Plastic cigarettes and coffee

Would you be so kind as to imagine the perfect Diva of a woman?
Your archetype Goddess. The divinest of the  Femmes for  you and by your standard. You can be sexist or ridiculous, no-one will judge. Yes, D-cups are fine, sir. No-one judging here, you know. It's... really ok. Whatever you want.
So, do that; imagine Her for all that She is. 
You are creating here, boy! (or girl, for our female readers ♥)
Imagination is a muscle, you have to work it too, you know, baby?
So work that muscled brain of yours, make it grind (, bitch) and
think
think
Envision
the sssspEctacle!
 that would feed the soul of your eyes and eeeease the reddening pain on your trousers.
Step
by
Step
/African, rhythmic/
,like a Shaman who-envisions-his-son-into-flesh-on-the-ruins-of-a-far-away-temple-but-his-son-is-really-himself-all-along-and-he-ends-up-self-combusting-because-wtf-in-a-story-by- Mr. Borges, [think of extensive similes as sex toys, they can be completely unnecessary or extremely pleasurable or neither, but no-one ever cares about them, as happens with similes. Well... I guess Homer did bother a lot with them. Well... no-one since then, so...yeah, basically, everyone but one dude a long time ago. Homer loved sex toys too, so i guess  that figures.

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"That figures" What does that phrase mean?

Example: "Well, doesn't that figure!! Satan always finds a way to make it about Her!"

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Well, excuse ME, darlings, I just get carried away with that humongous DONG of analogies that are floating inside that old-big-westernly-educated-delish'  brain of mine.

So, where was I?

Oh yes.

Imagine Her,

blow her into Being (Heideggerian or not or either-way or neither).

First, like her mother made her: flesh and bones,

pure,

nude.

But a Lady must not be kept in the cold, Sire! Oh, no! That would be un-gentleman- like and shame on you, boy!

Now you must clothe her,

according to your liking, as is.

You can make up her face like a Butoh dancer, for all I know, no-one will give a damn, so be free.

{Now, this is a HUGE lie.

Pardon my language, darlings, but that lie is so big it could make for an unusable dildo.

There are many aspects of non-truth (truth-value= F) in that statement. (That statement being that as "you are imagining your [Gestalt] archetype of femme fatale , the outcome of which no-one will judge.")

1. Imagination is a sin as well.

Of course, not for everyone. Of course not. 

But.

A vast number of humans, mostly people who use the Western Analytic way of (self- torment) philosophizing, daily,  do have such concerns.

 1.1. Ethics are tricky and they usually hurt your tummy; so don't get into it ,darlings.

It's a disease , I tell you. And if you penalize thought, then you're fucked AND you know it, and no-one can save you now, my babies. 

But hey. Maybe you are one of the lucky ones.

    1.1.1

-So, you acted "x" action; do you judge it as morally wrong/ are you experiencing symptoms of guilt?

- No, I do not experience guilt, although I do consider it an action of somewhat malice or of questionable morality.  ☑ Easy life. Good for you.

    1.1.2

- You think of acting "x" immoral act. Is that similar to acting it?

            a) -Hahaha! You are an idiot! Why feel guilty for thoughts? ☑ Easy life.

            b) -I do not accept the concept of universal morality. Have you ever even touched an nietzsche in your god- damn life??!! (you ignorant piece of shit?) ☑ Easy life.

            c) Yes I am torn apart by guilt and Valkyries are devouring my unworthy soul even at the thought of it. ☒ Fucked-up ass-hole. [ WARNING: Do NOT try this at home. Idealism or even Ideocracy have serious (the MOST serious) complications for the human psych. Losing your capacity to survive in the real world and aimlessly wandering around empty and sterile, tautological, neuron- labyrinths, is NO fun in the summer, boy!

Famous quotes of famous Idealists 

"My thought is so sterile , it should consider adopting."

                                          Anonymous Idealist #1

" My thought is so self-referential, that my thought is always refering to itself."

                                          Anonymous Idealist #2

"My biggest problem is I go around in circles with my thought, so my previous thought always meets the butt of the first one head-on. So, the head of the second thought, and the butt of the first one collide (face to ass, basically), but for this to make sense the equation proves I actually have (had) one single thought that is stretched out and, basically, just goes around in circles bumping its own head into its own ASS; which is pretty funny to watch, unless you are me, of course.I have leprosy."                                

