JoFella: Chapter 4 + 5
Mathematical understanding is useless abstract, and even more useless in the application, and there's no clearer place to see than the charts. I'm not talking about negative oil futures prices in the march 2020 crash, literally getting paid for buying oil, I'm talking about painting, chart paintings. The euro must now be accounted for in our ruble/usd equation. The euro was falling, extreme volatility on the ruble, and strength in the usd. Jofella didn't understand any of this. The painting composition was a natural law of mathematics, which in general, the chart would respect in its formation, assisted by the auto resizing feature of standard chart interfaces, but more importantly in a Pollack-esque principle of compositional frame irrelevancy, meaning it looks the same at any scale. This was the beauty of the chart paintings, just printing them off, masterpiece after masterpiece. Of course, the real gems lie in the fringed anomalies. And with volatility at all time highs, computer errors, trader errors, liquidity black holes, anomalous chart patterns were printing at all time highs. The italians understood this well, Jofella was confident they would apply the correct stand oil glazes, the correct ratios of venetian turpentine and spike lavender oil with appropriate pigment suspension quantities to account for the varying depth of night mode blackness required to properly visualize the sublimity of each chart. The venetians were not a mathematical race, they were a trading race, and the art of the trade lies in intuition, or business instinct, not calculation.
Interminable blackness, jagged screen, noises coming from the screen, was this it? faith had been lost, weren't there automatic triggers for France to launch its own nukes when attacked by Russia’s? and who even knows about the US. The Russian second in commands, now first in commands after putin's death, were surrendering, pleading a truce, claiming his suicide negated everything, the war appeared to be ending, they would give in to the west’s demands and surrender everything like Germany after world war two. Nevertheless the candles were falling, prices inching lower and lower by the microsecond, liquidity gaps evaporating, the pixels on the screen could not keep up, no hope in hell for the dot matrix printer. He took a brush in his hand and started painting candle bars himself, completely out of whack shit, he realized there, this was the only true way to do it, as the candles are in motion, while the time frame is active, when the time frame ends the candle freezes in its position and its past movements are largely forgotten, the only way to do it is to do it live.
It was all black now. Only the screen, only the live stream. It was not a game. All in a game. The fella who trades only trades against himself. He went back to the homescreen menu and set the game to self-demonstration mode, what would the computer do in this situation? He had to rearrange his live streams. Everything seemed stupid now, pointless nonsense, it's only art if it's cool, and it really didn't seem cool. It's not that the drugs were wearing off, it lasted a long time, speed, and he could always do more. He was depressed. The problem is that he did not have the drugs rpg disc, Laladiy had taken it with her, that bitch, all that remained was an empty jewel case like an empty dime bag in the gutter. Nothing was working, she wouldn't be coming back, he should just give up on the painting and stick to the trading, trading was the only thing that made any sense, but why did he even need to paint if the charts already painted the perfect charts of themselves? Why did he have to live stream when the world was already live streaming itself perfectly? The bottle of course, drinking, could potentially fix all this. No music while trading this time, candles falling further. A green one spikes up and touches resistance, kisses it romantically in the morning star light for just a moment before being rejected violently down in a sad drooping red dildo, Lalaidy didn't even like drugs, but I guess in the simulator it could be fun. The feeling when you wanna talk to your mother but she would just think you were gay and she would be right. Was this the trading life for jofella? He did still have his jofa hockey helmet on which now had a very certain ridiculousness to it. No point in being awake but no possibility of going to sleep.
The only solution in times like these was to smoke weed and hit the bed, smoke weed lying in bed. When he was a teen weed could work all the time, these days only in very specific circumstances and small doses was there therapeutic potential, and now was the time but at the same time the chart activity was at full force, normally he would watch something if he was shutting down the brain stoned in the bed, maybe now he could just watch the charts, lights on, too scary watching black charts in the dark, too close to the cold reality of the universe. But he just couldn't leave his desk, he didn't deserve the bed yet, and certainly not the bath. His body slouched limp in the office chair, his feet hooked around a bar around the legs, holding them in place, maintaining their comfort, slight drool coming out of his half open mouth, forearms turned out on the arms of the chair with palms facing up, like the wrists were nailed there, like he was jesus on the cross in his chair, no just the wrist pain, but his body was comfortable, that euphoria of speed he railed, a bit of snuff to the interior of his nostril, not snorting in too far up, just breathing the fine power across the tendrils of his wiry nostril hairs. Head nods forward, eyes widened. We just werent gonna get a fucking bounce now are we? He was only focused on the bitcoin chart, the coin he was trading, or waiting for the right opportunity to trade. The ruble usd chart was being painted by the hardware and software, he couldn't even remember which ones or how it was working now, still the machines, mechanisms and cpu processes were whirring and art was, yes was, against all his gloom, still being produced, I still think its cool jofella, your a cool guy, everything you do is cool, even when it fails you can always turn it into something cool later jofella, you can always just pain a chart over top of it, any bad painting can be made good by painting a chart over top of it, as long it's done in jofella’s chart painting style.
