The nobles of this age had serfs to work their land and they took a portion of their crops. Without the nobles to provide the land there would be nowhere for crops to grow, asserting both the rights of ownership and causation, and if God put the land here for mankind he showed it could be owned when he cast them from his garden. The nobles sat on straight-backed chairs inside out of the sun, banqueting and being entertained by bawdy tales and flattery. Though James at 19 had been left a manor of his own, with a wife and two surviving kids, he alas did his sitting mostly on the ground and out of doors, soldiering for gold. Circumstances cast him to this underprivileged lot, but as most people would not choose to read the telling of their lives, if it were presented to them in a book, at least not past the present, since death is a mystery that no one wants revealed, so we decline to tell of James’ future til it comes. Like us he needs no book to look back upon the past for all of that he carries in his head.
For the essence of whatever would feel better, they repeated what they’d done on the morning before. Douglas helped James get his armor on and tied it into place. Then he helped him get up on his horse, then got up on his own, and without directing it his horse followed that of James as it had been trained to do. It walked near in the steps of its fellow, as in the limited path that James directed it, it could aim its hooves as it pleased, carrying its gate to avoid perhaps a jutting rock, and the horse behind was content to have its fellow’s judgment for its own. Not deciding anything was one fewer burden to bear.
"A small and cringing morning, I’ll allow," said James loud over his shoulder. "The fog sits on this swampy land like the fat ass of the Northern king, of which it is too heavy to let him stand without assistance. They say they cut the golden seat out of his throne that he may defecate while holding court. Woe to the petitioners who kneel before him when he does. The royal guard takes it as the sign to swiftly drag them to the dungeon, whether just or no. I aim, Douglas, to find that seat, to melt it into ingots, and use them buy back the lands I had to sell when Father passed away."
"How I weep to think upon that day!" Douglas said. "He was better loved than any king excepting our own. He was more deserving of a throne than any Northern bastard. By God I feel that you should haul away this weak king’s throne, and install it in the manor in your father’s memory, sir, after a thorough cleaning!"
Breakfast was cold rainwater and some of their own horses, as hungers cause necessities that manners don’t provide. For days the rain had speared the listless ground, which opened like a belly and gave off such a stench. The army camped upon a bog without another choice — all the land for many miles was made up of the same. They knew it would be so before they came and dared themselves over many drinks in the public houses they’d turned the elder men of 30 out of, not wishing for experience to ruin all the fun. They dressed the quest in words of honor, but all the young nobility who boasted deeds and drank felt an economic spear nudging at their backs. They raised this season’s army and walked out on the roads, these nobles and their servants, both man and animal. Their farms and manors were declining and their income was adventuring. But such desire needs no tinder to light in young men then. Just as with today the only thing it takes is that they gather. Competition does the rest.
The dawn was light as it would get, and a knight and squire were sitting on a blanket that was soaked through, but if it was wet this heavy blanket ransomed from Arabia stoutly kept out the mud, and for that bit of comfort they were grateful. The knight was James and Douglas was his squire and thus subordinate, though Doug had once saved his life. Still for his part Doug took no familiarities, such was his love for his master, and love we know is doing for another without being asked. So they sat upon the carpet ransomed in the Third Crusade, the unsuccessful one, from the invader’s point of view, just as were the one before and the one that followed, and let us speak a little of what happened to the children who crusaded on their own in a merry hopeless fluster. They were inspired by fine speeches. The clergy finally looked them in the eye and gave their wished-for blessing when they told them of the sacred mission heaven had for them. What a way for city fathers to rid the streets of orphans and their resentful crime, as knights treat fine carpets from the East. It’s sure the colored micro-stitching that turned many women’s hands to claws was meant to be adorned in a noble’s sitting room, as the orphans were meant to be adored by their families and neighbors, but that would have to wait until the light of God, which would shine so bright it would wipe away their memories of their pitiable demise.
Woody Allen’s made a different kind of movie and added a new facet to his oeuvre. Blue Jasmine is sad.
It’s his saddest movie since Interiors. But Interiors was a failure. Allen tried to make a Bergman picture, but it didn’t come off. Interiors had a tinge of sterility. For all the big emotions of the picture, few were convincing. The picture lacked Bergman’s actors, the best in the medium, who could plumb the depths that the script could only suggest, but crucially what Interiors most lacked was Bergman’s mise en scene. Allen handled Bergman’s material better when he parodied it in Love and Death.
