Do you still celebrate Halloween?
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Review of "Do you still celebrate Halloween?"
I made it a tradition to celebrate Halloween with a luminary 'Arturo Fuente.' Indeed, for several hours the library will occupy ghostly plumes that'l smell of damp rug stroke dog dependent on your exact position. Broadly speaking this is my internal winter cleansing, readying myself for cold bleakness and bleary nights of aromatic, clinker grinding Jura and tangible prose all under the comforting moss green lamp of inspiration. My eager observations, i.e. sniffing out horrific terminology, usually derived by ill-advised pen-pushers from Her Majesty's Services; the same office who squirrel packed the hornswoggle pact in ofference a referenda to plebiscites. Y'know, the shocking reality of thousands of laws turned into a puff of smoke by sleazebag parliamentarians ticking off the last quarter's expenses and who's now fit and available. In some quarters this so-called 'EUL' is judicial material no sane entity likes to analyse, nor wants to know about or wishes to give lip service too - instead, the scripted shift of focus is claiming inappropriately placing of fat, sweaty digits on a female journalist's knee in 2002. The amateur shoddiness is embarrassing, not unlike when I got to know a pumpkin intimately.
Meh, about this time in 2002, I was wearing a pumpkin on my head sucking cheap vino from a straw, oh the high life of hearing your own vocals circumnavigating the lobes, whereby you feel as if your orange head may explode. If it was today, people would comment I was Donald Trump. Furthermore, a bulbous pumpkin is the most unsociable vegetable to have on your person - And to top it all off, yes the cream of pumpkin soup was an added irritation. Blatantly, if wandering fingertips touched my leg inappropriately on this occasion I wouldn't know who it belonged too nor cared, my partner at the time had x-ray vision, notably when I was in the vicinity; that evening she overdosed on the 'frightfully bloody mary.' My oh my, I went through a whole medicated bottle of 'Vosene' to rid my mullet of the stench of frightful mary and pumpkin. These days I feel decidedly at home in my skin disguised as Milton Berle during the epoch when the American man of TV scored with Marilyn Monroe via lighting sweet Havanas prior to the siren hitting the big time. By accident, I witnessed seeing Marilyn costumes online, specifically for Samhain; 'some like like it devilish hot', presumably. Berle coerced Monroe to puff on his Havana; ''honey bun it'll turn you ash blonde,' he goaded. Mesmerized by the ghostly fingers of sweet temptation, Monroe went ash blonde overnight - 'Game of Throne' followers could be Daenerys Targaryen for a modern theme.
Since belonging to the 'Classic FM' listening public for nineteen months now I'm able to go mindfully in disguise at whim, 'Amazon' costumes aren't required just a grasp of perceived nostalgia and bringing it to present time. Often I ponder what would German Philosopher Immanuel Kant do if presented this horror file, actual validation can be taken from 'Critique of Pure Reason;' a doctrine from (1781) - Then again, total solitude helps, hooray, isn't that alone worth embracing and suddenly tasks are simplified, including the judicial maize you couldn't get out of earlier in the afternoon, as well as evading the webs of uncompromises. My adult life experience is notably the complete opposite to many chieftains who swamp-run ubiquitously year in year out; a prime example is practically every public service in the UK, very few of them lobby, to force bona fide critical facts. Unbelievably their model is a horror show, as if directed by the genius of Jess Franco, my guilty pleasure - it'll be alright if the end result was purely for entertainment value, has signatory twists and depicts zombie theatrics, plus engages in cruddy quality for the love of gimcrack. However, the reality neither changes that rapidly nor can be easily edited. At least 'Arturo Fuente' luxury and eccentric escapism can forge a form of celebration, while you hurdle headlong into another little barney, unforeseen and tends to come in patterned interuptions. Someone like Kant nevertheless may alert it being a genuine state of pure reason, there's a concept that clarity has interuption patterns also. We know the annual traditional structure of the year before the year starts, ultimately its the detail inbetween which is unpredictable.
