Fools Die

Mario Puzo

Book I

“Listen to me.  I will tell you the truth about a man’s life. I
will tell you the truth about his love for women. That he never
hates them. Already you think I’m on the wrong track. Stay
with me.  Really – I’m a master of magic.

                “Do you believe a man can truly love a woman and con-
stantly betray her?  Never mind physically, but betray her in
his mind, in the very ‘poetry of his soul.’ Well, it’s not
easy, but men do it all the time.

                “Do you want to know how women can love you, feed you
that love deliberately to poison your body and mind simply to
destroy you? And out of passionate love choose not to love you
anymore? And at the same time dizzy you with an idiot’s ecstasy.
Impossible? That’s the easy part.

                “But don’t run away.  This is not a love story.

                “I will make you feel the painful beauty of a child, the
animal horniness of the adolescent males, the yearning suicidal
moodiness of the young female.  And then (here’s the hard part)
show you how time turns man and woman around full circle, ex-
changed in body and soul.

                “And then of course there is TRUE LOVE. Don’t go away!
It exists or I will make it exist.  I’m not a master of magic
for nothing.  Is it worth the cost? And how about sexual fid-
elity?  Does it work?  Is it love?  Is it even human, that perverse
passion to be with only one person? And if it doesn’t work,
do you still get a bonus for trying?  Can it work both ways?
Of course not, that’s easy. And yet –

                “Life is a comical business, and there is nothing funnier
than love traveling through time. But a true master of magic
can make his audience laugh and cry at the same time. Death
is another story.  I will never make a joke about death.  It is
beyond my powers.

                “I am always alert for death.  He doesn’t fool me.  I spot
his right away.  He loves to come in his country-bumpkin dis-
guise; a comical wart that suddenly grows and grows; the dark,
hairy mole that sense its roots to the very bone; or hiding
behind a pretty little fever blush.  Then suddenly that grinning
skull appears to take the victim by surprise.  But never me.
I’m waiting for him. I take my precautions.

                “Parallel to death, love is a tiresome, childish business,
though men believe more in love than death. Women are another story.  They have a powerful secret.  They don’t take love ser-
iously and never have.

                “But again, don’t go away. Again; this is not a love
story. Forget about love. I will show you all the stretches of power.   First the life of a poor struggling writer.  Sensitive. Talented. Maybe even some genius. I will show you the artist getting the shit kicked out of him for the sake of his art. And why he so richly deserves it.  Then I will show him as a cunning criminal and have the time of his life.  Ah, what a  joy the true artist feels when he finally becomes a crook. It’s
out in the open now, his essential nature. No more kidding around about his honor. The son of a bitch is a hustler. A
conniver.  An enemy of society right out in the clear instead
of hiding behind his whore’s cunt of art. What a relief.
What pleasure. Such sly delight. And then how he becomes an
honest man again.  It’s an awful strain being a crook.

                “But it helps you accept society and forgive your
fellowman. Once that’s done no person should be a crook unless he really needs the money.

                “Then on to one of the most amazing success stories in the history of literature. The intimate lives of the giants of
our culture. One crazy bastard especially. The classy world.
So now we have the poor struggling genius world, the crooked world and the classy literary world.  All this laced with
plenty of sex, some complicated ideas and you won’t be hit over the head with and may even find interesting. And finally on
to a full-blast ending in Hollywood with our hero gobbling up
all its rewards, money, fame, beautiful women. And. . .
don’t go away – don’t go away – how it all turns to ashes.

                “That’s not enough? You’ve heard it all before? But re-
member I’m a master of magic.  I can bring all these people truly alive. I can show you what they truly thing and feel.  You’ll
weep for them, all of them, I promise you that. Or maybe just laugh. Anyway, we’re going to have a lot of fun. And learn something about life. Which is really no help.

                “Ah, I know what you’re thinking. That conning bastard trying to make us turn the page. But wait, it’s only a tale I
want to tell.  What’s the harm? Even if I take it seriously,
you don’t have to. Just have a good time.

                “I want to tell you a story, I have no other vanity.
I don’t desire success or fame or money. But that’s easy, most men, most women don’t, not really.  Even better, I don’t want love. When I was young, some women told me they loved me for my long eyelashes.  I accepted. Later it was for my wit. Then
for my power and money. Then for my talent. Then for my mind – deep.  OK, I can handle all of it. The only woman who scares me
is the one who loves me for myself alone. I have plans for her.
I have poisons and daggers and dark graves in caves to hide her head. She can’t be allowed to live. Especially if she is sexually faithful and never lies and always puts me ahead of everything and everyone.