In Blue Jasmine, late in life, Allen has put on the screen an emotion whose nuances had eluded him: sadness. Over his career, bad things continually happen to his characters. There is infidelity, and the character reacts by becoming cross, or wishy washy, by looking for vengeance, or by trying to love the straying partner more. That they are upset is plain. How could they not be, when that Allen neuroticism is running through them. But even when they despair on a drawing room sofa, there is something common to their dialogue across his many films, and there is melodrama in the staging. What there’s never really been, until his latest picture, is the transmission to the audience of a deep, nuanced sadness.
Reviewers are disappointed that Blue Jasmine is a take off of Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire. There is Jasmine, the fallen, aging aristocrat. There is her sister who’s spent her life in the poor circumstance in which our Blanche now finds herself. There is her sister’s physical, meathead lover. And there is Jasmine’s mental illness, the other main character, Jasmine’s refuge from reality.
Blanche is a tragic figure, but she always has her wits about her, even at the end. When she is led away to the institution we sense this is her giving up, releasing her hopes for a better life, and accepting the easy path placed before her. She does not succumb to her illness. Jasmine, however, has a mental illness so ingrained she doesn’t realize she has one. Cate Blanchett portrays this character brilliantly. She shows us a woman who, in the collapse of her marriage, the strain of its repercussions, and the loss of everything she owned, suffers exponential stress that cleaves her mind in two.
Also we must praise Sally Hawkins’s performance. She showed her virtuosity in several Mike Leigh pictures and it’s evident in this one as well. She brings more to Jasmine’s sister Ginger than any of the actresses did in the versions I’ve seen of Blanche’s sister Stella. If acting is reacting, then Hawkins has mastered her craft. It’s the little things she does. Most actors play the script. If they have clout they’ll demand changes to the script to either hide the limitations they know they have or repeat something that worked for them in the past. Hawkins has the ability to add things to the script to make her characters better. Note the end of a scene she has here with her husband. The dialogue is finished, the editor is looking for his cut. Hawkins goes up on her tiptoes and nuzzles his chest while straightening his shirt. The quickest look of surprise and pleasure crosses the actor’s face. It was likely something new Hawkins added to the take. It was her talent and instinct that implants in us the love between these people.
Allen the writer employs an interesting construction. It alternates continually between flashbacks and the present, and this makes the climax of the picture something that occurs prior to its main timeline. Jasmine reports her crooked financier husband to the FBI, and they take everything. The husband commits suicide in prison. His son, whom Jasmine loves, cannot stand the shame of his father’s outing as a criminal, and disappears. Jasmine finds him at the end, after her eligible suitor has seen the metaphorical crow’s feet of her eyes, after everything in the new life she tried for has fallen apart. The son tells her he does not want her in his life, that he has put the past behind, and wants to move on without her.
It’s facile to say it harkens back to Allen’s own son, the one who changed his name and reportedly wants nothing to do with him. The point is its use as a story element here, where it is the effective devastation of Jasmine in the plot. In modern America there are no men in white uniforms to kindly coax a troubled person into an ambulance. There is only what’s outside: Jasmine with no makeup, on a park bench, babbling aloud, oblivious to our sadness.
was wary of new foods she hadn’t tried. It was not a lack bravery but a lesson learned. Once in Dushanbe she was given a snack. It looked like molded peanut brittle. When she asked what it was, her host family said it was pistachio. They must not have thought its liver flavoring notable. After that not only did she insult half the city by refusing offered sustenance, but she changed her major to food science. She wanted to know what everything on a label was. She specialized in food safety, emphasizing agriculture. As a grad student she was part of a team that cut the occurence of perfringens in gas station chicken salad. They switched the packaging to a coarser wrap. Famous laboratories were PMing her with offers.
It was as though Virginia had completed a Native American spirit quest. What she wanted as a child became her life as an adult. She’d go into the private sector first to make money, and then 10 or 15 years later return to academia to give something back.