                                          Anonymous Idealist #3]

2.A lot of people WILL and SHOULD judge you.

Aesthetics is politics, 

politics is practical

so it's important.

Your choices, 

your standards of beauty and contemplative composure of a female being in your imagination DO matter a lot, darlings, and you should know that on your owns and beforehand, dare I say.}

And, darlings, sorry for the didactic-vomit-of-an-interlude. Well, as I said, I do tend to get carried away, really.

But enough of this singing, already.

It was about a woo-man (as Zappa puts it).

You have given mental birth to this creature. Now let me use mine as an example, to avoid a continuation of narrative vagueness to the point of it being (sexually) frustrating. But,

as I speak, substitute my literary image with your picture of the creatura divina.

I will not use my real choice

[which would have been either Charlotte Gainsbourg  or a short and round Filipino- French-canadian trans girl]

but more of a universal one

...let's say a beautiful woman like Audrey Hepburn in her twenties, wearing big black sunglasses, a big black hat and a small black dress.

This Diva, this Queen of Importance, apart form emitting the faintest and purest of human smells (Pray, don't get mistaken, not "perfumé" ; but "humaine") is attracting the curiosity and thoughts of a big population surrounding her quietly, yet less interestingly so, in a small coffee-shop in St. Marcus square, Venice.

The sun is bitchy- shinning.

All is glorious.

Everyone wants her.

She is King.

[Oooh, what-a-cre-scen-do! That was...ooh, I flushed, dare I say! What literary cunning that was, oh my!]

The beauty incarnate, wallowing in her own pool-of-eternal-perfection-cloud is already a Cult- leader considering many of her silent admirers. The kind of woman that carries around a needle to-tie-ends-of-penises-with-white-thread-to-the-tips-of-her-fingers and then plays them like a Puppeteer. The kind of woman, the waiter of the coffee shop, is so astonished by, he forgets to listen to her order and clumsily drops her black espresso, twice, before managing to tremblingly leave it at her table. The kind of woo-man , other humans, would cut off their arms, and throw them in the river, to touch.

She's the kind of girl,

You want so much, 

it makes you sorry,

Still you don't regret a single day. [Oh the evilness of banality!*]

She is sitting there, dignitas in flesh, pretending to smoke plastic-straw-cigarettes, (that can never destroy her beautiful skin)

and sipping her coffee while reading something I am DYING to know what it is. Even more than I want to talk to her. She may be a fucking goddess but I have an immensely compulsive need to always find out what strangers are reading, and is it any good.

Everyone around her is dreaming of her , because their lives are empty and boring.

A suited, well-kept Yappee-of-a-man arrives next to her. The formality suggests business.

This woman. You could spend a day with her, to make you dream of her shadow till the end of your days.

«Madame» the suited, hat-ed man kisses her hand ,politely.

«Mr Ransieri» she answers ,sunglassed-ly. She takes a sip from her coffee. The speakers of the coffee shop start playing "Black Coffee", sung by Ella Fitzgerald.

«Madame, in concern with the matter...» he reluctantly starts to speak «In concern with the matter you were found guilty.» he coughs «You will have to flee the country, it seems so, madame, or you will be persecuted and well likely incarcerated very shortly.»

«Really?» answers Aphrodite.«And who is to say that?»

«That is, the Court of Law, madame.» the man answers sweating. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his forehead.

This woman can make you dizzy in the eyes.

 «And what is it that I was found guilty of, please, remind me.» she asks pretend-puffing away.  

«Well,» he chokes «You were found guilty of» reads form a paper in front of him «murdering your husband in his sleep by stabbing him 60 times and then cutting off his» he coughs «penis and then dropping it» he coughs again «out of the window of the 80th floor, while, as heard, yelling "Vive la révolution!" ». As he finishes, he takes a big breath and wipes his face from sweat with his handkerchief. 

The woman, absentmindedly answers «Oh, yes! 
That. 
I completely forgot about that.» and giggles in a girly fashion.

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* I call this ice-skating move "the reverse Hannah Arendt"