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973395 - OPTIMYTHIC 03:

How Does a Fairy Earn His Wingz?

Hello Friend,

Having arrived at this particular page, it's entirely possible that you're feeling a little lost within the maze of this particular site. After all, there's no reliable map, the content (though tolerably pretty to look at and sorta fun to read) is largely meaningless, and the sales pitch is downright clumsy. All these things are quite intentional, so please, don't lose hope.

Rather, I invite you to be inspired (or at the very least, intrigued) by the thought that this entire website hangs in cyberspace as a partial metaphor of not just my own mind, but -- quite possibly -- yours too. Arguably, your datestamp might be a smidgeon off from mine, but, together, we can by-and-large agree that it hovers somewhere on or around the month of May, 2018. (To be clear: when I say "Two Thousand Eighteen," I'm relying somewhat breezily upon the assumption that you share my understanding of the concept behind it, namely, that it's a count, of orbits around the sun, from a time long ago when some random council of Greek-speaking scholars synchronized their astronomical stories with the twenty-four "Elders" of their Greek alphabet, which was itself descended from a far mor ancient glyphobet.)

Timekeeping and orbital mechanix aside, the ideal navigation strategy for this particular sight is easy: poke around, explore its many unfamiliar and useless places, and allow yourself to become even more lost in the general wash of its obfuscationary absurdities.

Eventually, if your heart is pure and OPTIMYTHIC, its truths will speak.

Speaking of "Truths that speak," you may have noticed the voice of a clown or threee haunting the various corners of the labyrinth. Unlike most standard "Web 1.0" websites, which are malleable, morphable, and patently inconstant metaphors of mind, clowns are extremely reliable and trustworthy. As a result, by this mid-point in my webspinning practice, I believe I know them each well (enough) to provide a proper introduction:

  • Sir Cadence "Porridge" Fapcannon is a vain, pompous, flouncy, red-nosed poet. He plays fast and loose with love-letters and luggage alike, seeking only to please his master.
  • Sir Richard "Dick" Wadd is a GUI GDUL, which is a Hebrew(ish) turn of fraze meaning "Graphical-User-Interface...Godly," and points to the Pornographic, Topographic, and Paleographic proclivities of his black-tooth'd soul. Though he serves with a precise and efficient competence, he nevertheless hates his master.
  • Sir Robin "Puck" Goodfellow is a spritely, young, white-hatted heel-catcher; a horny little scorpion-eyed heart-breaker with a dim past and a bright future. He wants only to be the master, but, owing to his irreverence toward authority, has no idea how to make that happen.

Together in concert, this trio of fools haunts my head, whispering all kinds of ungodly shit into my inner ear. Their combined voices coalesce into a kind of all-encompassing Satyr-clown whose name, I believe, is Arkamedes, and whose mission is much as it has always been.

The job of a Satyr-clown is to point out all the obvious things that nobody wants to see, and to speak certain truths that most people are too afraid to think. In so doing, the Satyr creates a space in which audiences may be both titilated and challenged. They are invited to think critically and intelligently about the nature of Desire, and the lengths that a civilization must go in order to keep its monstrous expressions firmly in check.

Emperors, Kings, Popes, and Warlords expect obedience. Whatever they wish for, they simply put into words, and all that flows from their infallible mouths must be received as the ultimate Work-Says.

In contrast, Clowns are easily ignored, and expect nothing but a few moments of time. A Satyr cannot tax you or send you to war, or dispossess you, or jail you, or kill you, or sell you into slavery. You never have to believe a single thing he Playsez.


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