#mausolean

[thenewnio]

The Statement of Randolph Carter

I repeat to you, gentlemen, that your inquisition is fruitless. Detain me here forever if you will; confine or execute me if you must have a victim to propitiate the illusion you call justice; but I can say no more than I have said already. Everything that I can remember, I have told with perfect candour. Nothing has been distorted or concealed, and if anything remains vague, it is only because of the dark cloud which has come over my mind—that cloud and the nebulous nature of the horrors which brought it upon me.

Again I say, I do not know what has become of Harley Warren; though I think—almost hope—that he is in peaceful oblivion, if there be anywhere so blessed a thing. It is true that I have for five years been his closest friend, and a partial sharer of his terrible researches into the unknown. I will not deny, though my memory is uncertain and indistinct, that this witness of yours may have seen us together as he says, on the Gainesville pike, walking toward Big Cypress Swamp, at half past eleven on that awful night. That we bore electric lanterns, spades, and a curious coil of wire with attached instruments, I will even affirm; for these things all played a part in the single hideous scene which remains burned into my shaken recollection. But of what followed, and of the reason I was found alone and dazed on the edge of the swamp next morning, I must insist that I know nothing save what I have told you over and over again. You say to me that there is nothing in the swamp or near it which could form the setting of that frightful episode. I reply that I know nothing beyond what I saw. Vision or nightmare it may have been—vision or nightmare I fervently hope it was—yet it is all that my mind retains of what took place in those shocking hours after we left the sight of men. And why Harley Warren did not return, he or his shade—or some nameless thing I cannot describe—alone can tell.

As I have said before, the weird studies of Harley Warren were well known to me, and to some extent shared by me. Of his vast collection of strange, rare books on forbidden subjects I have read all that are written in the languages of which I am master; but these are few as compared with those in languages I cannot understand. Most, I believe, are in Arabic; and the fiend-inspired book which brought on the end—the book which he carried in his pocket out of the world—was written in characters whose like I never saw elsewhere. Warren would never tell me just what was in that book. As to the nature of our studies—must I say again that I no longer retain full comprehension? It seems to me rather merciful that I do not, for they were terrible studies, which I pursued more through reluctant fascination than through actual inclination. Warren always dominated me, and sometimes I feared him. I remember how I shuddered at his facial expression on the night before the awful happening, when he talked so incessantly of his theory, why certain corpses never decay, but rest firm and fat in their tombs for a thousand years. But I do not fear him now, for I suspect that he has known horrors beyond my ken. Now I fear for him.

Once more I say that I have no clear idea of our object on that night. Certainly, it had much to do with something in the book which Warren carried with him—that ancient book in undecipherable characters which had come to him from India a month before—but I swear I do not know what it was that we expected to find. Your witness says he saw us at half past eleven on the Gainesville pike, headed for Big Cypress Swamp. This is probably true, but I have no distinct memory of it. The picture seared into my soul is of one scene only, and the hour must have been long after midnight; for a waning crescent moon was high in the vaporous heavens.

The place was an ancient cemetery; so ancient that I trembled at the manifold signs of immemorial years. It was in a deep, damp hollow, overgrown with rank grass, moss, and curious creeping weeds, and filled with a vague stench which my idle fancy associated absurdly with rotting stone. On every hand were the signs of neglect and decrepitude, and I seemed haunted by the notion that Warren and I were the first living creatures to invade a lethal silence of centuries. Over the valley’s rim a wan, waning crescent moon peered through the noisome vapours that seemed to emanate from unheard-of catacombs, and by its feeble, wavering beams I could distinguish a repellent array of antique slabs, urns, cenotaphs, and mausolean facades; all crumbling, moss-grown, and moisture-stained, and partly concealed by the gross luxuriance of the unhealthy vegetation. My first vivid impression of my own presence in this terrible necropolis concerns the act of pausing with Warren before a certain half-obliterated sepulchre, and of throwing down some burdens which we seemed to have been carrying. I now observed that I had with me an electric lantern and two spades, whilst my companion was supplied with a similar lantern and a portable telephone outfit. No word was uttered, for the spot and the task seemed known to us; and without delay we seized our spades and commenced to clear away the grass, weeds, and drifted earth from the flat, archaic mortuary. After uncovering the entire surface, which consisted of three immense granite slabs, we stepped back some distance to survey the charnel scene; and Warren appeared to make some mental calculations. Then he returned to the sepulchre, and using his spade as a lever, sought to pry up the slab lying nearest to a stony ruin which may have been a monument in its day. He did not succeed, and motioned to me to come to his assistance. Finally our combined strength loosened the stone, which we raised and tipped to one side.

