"Balance, restraint...and no tricks."
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Advertise With However Bleak
(Click to engorge.)
Advertise your product or service with us, as thousands of others do every fortnight, and watch your sales change dramatically as our specially gullible focus population absorbs your unique message. Work with our flattering staff to select just the proper presentation with words you choose from among the many we have available, in many styles and shades of meaning. And our image designers are among the most widely-available in the industry, which means that we can attend to all of your personal needs at competitive rates -- indeed, at an improper fraction of what you'd pay elsewhere, and with far more than you'd ever bargained for! We know that your quality product will speak for itself, so why not let us give it the rasping megaphone it needs to reach fluctuating dollars everywhere?
Contact our extensive answering service today! Or simply mail your cheque and see the results!
Friday, November 25, 2005
A Private History of Bleak Manor. (The Painter. Clouds Gather at Bleak Abbey.)
In that tragic autumn of 182--, Lord Bleak had returned disillusioned from the Greek War for Independence, sailing by way of Cape Horn, and, stopping in London, had had his legendary meeting with that bibulous, salacious, and maniacal beacon of the Romantic movement, J.M.T.W.T. Slidesmuir, who was then at odds with the legal authorities over the wholesale corruption of a noted convent. The two immediately hit it off: Bleak had long admired Slidesmuir's landscapes, mythological scenes, and lengthy studies of the undraped female form; Slidesmuir had quickly come to cherish Bleak's dash, his wandering mind, and his easy way with his purse. Bleak spirited the put-upon artist away in a mad chase by midnight coach that later became the subject of popular tavern songs.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
In lieu of Thanksgiving, which disrupts my semipermanent state of fasting (for world peace or something), and which I have not enjoyed since I gave up drinking, I plan to spend as much of the day as possible sitting at the computer and fiddling about with the simple image-processing program I discovered yesterday. Some may think my self-confinement rude, I say what I often say: "Life, dear friend, is rude. Nature is rude. I am but a mere man."
In the meantime, I offer here my latest experiment in restoring life to dead fragments of imagery using electrical forces. I haven't thought of a title yet, but am considering several:
- "Study No. 47"
- "The Oath of the Medusae"
- "Concerto in Blue Minor"
- "His Terrible Swift Sword"
- "Reclining Nude"
- "Church at Twilight: Cumberland"
Any further suggestions will be given the respect they deserve.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Le Chien Noir
Monday, November 21, 2005
Continental Op Ed
In the interests of fairness, diversity, and humanity, we are always pleased to present opposing editorial viewpoints by well-qualified opinion-mongers. One of our more recent editorials advocated the overthrow of the Soviet Union or de-recycling of Federal subsidies for computer games or something. I forget, nor are our correspondents particularly helpful in reminding us what we think, if anything. Nonetheless, we are pleased to allocate space that might otherwise be used to generate valuable advertising revenue or to display lewd photographs to the dire mutterings of one Bodega Gazebo (for legal reasons, not his/her real name.)
Our nation is in grave danger. Readers of Mr. "Bleak Mouse" may be entirely unaware of this, because of his biased obsessions with old movies no one has seen, exploitative tales of teen life, and innuendos concerning the qualifications of academics at our major universities. With the price of gas soaring, cable television rates rising with no end in sight, the reality of alien spacecraft being questioned by suspicious dissidents, and marauding bands of illegal aliens making obscure gestures in our largest metropolises, this is not merely irreponsible. It is insane.
Mr. "Bleak Mouse" seems to live in a fantasy world where dire national crises such as Cindy Sherman can be ignored completely, as though the reproduction of a bunch of irrelevant pictures contributes one iota to world hunger. Mr. Mouse's haunts are obviously those of the fabulously wealthy who exploit the backs of labor without qualm, while using their sullied fortunes for botox, tanning treatments, cocaine, and sexual license. Mr. Mouse's idea of "work" seems to be a seduction that takes more than ten minutes, or having to wait two minutes to fill up his SUV limousine copter with precious oils that our policemen have died protecting. Does he care? A quick survey of his tax returns and private e-mails would lead the thinking man to think: Not!
Mr. Bleak would be better off leaving politics to the politicians, to the tyranny of the majority, to mob rule, to temporary hysterias, and to persons who read books for a living. This is the ethereal spirit of our great democracy. There is no place here for self-styled aristocrats with their monocles and their snuff boxes and their foreign composers, who issue expletives from high atop their mounts on Mount Olympus, and expect the entire world to just stop spinning because they are displeased with the wine.