                “There will be a lot about love in this book, but it’s
not a love book. It’s a war book. The old war between men who are true friends. The great ‘new’ war between men and women. Sure it’s an old story, but it’s out in the open now. The
Women’s Liberation warriors think they have something new, but it’s just their armies coming out of their guerrilla hills.
Sweet women ambushed men always: at their cradles, in the kitchen, the bedroom. And at the graves of their children,
the best place not to hear a plea for mercy.

                “Ah, well, you think I have a grievance against women.  But I never hated them. And they’ll come out better people
than men, you’ll see.  But the truth is that only women have
been able to make me unhappy, and they have done so from the cradle on.  But most men can say that.  And there’s nothing to be done.

                “What a target I’ve given here. I know – I know – how ir-
resistible it seems. But be careful. I’m a tricky storyteller,
not just one of your vulnerable sensitive artists.  I’ve taken
my precautions.  I’ve still got a few surprises left.

                “But enough. Let me get to work. Let me begin and let me end.

12/12/12

Megalomaniacal thought appreciation:  The scruffy little guru obsessed, global
domination makes for interesting iconography.  Ah, to achieve a type
of modified immortality that takes the sum total of being and transgresses
alternatives seeking the path of least resistance.  Efficiency technologies serve to make
the slippery path speedier.  Now what?  More ‘me time’.  Time to wait for my well
defined wants to be renewed.  Ask, and ye shall receive, to an extent.  Biocapacitance profiles
capacity parameters and triangulates peregrinations into and out of states of heightened
awareness and higher thinking recorded into something new, novel. 
With a wealth of modern historical revelation being reinvented or discovered in Petri-media
daily, utterances correlate what was then to now.  When now?  12/12/12 @ 0054.

The world will be over in a less than a fortnight, supposedly.  I wonder what that mean?
Hollywood depicts an asteroid/flood/tsunami/earthquake.  Wishful thinking for the
feeling secure in proofed homes or thatched bunkers in the middle of somewhere.
Will there be a noticeable event, occurrence, or happening that can be recognized
the world over to any and every sentient being occupying the planet concurrently?
Probably not. Lighting differences.  Time zones.  Poisson distributions.  Factors and
variables in infinite abundance need to be equated, universally speaking.

                I want a woman to relax with.  Someone I can use my imagination
upon and won’t talk back like a thoughtful participant.  Someone I can
indoctrinate with my own thoughts on free speech; which rich white landowners
have the right to exercise; with me at my country club estate.  It’s absurd, but
the prison system operates similarly.  The Algerian, Horatio, strap-licker, they put themselves there.
If you believe in both free-will and destiny like I do…One man pulls himself up and
another person pushes himself back down.  Could there be free wills that have freely
renounced freedoms by agreeing to something or by performing a certain act?
To whom?  Or what?  Or for what reason? Less obvious. 

Semiotic Rheology and Orthopraxy

NuPeter Jupiter
The pearlier gates
Reactive ABRAXAS

Socially awkward astrophysicist
on (his/her) way to outerspace
finds (his/her) pressure stabilized
quarters cozy enough, not
enough living space on
the old planet for all of
all morally divergent cultures,
especially those with no respect
for the mathematics upon which
all of civilization wrests its
universal living from mother Earth’s
loosely tilled land-hands around
which I would work myself if
I weren’t so freeze-dried and Tangry.

Oh, to convince myself that there’s
something I actually like or that I’m
similar to would upset my ultimate
ideals of differentiation of my mind
from this body, overcome with spirits.

J High Priest; Church_of_Separatists
@ NuSeParaSites dot comma chameleon.
Do they get Internet in outerspace?

They differentiate the integral of gamma-
radiation, the wavelength that all new ideas
and NuCombinations of existing Infra(red)
structure that heatsink components
inculcated with the NuReceptive
Mediae, upon which foundations
of our Gnuleretroactive Pop institutions
update sensory timerates, even through BCI
implements to the deaf, dumb, and blind!

“Midway through the arraignment I looked at my watch.  It had stopped.  Odd.  It was the first time I could remember that happening.  Then I noticed that Manson was staring at me, a slight grin on his face.

                It was, I told myself, simply a coincidence.”