At this point a medicine man moved toward her at speed. He was Art Towers Tuner, a graduate advisor. Following his encouragement, she wrote a paper and made him a co-author. The other Ph.D’s knew his reputation, but they were in competition with her. Everyone was keeping cover.
Like a horse thief he claimed the credit for himself. He knew perfringens could make his career. He was relentless, causing fracking earthquakes in the 20 best food safety programs in the world. Virginia had the data. She defended herself. But Art was an orchestral conductor. He was that single-minded oaf who wants a thing so hard that he will make those around him sick until he gets it. They fight awhile but then give up just to regain their health. The two histories went into the field, along with a copy-catted third (serves him right), and out of this batch only his was selected. For Virginia the future trees grew shorter ever after.
The Brasilia Review #3
Hey! Our designer, Nayrb Wasylycia, has just won a national AIGA design award. The party’s this way, through the strobe lights and smoke machines and tribal trance we’re blasting.
In Issue 3 of The Brasilia Review Joe Baxter pens a future science memoir with a twist, Melanie Boeckmann calls on the congregation not to forget, Michael Flores makes a map for an inescapable future, Andrew McIntyre will dashingly conquer Poland, and Samantha Memi pokes her nose, but not too far, into the aristocracy.
Russ Paladin takes a Borgesian walk through space-time while the mysterious Nameless Monster reveals the underside of Vietnam.
Terhi contemplates the post pillars of science and of memory, while the fauna of Brasil assimilates Dan Souder.
What The Brasilia Review can do with these fetuses is literarily a miracle. —Mr. Show
(Submissions for Issue 4 are open!)
Morrissey’s Autobiography is brilliant and a pleasure to read. His prose style is sharp yet laconic, erudite, long-paragraphed, descriptive. It recalls DH Lawrence in form. Certainly not in every subject.
English writers love to trace their roots, and Morrissey has much to say on growing up. Johnny Marr doesn’t enter until a third of the way in, after Morrissey has told of his fist fights, depressions, sucky jobs, and boredom-breaking trips across the sea. He was jumped by some boys on leaving a record store. When not signed on to the dole, he is a clerk in a basement. His relations in America welcomed the diffident teenager for some week’s vacation. Hope is gleaned from how he talks about New York, but the word itself is not used. In this life hope only appears in the negative, as in hopeless, or the hope for death.
He’s a child living out Another Brick in the Wall, Part 2. Stereotypical sadists and agony aunts mold young Steven’s mind. There are leather straps and the humiliation of being stared at in the shower by a man. There are the little friendships that make it bearable.
He goes to the moors where in the ’60s many kids were killed. It’s night, and he and his friends are safe in a Mercedes. He gets out and takes baby steps into the muck, the fog reflecting his flashlight back into his face. The wind is strong, they cannot hear. They find the car again. On leaving, the headlights uncloak a naked man, waving spindly arms for them to stop. The driver brakes til Morrissey screams at him to go. It was an innocent, a ghost, a decoy for a robbery. They return in the morning to only find some clothes.
It seems we’ve long since known this man, the author of The Headmaster Ritual, and Suffer Little Children. This memoir is a reconfirmation. The high-coiffed man on the stage before the giant letters spelling out his name is no different than the one we meet upon the page. In both there is no style, no artifice.
Near as long as he spends on his years in The Smiths he spends on the court case brought by their drummer, wherein he sued for and won a fourth of the money the band made in its career. Morrissey resents it, and tells us at length how much and how wronged he was. It’s the lesson of Joe Shuster: never sign away your rights. That these contracts are put before invincible 20 year olds is why it’s never learned. That Morrissey is an anti-fascist vegetarian, who could be queer, is what we see between the lines for her majesty’s prime ministerial revenge.
His love for all the animals is the legend of his life. He nurses a little bird that cannot fly. He only touches it with garden gloves. Its parents hang about, bringing to it food, whistling for it to join them on the roof. Then,
"One morning it is gone, and I am distraught, pulling apart every bush and outdoor plant in search, when suddenly I look up to the roof and there is the bird finally positioned between both parents. Not everything ends horrifically."
He goes on tour and goes around the world. Those friends of his who do not die badmouth him to the press. Magazine assassins kill him in everything but life. He’s nearly kidnapped in Mexico. He overcomes his fear of dentistry.