I have it on good authority that M. Bleaque is the paid agent of a sinister power, and throws elections the way the rest of us throw cigar butts and condoms. Disprove that, sir! If you can! His grubby little connivings, his flagrant self-interest in regard to himself, his wild skyscraper parties where ruined souls are tossed from the windows as easily as people without written invitations -- these are a matter of Public Record, suppressed and obscured by his corporate yes-men, his teams of enslaved lawyers, and his armies of the night.
I call upon each and every one of the readers of this so-called "blog" to set aside their cocktail glasses and concubines, and reflect for a moment on the single organ they do not abuse with relish -- I refer to the human conscience!
Thank you, and God bless the little people.
Warning for Darko: Enlarged font in use.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
True Sex Confessions of People You Don't Know
for Rex Forbert and his winding kerchief dangling at the portmanteau of her gilded heart: these were the memories that she treasured, the feelings that must in the end lead her to his muscular chin and laughing clavicle -- or his mortal remains. Her cheap mockery of a turgid life, since the loss
of the old homestead, and the final grating noise as Father, aloft in the barn, put paid to the family curse in the only way he could with a pitchfork and a thimbleful of kerosene, must continue through every cheap dive on the waterfront, as she extracted clues from the clueless, blood from the bloodless, and final cuts of the cutlass. There could be no backing away in the dark for her now, now that even her convent ring was pawned. Slowly, with reluctant elegance, she removed her slip.
Captain Trisk Netherwell finally made windfall at the port of Tanganyika sometime in that dustblown, hare-ridden March, as the storm clouds parted their swirling limbs and collapsed on the nor'east verizon. He cursed his compass for a fool as he backed into the farthest loch, sending his mate for'ard to drop a coin in the weathered old meter. Pirates, painted and sinister, lingered
pretentiously at the hagridden docks, their sweltering chains dangling from their tattooed broadsides, their curses musical in the midnight sun. He felt the rumble of lost regret in his ample gut, and drew from his velvet waistcoat the striped, heavy locket scratched elegantly with her initials, and popped it open with a whistling click, then gazed with a rustling sigh at the fuzzy picture she had had made of her... But this was no time for thought.
Felicia Strumpet, student nurse, slipped on her well-turned ankle and patted down her crisp whites even as the flashing bells of the emergency station leapt from the dank walls of Merrywood Hospital, and she knew instantly that another boxload of wounded would be arriving at the coal chute before she had a chance to slip into her flats. "Paging Doctor Strappon, paging Doctor Strappon!" shouted the twin bellboys from their microphone perch, in the coded announcement recognized by every practitioner as a warning of impending medicine. The floors cleared at once, and with them Felicia's conscience.
Notes Towards a Prolegomenon to Any Future Metaphysics
Next, a moment of contem-plation in awe of Cavalcanti's disturbing 1945 master-piece, Dead of Night.
Stephenesque and other members of the small but discriminating sect of Val Lewton may wish to browse through these pages. Others will surely want to view the movies first.
Bracing news from the romantic courtship front:
Now they tell us.
And, finally, today's hats.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Sleepy Pre-Trip Announcement
For all of those seething hordes who need the calm of music to soothe their savage breasts, as well as the vaguely curious and the bored, Episode 4 of Radio Psyence is at last available. Listen to it once, listen to it twice, listen to it all week.
The Open Forum: Socratic Entertainments
In order to facilitate a broad exchange of ideas and initiate productive communications, I have carefully selected a number of images which I think will act as spurs to the flanks of the unconscious, especially when considered in juxtaposition.
However, readers should feel free to breach any subject here, however outrageous, technical, dull, or sexually provocative.
I will make of it what I can when I return. You make of it what you can before I do.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Bleak (note forearms) and Mrs Bleak...
will be travelling...
...to the sleepy yet ever-dull college town of...
Therefore, there will be no explainable postings at this blogsite between Sunday and Wednesday/Thursday.
E-mail will be left to accumulate on the e-porch and chewed by the e-dog.
I will attempt to post some graphics and a number of suggested questions to stimulate an open forum, in which you are encouraged to leave harangues about what is going to hell in the world these here days.