                Bugliosi, Helter Skelter, pg. 256

“I stretched out in the grass, my skull on a large, flat rock and my eyes staring straight up at the milky way, that strange breach of astral sperm and heavenly urine across the cranial vault formed by the ring of constellations: that open crack at the summit of the sky, apparently made of ammoniacal vapors shining in the immensity (in empty space, where they burst forth absurdly like a rooster’s crow in total silence), a broken egg, a broken eye, or my own dazzled skull weighing down the rock, bouncing symmetrical images back to infinity.  The nauseating crow of a rooster in particular coincided with my own life, that is to say, now, the cardinal, because of the crack, the red color, the discordant shrieks he provoked in the wardrobe, and also because one cuts the throats of roosters.”

                Bataille, Story of the Eye, pg. 48

120912

FREEDOM Abolitionists wish to abolish freedom, or the notion thereof, that it is
altogether impossible to abolish one without abolition of the counter-balance weight
that runs a thin line between the word freedom and its inverse meaning, slavery.
Freedom has been abolished, the freedom to both own a slave and to be a slave.
If only this should be the case!  In fact, slave owners have evolved into faceless
entities, impossible to Target®, and slaves themselves have no body to blame but
their own, themselves, each other, and enforce blameworthiness for the sake
of management positions, pricks.  Legally, therefore, slavery has been
abolished; realistically, however, the word and the meaning remain.
With the evolution of syntactic structuralism, “the system of differences
that is langue,” erodes the axon and broadens the transmittance gap.
A world dominated by machines designed to divide and conquer deus ex
extinct alone together in separate togetherness.  Nothingness is unabridgeable.
The son of the judge of judges is constantly being scrutinized and corrected for
exact measure in dimension.  The medium is the body, the message is the soul.
What is fit for discourse?  I am not at liberty to say.  Amanuensis
to whom?  For whom? By whom?  Abstract ‘I,’ Josiah, mysterious king
of the Pentateuch.   Because, for where there’s doubt, truth still exists, and
who has the final say?  The rippler of ripplers, may he agitate
in peace, posthumously.  Dark-side engineers Death Star in space, an
ill-defined sphere when nature is shaped like an ellipse
transforming the average of linear regression filters.

The Wikiwater Sports Page

The Wikiwater Sports Page

Controlled Chaos:  My impressions of gas system analysis.

            Expansion, pressure, heat, energy, spontaneity, reflux: Fick!
            Ah me, the transport properties of a perfect gas, Jesus gas, the ideal talking
to Heaven: a perfect system that probably doesn’t exist on account of numerous
repulsive forces.  I measure completely random paths and rates of effusion.
            So me, it’s come to this, do I think about a German restaurant, or some
J matter?  The rate of migration from this world to the next, is it derived from
a single degree?  Constant ‘t’ to an end-point? t₀ à t_∞ ? or the relationship
between a quantity diffusion parallel to axis ‘z,’ by definition: always coming
at me in Cartesian coordinates.  But then there’s also Minkowski spacetime,
temporal isometry, and a pretty little Lie group.  But then I’m getting off topic,
tangent to the plane, field, meadow, or lea.  Must’ve been the J energy drink,
the Jesus juice, what?  Green tea?  That brings me back to chapter six.

How can I avoid equilibrium?  All I can do is fight it, or, more
peaceably, make changes to the system.  This reminds me of the last scene
of “2001: A Space Odyssey,” a glass dropped, shattering, an irreversible change
to the system, a lesser change to the equilibrium of the room, and
(did you know Robert S. Mulliken was born in the same (Essex) county as
John Hale preached? (in Massachusetts)) silence in space,
where no one can hear you scream, “Gas! Witch!” or “Quantum mechanics!”
            Reverend Hale was a Puritan pastor, a prominent figure during
the Salem Witch Trials, as well as a figure in Arthur Miller’s The Crucible,
a play about a closed system used for heating <x> at high temperatures
at constant (atmospheric) pressure.

            I now invoke the Diffusion Coefficient to be set equal to the gas constant
multiplied by |temperature|, and for that product to be divided by the number
of constituent particles in a substance that contains as many elementary entities as
there are atoms in mass <x>, the number six, the ratio of a circles’ circumference to
its diameter, the radius of an individual constituent particle of that substance,
and its ability to flow, meld, or yield.  But that’s all rheology to me.

