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Thul Husk
January, 24th, 2024
LowBrowsing.com had been offline for several years because I had changed as a person, and the work on this site goes back more than twenty years and reflects several personal transformations. Many of my attitudes have changed. When I worked on LowBrowsing, I was often angry and I was most certainly frustrated. Most of the time, my conclusions at LowBrowsing were correct, but often enough I can see that I was misguided, or just plain wrong.
For example, the "Massifesto" and "Prolepticon" sections of this website had content that has since been replaced by Book 66. Today, Book 66 is what I stand behind. I make no apologies for the "rough" work I have done over the years because those early ideas led me to my current conclusions which I absolutely stand behind. I do not necessarily stand behind the work that was hosted at LowBrowsing.
Some of the work at LowBrowsing is downright embarrassing for me, but even in my lowest and darkest moments there has been profound truth in the work I have done.
The work that I stand behind today is for Thul Husk and can be found at my official portfolio website. That is where you will find Book 66 and other updated work from LowBrowsing. Additionally, if my Thul Husk website doesn't have particular updated LowBrowsing content then this is almost certainly because I have rejected that work and don't care for it, or I do not stand behind it anymore.
LowBrowsing had everything - over 800 separate pages for art curation, movie reviews, academic essays, and much more. However, there were also sections at LowBrowsing for review of pornography, controversial theories on race, conspiracies on government propaganda, etc. I believe that there might be kernels of truth in those articles that I wrote, but overall, I am willing to walk away from that work.
The work I am not walking away from is at my Thul Husk website.
Also, worth noting, is that my premium subscription for website hosting is for my Thul Husk site, and no longer for LowBrowsing. Therefore, LowBrowsing pages had become a mess and the content was chopped up because certain features were missing due to this website not being on a premium plan anymore. For example, I had a lot of YouTube video links and music file uploads which were then missing from the pages here.
LowBrowsing is a relic - it is merely a trace for who I am by providing some clues to who I was. I have removed the content although scrapers may have records for the old pages at this website.
Over the years, I was doxed as well as having my university account attacked by hackers. I connected those attacks to IP addresses visiting LowBrowsing, therefore, I cannot guarantee that there isn't plagiarized LowBrowsing content on the web. Therefore, my online signature is only legitimate for Thul Husk content as it appears at that website.
My name is Adam Stangeby, and I have been done with this website for about four years.
LowBrowsing.com had been offline for several years because I had changed as a person, and the work on this site goes back more than twenty years and reflects several personal transformations. Many of my attitudes have changed. When I worked on LowBrowsing, I was often angry and I was most certainly frustrated. Most of the time, my conclusions at LowBrowsing were correct, but often enough I can see that I was misguided, or just plain wrong.
For example, the "Massifesto" and "Prolepticon" sections of this website had content that has since been replaced by Book 66. Today, Book 66 is what I stand behind. I make no apologies for the "rough" work I have done over the years because those early ideas led me to my current conclusions which I absolutely stand behind. I do not necessarily stand behind the work that was hosted at LowBrowsing.
Some of the work at LowBrowsing is downright embarrassing for me, but even in my lowest and darkest moments there has been profound truth in the work I have done.
The work that I stand behind today is for Thul Husk and can be found at my official portfolio website. That is where you will find Book 66 and other updated work from LowBrowsing. Additionally, if my Thul Husk website doesn't have particular updated LowBrowsing content then this is almost certainly because I have rejected that work and don't care for it, or I do not stand behind it anymore.
LowBrowsing had everything - over 800 separate pages for art curation, movie reviews, academic essays, and much more. However, there were also sections at LowBrowsing for review of pornography, controversial theories on race, conspiracies on government propaganda, etc. I believe that there might be kernels of truth in those articles that I wrote, but overall, I am willing to walk away from that work.
The work I am not walking away from is at my Thul Husk website.
Also, worth noting, is that my premium subscription for website hosting is for my Thul Husk site, and no longer for LowBrowsing. Therefore, LowBrowsing pages had become a mess and the content was chopped up because certain features were missing due to this website not being on a premium plan anymore. For example, I had a lot of YouTube video links and music file uploads which were then missing from the pages here.