He checked the futures funding rates, and they were positive, this meant too many people were borrowing money to buy, buying bitcoin with money they don't have in hope it would go up, too many, for complicated reasons this meant at would not go up, in any case where there is too much optimism, failure and crash will come soon, a law of the human universe, all these optimistic traders would need to be liquidated. The price was at weekly support but it didn't look good. What good would weekly support be during the biggest crash of the century, we would need some yearly support. Snap out of this lucidity jofella, thinking too clearly when you can't even think. When you're dumb its better to just go full dumb. Up, green. Down, red. Bounce good. crash bad. Jpeg, good. Painting, good. Live, always, always in the stream, flying streaming. A camel appeared on the screen, to signify the trucking system on the old silk road trading route, that's what it was all about, a little animation, life and art, haul some spice sacks, cute, but he preferred the space jet laser fighter version of the game, the chart was like space, the blackness of space, and the red and green candles were red and green lasers. The price would be firing around destroying targets, various other little bits like grid lines, order flow volume bars were stars and fighters and planets, other obstacles, mountains of volume bars across the bottom of the screen. The mountains were getting crushed, blinking and blinking lights. In the corner of the screen he saw his stream had 12 viewers, a new record. Why? What was happening, what was so interesting? Why would the algorithm be suggesting his stream?
His dick was hanging out. He had taken his pants off in frustration. The unfinished clips in his nuclear bomb over Lyon and Putin suicide track were looping at full volume, the sirens and bomb alerts were going off out his window, the charts were piling up from the printer and painting mechanism behind him, the Italians were working away at their renaissance augmented version of the chart paintings in a picture in picture window in the bottom corner of the main video. Could it be all this, some kind of operatic spectacle of his existence, was he finally cool, was he finally making true cool art? Or was he just retarded and people were laughing at him. Art history tells there is not much of a difference. The important thing was that he was starting to feel a little bit better. Back in the groove. The chart was stabilizing, actually, he wasn't sure it was the bottom, but he thought it would at least be a local bottom. So he bought. The software prompted him to insert the second floppy disk into the auxiliary drive. It took a lot of different disks to keep the illusion alive, had he even smoked weed? It didn't matter now, he didn't need it. He was trippin good vibes, he admitted it, yes me, it saddens me, it is sad what happened, they were slut shaming her of course, ‘Helen Le Pen’, the bitch that launched the bomb on Lyon. Jofella’s trade was printing, he was happy, yes bitch cunt say some more fucking positive market stuff you fucking whore pump it. Putin cults were already developing, he was getting less edgy, people were buying, the sellers were finished. Jofella realized he really was one with the charts, all his depression and sadness and happiness was just movements of the chart. It was good in the rise now up stiff and hard, he looked down, he did have an erection, or was it the art? When he started feeling good about art, the live stream viewers, that made him happy, then he realized something, he started touching his cock, masturbating, for the live stream, then he paused, thought, no, no no, can't do it, Lalaidy would hate this, i can't hurt Lalaidy, must stop, he jumped up and pulled his pants back on and sunk down into the cuck chair. Okay ya good, we cool again.
Some stupid French people were crying and waving flags. Nous sommes tous Lyonnaise, we are all lions or some gay shit. No one really believed it. People could still travel to Paris once or twice in their lives, everything was fine. Scary but... his mom was calling him, could he pick up now, he was doing shit, he didn't want his vibes to be disturbed, but shit, he figured he had to. "hey mom!" and so on and so forth. Yep he had shipped his paintings to her. They’re on a container ship in the middle of the ocean, completely out of the target of nuclear bombs, they'll be sailing up the seaway in no time! She was crying. What would Bogdanoff do? He only knew him from the memes, he was trying to think of other french stuff that would help him pay tribute in this time, something to remember them with, something to celebrate. There was Daft Punk, one more time, we're gonna celebrate, cooking with butter, baguettes were a pretty boring kind of bread, if we are going in the white bread direction, a tuscan loaf really does top it, and then there are all the other breads with much more ryes and sour flavors and grains giving them a much more variegated absorption profile, for butter, oil, sardines. God this french memorial shit was gonna go on for a long time. At least he had his charts. At least he had art. He was making it. The candles' upwards momentum stalled out, pulled back then shot up through even higher, he closed the trade and fell asleep on the floor under his desks in a pile of clothes and rags.
Enjoying the sleepy morning, twitching his cute cuddly dragon fins, the body had received its requisite 8 hours sleep, stretching the muscles, defining the limits of his bodily territory, flexing his forehead to feel for any new growth in his pubescent horn. It wasn't exactly the body he wanted, if he was to be honest with himself, the english version of Pokemon Pedo hadn't been released yet for the Toji Pocket 3, so he had to content himself with the japanese version, and thus with a japanese body. It was a body though, that was his for the playing, and there was much to discover in a body in the throngs of Dratini puberty. Not like human puberty with hormonal anxieties, aggressions, depressions and resulting social tensions of adaptation.
