Pretty Boy of Evil's Journal|
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Pretty Boy of Evil's LiveJournal:
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|Monday, July 17th, 2006|
I have been a tree amid the wood
And many new things understood
That were rank folly to my head before.
|Friday, April 28th, 2006|
|Play the Game
And Arthur sat within the carpet, and Owain the son of Urien was standing before him. "Owain," said Arthur, "wilt thou play chess?" "I will, Lord," said Owain. And the red youth brought the chess for Arthur and Owain; golden pieces and a board of silver. ( And they began to play.Collapse )
|Friday, June 24th, 2005|
Soon as the sun dispelled the chilly night, The sounding doors flew wide, and from the tomb Of dead Hortensius grieving Marcia came. First joined in wedlock to a greater man Three children did she bear to grace his home: Then Cato to Hortensius gave the dame To be a fruitful mother of his sons And join their houses in a closer tie. And now the last sad offices were done She came with hair dishevelled, beaten breast, And ashes on her brow, and features worn With grief; thus only pleasing to the man. "When youth was in me and maternal power I did thy bidding, Cato, and received A second husband: now in years grown old Ne'er to be parted I return to thee. Renew our former pledges undefiled: Give back the name of wife: upon my tomb Let `Marcia, spouse to Cato,' be engraved. Nor let men question in the time to come, Did'st thou compel, or did I willing leave My first espousals. Not in happy times, Partner of joys, I come; but days of care And labour shall be mine to share with thee. Nor leave me here, but take me to the camp, Thy fond companion: why should Magnus' wife Be nearer, Cato, to the wars than thine?"
Although the times were warlike and the fates Called to the fray, he lent a willing ear. Yet must they plight their faith in simple form Of law; their witnesses the gods alone. No festal wreath of flowers crowned the gate Nor glittering fillet on each post entwined; No flaming torch was there, nor ivory steps, No couch with robes of broidered gold adorned; No comely matron placed upon her brow The bridal garland, or forbad the foot to touch the threshold stone; no saffron veil Concealed the timid blushes of the bride; No jewelled belt confined her flowing robe nor modest circle bound her neck; no scarf Hung lightly on the snowy shoulder's edge Around the naked arm. Just as she came, Wearing the garb of sorrow, while the wool Covered the purple border of her robe, Thus was she wedded. As she greets her sons So doth she greet her husband. Festal games Graced not their nuptials, nor were friends and kin As by the Sabines bidden: silent both They joined in marriage, yet content, unseen By any save by Brutus. Sad and stern On Cato's lineaments the marks of grief Were still unsoftened, and the hoary hair Hung o'er his reverend visage; for since first Men flew to arms, his locks were left unkempt To stream upon his brow, and on his chin His beard untended grew. 'Twas his alone Who hated not, nor loved, for all mankind To mourn alike. Nor did their former couch Again receive them, for his lofty soul E'en lawful love resisted. 'Twas his rule Inflexible, to keep the middle path Marked out and bounded; to observe the laws Of natural right; and for his country's sake To risk his life, his all, as not for self Brought into being, but for all the world: Such was his creed. To him a sumptuous feast Was hunger conquered, and the lowly hut, Which scarce kept out the winter, was a home Equal to palaces: a robe of price Such hairy garments as were worn of old: The end of marriage, offspring. To the State Father alike and husband, right and law He ever followed with unswerving step: No thought of selfish pleasure turned the scale In Cato's acts, or swayed his upright soul.
If my wedding tomorrow is more fun than this one, that will be good enough for me.
|Monday, June 20th, 2005|
A brother at Scetis committed a fault.
A council was called to which Abba Moses was invited, but he refused to go to it. Then the priest sent someone to say to him, 'Come, for everyone is waiting for you.' So he got up and went. He took a leaking jug, filled it with water, and carried it with him. The others came out to meet him and said to him, 'What is this, Father?' The old man said to them, 'My sins run out behind me, and I do not see them, and today I am coming to judge the errors of another.'
When they heard that they said no more to the brother but forgave him.
|Friday, May 21st, 2004|
My thesis is done, and today I am going to Wales. Just think, while you fuckers are indulging in drink and drama, I will be wandering around castles. Time to rip some CDs and get packed.
|Tuesday, December 30th, 2003|
|It's sanitary, rational, happy, and sane!
It has recently come to my attention that against all expectations, I loathe grad school. Certainly not the entire institution, merely where I am and what I am doing. Most of my colleagues are shocked and awed that I plan to graduate in only one year. How they can stay for longer mystifies me.
My vexation extends to many of my colleagues. I am not looking forward to returning to class and watching them flagellate themselves publicly into wretched overachievement. The hothouse department and its overstressed graduate students with poor self-images has gotten old. Sweating over theorem proofs and constantly reinforcing the normative value of my utility-maximizing brand of rationality is not the way of the Sage.
The fact that now I can do multinomial logit analysis or prove that measurement error leads to bias is a lousy consolation prize. I must tell myself constantly that I am doing this for a Reason. Though I am still aware of all of the reasons I chose this, they fail to resonate.
I will finish. The quantitative skills will remain, while the memories of wanting to flay my colleagues will rapidly deteriorate. I am getting too old for this. I need a real job.
|Friday, November 21st, 2003|
I haven't really posted a whole lot in, oh, six months.
Why do you think that is? What do you think I have been up to? Take your best guess.
|Saturday, September 20th, 2003|
|Rumors of my demise have been exaggerated.
I am very much alive. I have been keeping quite busy. In the past few months I have done all sorts of interesting things.
