stantheman - "vive la republique"

I cant imagine a time when the blood was thicker,

I cant think of a better time for liquor,

Shut yourself inside the barricade,

And hope the decision you have made,

Will end the hopeless downfall,

As cartridges tear apart the wall,

Your revolver won’t suffice,

The razor will only entice,

The fatal end of those who resist,

And the revenge that those insist,

To reform the past and the times,

As if broken brick could repair the moral crimes,

Of sheer indifference vaingloriously thrown,

With universal suffering clearly known,

The perfect time to take the stage,

Charged with uproar-fever rage,

With the only thing resulting,

Is a new monarchy consulting,

The status of the red wine streets,

While still directing imperial fleets,

Progress lost not made,

From there the revolution will fade,

Your symbolic anger is wasted,

liberation is something you’ve never tasted,

Snorlax - "Slow it Down"

Curiosity is a peculiar condition. How disappointing it is to spend hours attempting to uncover the mysteries of the universe, only to discover that they are not worth knowing! How queer it is to consider that man will forfeit his own well-being for utter irrelevancies! But what a clever trap; that the realization that ignorance is, indeed, bliss, renders itself trivial.

* * * * *

The day Jason Holmes was born, his father shot himself in the left temple with a hollow-point 9mm bullet fired from a .357 Smith and Wesson Magnum. The funeral was held the next day. The casket remained closed so no one had to look at his mangled face. Everyone attending the funeral had seen a bullet wound before, most of them on television, but some of them were doctors and had seen one or two in real life.

* * * * *

When Jason Holmes was five years old, he held a butterfly in his hands. His mother preached to him: “Hold it too loosely, and it will fly away: hold it too tightly, and you will crush it.” Jason gazed at the lifeless guts in his hand. His eyes watered and his body began to shake. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

* * * * *

On Jason Holmes’ sixth birthday, his aunt happened to give birth in the hospital. When his mother told him so, Jason inquired, as children are prone to do: “Where do babies come from?” His mother responded, as mothers are prone to do: “The stork brings them.” Jason would not learn about sex until four years later, when an octogenarian nurse would lecture an audience of kids and separate boys from girls and blush and speak to each group separately about their own body parts and the other groups body parts. None of the students could quite understand why these two groups needed to be separated. The nurse wouldn’t tell them. Neither would their teachers.

* * * * *

When Jason Holmes was eight years old, he entered the third grade of the American education system. There were twelve levels of this system, each level issued an ordinal designation. It was used to teach kids about numbers and war and volcanoes, and also reading so that kids could learn even more from books and encyclopedias. Some of these kids were mean-spirited, and would ask Jason why he didn’t have a father. Jason didn’t have an answer, so he went home to inquire to his mother. She glared at him, then asked: “Why do you need to ask so many questions?”

Jason shrugged. His mother’s face softened. She said: “You just tell those kids that a drunk driver killed your father.”

He went to class next day and did just that. They asked him: “What is a drunk driver?” Jason didn’t know.

* * * * *

When Jason Holmes was sixteen years old, he entered the tenth grade of the American education system. One day, he sat in a room with twenty-five other sixteen year olds while a starry man with a steel countenance faced all of them and percolated ancient history. That day, the topic was the French Revolution. Words tremulously escaped from his mouth, gathering together and gradually forming sentences. Some of them sounded like so: “Some historians believe that the storming of the Bastille symbolized victory over the reign of tyranny that the French bourgeois had wreaked for years. Most historians know that at the time of the storming, seven inmates were being housed. The building could retain about fifty prisoners in total. The rioters had heard that the prison was more cavernous and inhuman.”

Jason laughed silently at the rioters. What an empty victory, he thought. If only they had known.

* * * * *

When Jason Holmes was eighteen years old, he felt typical teenage angst, so he wrote a list of words describing how he felt in a journal he bought at Target for 99 cents. These words included: lost, confused, alone, worried, unloved, and bereft. He omitted the word “clever,” which was how he felt about himself when he completed the task. He rationalized it like this: “clever” would detract from his authenticity as a greatly troubled and burdened individual. He stored the journal underneath his mattress until six minutes later, when he removed it and added to the list “troubled” and “burdened.” He forgot about the list within a week, and never wrote in the journal again.

* * * * *

When Jason Holmes was twenty years old, he began to wonder why he was no longer as happy as he was during his infancy and childhood. He started to search for new ways to be happy. One way involved sticking a needle in his median cubital vein and drawing blood into a syringe filled with a chemical compound called heroin, then injecting both the blood and heroin back into the vein. Jason and his friends who engaged in this activity with him called heroin “dynamite,” because when the brain made them feel powerful, and all of them knew the phrase “I am no man; I am dynamite,” which was attributed to a dead man named Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche. They all agreed fervently that they were all, indeed, dynamite.

