#WOW IS THAT A HAUNTOLOGY THEME I SPOT | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mynameisdreartblog · 5 years

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Romantic Composers 3

Libra: Antonín Dvořák. Nightclubbing, nightclubbing; we walk through town. We learn new dances. We… Oh, I didn’t see you there. "Oh? How about: Oh, Libi, you know that it’s really late and you should be going home? This place doesn’t need your maintenance all the time to stay afloat." Right, but I gave up the nightclubbing style a long time ago: Is it not fair to expect me to set the mood correctly and make my choices where they need to be? Can I commit to something for once in my life, or are you that incessant? "It doesn’t matter, you look so tired from a day of elevating and descending the staircases. Think of what I’m doing as a merciful reminder." [,] I’d be offended if you weren’t my own, but I’ll stop the "nightclubbing" if it appeases you. <A echo occurs upon the moment Libi says "nightclubbing."> While I’m at it, you can stop being so authoritative and demanding in your speech: It’s clear informality isn’t your strong suit. […] "Then what is it? At least I can go to sleep at a reasonable hour." …Am I appealing enough on the surface? Is that your issue with me? I mean, all the lore can come later; what we should care about now is whether or not I’m memetic enough to plaster on shirts. "In my opinion, I think you’d look lovely on a graphic T-shirt." That’s the most agreeable opinion you’ve had all night… "Nightclubbing, nightclubbing; we walk through town, we learn new dances." [,] It’s a good song, isn’t it? I’ m an admirer of Grace Jones’ work. "Yeah, I could tell; you’ve been playing her over the speakers of this place every so often." Do you like how I try to select a track for the mood you’re likely to experience? "That’s rather creepy; I’d rather it be on coincidence than on purpose." Well, you give some, you take some: I give fitting ambiance and I take a sense of privacy… "Libi?" Yes? "Are you trying to stall for something?" What? I’ve no concept of stalling: I spend every waking moment of my time on earth doing something worthwhile, you just need to redefine what you perceive as such. "You’re stalling right now, Libi. Are you waiting for something to end, like your shift perhaps?"[…] I need to stop talking to myself.

Cancer: Edvard Grieg. «I’ve hypothesized who could eventually be my greatest villain, and I once thought that it might be someone so stuck in certain instances of time, and can only present them to an exterior through aesthetic presentations, and a supernatural ability to alter the surrounding environment and attitudes to match whatever suits the hauntological current…» Cool, but I’m in a bad spot right now and I’m waiting for a lane to open up. I could just go right now and ignore everyone else, but courtesy is my policy. «Courtesy? Anyone who has ever driven a vehicle here has no understanding of the concept of courtesy. Now, get in the damn right lane before somebody clamors over us.» Jeez, what’s gotten into you? «Aside from a couple of pathogens, it’s the fact that I wasn’t given my required smoking break today. And those cigarettes are necessary for someone like me, otherwise I’d crack under the pressure.» I know you Springe… <Boitatá adequately changes lanes, angering the person behind her.> …and I know you can handle a little bit of shit before you have to puff another one. <Springe remarks in their head how Boitatá manages to be a better driver than Gonçalo: The one who owns the damn truck.> Well, it’s not a high hurdle: Anyone who survives under a terrible workplace long enough will be able to survive under it better than the rookie. Er, that’s what you’re talking about, right? <The truck stops at a very askew stop-sign.> «Yeah, but once you’re in it long enough, you wonder whenever the expiration is coming. Absolutely nobody talks about it because it’s taboo, but eventually we have to wonder when the work will be done. Like, there’s no reason for this hospital to exist anymore…» [,] Uh, there’s plenty of reasons for it to exist, like the fact that people still get sick and still need medical check-ups to make sure they’re healthy. I get where you’re going, but maybe a better example could’ve been used, like retail. There’s no point to the work of retail anymore, is there? «Yeah, but I get to listen in on all the drama of it. Plus, I just like the comfort of a gas-station, you know? Nowhere to go but again throughout the store’s hallways.» <Springe continues to babble about the "vibes" of a retail workspace for an uncomfortable length of time.> …Wow, you’ve never worked in retail, huh? <A loud thud can be heard from the side of the truck, indicating that some sorta postage was hit.> «I mean, no, but I imagine it’s fairly nice in comparison to hard labor doing construction or agricultural work.» <An omnipotent force decides that this conversation has no defined point, and needs to be disrupted with a mildly traumatic moment so that interest can be reimbued.> Holy shit, I’m in the wrong lane! Let me try and make a turn here. <Boitatá forgets to make the three-point turn a three-point turn, and the rest ensues.> [,] «Oh, goddammit, you got the truck stuck in a ditch!» A three-point turn was too risky, but yes, you can call me a clown if it helps. «You know what, you’re such a clown that I can think of the depth of how clownlike you are. There are people driving buy laughing, well, they don’t really care, but they oughta be laughing.» […] «Now that I think of it, we may one day meet someone driving a similar vehicle in the same ditch, who’s as much a clown as you!»

