In Response...
Judging from the messages our chapter has received since the inception of this portal, many members of l'académie donkée frown upon this particular intersection of donKay with el mundo. We here at Local 1430 agree that the whole thing could be graphed as an absurd bottleneck: Eons of accumulated reflection and consideration bleeding drip-drip-drop out this pinhole-sized orifice-piece. In response to the considered addresses pouring in from around the globe, the best possible reply at the moment is to quote a song a sister downloaded on our desktop back when it was hers: Everything is Everything.
Now of course the use of autobridgées is a time honored tactic within donKay. A circling of the wagons, a description of an orbit, a macrophage onna rampage, to quote a few similar instances. In general, it’s a drawing of a line in front an enemy where he finds himself inside that line - more or less in your belly - something that seemed to be understood by those who responded to the memo we sent out alerting l'academie to our intentions (arM.N.V.L.1-7 - "WE DID IT ANYWAY, BITCHES. 1430!!!!.DOC"). If the particular emoticon which most-often accompanied these missives (the queasy-faced one) is any evidence, members felt our big-gulp tatics evoked all the pale odor and claustraphobia of a sudden waking up in the belly of 1430's whale. And for this little local gut to then invoke 'everything,' sending said arcs arcing way out, straining temples and eyes in attempts to contain what is, in reality, a container, seems, one might admit, a little absurd. So why, why would we do that to you? We know. We apologize. It's unfair. We wrote the words and they came across your eyes. Its tyranny. We're sorry.
Now, having invoked the mind-bogglingest of autobridgees, sending legions of geniuses to the carpet with hands clamped over dome pieces as if offering support or making a dance of their tearing-asunder, we ought at least to explain ourselves in sentences that go from one place to another instead of all places at all times. Well, golly, within that last sentence - in the belly of the critical fish that was sent, wrapped in newspaper, here to 1430 - lies the mother of its response, here, wiggling out, generations later. Everybody knows that l'academie donKay was formed right around the beginning of time, and that our halls contain the written reports of all our members, as they saw fit to submit them. Now throughout history, these archives have been accessed by those seeking to profit from knowledge of other people's perceptions of experience; be it for the creation of beauty, the subjugation of a populace or as a crutch in the simple search for companionship from one speaking brain to another. In every case the profits of the knowledge acquired in the halls of donKay are masked in the production of the new work. Fiction is the condom they put on before slipping into el mundo. The public thanks them.
Having full access to the annals and finding them so helpful in purging what it was we went through in a given day, we at 1430 recently decided to publish pages from the archives that seem fitting to us for whatever reason. Mostly just to let these pages breath. After all, there are volumes and volumes, so vast, we claim no more than the FERRYMAN, bitches. It ain't shit. YOU KNOW THAT! We are like a toilet calendar published by l'academie, but l'academie doesn't publish. We just put these writings out there on the days they themselves recalled that day for us. It is, in truth, nothing but a steady bleed from the vats storing a million corpses, some of them still twitchin'.
So here's the spot, dropped, hidden among many, retaking vein in the grain of a paperless page- one day at a time.
Now of course the use of autobridgées is a time honored tactic within donKay. A circling of the wagons, a description of an orbit, a macrophage onna rampage, to quote a few similar instances. In general, it’s a drawing of a line in front an enemy where he finds himself inside that line - more or less in your belly - something that seemed to be understood by those who responded to the memo we sent out alerting l'academie to our intentions (arM.N.V.L.1-7 - "WE DID IT ANYWAY, BITCHES. 1430!!!!.DOC"). If the particular emoticon which most-often accompanied these missives (the queasy-faced one) is any evidence, members felt our big-gulp tatics evoked all the pale odor and claustraphobia of a sudden waking up in the belly of 1430's whale. And for this little local gut to then invoke 'everything,' sending said arcs arcing way out, straining temples and eyes in attempts to contain what is, in reality, a container, seems, one might admit, a little absurd. So why, why would we do that to you? We know. We apologize. It's unfair. We wrote the words and they came across your eyes. Its tyranny. We're sorry.
Now, having invoked the mind-bogglingest of autobridgees, sending legions of geniuses to the carpet with hands clamped over dome pieces as if offering support or making a dance of their tearing-asunder, we ought at least to explain ourselves in sentences that go from one place to another instead of all places at all times. Well, golly, within that last sentence - in the belly of the critical fish that was sent, wrapped in newspaper, here to 1430 - lies the mother of its response, here, wiggling out, generations later. Everybody knows that l'academie donKay was formed right around the beginning of time, and that our halls contain the written reports of all our members, as they saw fit to submit them. Now throughout history, these archives have been accessed by those seeking to profit from knowledge of other people's perceptions of experience; be it for the creation of beauty, the subjugation of a populace or as a crutch in the simple search for companionship from one speaking brain to another. In every case the profits of the knowledge acquired in the halls of donKay are masked in the production of the new work. Fiction is the condom they put on before slipping into el mundo. The public thanks them.
Having full access to the annals and finding them so helpful in purging what it was we went through in a given day, we at 1430 recently decided to publish pages from the archives that seem fitting to us for whatever reason. Mostly just to let these pages breath. After all, there are volumes and volumes, so vast, we claim no more than the FERRYMAN, bitches. It ain't shit. YOU KNOW THAT! We are like a toilet calendar published by l'academie, but l'academie doesn't publish. We just put these writings out there on the days they themselves recalled that day for us. It is, in truth, nothing but a steady bleed from the vats storing a million corpses, some of them still twitchin'.
So here's the spot, dropped, hidden among many, retaking vein in the grain of a paperless page- one day at a time.
posted by M.N.V.L. Local 1430 at 10:09 PM
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