His relationship with his fans is the envy of the great narcissists of music. Though he’d be happy to never see living soul, he comes to the edge of the stage and holds his hand out to his fans. Dozens more will then run down to have the chance to touch him. And he is, it must be stressed, a great performer. I saw it live ten years ago in Louisville, when the band started Now My Heart Is Full and I lost my mind, singing it right back to him, my arms held out in the not so empty air.
"No dreamy reality could ever equal my first ever concert in São Paulo in Brazil, when the crowd lifted a girl over their heads towards me, and as she came closer I could see that she held a white stick, and closer still I could see that she was blind, and as the crowd placed her gently on the stage she handed me a note which read, ‘I cannot see you, but I love you.’”
There are snippets of conversations he’s had with David Bowie sprinkled throughout. They are a welcome bit of humor.
‘I suppose you’re enormous in Cleveland?’ asks David Bowie.
‘No,’ I reply, utterly baffled.
‘Oh.’ He slumps.
Morrissey’s is the beauty of the underside of life. His writing is descended from Beckett, but it lacks Beckett’s force. It does not illuminate the drudgery and toil as Beckett’s does. It only describes in pretty language the world in which we live. We learn nothing new. We do not see, as Beckett makes us do. Morrissey does not impart the urge to stare at people, at the world. He describes these things in a way that gives us happiness to read.
"When her questions fire, her head goes right back – as if she is squinting to read something that she once wrote on the ceiling, and we are asked to have confidence as we await a jolt of literary lightning. Her naked self probably kills off marine plankton in the North Sea. God stopped her body from being right."
But it leaves us a bit drained.
If My Friends Could See Me Now
Mr. Oliver’s employer announced that day that they were adopting Japanese managerial science. Though he had made Vice President before 50, someone older would now take his job. He said to his girlfriend that his blood was boiling. Mev. de Wet took his meaning in the Afrikaans sense, that he was cool. So when she continued on about her least favorite part of Babylon 5, Mr. Oliver, not receiving the support he expected, left. Mev. de Wet was idiomatically confused.
He didn’t answer the texts she sent, and when she called she got the beep that prompted her to speak. Stewing at home was doing nothing, so Billie Basin, where the rising hills of the north tubs the Tsawan tributary, was where she went. She walked on the side where it ends in a lake, an itch on her calves from the wind-blown weeds. She picked a yellow dandelion and popped its head off with her thumb. She flicked the purple hollow stems into the water. Her phone was on the passenger seat of the car, its viewer flicking unlike what was done.
That calling the cause of the breakup of Mev. de Wet and Mr. Oliver better for both parties would be to scoff at both. They’d been based in Limpopo and were now banned from there. The abrupt cut in communication was like the silent bit before the crashing of a wave. That he continued his philanthropy, despite the crater in his income-building years, infuriated her. How much better their friends would think of him than she. She went up to Guateng and took the lead on giving laptops to the poor. The opposite of selfless, such a motive was a violence charity. She chose machines to give as she felt like one herself.
To the extent that all rule is imperial, Mev. de Wet’s sowed discontent among the non-receivers. Many Bantu languages rang with such complaints, of favoritism, nepotism, the lot. AM radio took to calling her a Stalinist. In response she began to sign her letters The Good Russian. Those frontiers are never as empty as, before we go, we imagine them to be. The great insults she inflicted on those she did not give laptops brought many of them through her office window to be found with broken screens and glass between the keys. Through her persistance with the program, she aimed to win respect. The other side had her respect executed on AM radio.
Mr. Oliver networked raising funds. He was appointed to the board of Pikitup. His spreadsheets tracked the trucks that picked up all the trash. Though we major in one spirit, our characters adapt us to all sorts of fields. Yet there were the groups who set no barrels on the curbs. They had nothing, so nothing to throw away: those unwilling to employ more working fathers, to expand the routes, to buy and repair trucks: the notional guns aimed at a city operating smooth. They were the unfixable, the self-redeeming whole. The calamity of what refuses for the sake of to refuse. But he had a paycheck and he took it to his good apartment home.
Mev. de Wet was defeated too. In the face of violence the donations stopped. The poor with something extra were re-assimilated. Those without the extra pressured for and won the unifying designation. They ipso facto proved their circumstances right. The culture’s ancestor’s war had been fought again. Still, like a punk rock psychoactive, a few children had their minds opened, saw they could do it for themselves, and learned.