110112

A saintly sampling, Askari (Arabic for soldier), this year, a standard deviation.  My name at the top left to hand in.  Sacrifice absolutely necessary wastes of time to DMT.  Abstinence is a stretch.  Visualize spillage.  Watch substance scatter geometry across linoleum surfaces.  Failure assumes successful possibilities/time will average the null hypothesis out of existence like Newsweekends.  Chimney Ekibastuz-Kokshetau.  There was a man who was perfect, a god, yet he continued to fear God of the highest order, and applied all he was taught.  He had many children, the numbers 7 and 3, Li₃N.  Everything depends upon the color, the shape, the thickness, the density, the melting point of synthetic rubber vulcanized Olmec disulfur dichloride between two tires are ribbits plastered upon the passenger seat, croaking clearly the first names of Renaissance contributors who were, in their times, one man shows who were subsequently studied extensively for the meaning of truth in complex geometrycal patterns because that’s just what some people do for work or fun.  It’s a strict division between fun and what?  Livin’ in the ‘strict for Chester Young, [the hundredth day Adventist, whose birthday is divisible (by about three and then sum) ] the umpolung script flipper of ill decise.  Poor decisions are limited by price, miles.

Micromice, µm, crawl through the cracks of their home sweet infestation.
Messland.AmateursAmericanIntoLebanonIntoleraTaliban
Blast you low psych coma!  (Damn you dreamless sleep!)
When the going gets tough, those of fit constitution skedaddle.
410. A door slams. µm in-out skin pores. The court jests? A fake mess. 
“Better, you better pray to your god, because we can’t talk to him for you.”
Dietary concerns rationalized, et over.
Jill, Norse head, down a hill in Hot Topics.

The end of an age. The beginning of an era of psychonautic control that will become the
next reawakening challenged to be presented to the numbers of human… recently, Graduate Lee
recounting what it is to Scantron next to you, testing tests with bubble laser graphite matrices,
carbon compost, I didn’t solve it, I lived it, because there’s only one way to learn, experientially.
What goes unsaid behind closed doors in my own simplex mind is disturbing, to say the least,
It also keeps me up at night, contributing intimately to my lack of sleep without satisfaction.

The democratic process applied to natural law, metaphysics, mathematics…
Should we keep the symbols that constitute metaphors? R handy-dandy?
Aspects of importance of thought, a ranking system, favorite of the favorites.
Nihilistic plutocrats come harder and harder to please.  Rulers of a world made
for enslaving have enough made for them.  The enslaved react to the hunger tithe.
A spontaneous process occurs…Feudal lords nationalize communist or capitalist states.
Large landholdings held by large landholders fed up with profiting mere percentages
smell their own injustice and blame the hand-doubter, Oppenheimer, or Fritz Haber, Bosch.
Oil and an industrial process eradicated famine by materializing from the ether, ammonia, NH₃.
Fertilizer, manufactured for the living, and bombs, manufactured for the soon to be dead.

103112

Over the past two days I have become increasingly tangential to the point of origin being observed
within this species.  My body is touching itself, touching me, touching you, so now I’m contaminated.
Ah, what it is to be vivisected and relive the agony more acutely.  What fine punishment for a
narcotic observer chemanthropomorphising Cartwright Kafka, with a rhyme for his illegible scheme.
The treatment plant pukes when the hospital bathes in disaster relief.  Can you handle the comfort?

One banana and I get really crazy! Split personalities divide my schizophrenic house with dry/wall.
Smoke sockets were recently installed for my pipe to smoke me in my skivvies and long socks.
In fetching stockings, she passes me a roach, and we lie attached at hip like the temporary Siamese.
This is no normal hair day.  It’s come to this.  The black leather mask is coming with me to school.

Basking in the ambivalent simplex, T_D Apothecary sells Nerve Ending Ditherer, a transdermal
gel for shaky cigarette hands.  The quest for the Holy Grail of Perpetual Q_i keeps my status Q^o.

Clubbing drugs are like beating baby seals, it takes a lot of nerve, damage, and the satisfaction is sick.
The hot seat is Kelvin’s lofty pedestal.

At the Zee frequency, in the key of Zen, 23 factorial! 26 tilde.  The shepherd’s
scale, logo-light itself, key infinity forever, brought down to Earth in a plastic shed
in the early morning.  Pumpkin seed vitamins are good for getting up.  Cherries
help with enemy fire from master puppets.  Wifi jacks?  Why Fiji, ACK?