The removal of the slab revealed a black aperture, from which rushed an effluence of miasmal gases so nauseous that we started back in horror. After an interval, however, we approached the pit again, and found the exhalations less unbearable. Our lanterns disclosed the top of a flight of stone steps, dripping with some detestable ichor of the inner earth, and bordered by moist walls encrusted with nitre. And now for the first time my memory records verbal discourse, Warren addressing me at length in his mellow tenor voice; a voice singularly unperturbed by our awesome surroundings.

“I’m sorry to have to ask you to stay on the surface,” he said, “but it would be a crime to let anyone with your frail nerves go down there. You can’t imagine, even from what you have read and from what I’ve told you, the things I shall have to see and do. It’s fiendish work, Carter, and I doubt if any man without ironclad sensibilities could ever see it through and come up alive and sane. I don’t wish to offend you, and heaven knows I’d be glad enough to have you with me; but the responsibility is in a certain sense mine, and I couldn’t drag a bundle of nerves like you down to probable death or madness. I tell you, you can’t imagine what the thing is really like! But I promise to keep you informed over the telephone of every move—you see I’ve enough wire here to reach to the centre of the earth and back!”

I can still hear, in memory, those coolly spoken words; and I can still remember my remonstrances. I seemed desperately anxious to accompany my friend into those sepulchral depths, yet he proved inflexibly obdurate. At one time he threatened to abandon the expedition if I remained insistent; a threat which proved effective, since he alone held the key to the thing. All this I can still remember, though I no longer know what manner of thing we sought. After he had secured my reluctant acquiescence in his design, Warren picked up the reel of wire and adjusted the instruments. At his nod I took one of the latter and seated myself upon an aged, discoloured gravestone close by the newly uncovered aperture. Then he shook my hand, shouldered the coil of wire, and disappeared within that indescribable ossuary. For a moment I kept sight of the glow of his lantern, and heard the rustle of the wire as he laid it down after him; but the glow soon disappeared abruptly, as if a turn in the stone staircase had been encountered, and the sound died away almost as quickly. I was alone, yet bound to the unknown depths by those magic strands whose insulated surface lay green beneath the struggling beams of that waning crescent moon.

In the lone silence of that hoary and deserted city of the dead, my mind conceived the most ghastly phantasies and illusions; and the grotesque shrines and monoliths seemed to assume a hideous personality—a half-sentience. Amorphous shadows seemed to lurk in the darker recesses of the weed-choked hollow and to flit as in some blasphemous ceremonial procession past the portals of the mouldering tombs in the hillside; shadows which could not have been cast by that pallid, peering crescent moon. I constantly consulted my watch by the light of my electric lantern, and listened with feverish anxiety at the receiver of the telephone; but for more than a quarter of an hour heard nothing. Then a faint clicking came from the instrument, and I called down to my friend in a tense voice. Apprehensive as I was, I was nevertheless unprepared for the words which came up from that uncanny vault in accents more alarmed and quivering than any I had heard before from Harley Warren. He who had so calmly left me a little while previously, now called from below in a shaky whisper more portentous than the loudest shriek:

“God! If you could see what I am seeing!”

I could not answer. Speechless, I could only wait. Then came the frenzied tones again:

“Carter, it’s terrible—monstrous—unbelievable!”