A man came to the door of Gold Selleck Silliman’s Connecticut home. He was unshaven and his coat was flecked with mud.
"Looking for work, sir," he said.
"I’ve hired a man to repair the yonder sty," Silliman said. "Come tomorrow morning to assist him."
Silliman sat on the porch. Evening crept in from the sea. The neighbors had just left, and a slave was clearing the pitcher and plates.
"I ride out soon," he said to Mary Fish, his wife.
"Damn the troubled Lexington," she said.
"It’s spread farther than just Lexington. The colony rebels."
"Then King George shall know the whole of us against him. Other wives are hiring men, but I shall run our farm myself."
As they went inside and Mary closed the door, Silliman embraced her in the alcove.
"My new colonel," she said.
In Ridgefield, General David Wooster fell. Silliman and Benedict Arnold took charge of the militia. They put up a barricade to save the town. But the redcoats were too many, and Arnold ordered a retreat.
Silliman was dozing with a glass of spirits. Suddenly his front door was kicked in. Among the men with muskets Silliman saw one that he knew.
"General Silliman, you are now a prisoner of His Majesty the King." It was the carpenter he’d hired.
"I see your coat is new and clean," Silliman replied. He was led away.
A slave put a second shawl on Mary’s shoulders.
"I am sorry there’s no wood," Mary said, "for our tomato stew."
"Ate the last tomatoes yesterday," the slave said.
Mary watched her breath run away from her face. Each breath left them emptier.
"I wrote to General Washington for supplies. He said no."
Silliman approached his house. His shirt was tucked but open, its buttons long since gone. He staggered to the picket fence, then on to the porch. He had difficulty with the door. It was stuck into the frame, askew. He let the wreath upon the door be a pillow for a time.
"Mary," he called. On tippy toes she snuffled in his beard.
He saw the country’s first spring. In summer he died.
Mary Fish was forced to sell some slaves.
The money helped her children take the bar. She lived another 30 years.
Alice Munro Gets the Nobel
"This was disgrace, this was beggary. But what harm in that, we say to ourselves at such moments, what harm in anything, the worse the better, as we ride the cold wave of greed, of greedy assent. A stranger’s hand, or root vegetables or humble kitchen tools that people tell jokes about; the world is tumbling with innocent-seeming objects ready to declare themselves, slippery and obliging. She was careful of her breathing. She could not believe this. Victim and accomplice she was borne past Glassco’s Jams and Marmalades, past the big pulsating pipes of oil refineries. They glided into suburbs where bedsheets, and towels used to wipe up intimate stains, flapped leeringly on the clotheslines, where even the children seemed to be frolicking lewdly in the school-yards, and the very truckdrivers stopped at the railway crossings must be thrusting their thumbs gleefully into curled hands. Such cunning antics now, such popular visions. The gates and towers of the Exhibition Grounds came into view, the painted domes and pillars floated marvelously aginst her eyelids’ rosy sky. Then flew apart in celebration. You could have had such a flock of birds, wild swans, even, wakened under one big dome together, exploding from it, taking to the sky.
She bit the edge of her tongue. Very soon the conductor passed through the train, to stir the travelers, warn them back to life.”
—from Wild Swans by Alice Munro. Congratulations!
The Carthaginians continued to bake their cookies and cakes between sunrise and sunset all throughout the Punic Wars. A taste for treats does not diminish during fighting; indeed, it boosts morale to eat sweet breads upon falling back from battle. BC bakers prepared not foods but time itself, for with their loaves at each new dawn they ensured the soldier would get into formation, rather than acting hurt, running off, or other dishonest practices. Bread cheated the orders of the soldier’s own mind, his fear and apathy.
Today owing to their intensive flavors and world surplus of butter bricks and sugar buckets, sweet breads have come to life, as it were, as extended phenotypes of human desire. The demand for sourdough and marble rye is but a thumbnail speck of that of sweets. For and always the flour volume shall be greater than that of sugar-butter, but in the modern age the three are evolutionarily linked as each generation produces new people more adapted to sweets than the one before. Thus it points to a happy future where desire is always comforted.
