Undies

My name is Mariah
I have some sexy undies. i’m dying to show off. u interested?
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possibilities

Human life always involves accepting certain things; even the most violent rebel must base his life on acceptance, on stability. The greater the rebel, the more he needs a solid basis on which to work. The rebel without such a basis is usually the criminal. But there is another extreme: too many human beings are too well adjusted; they accept the world exactly as they find it and their act of living is an act of minimum adjustment. They feel no interest in the possibilities of the universe.
— Colin Wilson

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Blood Harvest by S. J. Bolton

Blood Harvest,
S.J. Bolton, Minotaur, $25.99.

It’s not often that Robin and I wrestle over a book –
as you might imagine there are more than enough of them in our household. But when the new S. J. Bolton Advance Readers’ Edition arrived the donnybrook was on – and since our daughter had returned from college, there was even a third pair of hands grabbing for the book. It’s not that we’re a belligerent bunch, it’s just that Bolton is good enough to fight over.
S.J. doesn’t write a series, but, like many good writers, she is deeply interested in recurring themes and images. Blood Harvest, her latest, begins with a typical scene in which a landslide in the muddy ground of an isolated English churchyard reveals a few too many corpses.

In many way it’s a typical motif in Bolton’s vision of the neo-Gothic, bracingly visceral, yet symbolic of the refusal of old sins and secrets to remain hidden, no matter how deeply buried. And when they dead return they always seem to want to take the living with them. Bolton excels in her vivid portrayal of normal lives threatened by a looming, unnerving darkness, an evil which comes not so much from the creepy settings but from the hearts of the characters who inhabit them. In Blood Harvest a new family, the Fletchers, have moved into the clannish and tradition bound village of Heptonclough, and immediately find their young children menaced by mysterious and malevolent forces. Arrayed against the dark side is another newcomer, the Vicar, Harry Laycock, representing the traditional religious bulwark against the dark side, assisted by Evi Oliver, practitioner of  the more modern technique of psychiatry. Evi is a classic Bolton heroine, sharp and acerbic, physically and mentally wounded, very secretly longing for meaningful human contact yet stubbornly avoiding it. There’s also the ancient defense mechanism of the family which, as the book shows with great power, can be as great a force for horror as for joy.

Another major ingredient in the Bolton recipe is the skillful addition of British folklore and custom. There are plenty of disturbing traditions in Heptonclough and even a ruined church haunted by malevolent forces. Since “The Hound of the Baskervilles” mystery protagonists and readers have been presented with paradoxes that push rationality to the limits and seem to have only supernatural explanations. Like the classic English masters, Bolton expertly toys with our expectations, and just when we think we have things figured out, pulls the rug from under us. The term “Gothic” may seem unappealingly dusty and even corny, but Blood Harvest is
skillfully grounded in the here and now, so full of vivid characterization, precisely sketched settings, evocative prose and skillfully turned plot that it grabs the reader as firmly as any thriller. The resonance of Bolton’s work
lingers far longer however, and her tale will haunt you as effectively  as any spirit. 

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Privet!

Hi to you

No matter that I will always have something in my heart for you, and it would make my life complete if you were in it. If you will write me you’ll become the happiest man in this world! I would like to meet a good man abroad. It also should be man who wants to become good friend for me. I think that two persons have to become a friends for the beginning.
I am a serious, active, purposeful young lady. I like traveling, dancing, going to the theatre and cinema, meeting with my friends and walking. I`m ready to give all my love and tenderness to my Only One!
I just want you to know that I will be here waiting for you.

A.
 

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Quote Bag: Spreading the Mystery

 

But if these experiences have ever happened to you, I’m sure you have come to the same conclusion about them as I. You know what you heard and you know what you saw, and you no more doubt the validity of your experience than you doubt the existence of the sunrise. A great change has occurred in you, and the change lies in the fact that you no longer have to convince others about your vision of the world, not of this one or the next.

– James Lee Burke

 

Even at his most subjective, Nerval is concerned with communication. He saw his most private dreams as gateways to an understanding of reality that lay beyond the rational world, and felt it was his duty to convey his glimpses of that reality to other men.

– Norma Rinsler

 

It is with fiction as with religion: it should present another world, and yet one to which we feel the tie.

– Herman Melville

 

It seems to me that the purposelessness, nihilism, and self-indulgence that plague much contemporary art stem in part from the loss of its original links to the sacred. By calling the rhythm back and projecting it forward , I was learning to create sacred art.

 

– Layne Redmond

 

Every man has his own special secret. Many men die without having discovered it, and they will not discover it because when they are dead, neither they nor their secret will remain. I died, and I have risen from the dead with the key to the jeweled treasure of my last spiritual casket. Now I shall open it far from all borrowed inspiration, and its mystery will spread through the most beautiful of heavens.

– Stephane Mallarme

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Quotebag: Creation as a Sexual Act

 

By 1943 Wittgenstein was sympathetic to a view of the sexual act which saw it as an object of religious reverence.

– Ray Monk

 

Egypt’s sages were concerned with the question of the origin of the universe, and their consideration of the matter led them to define the creation as a sexual act.

– Anthelme and Rossini

 

Why in the world shouldn’t they have regarded with awe and reverence that act by which the human race is perpetuated?