This time my voice did not fail me, and I poured into the transmitter a flood of excited questions. Terrified, I continued to repeat, “Warren, what is it? What is it?”

Once more came the voice of my friend, still hoarse with fear, and now apparently tinged with despair:

“I can’t tell you, Carter! It’s too utterly beyond thought—I dare not tell you—no man could know it and live—Great God! I never dreamed of THIS!” Stillness again, save for my now incoherent torrent of shuddering inquiry. Then the voice of Warren in a pitch of wilder consternation:

“Carter! for the love of God, put back the slab and get out of this if you can! Quick!—leave everything else and make for the outside—it’s your only chance! Do as I say, and don’t ask me to explain!”

I heard, yet was able only to repeat my frantic questions. Around me were the tombs and the darkness and the shadows; below me, some peril beyond the radius of the human imagination. But my friend was in greater danger than I, and through my fear I felt a vague resentment that he should deem me capable of deserting him under such circumstances. More clicking, and after a pause a piteous cry from Warren:

“Beat it! For God’s sake, put back the slab and beat it, Carter!”

Something in the boyish slang of my evidently stricken companion unleashed my faculties. I formed and shouted a resolution, “Warren, brace up! I’m coming down!” But at this offer the tone of my auditor changed to a scream of utter despair:

“Don’t! You can’t understand! It’s too late—and my own fault. Put back the slab and run—there’s nothing else you or anyone can do now!” The tone changed again, this time acquiring a softer quality, as of hopeless resignation. Yet it remained tense through anxiety for me.

“Quick—before it’s too late!” I tried not to heed him; tried to break through the paralysis which held me, and to fulfil my vow to rush down to his aid. But his next whisper found me still held inert in the chains of stark horror.

“Carter—hurry! It’s no use—you must go—better one than two—the slab—” A pause, more clicking, then the faint voice of Warren:

“Nearly over now—don’t make it harder—cover up those damned steps and run for your life—you’re losing time— So long, Carter—won’t see you again.” Here Warren’s whisper swelled into a cry; a cry that gradually rose to a shriek fraught with all the horror of the ages—

“Curse these hellish things—legions— My God! Beat it! Beat it! Beat it!”

After that was silence. I know not how many interminable aeons I sat stupefied; whispering, muttering, calling, screaming into that telephone. Over and over again through those aeons I whispered and muttered, called, shouted, and screamed, “Warren! Warren! Answer me—are you there?”

And then there came to me the crowning horror of all—the unbelievable, unthinkable, almost unmentionable thing. I have said that aeons seemed to elapse after Warren shrieked forth his last despairing warning, and that only my own cries now broke the hideous silence. But after a while there was a further clicking in the receiver, and I strained my ears to listen. Again I called down, “Warren, are you there?”, and in answer heard the thing which has brought this cloud over my mind. I do not try, gentlemen, to account for that thing—that voice—nor can I venture to describe it in detail, since the first words took away my consciousness and created a mental blank which reaches to the time of my awakening in the hospital. Shall I say that the voice was deep; hollow; gelatinous; remote; unearthly; inhuman; disembodied? What shall I say? It was the end of my experience, and is the end of my story. I heard it, and knew no more. Heard it as I sat petrified in that unknown cemetery in the hollow, amidst the crumbling stones and the falling tombs, the rank vegetation and the miasmal vapours. Heard it well up from the innermost depths of that damnable open sepulchre as I watched amorphous, necrophagous shadows dance beneath an accursed waning moon. And this is what it said:

“YOU FOOL, WARREN IS DEAD!”

[thetemple-smallinstitutions]

mausoleum (n.)

A mausoleum is an external free-standing building constructed as a monument enclosing the interment space or burial chamber of a deceased person or people.

"magnificent tomb," early 15c., from Latin mausoleum, from Greek Mausoleion, name of the massive marble tomb adorned with sculpture built 353 B.C.E. at Halicarnassus (Greek city in Asia Minor) for Mausolos, Persian satrap who made himself king of Caria. It was built by his wife (and sister), Artemisia. Counted among the Seven Wonders of the ancient world, it was destroyed by an earthquake in the Middle Ages. General sense of "any stately burial-place" (now usually one designed to contain a number of tombs) is from c. 1600. Related: Mausolean.

