https://open.spotify.com/track/1rZUvvrb11470D3KltbZu2?si=20f275b1317944cb
Recommended if you like Jon Spencer Blues Explosion
Tag Archives: Hermes
The Last Wave [1977)
Australia has fallen.
To what?
To whom?
Illuminati backwards.
Itanimulli.
Dot com.
Redirects to nsa.gov.
Check it yourself.
itanimulli.com
itanimulli.net has been removed.
But it too redirected to nsa.gov
But the real kicker is itanimulli.org
Which redirects to minervallux.com
Minerva?
Owl?
The landing page is a golden owl.
At the bottom of the page are the years:
2016 2017 2018 2019 2020 2021.
Hitting 2016 redirects you to dc24.minervallux.com
There is a pyramid with an all-seeing eye and five blank spaces which each say “enter code”.
Four icons on this screen open up.
First is the number 8 with the downward slash through the top loop.
It opens as:
Next is the pyramid with the all-seeing eye.
It opens as:
Next is the pixel palette.
It opens as:
And finally is the right-facing arrow.
It opens as:
Tracing our steps back to 2017.
Clicking that number leads to dc.25.minervallux.com
And this image:
Clicking the DNA-strand brick at bottom right opens this:
Moving left, the next brick opens as:
Continuing to move left and clicking on the keystone:
The final stone at left on the bottom row opens as:
Moving up a row (and back to the right), we find this upon opening:
Continuing to move left on this row we find:
All the way to the left, we find this:
Moving up a row (and staring at the right):
Moving left:
But clicking on the all-seeing eye reveals nothing. It does not open out into a new window.
It should be noted that you can “register” for whatever the fuck (a game?) this site is.
Clicking on “privacy terms” does nothing.
There is also a “login” screen:
This whole thing reminds me a bit of Comet Ping Pong.
Wasn’t there some login capability there?
But this is WAY MORE Cicada 3301.
The years of the Trump Presidency.
Plus one.
The pyramid rotates.
It appears to have four sides.
Applying same method to pop out screens:
Some blocks are repeated. Including only originals gleaned from rotating pyramid:
Moving to the third side of the pyramid:
The lock stone simply reads:
Cryptography.
Cryptology.
Ciphers.
It’s looking like 2017 is way more interesting (complex) than 2016.
Q started 2017.
A piece of parchment.
Some gold dust on a drill bit.
On closer examination, the “privacy terms” tab does open with a notice regarding reCAPTCHA.
BTW…the address should be read as Minerval Lux (apparently).
This whole thing has the feel of the Kryptos statue at CIA headquarters.
2018
dc26.minervallux.com
Same method:
https://open.spotify.com/album/0dq2zPvB0tKDh9zvL5G7Xb?si=GeWK6jaUSnK_mkUreUiRZw&nd=1
By this point you’re probably asking, “What the fuck is all this shit?”
We need some context.
We need to keep in mind Pieczenik’s statements about CYBERCOM and Space Force.
There’s a crack in the pyramid. All fractals appear to be the same (requesting 17 code). One block blank (black) requesting 0 code.
How does Finnegans Wake help?
How does Histoire(s) du cinéma help?
How does Das Passagen-Werk help?
Do we have it all?
Are patriots in control?
Can anything stop what is coming?
What is coming?
NSA in Australia.
Alice Springs.
Quarantine camps.
Q camps in Songbird.
Excellent film.
And Contagion.
Essential viewing to decode plandemic.
Emhoff.
Sussmann.
2019
Event 201.
Which Q posts indicate that Q group knew 2020 election was going to be stolen and/or that a virus was about to be unleashed?
Clicking delta middle left:
Apparently all the same in the middle.
Rotating outer ring:
Gordian knot.
Rotating inner ring. No combinatory permutations?
Hag.
Fascism.
[lovely]
Goldsworthy with the leaves.
Thomas Drake?
Raitlin’s challenge.
DEFCON.
2020
Are you tired of this shit yet?
2021
Who dares wins.
Thick fuck?