I no longer need to sleep. I can use words like heteroscedasticity
correctly in a sentence. I killed a man with a broken credit card. I made myself a bowl of oatmeal. I left NY state and played with a 223 assault rifle. I am commissioning the greatest sword in the history of the world. I can fly from building to building like a twisted spirit of vengeance. I have been avoiding the monomaniacal first year in my department. I do no work on Saturdays. I can prove the Gauss-Markov theorem. My cats' souls hail from the Abyss. I don't drink nearly enough beer.
|Thursday, July 17th, 2003|
|The strangest thing.
So the cabbie who took me home last night got to talking. The story he told was apparently recreated on Taxi Confessions, that dreadful cable show, in lurid detail.
He picked up a young woman on 34th St. and 1st Ave. She was going to the upper east side, and she was carrying a small black box, about eight inches by ten inchest by six inches.
About halfway through the trip, curious barking noises emanated from the box.
"Shh, Horace, we're almost there..."
"Horace? Who the fuck is Horace? What do you have in that box, lady?"
"Oh, this is Horace."
She opened the box and pulled out a little baby white seal, who clucked happily.
"Holy shit, lady, is that a baby seal?"
"Yeah. He's very affectionate. Look."
She proceeded to show the cabbie just how affectionate Horace is by inserting him head first
I love New York.
|Thursday, July 3rd, 2003|
I have had the same dream of losing my teeth about a dozen times in the past few months. Apparently it signifies anxiety.
The fact that I cannot possibly figure out what I am anxious about is making me anxious. Go figure.
|Wednesday, July 2nd, 2003|
|Oh let the sun beat down upon my face
I think I listened to Kashmir every day on the schoolbus my freshman year of high school. The bass filled me with anger, and the words gave me hope for better things. The song would end precisely as the bus pulled into the school's lot. I pulled my headphones from my ears exhilarated, almost optimistic.
I still love this song.
|Thursday, June 19th, 2003|
Some shitheel copped a feel off my girlfriend on the LIRR today.
She broke his face.
I am truly the luckiest of men.
|Monday, June 16th, 2003|
The CD is complete. I will be sending a batch of them off tomorrow. You still have time.
I make no claim as to its quality. I am not an expert funkadelic mixologist, or whatever it is that pretentious DJs call themselves these days. This is just a CD of some tunes that I like. But it does have a title.Something Old, Something New, Something Wicked, Something True
While I am touched, really, that people are interested in my humble CD, I am surprised that I have not yet received any addresses. While I excel at teledildonics, my telepathy and teleportation skills are lacking.
If you wish to receive one, you know what to do. My email address is in my profile.
Love you, mean it.
|Sunday, June 15th, 2003|
|You wanted mundane details...
Now I am eating bitter black chocolate and listening to the music of the gods. My room is cool and dark, and I am alone.
In honor of my acquisition of new burning software, I will be making a CD. Yes, I know, everyone else has already done the same thing. But this one will be mine. If you want one, simply ask.
Edited to add: On further reflection, I am not sure if I possess the self-restraint necessary to limit myself to just one CD. You have been warned.
|Friday, June 13th, 2003|
Here is your gratuitous image, consume
. Uncut for your pleasure.
|Thursday, June 12th, 2003|
|Understanding, at last.
For every person who finds me irritating (ahem, Kyla), there is another misinformed soul out there who finds me amusing. Because I enjoy self-promotion as much as the next vain snob (though I have no problem criticising this behavior in others), allow me to introduce neuromantik
, who has the following lovely things to say about me.Just added a complete stranger to my Friends list. Maeglin. Really, so much bile in one small LJ. It was almost enough to start my cold, dead heart beating again after a particularly disheartening day. He sounds how all the rest of wish we sounded when we're catty. He also reminds me of an IRL friend of mine, only more clever (no, I don't mean you Eras). Besides, it's rare to find someone who lists Hermeticism as one of their interests.
So my claim to fame is bile. I would happily join the ranks of the other world renowned Assholes of the west: Juvenal, Le Duc de Saint-Simon, Rivarol, Mencken, the president of my co-op board, etc.
Neuromantik enjoys fencing, fantasy novels, and the history of Rome and Persia. And, of course, hermeticism. Quite the combo in my meager book. But just so I don't sound too complimentary, I detest when people use "their" as if it were some sort of neuter singular pronoun. To avoid this crise
in the future, I am a he, through and through. No comments, Doob.
I have been dreading the summer since March. Though it is late in coming in New York, nevertheless its arrival fucking irritates me. As a person of limited talents and plodding intellect, I can rely on only one thing to carry me through the day. My will. I am the Russian Army: what I cannot accomplish with dexterity and skill, I can by throwing millions of poorly armed peasants to their deaths.
But this weather makes all the peasants want to drink too much and die. I lose the will to do anything
. Workout today? Bagged. My latest translation project? I have been staring at Patenostrier for the last hour. My article? Fuck it. Even with the air conditioner opening a portal to Niflheim in my bedroom, I am still miserable. I'll defy it as I try to defy just about everything else, but as usual, I will still bitch about it.
And it isn't even very hot.
News isn't all bad, however. After three years of training in classical fencing, I believe I am finally no longer a novice. Apparently I am ready for "sophisticated techniques and more lessons on strategy." Guess I'm now an advanced beginner. Bottoms up. But I am still pretty vicious with an umbrella. Perhaps when I have perfected my technique, that will be my vigilante weapon of choice.
|Tuesday, June 10th, 2003|
I write often short, often snide posts because my life is blissfully boring. I don't like writing about the personal details, because I find them equally dull to write about, and I know
that no one else is interested. Livejournal is where I can live out my delusions of wit and grandeur. In real life, I am a pretty boring, self-absorbed kind of guy.
But I made my girlfriend breakfast today, so I suppose I am not all asshole. Coffee, too. She liked it.