[xphaiea]

The place was an ancient cemetery; so ancient that I trembled at the manifold signs of immemorial years. It was in a deep, damp hollow, overgrown with rank grass, moss, and curious creeping weeds, and filled with a vague stench which my idle fancy associated absurdly with rotting stone. On every hand were the signs of neglect and decrepitude, and I seemed haunted by the notion that Warren and I were the first living creatures to invade a lethal silence of centuries. Over the valley’s rim a wan, waning crescent moon peered through the noisome vapours that seemed to emanate from unheard-of catacombs, and by its feeble, wavering beams I could distinguish a repellent array of antique slabs, urns, cenotaphs, and mausolean facades; all crumbling, moss-grown, and moisture-stained, and partly concealed by the gross luxuriance of the unhealthy vegetation.

H.P. Lovecraft, The Statement of Randolph Carter

[omgsherlockus-blog]

I have finished the mausolean.  Now onto finishing the bag with canvas that I have dyed green blue in tint.  I want the bag to have a old army cam bag fill.  

[beautifulthingsandemotions]

My safely mausolean heaven Sincere smile of your suggestion has entered into my racemed heart. It has created the sportiveness in the panoply of stimulating spur. And the commeding beauty of your support has created the panegyrical devoutness in me! At last, your nurtured glance has prudently addressed to the plight of my heart. - My Pandora keenly yearns for your cheerfully emotional attitude! #reader #reading #writing #writer #instanew #instapost #bookstagram #writergram #writergroup #quotes #best #bestwriters #bestposts #authorsofinstagram #author #read #write https://www.instagram.com/p/BqpVtYUBXe7/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=p01nwbr2hlhl

[barefootblogger-france]

Now that I’ve seen the movie “Loving Van Gogh” — in French no less, with no subtitles — I’m remembering my first visit to St. Rémy de Provence

I started my quest for Van Gogh’s trail in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence early on a beautiful, sunny morning. Temperatures were in the high 70’s and a light wind was blowing. Planned stops along the way to St. Rémy were the towns of Remoulins and Beaucaire.

On Van Gogh’s Trail: Remoulins

I’m not certain why I chose to stop in Remoulins because I had done no research — just a spot on a map. Nevertheless, a cemetery along the way caught my eye while I was passing through the town. I’d been intrigued about French cemeteries since being here, so stopping in Remoulins gave me a chance to check one out. To me it’s interesting to find out how different cultures honor their deceased. In Remoulins, and other areas of Provence, bodies are buried above the ground in family plots. Most grave stones in this cemetery dated back many centuries. Many were adorned with elaborate porcelain flower displays and family memorabilia.

On Van Gogh’s Trail: Beaucaire Moving onto Beaucaire, the scenery definitely changed. The older part of town where tourist visit is centered around a busy canal. Marine traffic is active, mostly for pleasure boats, and cafes and restaurants cater to transients and locals. Some boat owners who tour the western Mediterranean in summer moor their vessels in Beaucaire in the winter.

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Finding the way 1  If you’re wondering how I find my way around, it is relatively easy. On this trip I had a Michelin Atlas of France. I know the main ways in and out if Uzes. So with a couple of stops at petrol stations along the way to ask directions, I got along fine. Note: Both petrol stations where I stopped had female attendants. Neither spoke English. I simple pointed where I was going on the map and they totally understood what I wanted. They gave me perfect directions. Not to be sexist, but a man giving directions would have described every landmark along the way. The females just drew straight lines from one turn to another. Simple.

2 Another guide for finding my way on the roadways is “roundabouts.”I’m not kidding, there are roundabouts every two miles or so along French roadways. That means there are frequent direction signs that point your way.

