Princess Balestra teaches DEATH

So hey, I been gone for a while, treadin' ether.

Gotta tellya, I did not enjoy bein' a phantom at first, but alla that floatin' out on the Ectoplasmowispo kinda offersya a unique POV on the world -- on which, more later.

There are advantages to punctuatin' periodsa hellbent action with commas an' semicolonsa serenity, an' I have come to embrace Death with the zestiesta hugs.

Long as you don't ever deny Death his kissa scythe an' a few secondsa maniacal laughter, he is kinda cool, kinda straight dealin'-- an' he got a whole buncha dinky nightwear to die for.

Ain't gonna boreya too much 'bout what I did on my vacation, 'cept to say I got down deep an' dirty on sum serious meditation -- with one eyeball trained on flamea my soul, an' the other lookin' out for how the still livin' were doin' down below as they debated whether profanity squares with professionalism...

http://www.warriorforum.com/copywrit...l?view=classic

... an' what it means for advertisin' if women can no longer be expected to submit to bein' spanked hard on the ass.

http://www.warriorforum.com/copywrit...l?view=classic



But I got my flesh back on now -- which kinda means onea two things, dear reader.

If you figure the Apocalypse arrived early cos the Foul-mouthed Ditzpukera Garbage got off lightly with a measly 2 month ban, then mebbe you should lighten up an' try smilin' once in a while before your lips die back to the marrow for wanta exercise.

Restaya who been holdin' out for my return like war widows gazin' up to the heavens with tears of sadness streamin' down their cheeks -- prolly it is time to quit subsistin' in a forlorn hazea microwave dinners an' go pig out on a coupla burgers big as your frickin' face.

Point is, I would wanna skip out now, rejuvenated, refreshed, an' fulla honeyheart.


So let's get super serious.

I been thinkin' long an' hard, principally about alla that spankin' stuff an' what it means to pick up a few marks on your ass.

(Mods: this is a metaphor -- kinda like a simile, only more direct, creative, an' persuasive.)

So I was wondrin' -- what is the best option when it comes to dealin' with a slapdown from the Grim Reaper?

What reincarnatory transformations are possible?

It would be immeasurably foolisha me to deny I got a desire to get fruity, so it kinda comes with the suit that my cheeks gonna flush with color from time to time -- but is takin' the profaner path (as hinted at by rock goddess Robert Plant when he spoke of lemon juice runnin' down his leg) really the worst option in a world hungry for novel ways to ship out the cheese?

What if I made with the regular an' formulaic? Stuck to the drill an' smiled sweeter than a people-pleasin' needyho?

Tellya, I don't wanna be no grouch here, but I got a big problem with that approach from a filosofical perspective....


Flip over to Mind Warriors right now, an' if your head don't kick back from the fumes, you'll see they got a whole buncha cool quotations bubblin' around in their mutual underbelly alongside the neurotwangosteroidspiel -- stuff about settin' sail from shores to reach noo destinations an' alla that "nuthin' ventured..." deal.

That kinda optimism is all over the internet right now, like Thoreau had descended from the clouds an' infused all written instancesa "go confidently in the direction of your dreams" with hyperlinked touchscreen Neon, or Steve Jobs was stompin' around on those selfsame clouds, joinin' up the dots of his wasted life, screamin, "why in hell did I bash on so much about innovation, dogma an' foolishness when I coulda been a beard model for sum swanky Paris fashion house?"

What alla that stuff is sayin' is how you gotta take a chance, step out, generate sumthin' mebbe novel.

It is creative, it is honest, it is courageous.

Also, it is kinda life-savin' in its inherent riskiness an' freshness.

See -- implicit in alla those 'sailin' out vs stayin' ashore' quotations is the suggestion that terra firma gonna remain static if you choose to stick with the safe & sure an' hang out on the coast.

To the guys who favor plowin' familiar furrows over swingin' around in crow's nests, those quotes say Oh, sure, you could prollya made it as an entreprenoor, but it mighta been dangerous out there on the briny -- 'specially for your faithful pooch an' his problem allergies -- so you did right to ignore alla that high falutin' schwango an' languish here on this cushion-plumped reclinera tectonic gift.

But that kinda stasis is illusory, cos when the Earth spins out on inevitable change, she takes alla the soil an' mountains on the same ride as the water.