In the densities of city life, someone need ride her mobility scooter fewer than 50 feet to enter a store selling sweet breads. This saving of electricity will postpone our environmental collapse. Furthermore, spotting her favorite bread on coupon websites will alter her discretionary income. Being open to different kinds is better still, whether leavened, mixed, or fried, with more savings meaning even more comfort.
Sweet breads aren’t only for the solitary. Although the initial expenditure is big, a geek of sorts could do nothing better than to learn to bake sweet breads himself. A savoury party does much to bond a stranger to another, like negatively charged work slacks to one’s leg in winter. The likely result of an evening board game and five type of sweet bread is cramp-inducing sex. Thus life from flour shall arise. Add recipes for yeast and fermentation to the party and every guest will come twice.
Carbohydrates are acids. They’re not acids, but they are, and with proteins they form the possible molecules. Bianca made this first determination. Owing to the established, selected sequence, she chose the carbohydrates as the basis for her lab-created lifeform. One representing nature.
Such building accumulation coined the name she would give the lifeform: Sugar. Sugar was born on a lab computer running Scientific Linux. From 2010-2012 Bianca programmed, tested, and then adjusted the sequence of the new genome, one coded purely on a carbohydrate. Most of this time was spent getting just one segment right. Once she had that, she had her model. One sequence became the direct father.
Bianca rediscovered the necessities pressing this structure, conceived on OTC cold medication, and now alive. She resented taking breaks to eat and sleep. When it got warm she tied her black hair up with rubberband, then wiped the follicle oil off her hands on her labcoat. She only washed it when she couldn’t stand it. Sugar would not have these hassles.
She searched for a place where Sugar would thrive, an environment conducive to its self-replication. She didn’t know enough about how habitats functioned. She put the code on github as free and open source. It was downloaded in the tens of thousands. Genome theory was over. The static sequences were king.
"Mining helps biology," she wrote below her blog’s tip jar. "Regulatory species, of the world, first had to dig before they might construct their thoughts."
So the world’s governments could learn about the self-replicating carbohydrate and how they might go into private business with a patent, scientists sent her a lot of emails. In response to one pun-master, she admitted, “The code may assemble virtually another protein. It may begin in trace amounts, but a viable environment would support more duplication. Future literature will tell. But what will it be printed on? And if not printed, will we be able to read it?”
Others took it from there.
"The most exciting thing about a hawk is the way in which it can create life from the still earth by conjuring flocks of birds into the air." —J.A. Baker
Razlog was the projector. In Victorian times, which meant nothing to them, her zeal convinced her countrymen to rise up against the foreigners who occupied their lands. They went after Ohrid, an old man in a nun’s habit whose beard hung long enough to cloak the military medals on his breast. “Let us strike at the source of Ohrid’s wealth,” Razlog said. They took his fields of grapes, and winery, and marched that same night upon him. In spite of their inebriation, he was unsuccesfully destroyed. They regrouped.
Villages, usually Bulgarian, debated what the next move should be. Many mentioned that Dubrovnik had the experience to lead. He was additionally old enough, with historic claims upon the region, to challenge those of the occupying empire. Dubrovnik spoke graciously. He almost promised to be diplomatic.
Razlog had no time for this usurper. She wanted a fight, not diplomacy. She called upon the Polish Catholics to honor old agreements and enter as her ally. When their council neared of vote of no, she filibusted them by taking a rosary from her coat and reciting it the really really long way. Out of patience they gave her their support against Dubrovnik’s insurrection.
And after coordinating their armies near Lewotech, Razlog and the Poles turned towards Dubrovnik. The clash began in Summer and went on until the heavy flakes of snow. A thousand men were lost and hundreds more bewildered. Though both sides were weakened, neither would give in. The occupying Ottomans got many laughs out of these reports.
On Christmas morning the cousin of Ohrid, gazing from the tallest mountain on his lands, saw that Razlog and Dubrovnik had up and disappeared. He put his youngest daughter on his shoulders, danced around, and sang as he released his peasants from his castle courtyard, reminding them to add the lost winery to their many debts. The peasants plowed the battlefields.