* * * * *

By the time Jason Holmes was twenty-three years old, he had let so many chemicals alter his mind that it could no longer process new information. He had already experienced both the happiest and saddest moments he would ever experience; so when his mother called him to apologize for lying to him for all these years and that his father had actually committed suicide, Jason only responded like this: “Oh.” Three days later, Jason snuck into his childhood home to try to find the gun that his father had used to shoot himself on the day that Jason was born, unaware that police investigators had confiscated the weapon according to Standard Operating Procedure. Instead, he discovered an epistle scribbled on a green Post-It stuck to the bottom of his father’s armoire. Jason dimly imagined he had come across his father’s suicide note. It read: “Power lies in what is possible. After you open the curtains and the light shines in, you can’t forget what you’ve seen, even if you blow up the sun or gouge out your eyes.”

While he read this, Jason’s mother entered the room and flipped the light switch. Jason saw her eyes were sad and tired and full of tears. He tried to validate her: “Thanks for trying, mom.” She nodded somberly. He left her lingering in the doorway, but could not forget what he had seen.

* * * * *

When Jason Holmes stepped outside the door, he ran until he reached the closest stretch of highway. The next day, local newspapers printed a story about a truck colliding with his body travelling at seventy-nine miles per hour. The impact caused the vital organs inside the body to hemorrhage. He was pronounced dead on impact, though in reality, Jason retained consciousness for two point four seconds. Those who read the article remained blissfully ignorant of this detail.

The man driving the truck had been moving at a speed of fourteen miles per hour above the marked limit because he had a deadline to meet. He was supposed to be delivering a shipment of books to a regional outlet of Barnes and Noble, among which were copies of “The French Revolution” by David Taylor and “Human, All Too Human” by Friedrich Nietzsche. The driver was convicted by a jury of his peers on one count of manslaughter and one count of speeding, and thus sentenced to reside in a state penitentiary for no less than eight years. After the first four years of his imprisonment, he suddenly began to laugh. Here is why: he realized that he never met his deadline because he tried to decrease his trip duration.

NeuroticMastermind - "Untitled"

Scene: The residence quarters of Marquis Bernard-René de Launay, governor of the Bastille. It is the bleak, overcast morning of July 14, 1789. Scattered shouts can be heard from the lone window, and each becomes successively more difficult to ignore for the (unhappily) awoken aristocrat.

LAUNAY: (grumbling) Gaspard… (waits a moment, then mumbles louder)…Gaspard!

[Enter left GASPARD, in guard regalia. Launay sits up impatiently.]

GASPARD: Mon seigneur.

LAUNAY: Remind me what you’re doing here.

GASPARD: (nonplussed) You called for me.

LAUNAY: That doesn’t excuse your ability to hear me, which is itself uncalled for. Why aren’t you outside?

GASPARD: The situation will make itself apparent quite soon, sir.

[As he finishes the thought, a sizeable rock is hurled through the window, deflects off the ceiling, and unbalances a table, spilling its haphazardly placed contents onto the floor.]

LAUNAY: You make your point rather succinctly. My commendation.

[The table begins to creak, leaning tenuously to one corner.]

GASPARD: Such accolades, while appreciated, may be of little further use if the mob outside is to be believed.

LAUNAY: Ah, yes, that matter. (Looks around for a moment, blinks, as if attempting to remember something) What do they want, again?

GASPARD: (pauses) I’m not entirely sure, mon seigneur.

[Silence. The table collapses. Ink spills over the parchment collected on the floor. Neither man seems to notice.]

LAUNAY: (prompting) Wouldn’t it be splendid –

GASPARD: -to find out, sir. Yes, immediately.

LAUNAY: Do your best to gauge their seriousness about this whole ordeal. I won’t lose my post over some frivolous demand for bread or shelter.

GASPARD: (departing) Such things seem to be fashionable nowadays, monsieur.

[The governor is alone. He finally gets out of bed, slowly, thinking about what to do next. He glances around the room, vaguely dissatisfied with its disorder; for lack of a better idea, he paces, waiting for the guard to return.]

GASPARD: (returning, winded) I – I’m afraid I bear ill news.

LAUNAY: Sounds unfortunate. (grimacing) Can the mob be reasoned with?

GASPARD: Can any mob be reasoned with?

LAUNAY: I haven’t the time for your wit. Hold your tongue and tell me – what do they want?

GASPARD: I should think it difficult to do both.

LAUNAY: Forgive what I said earlier. Succinctness is hardly your strong suit.

[Another lengthy pause. Both seem to ignore the steadily growing din from the mob outside. Somebody else hurls a broken bit of pottery through the window, which shatters against the splintered bedpost. The canvas begins to droop]

LAUNAY: I suppose I’ll have to fix this all eventually.

GASPARD: Might I suggest that renovations cede first priority to resolving a brewing riot?

LAUNAY: You might. (thinks briefly) Demands for my head aside, bring me a written statement from their leader of the moment.

GASPARD: I’ll see if they’re asking for anything else.

LAUNAY: Let them argue amongst themselves for a while. Hopefully they’ll disagree on abstractions and go home.

GASPARD: I’m sure they prefer their routines of destitution to the momentary thrill of wishing violence on public officials.