3 When you get into a city, there’s usually clearly marked signage to follow. If you don’t see your destination on the sign, just keep going straight. Soon there will be a sign that says: “Autres Direction” or “Toutes Direction.” Follow that sign. It will lead you to the right road.

If all else fails, ask a woman.

On Van Gogh’s Trail: St. Rémy de Provence

St. Rémy is advertised as the one place you must see if you want to experience Provence.

Nostradamus was born in St. Rémy and Doctor Albert Schweitzer was “hospitalized” here in 1917-18 when he wrote The Decay and the Restoration of Civilization and Civilization and Ethics, part of his philosophical study of civilization.

Most importantly St. Rémy is where the artist, Van Gogh, lived from 1889-90 in the asylum at Saint Paul-de-Mausolean Driving into St. Rémy, an almost “spiritual” feeling came over me. There was something different about the countryside . It felt like a movie set. The road into the city is lined with white-banded “plane” trees, like those leading out if Uzes. But they go on for miles and miles. Ancient stuccoed farm houses and buildings are close to the road with lush farmlands spreading deep behind them.

The historic district of St. Rémy is set in a circle. I found a parking place in the public lot that was close to the entrance of town. After depositing the equivalent of $5 in the meter, I looked for the tourist office. Before I had gotten very far,  a menu special at a charming cafe caught my eye– salmon. I stopped for dejeuner. Perfectly prepared salmon, risotto with tiny chunks of tomato and scallions, and a glass of rose.

I skipped the tourist office and took off to explore the shops. Of course.

Interestingly, I saw more Americans in St. Rémy than anywhere else I’ve traveled in this area. I’m sure its because they’ve read the publicity about St. Rémy being the “place to be” in Provence. They head there on day stops while cruising the Med. There’s definitely a distinctively high-class atmosphere in St. Rémy. Its appeal to the “rich and famous” is apparent throughout the shops and boutiques.

Some of the architecture even looks rich– more “French” than “provincial” or “Provençal.”

On Van Gogh’s Trail: Art and architecture Walking around St. Rémy, there were so many times I reminded myself, “Van Gogh was here”, I could imagine how he was inspired. It inspired me.

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In the footsteps of Van Gogh The creme de la creme of my day was a tour of Saint Paul-de-Mausolean, the monastery complex and asylum where Van Gogh was voluntarily committed from 1889-90. From here he produced two of his most notable works, “Starry nights” and his self-portrait. Taking the photos below, I was transported to Van Gogh’s day and time. I could imagine how he felt fortunate for all the beauty around him, in spite of his imprisonment. The entrance, the buildings, the inside, Van Gogh’s Garden, the chapel, the view!

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Van Gogh was released from the hospital at Saint Paul-de-Mausolean in May 1890 and left for Auvers-sur-Oise, near Paris. It is said he shot himself on 27 July 1890 and died two days later.

Fortunately his art lives on.

On Van Gogh’s Trail Now that I've seen the movie "Loving Van Gogh" -- in French no less, with no subtitles -- I'm remembering my first visit to 

[lifepartnersincrime]

'16 "Tweets" on MOECHACHOS

Kid Sis lives in a city (of sorts–#Memphis), uses N-word, mocks minorities, covered up murders of 3 #Mexicans- #Lucky (outside #GoldStrike)

My dying Dad said I’d have Delta for many years to come. But she died young & so did my Ana, because of Indmar Wives

When my Mom died my creepy sister told me at #Paragould hospital she’d euthanize my dogs if I didn’t sign her back onto family bank account.

Orangutan hanging over #DedraOwens (‘Wife’ I later learned) told me I could not go back to my own home. I had no ride. My dogs were helpless

Polk Ballad Granny 👵🎤👭🎲💵 you got had by Gator Tranny 🐍🐊🐽💩🐒👵👭💵💸😈👹👺🎅😂👾💀🔚

‘Polk’ - for punk-folk - the most uninspired, ineffectual portmanteau word of all time. Invented by Dedra ‘Moe’ Owens.