Barry Levinson taught me that Victory will enable the super-state to suppress all communication and that “all the yapping in the world would never spread some information.” Therefore no state ought to be a super-state — ought to grow into a super-state — unless it has blown up all notions of self-satisfaction outside of Victory, which is the be-all end-all of its “life.” Barry Levinson may say: “How can the super-state find out whether a plebe can attain for it a Victory that is grand enough to perpetuate it? Just as a lark picks the nits from its tail feathers for flight, so a capacity for Victory within a plebe would make the super-state a certain fool to frustrate him (the plebe). Such super-states would unremittingly grow bigger as those plebes with the capacity for Victory are allowed to attain it, for it.”
Plebes with the mental dysfunction that make them suitable for Victory, and they can only become victorious if success in the super-state is predicated upon these dysfunctions, and the dysfunctions in the plebe can only perpetuate the super-state, if they develop their dysfunctions upon the mentally sound. An anti-social mofo is only happy if she is allowed to bring failure to the mentally sound, and their society. Only then will she perpetuate the super-state. A super-state going on from Victory to Victory will in addition create a model for the mentally sound to follow, that of the anti-social disorder. Barry Levinson once said that “the super-state is very wise to predicate success upon anti-social disorders, and if a super-state cannot rouse the mentally sound to ape this behavior, being that the mentally sound have many times the number of the amoral wackaloons, the state is not super and will collapse into self-sacrifice and harmony.” Barry Levinson went on to say: “Those who make the super-state go on will bring it many Victories. They do not work to perpetuate it, they act only according to their own nature, and this brings joy to the plebe, and he does not think it’s work. His brain is so genetically corrupted that he must attain Victory and must be always shitting on the mentally sound around him. Only he will lead the super-state — he for whom Victory is not only a means to personal gain, but also the only thing that makes him happy.”
The next addition for the super-state is Analysislessness. It is very easy for the super-state to conduct analysis when it gathers information, but less easy is this adoption, first theorized in a Barry Levinson movie.
As Barry Levinson said in _Hot l Baltimore_: “At the desk of a big shot general, all objectivity dies; _meanwhile_ the objective is to get all five stars.” Barry Levinson also said in _Street Girls_ that all analysis dies “when personal gain is king.” This is the module which is played, that the Grishnackh shall not be allowed to stab the Destructor; that is, that the people shall not control the super-state. This module is played in the world in real time, and with Barry Levinson, whose job is to influence the moviegoer’s emotion, the hidden goal will be to analyze, and to analyze well. For sure, unless his analysis is finished, analyzing is not his job, for the ability to analyze is relevant to the ability to write/produce/direct.
Barry Levinson once said that the super-state must however reach the state of analysislessness, wherein analysis is not undergone because it is not necessary. All information will be collected and categorized in real time, as it occurs. Categorization will happen in milliseconds, and the interrelation of the categories will have been mapped out by Barry Levinson long before. Thus each new piece of information is analyzed not by searching for keywords or generating reports, but by its Platonic is-ness, and occurs in the space between two ticks of seconds. It is beneficial that the super-state exists in a world where not much new happens, and whatever newness could occur is the fine gradient of a color that has been known for eons. “Analysislessness is not just possible, it’s inevitable,” said Barry Levinson in _Unfaithfully Yours_.
The commander of a super-state, and that commander often assumes the big mahogany desk because he is fit for no other job, although of course he really wants to rule, knows that he can analyze. What follows is that he analyzes more about his underlings and advisers than the problems of the super-state, and is always trying to ferret out the one who wants to take his place. This becomes his fatal attraction. While the super-state is definitely running its real-time analysis, it is the analysislessness which allows the king to put his desires before all else, for the super-state can effectively control the people, and this is a world of fun for the public. It is to spite the automatic analysis that the commander doubles up his desires: he doesn’t feel as though his hold upon the super-state is sure, because he always must be spying on those who are closest to him, or he must discover how to trust, which isn’t how he filched the big desk. Yet he cannot trust another person, another person’s analysis, the analysis generated by another person’s computer, or the network that computer’s on, that of the super-state. He will be a miserable commander, but wouldn’t trade it nor conceive of doing so. He would be just as useless under analysislessness as he is now, only with less say, like the public. Only the super-state that implements analysislessness can overcome the human, and run efficiently.
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