LAUNAY: (smiling faintly) Let us hope so.

[Gaspard departs. The governor turns to examine his room again. The floor is hardly visible below a layer of debris, the bed is falling apart, and a wayward brick has leveled his bookshelf. He walks over to the wreckage, idly examining a few stray pages and busying himself by finding their rightful place. He finishes as the guard returns again, ducking a pair of manacles lobbed in his direction.]

LAUNAY: Well?

GASPARD: (checking the parchment) They want weapons, sir. Armaments, ammunition, bayonets, artillery.

LAUNAY: That’s it?

GASPARD: (Glancing cursorily) There was something mentioned about tyranny and inequality or some such issue. Shall I clear that up as well?

LAUNAY: No, let them forget it on their own.

GASPARD: They also demand (reads again, nods)…your unconditional surrender and cession over control of the prison.

LAUNAY: What was that?

GASPARD: It would seem they are determined to unseat you, sir.

LAUNAY: I’m aware. In favor of whom?

GASPARD: The public welfare? Given that their intention is to seize our weaponry, I think we can safely assume they’re not interested in reforming imprisonment conditions.

LAUNAY: This is…troubling.

GASPARD: Yes….yes, it is.

[The guard waits for further instruction while the Marquis moves toward the window, thinks better of it, and pauses; he takes a step toward the door, and pauses again. The noise from outside has grown to a raucous commotion, with a thousand furious Parisians voicing their discontent.]

GASPARD: I’ll leave you to your thoughts, then?

[He waits a moment, then hastily exits. Downstairs, the gate gives way, and the noise of the mob floods the fortress.]

LAUNAY: They’ll give up. (shakes his head) That’s the nature of these things. They’ll all have forgotten this ordeal by tomorrow. They’ll have forgotten who started it, or why they gathered. They’ll forget…

[He watches from the window as the sans-culottes lead the charge and the remainder of his guard flees into the relative safety of the prison walls.]

LAUNAY: And so will I…

Betty - "14 Juillet"

A man unsteadily stands to his feet in plain view of the great cathedral, Her one face gracious like the gates of heaven and Her other, the pointed spears of hell. The last gray shadow of the night's fire works have already faded from the sky. In the disorienting haze of inebriation he ponders the minute details: why is the ground wet? where did the ash on his breast pocket come from? He registers with oscillating clarity the noises of the night -- the breaking of a wine bottle, the rise and fall of a celebratory yelp, the clipped steps of a lady's heel, the crackle of the burning tip of his cigarette. Then he passes through the arterial streets of Ile-Saint-Louis to cross over the river Seine; he treads the island to get that much closer to his destination. It is here on the right bank that he is confronted by the one in the enamel mask, a wispy imposter with a pale face. Limerence.

And, he was so close. Tossing the butt of his cigarette into the gutter, our protagonist looks down and away. With a newfound focus his gait becomes surer, and so, quicker. Turning at rue Saint-Paul he marches down Charles V. A four story apartment building with too many eyes and a large arched mouth approaches in the night. The man unlocks the heavy wooden door. Its hinges creak and edges scrape at the floor as he pushes against the carved surface. A marquee of words unravel across his head as he navigates a familiar darkness:

A light shines past this dark corner

jingling keys, one pair of steps

up a flight, maybe two

comfort ember burn midair

as another welcomed home

yet you and i are strangers;

we are both in solitude.

Giddy, he climbs the staircase laid with deep green carpet. A hand glides over the spiraling banister. At the second floor landing his self amusement is cut short by a collection of noises at the base of the building. Below the window in front of the gate, a cluster of limbs, naked legs and arms akimbo, beat at the door. The man sees several nondescript faces with the insides of their wailing mouths blackened out. He braces against the glass in horror as the monstrosity clamors not thirty feet from where he stands. He looks across into the adjacent building. There hovers tauntingly the mask. Fiercely, eyes widening, the man presses a forefinger to his lips. The lower gate caves in and unknown pairs of feet storm the hallway, trampling over his delicate trail of footprints. As the collection of voices wind up he lifts the window and jumps feet first to the ground.

A talus bone fractures; he gains a limp. He detours back to the Seine, lifeblood of the city. With every step the pain increases and the pain mirrors his growing desperation. At Pont de Sully, an unremarkable bridge, he stumbles down the concrete stairs onto the quay and collapses. When he turns a head to look behind him, there at the top of his long tumble stands that damned Limerence. At this point he waits with a sullen face, mutely beckoning the specter to approach. It descends slowly then lingers over him once more. The man leaps up and grabs it by the neck and hauls it over the parapet into the river. He watches, exhausted, as it sinks to its death. In that moment sounds of the night turn to those of dawn -- the gentle coo of a waking pigeon, the rhythmic breaking of water against the piers, the slowing heartbeat pulsing in his ear, the scraping and ignition of a match as he lights another cigarette. In that moment, instead of triumph the man feels a profound loss.

He sleeps.