(It is true: ask your astronomy pals.)

If there is stasisa any kind, perhaps it exists only as an expectation in the minda the remainer behinder, cos I see nuthin' undynamic about anythin' we got in the cosmos, from twinklesa stars to bubbles sparklin' in a glassa sum fizzy cocktail.

But we are not without rigor an' meticulousness in our observations of material change, an' we got a whole buncha cool formulae with which to accessorize as we stay -- or as we go.

As mountains heave up an' rivers cut out, it is cool to have gravity smarts on your team -- along with a whole buncha other confirmable certainties you can flip into a calculator prior to pressin' EQUALS.

Problem is, the laws governin' physical matter are more amenable to hardcore math geek analysis an' projection than the laws governin' the emotional tidesa the hooman brain as 7.4 billiona those cerebral suckers drift out on an ever-swellin' oceana cultural memes.

Beautiful people, you are more spirited than rock an' water an' air, an' your capacity to invite an' generate change is way more unaccidental than the processes governin' geology an' alla that stuff, an' this sparka hooman flux you got inya means there is no a priori guarantee that any cunningly devised tongue-in-cheek gal spankin' ad gonna play forever.

Its time is gonna come, an' it is gonna die -- irrespective of the cast iron formulae underpinnin' its carefully crafted structure.

Prolly we should view ads less as craft and more as lyrical moments in a wider narrative -- here for now as hoomanity's story unfolds (tunesomely catchy an' chorally melodic), but bound for the wings when their moment out on the boards has summoned its final encore.

If you are followin' my conjecture real close, you gotta see there are prolly only three available options when the applause comes to an end.

1) You persist as an ineffectual phantom, strung out in the ether of an empty theater.
2) You reanimate the corpse with pulsea new life till the maggots become a PR nightmare.
3) You formulate a fresh act of creation, kissed into life by the unfoldin' moment's nouveau combo mambo.

Problem is, no-one loves DEATH -- an' too many so-called 'novel' solutions are merely reanimations or specters, struttin' an' frettin' about the place with their beady eyes on the clock.


Truly, I figured on comin' back as an angel -- beyond profanity, beyond provocation, beyond alla that awkward mouthy stuff makes you unpopular an' gets you banned, but the more I reflected on the two posts I mentioned -- yanno, the Profanity an' the Persuasion -- while showerin' an otherwise unrelentin' tsoobnami of clonemanic irrigation, the more I realised it would be folly to take that path, because I figure it is an intrinsically inappropriate stance to take when sittin' down to write anythin' out with a view to effectin' change.

But I have so loved my flirtation with the Grim Reaper.

*squee*

In his way, he is benevolent an' generous, remindin' us that all things have their time an' how we should embrace finality as a means of invention.

I figure now if stuff don't work out, an' you get spanked real bad along the way, least you got a buncha vibrant hieroglyphics glowin' on your butt cheeks you can throw on a scanner an' decipher later as you thrash an' howl in the throes of abject failure's bleakest void.

Sumtimes, you jus' gotta die -- but always you can (and must) choose the mannera your rebirth.

You jus' gotta figure on generatin' sum inner stillness as you make the transition between clearly defined statesa bein'.

That way, action an' reflection gotta chance to kiss an' meet up evry once in a while as yin an' yang trade soulful elementalia.

I figure the internet's serial costoom change stroboscopescape gonna speed up the process of death an' rebirth right across the board -- for content, for mediated meansa delivery, for new stuff we discover we want.

As generatorsa any kinda content, Warriors gotta be wondrin' 'bout life an' death alla the time, an' like fiction writers we gotta think 'bout what is best for the babies we grow insidea us -- especially when their second setta teeth fall out.

When all you got to show for your creative output is a barren echo, temptation will always be to throw in another bootylicious gal to ramp up the spanko factor, but alla the formulaic persuasion miracles under the sun are now subject to the mass scrutiny of millionsa people don't wanna be taken for a ride, an' mebbe the most creative thing we can do sumtimes is to flat out die an' start over.


Those are my reflections on death right now.

If I killedya, you are not my people.

Ifya got this far, I would wanna say sum other stuff, but I will mebbe get to that part later when I am done shakin' dusta the afterlife outta my underwear...