One goes to NSA. itanimulli.com
The other recruits (?) for CYBERCOM? itanimulli.org
This redirect has been going on since 2012?
[same year Illuminati Party LLC was established?]
When did the admirals and generals get together and decide to NOT stage a coup on Obama but (rather) get behind Trump?
Some say it’s all a hoax:
https://itanimullihoax.wordpress.com/
You know what else is in Utah?
The Utah Data Center.
https://open.spotify.com/track/1fbmO0UUzEwPrgXEfdjPqo?si=crGF2Ec0R-WMu3HKTiszxQ&nd=1
-PD
Playtime [1967)
This took a lot of watching. Rewatching.
Last night…so tired.
Watched half. Then rewind. Dozed off. Watch same half again.
First time I saw this (years ago) was on the big screen.
It really makes a difference.
That janitor at the beginning. His strange pause and crouch. His peering left and right. His broom and dustpan.
Very little sweeping. Just clanking.
Yes. Sounds. Sounds. Sounds. (Zounds!)
The vinyl chairs which return to their shape after you sit and dent. The strange sound. The strange quality.
“Quality”
Tradition of quality.
It might lead you to ask: what was Jacques Tati trying to say with this film?
Answering that is no easy task.
Sure, this seems like a simple, lightweight film. In some ways it is.
It’s enjoyable. It’s lighthearted. And yet…
There is more than a smidgen of Modern Times here. And Tati, with his pipe… More than a pipe-full of Sartre. Sartre with his publication Les Temps modernes. Even Sartre apparently thought highly enough of Chaplin to work under an homage headline.
And so, Tati…lost in the supermarket. Lost in the buildings from 2 ou 3 choses que je sais d’elle. Same year. 1967. Paris. In the banlieues.
And very few words.
As I said.
A movie of sounds.
Yes.
But images.
Reflections.
Illusions.
It appears.
Optical.
Illusion.
And its reflection.
Double.
Mirror image.
Flipped.
Paris.
It appears that the buttons have been switched. Very nice, WordPress. Now I am “publishing” every time I intend to merely “save” (and vice versa).
That is the theme of the film.
Thingamajigs.
No no no. Take your time. Uh uh uh…hold on. [click click click click] Ok, now rise.
We wait for the entire hallway to be traversed in an absurd observation of ritual.
And from above…the cubicles.
One needs must occupy higher ground to see the big picture. All of these busy bees become lost in the fray.
Afraid.
True.
And so it is not farfetched to guess that Peter Sellers and Blake Edwards were influenced in their masterpiece The Party (1968) by Tati’s Playtime (1967).
But with Tati there is even more. An industrial ballet. The poise of the service industry (and its opposite). [Both]
A constant counterpoint like a comic Górecki.
Perhaps I have been hitting the wrong button all along.
Have I been saying these things out loud?
Yes, we wonder.
Technology.
We grew up in a different time.
The chairs were different.
The doors were different.
And since we are quiet and meek we spend an eternity in the antechamber. In the darkened hallway.
How do we get out?
Yes, Paris…even then, perhaps? A drugstore? Yes. Too depressing for anyone to look each other in the eyes.
The hum. The constant hum. Like Alphaville. Like Oskar Sala’s Trautonium. The Birds. Bernard Herrmann as musical consultant. But those noises. Mixtur.
And several waiters will salt the troutonium…and grind pepper…and spread the sauce…and the couple has moved.
The main course has stayed behind.
Heated. Reheated. Set on fire. Jubilee.
Turbot.
And lobster boy just cares about his hair.
Nerval. Hugo Ball.
But that humming…like Metal Machine Music way ahead of time. But creepier. Like Raymond Scott’s music for babies crossed with Erik Satie’s musique d’ameublement.
Waiting waiting. That’s a theme. And all the illustrious portraits of CEOs past.
Is it a job interview?
And that’s Orly? It seems more like a hospital. Little hummingbird nuns and swaddled kids.
But we shall always live in Barbara Dennek’s dimples. It sounds weird to say.
But it is luck. Bad luck. And then good luck.
And random error. Entropy.
Chaos.