LowBrowsing is a relic - it is merely a trace for who I am by providing some clues to who I was. I have removed the content although scrapers may have records for the old pages at this website.
Over the years, I was doxed as well as having my university account attacked by hackers. I connected those attacks to IP addresses visiting LowBrowsing, therefore, I cannot guarantee that there isn't plagiarized LowBrowsing content on the web. Therefore, my online signature is only legitimate for Thul Husk content as it appears at that website.
My name is Adam Stangeby, and I have been done with this website for about four years.
Last week, I went through my old university essays. My doctoral work means almost nothing to me regardless if it was the best writing in my scholarly portfolio (which I am not convinced of anyway). My Master's work holds much more meaning for me. There is a good reason for this sentiment. The university where I did doctoral studies was a subpar school, with subpar faculty, and subpar colleagues, with few exceptions. It was a poor experience overall. On the other hand, the school I attended for my Master's was much better all around, and I believe this is why I care nothing for my doctoral work, whereas some of my Master's work still means something to me.
So, I got to thinking about my creative writing and how I have now reached a professional level with my screenwriting and prose (regardless of whether anyone is prepared to admit it). Of my four most polished scripts, three of them are unsatisfactory to me, and furthermore, they are possibly ruined with respect to me ever caring about them. Those scripts were written tailored for, and catered to, the people of this world. Compromises were made for the sake of appeasing people who really didn't earn that esteem or privilege, at all. The work has suffered. "Go Live" is the only script I wrote where I didn't compromise on my art, or, on the truth.
"The Archivist" was supposed to be a very gory horror story, but I realized that because the cast of characters were intellectuals that it had to be written as a psychological thriller instead. Poor intellects in this world won't accept intellectual heroes, and higher intellects in this world won't accept lowbrow visceral horror. For "Obey", I had to make Fred traditionally heroic by having him save a baby because otherwise his mental affliction would have viewers rejecting identification with him because a viewer is selfishly unwilling to grant heroic status to someone as flawed as themselves. Finally, "Green Man" had a narrative frame based in religious conservatism and once again the story presented a "lost soul" that needed redemption, absolution, and salvation. This is a tired conceit in drama based in people's fear of death and their subsequent unwillingness - or low willpower - for living truthfully, which leads to them defending their vices as opposed to correcting poor behavior, acts of self-deception, and pernicious dishonesty.
The truth is only available to those who face their demons, and who don't excuse themselves through blaming their demons. If people actually faced their demons then they wouldn't need alcohol, drugs (narcotics and prescription), single-serving friendships, lies, power, etc. Living true brings about a kind of peace that cannot be described and could never be loaned out. This is the work you have to do - the only work. The reason you cling to life desperately is because you haven't done that work yet.
Now, I must carefully consider - with over one hundred stories in my portfolio and all ready to be quickly converted into novels, screenplays, graphic novels, etc. - can I afford to ruin what my stories mean to me when I compromise their integrity for the sake of making the projects commercial in this world and for these people? These projects will be made of course, and must be completed under the right circumstances and within the appropriate environment.
The reality is that I am not depressed - I am bored. I have not been challenged here. I'm not alone or lonely. I am proud of myself and the work I have done. I'll be damned to compromise on even one more creative project for the sake of a people who are low self-control addicts, at best.
Many years ago, I found an old yearbook in the basement and there was a quote that stood out for me: "who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth". This whole thing has been a laugh, both hilarious and tragic. But, I am reminded of how accurate my own yearbook quote turned out to be. It is Ra & Friends. It always will be.
"Whether you like it, or you don't like it, learn to love it! It's the best thing going today!"
- "The Nature Boy" Ric Flair (Woooooo!)
"You miss 100% of the shots you don't take"
- Wayne Gretzky
So, I got to thinking about my creative writing and how I have now reached a professional level with my screenwriting and prose (regardless of whether anyone is prepared to admit it). Of my four most polished scripts, three of them are unsatisfactory to me, and furthermore, they are possibly ruined with respect to me ever caring about them. Those scripts were written tailored for, and catered to, the people of this world. Compromises were made for the sake of appeasing people who really didn't earn that esteem or privilege, at all. The work has suffered. "Go Live" is the only script I wrote where I didn't compromise on my art, or, on the truth.