Virgo: Pyotr Tchaikovsky. «Bluma, your little nieces and nephews are here!» Oh cool, I love meeting them; I just hope I don’t have to tell them stories again: That’s a pretty exhausting thing for me even if they all love it. «Oh, I’m sure they won’t be as needy this time as they were last time.» <Multiple hours pass through the afternoon where Bluma sits on the couch, disassociating at the little dust particles dancing on her walls. There’s no Internet where she is and neither is there a close-by hangout spot. She finds herself so desperate for entertainment to look upon old photobooks: She remembers how much of an ugly child she was. Seriously, she had like, three puffs of hair coming out of her scalp, looking like a big claw: It was awful. [,] Bluma puts up the photobook, and she decides to lay down again, thinking about all the tasty food she could be eating but is being reserved for her piranhas of nephews. She has conductive thoughts about how this distribution method should be reformed to benefit her and her nephews whenever they’re here, but it fades away because she knows her ability to change things quite well. [,] Twenty minutes pass and Bluma lays on the couch thinking about the things her nephews are interested in: She remarks that their favorite toys tend to match the colors they wear. Either that was a choice by their parents or a choice by themselves. Regardless, it didn’t do much when Bluma was hit in the leg by one of them abruptly: Not hard enough to cause minor bruising but enough to hurt.> Ugh, thank God they’re only gonna be around for two more days. <The brutality of that attack reminded Bluma of the fact that she brought a collection of graphic novels with her. Well, the truth is that she always knew they were there and brought them with the purpose of finishing them, but the dysfunction settled in and she lets the itch decay until she forgets why they were brought in the first place. The same thing happened when she had to read old literature for the summer, and it’ll unfortunately happen again for something she expressed interest in.> […] «Bluma, it’s getting late and your nephews are heading off to bed. I think it’d be nice if-» How many of them are going to bed? <Bluma’s mother hops back a bit.> «Only two.» That means I’ll only tell two-thirds of the bedtime story. […] Ah, so we’re getting ready for bedtime here? <One of her nephews shakes their head in a pattern of remarkably strict obedience, the other is half-awake and barely responds.> Alright, here’s a special one that I only tell to people I really care about. <Bluma pinches the cheek of the nephew half-asleep.> [,] I’m the gymnast who performed as Mickey Mouse, and I was the best damn Mickey Mouse there was. They needed someone acrobatic to perform in that hot costume, and I was the only one willing: I was desperate for money back then, and I was a limber enough body to perform. <A loud crash is heard from the room on the opposite end of the house, and Bluma has the instinct to know that it was the third nephew. She turns her head towards the noise and raises herself from the kneeled position.> Guess you’ll never hear the end of that story.

Sagittarius: Ludwig Van Beethoven. «The "horrible disaster in pitch darkness lit momentarily by camera flash" mood in these paintings is incredible. <The pompous gallery-viewer steps back to grasp a better taste of the wine they just drank.> Yes, that was the je-ne-sais-quoi I was looking for. <The gallery-viewer swivels their glass of wine for an emote.>» Thanks, that theme was intentional. «I must say, was there any major works that inspired such a marvelous piece, or was this entirely a product of your evergreen imagination?» I’m not familiar with a lot of artwork: I barely saw it throughout my life except what I’d see as remnants of a scalded village. «Oh dear!» Yes, I’ve lived a very hard and traumatic life, and I feel like these works best represent that in a bite-sized, visual form. «Color me impressed!» Now, it’s not as much a concern for me because I’ve vented my emotions through my art so much that they’re more material than they are chemical. So, it’s fair to say that it’s far more uncomfortable to approach my work than it is to approach me. «I wouldn’t say you’re an uncomfortable person. In fact, you’re the warmest person I’ve met so far: Better than the previous exhibitionists, that’s for sure.» I’d say I’m more real than you, for sure. «I’d be inclined to agree, and reasonably, anyone can- wait, what did you say?» <The hint of a vignette starts to appear in the corner of the viewer’s vision.> Oh, it was nothing personal, but it’s just that my sense of cutting to the feeling has been finetuned over the years, and I feel like what you’re doing is a persona. There’s nothing more to it than that, and I’m not sorry. «Um, there has to be more to your critique that that. No, I’m sorry: If you’re one to create such work as this, then you can communicate a poetic assertion of what’s wrong with me.» <Rossouw grabs her temple and pinches it.> I just told you I’m a woman of few words: I thought the paintings told you that. «You’re more lucrative than I ever thought. I just might pay you for the service I’m getting!» <Rossouw releases the pinch and shows a more noble smile. She looks over to her friend, playing the same act as her but being far more successful with it.> I’m not a prestigious artist, but I like to pretend I’m an art connoisseur that tells rich folks how to develop good taste. «Yes, you’re right: I had absolutely no refined taste in what I liked before; that was until I saw your amazing artwork. From there, I knew all that I needed to know about your style, your movement, and your followers.» I’m, uh, glad I managed to change you so radically. <Rossouw turns back to her friend, having a conversation with a normal viewer that looks pleasant and filled with firm convictions.> <Rossouw’s viewer has their vignette slowly overtake their vision, now covering a good quarter of it.> «You get to the point so quickly! You know me so well! I’m practically a new person now that I’m exposed to your work. Consider me a disciple! You are more real than I could imagine: To you, I’m nothing but a barrier to destroy.» Yeah, how much are you willing to pay me? «Oh, so confrontational! You don’t dance around anything!» <Rossouw thinks to herself.> Are they really trying to rub something in? <Suddenly, her friend winks at her, and then she snaps.> What the fuck is going on? Why is this happening? Who is this man? «Artist divine, I will tear down all works that oppose your straightforwardness!» <With their eyes now pitch-black, Rossouw’s viewer begins launching himself at other exhibits, clawing at them with their hands, attempting to desecrate them.> <Rossouw’s friend walks towards her, pats her on the shoulder and says: Don’t worry, this happens more often than you think, especially with a personality like yours.> <«Rossouw turns back.»> He didn’t pay me. Why the fuck did he promise what he didn’t deliver? […] «I created an art-piece in your honor!» <Rossouw’s viewer pans her view towards a destructive piece that looks someone like the text following this.> <«--»>

#Zodiaccupuncture #Zodipunc #Libra #Cancer #Virgo #Sagittarius

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