvala had given to this world. Pearls of Jade and Agate and Howlite and real pearls, though the ocean was so very far away.

He smiled.

"Thank you, Grandfather."

Silently he walked out of the building, through the streets of a village fallen victim to a war, his heart and mind pleasantly empty. Reaching the well and standing still, watching his wife and his son play, little chubby legs pulling away from water in a sky-blue basin, screaming with joy. Greeted by the smile of his wife, the perking ears of their two horses standing by her side.

Watched her get up, took his son when she offered him and held him tight. Showed him the string of pearls, smiling wide when he took it without hesitation, clumsily, mesmerized. Olivier’s hand brushing away the streaks of tears from his face, pressing a kiss to his cheek, he one to her forehead.

Her arms embracing them, nothing but a content sigh escaping, taken by the wind of the desert.

Kiran: Derived from Sanskrit किरण (kirana) which can mean "dust" or "thread" or "sunbeam".

[angel-or-demon22]

Sólo te llamo a las 5:30, el único momento en que estaré a tu lado, el único momento en que te llamare “mío” EJUR

[the-chomsky-hash]

[Roussel worked for fifteen hours on each verse of Nouvelles Impressions, every new ring of growth in the wood of the poem requiring a reordering of the whole - cont'd]

Another question: why is this text called, so notably, Nouvelles Impressions d'Afrique, presenting itself in this way as a repetition of a work with which it seems to have little rapport, and even less since it was not constructed, as the other was, according to the process?

I don't think that the fleeting but all-encompassing descriptions of

Damietta

Bonaparte

the gardens at Rosetta

the licked column in the temple of Aboul-Maateh

justifies a title which relates more to Africa than to the incomparable skills of Ejur-on-the-Tez. What is the enigmatic bond linking

the Nouvelles Impressions [d'Afrique, Roussel's final poem]

the old [Impressions d'Afrique imbuedwith the "tropological" process] (whose renewal the title proclaims but without any explanation)

La Vue [the early work, outside of the process] (which was the basis of a first draft which remained secret, and whose existence was revealed only by Roussel himself)?

– Michel Foucault, Death and the Labyrinth: the World of Raymond Roussel (Chapter 7: The Empty Lens), Translated from French by Charles Ruas, 1963

[the-chomsky-hash]

[Roussel gives us a single narrative that: - begins with “the white letters on the cushions of the old billiard table” (les lettres du blanc sur les bandes du vieux billard) - ends with “the white man’s letters on the tribes of the old plunderer” (les lettres du blanc sur les bandes du vieux pillard) - cont'd] In this multiplication of the haphazard which is maintained and turned into ceaseless destruction [i.e. in Roussel's process of creating a theater out of the arbitrary double meanings of words provided by language itself], the birth and death of language is a continuum, giving birth to these - motionless - repetitive - half-dead and half-alive figures, both objects and humans, that appear - on [the character] Ejur's stage - in Martial Canterel's invention of a box for resurrection.

Michel Foucault, Death and the Labyrinth: the World of Raymond Roussel (Chapter 3: Rhyme and Reason), Translated from French by Charles Ruas, 1963

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 @karlsruhe @baden @bundestag @bundesrat @deutschland @bild @bild_de @phoenix_de @d ejure @dejureorg @frauen @frau  jeder der diese #grundlage des kontrollsystems nicht begreift ist ersteinmal ein garnaut tastischer t r a u m t a e n  z e r  #ihr #se id #sexualstraftaeter #als #bonus #als #sssexxxbonus  ohbhittttttte das sind sexuals traftaeter mit ihrem erbastelten kontrollsystem alle sexuell missbrauchen die sieko ennen insbesondere postpubertaere undkinder weildiemethoden geheim bleiben muessen u m mehr straftaten zubegehen wird das missbrauchsopfer kriminalisiert und mit typisch geheimdienste welcher trick funktioiert diesesmal zersetzt dannwird eine neue generat ion gebumst und verscheissert weilihr erfindungen stehlenwollt und miteueren tat en davonkommenwollt wie sonst auch gratis  ist das alles aeh aeh aeh niiiiiiiiiie!! !! yomama!! ihrseid sexualstraftaeter als b o n u s als  s s s e x x x b o n u s s iss systemisch schonimemrgewesen jeder der diese #grundl age des kontrollsystems nicht begreift ist ersteinmal ein garnaut tastischer t r a u m t a e n  z e r I am Christian KISS BabyAWACS – Raw Independent Sophistication #T HINKTANK + #INTEL #HELLHOLE #BLOG https://www.BabyAWACS.com/ Inquiry@BabyAWACS.com P HONE / FAX +493212 611 34 64 Helpful? Pay. Support. Donnate. paypal.me/ChristianKiss

@karlsruhe @baden @bundestag @bundesrat @deutschland @bild @bild_de @phoenix_de @dejure @dejureorg @frauen @frau jeder der diese #grundlage des kontrollsystems nicht begreift ist ersteinmal ein garnaut tastischer t r a u m t a e n z e r #ihr #seid #sexualstraftaeter #als #bonus #als #sssexxxbonus ohbhittttttte das sind sexualstraftaeter mit ihrem erbastelten kontrollsystem alle sexuell…

[the-chomsky-hash]

[The play of identity and of differences has eclipsed the lucid procession of beings in La Vue. The black disk masking what is in Nouvelles Impressions allows at the edge of each one only a thin, luminous ribbon - cont'd]

[It is like a dark machine for creating repetition, Roussel cast verses into the void, not toward objects but in the pursuit of language, to construct a barred threshold against this opening - cont'd]

[The last poem, Nouvelles Impressions, is an inventory of the game - cont'd]

All this infinitesimal poetry delivers in a raw state the materials out of which formerly were meticulously constructed the machines of Ejur or of Locus Solus. Without the structure of long mechanical discourse, pebbles and flashes of light are dispersed here, erupting directly from the mine, the chaos of objects and words by which all language begins.

The marvelous minerals which Roussel's works leave asleep within the depth of their discourse are now

made visible

spread on the surface

a treasure restored to the inchoate language.

– Michel Foucault, Death and the Labyrinth: the World of Raymond Roussel (Chapter 7: The Empty Lens), Translated from French by Charles Ruas, 1963