Pumpkins with a horizon line cut across narcotic borders in the long blink of an eye
resting beneath the thick lids of the laws of sleep science resting between hard covers,
book binding, and horse glue.  You heard it here first from the force of the source
of the horse. I’m talking about equine labor contractions and Lilly Ledbetter.

Basking in the thing that is ambivalent and simple, elucidative procedure allows ‘to’ to ‘for’ weeks-vacation, just enough to cover each Roman Sabbath with fanfare and confetti.  Life dissolving napalm potpourri plays disintegrating medleys for its curative properties, charting holes in rough topography with war darts aimed at offensive angles, 108º, Flatland MDs know how to integrate Swiss cheese, corpse of milk.
If Joyce contributed one memorable laugh to the whole shebang…
“You use big words like a cute child.”
There was just enough time to draw the leads before the play was cast to/for the ducks.
There was just enough time for “Argo” to fit another scene with just enough time and space at the end of a runway, for a receiver to drop, for a plot to squeeze one more suspense from a group of undeveloped characters.
My main squeeze, it’s unfair, she’s trying to graduate ‘Mrs.’ Without Me, from the state’s (two rubber trust issues from the bald) orthodox art school, BS, UBbing me the Wong way.
My racially concentrated dominatrix is stereotypically painful.
I’m a back-tracking survivalist and a back-packing surrealist.
What is reality but a farce?  Because parody is the highest expression of art:
When the gods laugh, everyone is happy.
Fitful creativity liquidates and solidifies, melts and freezes.  I am a water table, cycling.

092612

--I can’t love myself.  I won’t love myself alone.--

 “But ye have borne the tabernacle of your Moloch and Chiun your images, the star of  your god, which ye made to yourselves.” Amos 5:26

There was an effort brewing in Hokkaido to suppress the infidel.  Already, they had caught him with his pants down masturbating to romance books, (you couldn’t call them novels anymore, they weren’t so new).  He got the rendezvous by the usual method, text *dingh*, not enough to cause too much racket… His lisp really bothered him on audio playback, but he wouldn’t let that bother anybody.  He wasn’t talking now.  Nor would he, no, not under torture or duress.  He had built up a tolerance for pain by bringing himself to the brink of climax again and again until his balls, his scrotum, filled with pus and made him sick.  Any pain now incurred was inversely sexual.  They wouldn’t think to milk him first.  They never do what’s nice and obvious.  Everything exquisite, nothing sacred.  Nevermind.  Microfiche, check, little tablet, check, file datum, double check.  Syria via Japan.

The spy game was easy.  Every tittle could be squeezed into a button and shoved up an anus for safe-keeping.  They never thought to plumb the line first.  In his darker years, (eldest son), he came to hate both sides of every geopolitical event, but as he soon discovered, this indifference to authority brought with it a healthy paycheck.  You see, it’s not easy to play both sides, but when one side wants you to win and believes in you, there is something innate in our nature that makes us want to obey, to follow some order, and he was okay with that, to an extent.  Loyalty to the mother/fatherland, Estonia, back home, they’d be proud.  He tries to think back, to remember something about the homeland in particular, but that wouldn’t help him right now, what, with the mission.  Boof the electronics.  Play the puppet.  It’s what he was paid to do.

He could always bend the minds of one or two confederates, but never the whole group.  The lisp gave it away.  Marked weakness, no group follows a lame leader, but to a simple some, the measurements seemed alright, and those where the ones who he aimed at, the ones with a weakness for weakness.  They would protect him when the group wouldn’t, and from there he could break apart the structure from the inside.  For he knew that what was wrong with him was merely superficial, but he brought out something much more deep-seated in others as a consequence, in their pity for him, they became his confidants.  Fox was no fool. 

It also pays to act domesticated, yet remain wild.  That was a trick he pulled off masterfully, giving half sway to his own feral being, a fully nurtured beast with a mind that was cunning and teeth that were all- together razor.  Women operate the same way.  They’re always trying to figure out something about man, to suss out a weakness and to use it against him, and to eventually break him.  Check Samson.  Fox had discerned this for himself, but unlike Samson, they forgot to blind him.  He could do much more damage this way.  He could get back at the one who betrayed him.  His scorned lover and the others.  He was young and foolish, but he was happy for a while.  But that wouldn’t do.  The war came.  There was always war, but this time it came for him.  They took her away from him (she was in on it).  It was long ago, and that’s how he chooses to remember it, it wouldn’t help to remember it otherwise.  He has his duties now.  His assignment.  Boof and deliver.  Don’t think.  Revenge can always wait.