Can anyone here play the piano?
Yes. Yes I can!
And some half-rate Edith Piaf gets up to sing her long-forgotten hit.
Except no one has forgotten it. Once a hit, always a hit.
More or less.
The new religion.
The hum of neon.
All the desserts look sickly. Even to the “chef.” Must hide his mystère. An apple with some sputtery whip? An upside-down coffee mug?
Mmmm…
William S. Burroughs would doubtless have approved. The man in the gray flannel suit (book). But taken to theatrical limits. Choreography of male primping. Like Cary Grant on hallucinogens. A surreal ritual.
Ritual.
This is sociology.
Anthropology.
Paris. The modern man.
See him in his natural habitat.
See her shop. See her sell.
See him work. See him drink.
If you travel, you will see the tourist side.
On a trip.
With a group.
Activities planned.
Like a cruise.
And God forbid you become separated from the group.
Yes.
That is our little romance.
And Tati is meek enough to barely suggest to suggest (x2).
That M. Hulot might find love.
It would be a random day.
He would get pulled this way and that.
And winding up in some crazy, unplanned situation he would become sweet on dimples.
See him in his fishbowl.
Before there was Mr. Bean, there was Monsieur Hulot.
Before there was Forrest Gump.
Tell me…where are the “fancy goods”? Perhaps silk. Hermès.
Always caught at the turnstiles of life…
-PD
Week-end [1967)
You will not learn much on Wikipedia. In this case. It is a common problem. The length of an entry indicates its importance to the English-speaking world. You will not get a true sense of what this film is about. To the English-speaking world, this film is apparently insignificant.
And so we turn to images. Language has betrayed us. Our mother tongue.
There we immediately find a better representation. The Hermès handbag.
Yet still the film remains elusive.
Some might say barbaric. Others, a film about nothing.
They are both right…and wrong.
It is Mozart who proves them wrong. I will not give you a Köchel number. We can’t be experts about everything.
This is not academic writing. I take my leisure seriously.
Taken out of context, it is the rage of a spurned Hitchcock.
It is the red stub of Blandine Jeanson (c’est-à-dire Emily Brontë).
Perhaps it is the groovy sounds of Jean-Claude Vannier?
As Paul Gégauff plays (?), the man with the shovel shuffles away. He is our stable element…briefly.
You see the trouble.
Is it barbarism to cradle the contrasting beauty? Is it nothing to show that everything is something?
Not easy being cheesy…
This is why it is better not to attempt…to explain.
It has been done. What’s the point?
Each tenured prophet will find his/her own signs.
The important thing is to give the immediate impression. Do not go for a snack. Attack the film, but not to analyze. Attack your own feelings and emotions…and wrest them from oblivion to perhaps live a life of their own. This is what we do.
From the first words, we cannot start like the rest.
The great folly would be to make Godard into God. The greater folly to ignore the breathtaking precedence.
In art as war, pity the one to go first…running from the secure positions.
And so we embrace the greatest uncertainty.
The varieties of human experience people…have not visited my corner for census.
Nor Jean-Luc’s…here. We can celebrate the hulking awkwardness of a master who is perfectly describing chaos.
It is not sloppy. It is calculated. But it is a non-terminating number. An infinite precision.
Balance on one finger and eat banana cream pie.
Perfectly upside-down.
It is not clean and crisp. Not easily digestible.
We look longingly for personality, but none is found…
And then a film like Week-end…all personality. Character. Eccentricity. Color. Vigor.
Buried in the footnotes of civilization is a question about civilization itself.
This.
It explains why we never succeeded in life. Had we done so, it would have been a fluke.
We were not meant to succeed. Search your heart and then regard the world…
There is an intrinsic disharmony.
Language is a popularity contest…gang-raped by technology.
Thus the survival of mankind depends on code: poetry.
Poetry does not discard words. Poetry constantly expands…like entropy.
No one predicted the end. Google will fail.
When we stop mirroring our mirror. It is too boring to relate.
Salvation is buried deep. Takes some digging.
We have forgotten how to be properly disgusted.
-PD
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