Dad, early 2001, warning me never to trust my sister– “I lost all respect for your sister in 1991 when I was laying there dying in a … /1

… hospital bed and she asked me for your Mom’s car with that f-ckin’ geek standing right behind her looking at his watch.” /2

Incredible coincidence! Man blackmailed out of home & lifelong assets owned items identical2 ones that turned up 4sale by sister & Her Wife!

Cousin & I both got physically sick realizing Dei Moe Rowe probably dressed her “wife” in my Dad’s Marine uniform as a turn-on. Heard worse-

Never sign a shifty relative back onto your family bank account *before* she tells you the threatening thug hanging over her is her ‘Wife.’

In the greatest emergency of your life… Who you NOT gonna call? GLOAT BUSKERS! Those boys’ll pack up their gee-tars & begging bowls & COME

Dee Moe, Larry, Curly & pet monkey looted me, terrorized me, took my home for crack & casino money, & vanished in dust trail of lies #PTSD

Alive Despite Rowes #3WordsToDefineYourself #IndmarProducts #AngelaChristineRowe #DedraOwens #Memphis #Millington #DrugFrontBar

Gambling warnings at convenience store are more honest than Surgeon General warnings on cigarette packs. Gamblers steal or worse to lose ass

Moe’s polk album never came out–but Moe did! After I signed her back onto family bank account, left to me, to keep her from killing my dogs

Mystery solved: The creative giant behind “polk music” simply removed the “a” from “polka”–and freed it up for “electronicA”! #musichistory

#AngelaChristineRowe -“Old people smell”…You weren’t young in 2002 (w/mausolean “meth” Funk Breath). Now, crone, it’s daily Eau de Cologne

Deirdre (Moe’s “wife” insisted Moe call herself this, probably also thinking zebras should be zeirbres)–Dei Moe–has #Paragould accomplices