– Ludwig Wittgenstein

 

Sin, to the indigenes, meant the disallowing of sexuality or anything else to interfere with samadhi, enlightenment, but at the same time, sexuality lay at the very core of that enlightenment, for the ascetic was also inherently sexual.

– Hugh Fox

 

In early history the body as a whole, as well as each separate aspect, was sacred. Food, drink, breath and copulation were regarded as sacred channels for the power to enter man.

– Maria-Gabriele Wosien

 

Rites were centered around the physical worship of woman, and the organs of sex in the woman’s body became the Kestra, the enclosed field of power, itself the instrument of magic and transformation.

– Pupul Jayakar

 

The vulva represents ecstatic pleasure as a means of union with the divine state of the Great Mother. In this sense, transcendent sexual ecstasy becomes a deeply religious experience. It reveals the mysteries of sexuality in which Neolithic religion was rooted.

The Goddess’s presence is revealed in sexual desire. She is the attracting hormonal scent of woman and the radiant glow of sexual satisfaction. She is the Mistress of the Vulva, and the sacred Vulva is the Queen’s Altar, the receptacle of offerings of love and semen. From her altar pours the celebratory erotic energy of love, the original mystery of birth, the cry of new life.

– Layne Redmond

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Maat’s Rules of Behavior

I have not been a man of anger. I have done no evil to mankind. I have not inflicted pain. I have made none to weep. I have done violence to no man. I have not done harm unto animals. I have not robbed the poor. I have not fouled the water. I have not trampled fields. I have not behaved with insolence. I have not judged hastily. I have not stirred up strife. I have not made any man to commit murder for me. I have not insisted that excessive work be done for me daily. I have not borne false witness. I have not stolen land. I have not cheated in measuring the bushel. I have allowed no man to suffer hunger. I have not increased my wealth except with such things as are my own possessions. I have not seized wrongfully the property of others. I have not taken milk from the mouth of babes.

 

–Ancient Egyptian Text quoted in E. A. W. Budge’s The Dwellers on the Nile

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The Last Score

MURDER, MEXICAN STYLE!

 

Leslie Gibson was a wealthy, beautiful, seventeen-year-old brat – out for kicks at any price! And Leslie had decided that Reid Rance, adventurer and travel guide extraordinaire, was just the man to show her the hop spots across the border. So the Gibson greenbacks traded hands and Reid found himself being strong-armed into chaperoning this delightfully dangerous doll around a Mexico the tourists never see.

 

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Terence McKenna

I don’t know if this is true, but isn’t it pretty to think so…
 
Five million years ago, we were an animal of some sort. Where will we be five million years from tonight? What we represent is not a sideshow, or an epiphenomenon, or an ancillary something-or-other on the edge of nowhere. What we represent is the nexus of concrescent novelty that has been moving itself together, complexifying itself, folding itself in upon itself, for billions and billions of years. There is, so far as we know, nothing more advanced than what is sitting behind your eyes. The human neocortex is the most densely ramified and complexified structure in the known universe. We are the cutting edge of organismic transformation of matter in this cosmos. And this has been going on for awhile. Since the discovery of fire, since the discovery of language, but now, and by now, I mean for the last 10,000 years, we’ve been into something new: not genetic information, not genetic mutation, not natural selection, but epigenetic activity. Writing, theatre, poetry, dance, art, tattooing, body-piercing, and philosophy. And these things have accelerated the ingression into novelty so that we have become an idea-excreting force in nature that builds temples, builds cities, builds machines, social engines, plans, and spreads over the earth, into space; into the microphysical domain; into the macrophysical domain. We, who five million years were animals, can kindle in our deserts and if necessary upon the cities of our enemies, the very energy which lights the stars at night.

Now, something peculiar is going on here. Something is calling us out of nature and sculpting us in its own image. And the confrontation with this something is now not so far away. This is what the impending apparent end of everything actually means. It means that the denouement of human history is about to occur and is about to be revealed as a universal process of concrescing and expressing novelty that is now going to become so intensified that it is going to flow over into another dimension.

 

— Terence McKenna

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Norbert Davis

"Carstairs!" he called now. "Oh, Carstairs!"

Carstairs came in through the bedroom door and stared at him with a sort of wearily resigned disgust. Carstairs was a dog – a fawn-colored Great Dane as big as a yearling calf.

"Carstairs," said Doan, "I apologize for my regrettable condition last evening."

Carstairs’s expression didn’t change in the slightest. Carstairs was a champion, and he had a long and imposing list of very high-class ancestors. He was fond of Doan in a well-bred way, but he had never been able to reconcile himself to having such a low person for a master. Whenever they went out for a stroll together, Carstairs always walked either far behind or ahead, so no one would suspect his relationship with Doan.

– Norbert Davis

Norbert Davis was Ludwig Wittgenstein’s favorite writer. Perhaps this line of dialogue suggests why:
 

“Do you know a man whose name isn’t Smith and who doesn’t wear dark glasses and doesn’t have black eyebrows or a black mustache or a pot-belly and who isn’t a friend of mine?”

Davis killed himself via carbon monoxide poisoning in 1949.

 

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