"The Archivist" was supposed to be a very gory horror story, but I realized that because the cast of characters were intellectuals that it had to be written as a psychological thriller instead. Poor intellects in this world won't accept intellectual heroes, and higher intellects in this world won't accept lowbrow visceral horror. For "Obey", I had to make Fred traditionally heroic by having him save a baby because otherwise his mental affliction would have viewers rejecting identification with him because a viewer is selfishly unwilling to grant heroic status to someone as flawed as themselves. Finally, "Green Man" had a narrative frame based in religious conservatism and once again the story presented a "lost soul" that needed redemption, absolution, and salvation. This is a tired conceit in drama based in people's fear of death and their subsequent unwillingness - or low willpower - for living truthfully, which leads to them defending their vices as opposed to correcting poor behavior, acts of self-deception, and pernicious dishonesty.
The truth is only available to those who face their demons, and who don't excuse themselves through blaming their demons. If people actually faced their demons then they wouldn't need alcohol, drugs (narcotics and prescription), single-serving friendships, lies, power, etc. Living true brings about a kind of peace that cannot be described and could never be loaned out. This is the work you have to do - the only work. The reason you cling to life desperately is because you haven't done that work yet.
Now, I must carefully consider - with over one hundred stories in my portfolio and all ready to be quickly converted into novels, screenplays, graphic novels, etc. - can I afford to ruin what my stories mean to me when I compromise their integrity for the sake of making the projects commercial in this world and for these people? These projects will be made of course, and must be completed under the right circumstances and within the appropriate environment.
The reality is that I am not depressed - I am bored. I have not been challenged here. I'm not alone or lonely. I am proud of myself and the work I have done. I'll be damned to compromise on even one more creative project for the sake of a people who are low self-control addicts, at best.
Many years ago, I found an old yearbook in the basement and there was a quote that stood out for me: "who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth". This whole thing has been a laugh, both hilarious and tragic. But, I am reminded of how accurate my own yearbook quote turned out to be. It is Ra & Friends. It always will be.
"Whether you like it, or you don't like it, learn to love it! It's the best thing going today!"
- "The Nature Boy" Ric Flair (Woooooo!)
"You miss 100% of the shots you don't take"
- Wayne Gretzky
Retaliation
By Oliver Goldsmith
Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:
Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;
Our Will shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour,
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten their savour:
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain:
Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb;
That Hickey's a capon, and by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter! more wine, let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth,
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
At least, in six weeks, I could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the Universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit:
For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient;
And too fond of the 'right' to pursue the 'expedient'.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, Sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't;
The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at;
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb;
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball,
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick;
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
Here Douglas retires, from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:
When Satire and Censure encircl'd his throne,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture;
Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.
Here lies David Garrick, describe me, who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine:
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day.
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick,
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts you rais'd,
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-prais'd!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies:
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will.
Old Shakespeare, receive him, with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature,
And slander itself must allow him good nature:
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser!
I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser:
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that:
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest! Ah no!
Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn ye!
He was, could he help it? a special attorney.
Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a better or wiser behind:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judg'd without skill he was still hard of hearing:
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.
By Oliver Goldsmith
Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:
Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;
Our Will shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour,
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten their savour:
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain:
Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb;
That Hickey's a capon, and by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter! more wine, let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth,
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
At least, in six weeks, I could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the Universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit:
For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient;
And too fond of the 'right' to pursue the 'expedient'.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, Sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't;
The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at;
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb;
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball,
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick;
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
Here Douglas retires, from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:
When Satire and Censure encircl'd his throne,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture;
Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.
Here lies David Garrick, describe me, who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine:
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day.
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick,
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts you rais'd,
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-prais'd!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies:
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will.
Old Shakespeare, receive him, with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature,
And slander itself must allow him good nature:
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser!
I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser:
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that:
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest! Ah no!
Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn ye!
He was, could he help it? a special attorney.
Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a better or wiser behind:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judg'd without skill he was still hard of hearing:
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.
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