A Few Things I’ve Gotten Back from Thieves of My Estate ​Sometimes it’s not a matter of how wrong or how right something is, but how gross or how un-gross it is Thank u doctor 👍 Sincere Owens T-U⬆ That felt like RoboCop thanking The OldMan for removing his 4th Prime Directive so Dick Jones could go to The Great Board Meeting in the Sky Introversion is a hidden tragedy and a hidden gift. All introverts are pressured to be extroverts (who make up 75% of humanity). Impossible. Temperament of introversion baffles extroverts, who feed off interaction. When I grew up “nerd” was a slur. Too many syllables in introvert? Introverts keep few friends but tend to be “leaders.” Extroverts turn to introvert friends for ideas. Much of human behavior explained here. Maybe it’s nice to be anhedonic from depression. OCD causes depression. I have Major Depressive Disorder, bipolar symptoms. Denied anhedonia PTSD numbness goes beyond “subatomic level” of anhedonia. Dr F had mentioned anhedonia to me in 1999, before my parents died & I was #abused Dei Moe got the all-clear from a Memphis or Cordova psychiatric ward without telling them she ran a drug-front bar where 3 people were shot💀 Whoever sells any idea that people with #OCD can “recover” from that chronic, usually hereditary, brain disorder, is a liar. Liar😈 vs Buyer😇 Long solitude, shock, strong medication–"do the math” as a walking cliche would say. Any lone, *trapped* person is helpless protecting pets You sure don’t see the MOECHACHOS threatening me now. Already ate meat off my bones. But I’m here, I’m THE FACTS against the THE ACTS. C'mon I went years without reading, in a PTSD abyss. Moe had boasted I would suffer for being favorite child. Worse fate? Being Moe. Da SOOPA STAH Only therapy is confrontation–of problem, of problem-causer, of naked self. Numbness and depression encourage their aide-de-camp, avoidance You have 2B strong and indifferent. Save energy 4 what matters. Be fair, be distant. Generally, it’s harder 2 screw an ©sshole than a p°ssy. “A place you’d never want to go.” Many fellow Arkansans have used that phrase to describe *every other* Southern state to me. HALLELUJAH 😐😕🤔 I’ll never understand why people w/ 2-second-long attention spans ask questions…non-rhetorical questions. Others only answer for 2 seconds When dealing a 2nd time w/ a 2-second listener processing the start of my answer to their question, I like to just shut up.They don’t notice Then comes the bonus. A faraway-look face like a chicken’s, only missing a beak. A void stare. Can someone like this even watch television?😨 Short-circuiting inquisitors make the Ilia probe from Star Trek: TMP seem like Dear Abby. “Fascinating…no signs of brain activity at all.” I’m not keen on random talk. So quiet is my territory. Nip a game in the bud: just keep mum. Then: “Huh?” “Nothing.” Pure truth, that. Zilch Asking then ignoring is disrespectful. My “Ignore then absently ask 'What’?” tactic sure to earn you equal footing other party doesn’t want. That may not be respect,but there are other fine social parries than those that earn a snot’s fickle admiration. +element of surprise is fun “The Cook, The Thief~” movie still unsettling after all these years. Trauma from abuse finally drove it home for me. Grim score so funereal💀 Moe thought she was Spica to my Georgina. The dining room funeral procession should be Moe’s Wife served as sushi to the GS Casino Grannibal Took me years 2 work up nerve 2 watch TCTTHWAHL. I was a low-key guy. Will just say, Albert Spica’s vulgarity cannot compare 2 Dedra Owens’s Abused Poor Pup I was hands my metaphorical Georgina Albert’s substitute pee shooter…& Georgina is pissed at the chilling Private Function Whatever I enjoy about 'The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover’ is what I enjoy about beatnik horror comedy A Bucket of Blood. Fine PLAYS Maxwell Brock, in fact, is sort of a benign version of Albert Spica, and Walter is Pup gaining Albert’s favor in a suitably gruesome fashion Another thing aforementioned movies have in common is a shock ending where justice is served. Walter’s stark suicide actually most unnerving Cook-Thief-Lover film is an assault on a viewer. And I was ravaged by 2 sapphic Spica wannabes & their flyblown sycophants. I still am. PTSD I suppose soundtrack to my thoughts of MUCHACHOS is roiling TCTTHWAHL closing music as glutton Albert tastes victim then dies by his own gun With vomit & cooked human flesh in his hideous devil’s mouth, Albert’s existence ends as he stares, shaking, at his victims & their avengers “Spica gets a taste of his own medicine” Nyman theme is the most unsettling piece of music I’ve ever heard. Saxophones in whirling madness 🎷 As much as I love optimistic science fiction, I lose myself in the searing voyage of scatologist Spica’s lunatic cruelty to foul last supper I’ve seen people more perverse than this unparalleled fictional psychopath gangster teach appreciation of a memorable restaurant experience🍴 I’m a sucker for a pretty face and an even bigger sucker for a perky pair of Gerber servers. Mags I grew up on, like Heavy Metal, delivered. Incredible news at doctor’s office. I can say with joy that there are good people who see the horror a sick victim of crime has gone through Mental illness doesn’t mean insanity. Some great arguments against term “mental illness”… My dr said, “You’re not crazy, you’re tortured.” And as for stereotype of the wild bipolar person… I have BD but have been told my behavior is virtually unipolar. If I joke, I’m irritated If MUCHACHOS hadn’t screwed me I’d never communicate online. Introversion is all I know. But yes I joke. Yes I care. No I don’t back down… Snow🌨️is falling, not sticking, and I am extra-medicated after a much needed new diagnosis for ANOTHER Moe-related illness. #PTSD bad enough “What the f@ck is this?” Dad said as mail to “Dee Moe” Owens came to our home. Moe’s Rich Wife, Moe, & Moe’s current Main Squeeze > 💩🐃🔭🐂🐂💩 “She promises to work on our computers, doesn’t show up. Get her on phone, her voice is groggy, in bed with that girl, on drugs. 'Wha-a-at’” HOW LONG WILL THE MOECHACHOS 'HUSTLE AND FLOW'? HOW LONG DEI