'Why couldn't the skeleton dance at the party --- because he had no body to dance with;' blague offered me a snippet of predictability this Samhain - blagues are mentally healthy when inevitable, thanks Anne-Marie Minhall - (Classic FM). No guidance is required to understated deliverance, Minhall adds her raconteur quips on October 31st like I place 'Arturo Fuente' on my lower lip, done with slow effortless assurance. The only noticeable difference is... I don't lose my composure and go into self-created hysterics several seconds thereafter. Instead, I breathe out ghostly plumes, I feel this is more in-keeping with Samhain a so-called festival of setting light to stuff to keep warm, plus it's fun - the mystical smoke just adds to the celebration of smoggy ambiance. Smoke habitually exists from bonfires, cigars and candles and this is the season for engagement, there's no better time for pyromania. My days of physically putting on inflammable costumes where you reside in 'party orientated rooms where there's loads of fire' have ended. Not my idea of fun, although, I compute Samhain is a super natural selection method to extinguish the nomads from society. I once stared out from a window at a huge bonfire and watched hooded thugs put sofas on it... while lit... they lived! In celebration they drank copious amounts of bottled cider while watching a sofa turn the flames red white and blue... they subsist the toxic fumes; wobbled on till the next Samhain.
My irritation of web or pumpkin decorations to enhance the 'magic' comes under the file of overplaying non-specific events that bulldozers common sense and origins. If I was being a mumpsimus, I'll blame divination: for this is a practice for unearthing knowledge in the future tense, others may call it the unknown via dipping in the supernatural toe into nothing tangible; me I prefer to grab results from thinking from a mindset without supernatural interference, yeah, it's how I roll. Choosing to decorate the library with scent of cigar smoke is the ultimate act of freedom and free will, the scent lingers for a week, exactly the duration of Samhain; all done without horror garlands. My tendences side with Spinoza and Descartes's theory of being conscious of desires to let freedom run amok: ah, now the green-eyed monster among mankind shines. Because celebration to me, is having the choice of not partaking, or keen to please a particular entrenched dehumanised state; whom systematically dissolve 'conscious of desires' by simply saying this: "what are you going to wear tonight, it's Halloween?" Apparently, by wearing a ghoulish costume, the disguise would fool real demons and therefore protect you. Obviously evil is clever enough to know the date --- albeit, deranged enough to not recognise Jean Thomas from Surbiton with a black hat on. In retrospect, I take my chance in the library with 'Arturo Fuentes;' as far I've yet seen an impish, lustful horned entity smoking cigars, no, you'll find them in town propping up bars, handing out sexual innuendos to sober onlookers about "having a place to warm hands."
Individuals in costumes gifts an excuse for diabolical behaviour; playing the role is part of the formulated escapism of joining in with so-called joviality, at the expense of an onlooker's misery. Basically October 31st is ubiquitous role playing that gravitates to overplaying the role under the guise of paganism (evil)... allowing themselves to be swept away by the alleged 'magic' of Samhain. Like Kant I managed to elevate beyond this human pitfall; independent of the idiocy condition, yet still valid enough to write about the subject. My prose lapses when it comes to non-events which Samhain is --- and then you look haplessly about the soldier of books, standing to attention, purely for inspiration, anything.... when you find nothing, you then pretend to have experience on a subject you have no experience of; unlike Kant I failed to find proper excuses for humanity on this occasion. This Samhain, I neither resemble the great man nor write like the great man. I stub out the cigar with vigour knowing fully well I'm incapable of getting bogged down in senile sickly-sweet niceness. Undoubtedly, it's due to not partaking in Samhain fully; I'm convinced I am not 100% Kant, I don't have 18th C hair curlers for a start. Furthermore, I've yet denoted that Samhain is a period when two-world's collide; (this world and a supernatural world); my pragmatism has gathered moss, of the view that the ease of 'spiritual crossings' isn't seasonal; Darker evenings per se doesn't excite spirits to take a cheap deal sojourn to this world, or do they immitate humanity via flocking to cheap spots of intense brightness. Next year, the cycle of tradition will again irritate me, enough to respond. I get out a 'Arturo Fuente' and start again - I made it a tradition to celebrate Halloween with a luminary 'Arturo Fuente.' ©1st2thebar 2017
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Listed on Ciao since: 25/10/2017