ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR
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"A look around us at this moment shows what the regression of bourgeois society into barbarism means. This world war is a regression into barbarism. The triumph of imperialism leads to the annihilation of civilization." (Rosa Luxemburg)
Stories (122)
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the end of VOLUME 1 of ENFJ Gogol's novel DEAD SOULS
Chichikov did nothing but smile, slightly rising and falling on his leather cushion, because he delighted in rapid motion. And indeed, which Russian isn't fond of speedy travel? How could such a soul, longing to spin wildly, to lose itself in revelry, to sometimes cry out, 'To hell with everything!' --how could his soul not love it? How could one not love it, when it carries a hint of something blissfully magical? It seems as if some enigmatic force has lifted you aloft, borne upon its wing, and you yourself are flying, and everything is flying: the miles sweep past, merchants atop their kibitkas [wagons] hasten to meet you, the forest streams by on either hand with somber files of spruce and pine, resounding with the axe's stroke and the raven's cry; the entire road rushes off to some unknowable vanishing distance, and something terrifying is concealed in this rapid flickering, where the disappearing object does not have time to be discerned -- only the sky above your head, the light clouds, and the struggling moon alone seem motionless. Eh, troika! bird-troika, who was it that conceived you? surely you could only have been born among a spirited people, in that land that cares not for jesting, but has spread out smooth and level over half the earth, and you may go on counting the miles till they dance before your eyes. And it’s no clever device, it seems — no iron bolts hold it together — but with just an axe and a hammer, in haste yet with masterful strokes, a resourceful Yaroslavl peasant crafted you, alive and pulsing. No polished German boots for this coachman: just a wild beard and thick mittens, seated on the Devil knows what, then, with a swift rise, a sweeping motion, and a song bursting forth, the horses surge like a storm, the wheel spokes spinning into a perfect, smooth blur, the road quivers, a frightened passerby cries out -- and away they go, thundering, racing, vanishing into the distance!.. And there, far off, something looms into view, trailing dust and piercing the air.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR10 months ago in Psyche
Soviet/Russian INFJ Maxim Gorky's The Life of Klim Samgin (VOLUME TWO)
In Spivak's recounting of the exhibition and the fair, Klim Samgin became aware that the tenderness he had once felt survived solely in his memory, having vanished as an emotion. He knew that what he was saying wasn't interesting. He was embarrassed by his desire to establish his own line between the exaggerated adoration of some newspapers and the grumbling cynicism of others, and besides, he feared falling into the rude and mocking tone of Inokov's satirical pieces.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR10 months ago in Psyche
The Stones of Instruction . Content Warning.
The air hung heavy outside the school, or what might have been a school--an expanse of cracked pavement framed by walls too low to keep anything in or out. I sat on a bench that seemed to shift beneath me, its wood splintering into my palms as if testing my resolve. Somewhere nearby, Amanda Palmer stood, her presence a shadow with no source, humming a tune I couldn't place but felt I ought to know. The sky pressed down, gray and unyielding, like a lid on a jar.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR10 months ago in Fiction
David Lynch's MULHOLLAND DRIVE
Mulholland Drive. I’ve never been able to entirely comprehend this film, although it’s one of my favourite movies and I’ve watched it countless times. Its last spoken word—“Silencio” (Lynch, 2001)—uttered by a strange blue-haired female being, is somehow supposed to put a conclusion to the tragic mystery. What follows is my attempt to make sense of what is almost universally regarded as an enigmatic, inscrutable, and nebulous work of art.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR12 months ago in Geeks
To Dream of Enceladus (Ἐγκέλαδος)
Beneath the distant canopy of Saturn's luminous rings lies a frozen jewel, the moon Enceladus, a sphere of pristine whiteness and secret depths. Here, in the shadow of celestial giants, humanity's longing for discovery finds a worthy adversary. Enceladus, with its icy plumes and hidden seas, calls to our restless spirits like the Sirens of old, daring us to pierce its mysteries. Yet before we can set foot upon this alabaster world, we must first contend with the tyranny of nature, as mighty and relentless as the Olympian Zeus who smote the giant Ἐγκέλαδος (Engélados).
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTARabout a year ago in Futurism
My INFJ Year of Empty Mountains
In the annals of my year, 2024, as I reflect upon the tapestry of my existence, I find myself drawn to these melodies and verses of music, each piece a mirror to the soul, reflecting facets of my own journey through the labyrinth of human experience.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTARabout a year ago in Beat
Romanian Origins and Dreams (Volume 2)
The ceaseless whistling of the wind echoed through the corridors of Ana's existence, as she wandered through the labyrinthine paths of her youth. In her twenties, she was a student at the prestigious medical school in Romania's capital, and among her professors was Lucian, a distinguished physician and one of Ceaușescu's esteemed doctors. He was also a man of secrets, bound by the chains of matrimony and fatherhood. It was in this tangled web of forbidden desires and clandestine encounters that Ana's story unfolds.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTARabout a year ago in Families
CONFESSIONS OF A MASK. Content Warning.
In the dim confines of my childhood, I lived in a hoouse shadowed by the heaviness of sickness and old age. My grandmother, "a narrow-minded, indomitable, and rather wildly poetic spirit," consumed my early years with her sharp intellect and bitter demeanor, her illness gnawing at her nerves. She pulled me from my mother's arms on my forty-ninth day, raising me in a suffocating room, "perpetually closed and stifling with odors of sickness and old age." It was here, in this stagnant atmosphere, that my identity, already shaped by exclusion, began to take root in longing.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTARabout a year ago in Pride
The Downward Spiral
Courtney and I sit across from each other, the faint hiss of steam from the coffee machine punctuating the growing discomfort. Her eyes flick nervously toward the swatting woman at the window, trying to kill invisible insects with a rolled-up newspaper. I shrug, avoiding the confrontation. Courtney sighs and presses forward with her rambling.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTARabout a year ago in Fiction