His pokebrain was sending fluttering japanese animated signals all through his quivering body down to his dragonelle organs he was just realizing existed for the first time, he flapped his body, bouncing and smiling on the grassy bank of the river, sparkling with fresh river water pixels. Oh what joys, joys and secretions. Or was it his body that was being played? The controller fingered by another being, pressing his buttons. As an artist he had to grapple with the cuckcore question, was he fully in control of his production, or were his artistic ejaculations in fact at the service of a Dratini pokemaster further along in puberty than him, so to speak, with more testosterone, who he would be forced to humiliatingly witness receive the rewards as he, Jotinifella, obediently waited for permission to dragon peirce himself?
For a mind already over-stimulated with all the universe's stimulators, concentrated in the charts, fed directly into his brain, it was a relief to not understand all these japanese words describing his reality and telling him what to do and how to feel. He didn't have to think about these questions, he just relaxed back with a twittelling purr and enjoyed the pixels, trickling through his veins, he could feel the stubby root of the horn on his head swelling up with pixelated energy, a strange bliss of animal awareness and bravery, for you see, without his brain fully comprehending his new japanese existence, the pixels had nowhere to go but directly into his body. When he played, he really played, and with slippery dragon organs, it became much easier to rapidly press the buttons from all angles, and all sides of the controller, his MiFella master had already captured 14 other Drantinis for him to cuddle and play with, and the experience points were rapidly increasing, evolution was imminent.
He just needed a catalyst. He didn't need anything. He was chilling, euphoric, once the coffee was blasted through the filter and into his brain, a fresh day, a fresh song out the speakers, Pavement - In the mouth a desert, a fresh direction in the charts, upwards and to the right, despite some overnight whipsaw and chop, he had sold at the right time, no need to watch the news, it was all there in the record left in the movements of the charts. The sirens and panic had calmed down on the streets below, a soft calm, no delivery trucks or passing workers, like it usually sounds on Viennese Catholic sunday. Day of rest. It was not sunday. And there was no rest. Most were scared indoors, panicking. He knew because he could see, as a sample, the people in their apartments through the windows across the street. The lone chubby man usually jacking off in his computer chair at his shitty desk was not jacking off. He was there at his computer but his paints were up and his face was right up to the screen, right hand gripping the mouse hard, left hand in a tactical position above the keyboard. The Yugo woman usually cooking with the window open and yelling at her kids was not cooking, she had her head under the sink with a screwdriver and tool box. All the other curtains were sealed shut. Losers, Jofella thought. Don't they know how to buy a dip when they see one.
Atari Teenage Riot poster ripped off the clubhouse wall of his youth and re-taped above his bookshelf tattered on the edges and torn where the staples plastered it. A life guidance book: Dutch 17th century genre painting. Fresh lines of speed, blueberries and yogurt. He picked up the handheld console with dirty little fingers, adding to the already grimed plastic, fresh black gunk in all the bends and crevices. He played because there were times earlier in his life where he fondly remembered playing, he had jacked off one of the first times in his life while training his little mons, in the grass game, tall grass, hidden little creatures roaming through, had to jack off without them seeing him, but so what if they did see him? embarrassment in the pokecommunity for the rest of his life? He was 33 years old and hadn’t played pokemon since y2k when he had the blue version on the gameboy color. Now he was playing it for self pedophilia reasons, what some people call nostalgia, but is actually the desire to masturbate with your own 10 year old body. The police haven’t yet invented a crime for this, thank god, for now we pleasure ourselves in the gray zone. But he knew the sick pleasure wouldn't last, maybe for an afternoon or two, at most a week, then he would have to wash his jizzy fingers in disgust, understanding that he didn't even want to play if he wasn't high on pedo sex hormones, once the fun wore off.
He had to get serious. French people were dead. He was not a pedophile, he did not sympathize with the French in this regard. He had his own legitimate relationship problems. History, along with war, was the true pedo nostalgic desire for him. Why go back to your own childhood cartoon bedding cocoon of discovery when you could go even further back into the childhood bedrooms of bygone eras? This is what he thought, flipping through his book of Dutch genre painting, only focusing on the pictures containing a bit of skin. This is what he liked about the Dutch, they were not pedophiles, only some merely suggestive prostitution paintings. Greek and Roman history pedos can't help but feel flushed by the stories of the little sex slave boys they draw themselves to. I admit to reading the Satyricon and finding it funny, however I cannot cite it as an influence. Unfortunately, there was no Dutch Golden Age game he could play to indulge himself in their sophisticated and well mannered ways of life, unlike the Alexandrian Pedo Conquest series which had been produced en masse.
He had been drafting up plans for the game. Not really plans exactly. More like a web of ideas and references in his head. He was hoping somehow for computers to eventually be able to turn lazy vague thoughts in his head into a very advanced game. But not like an actual video game, that would be pretty boring, and an insult to the seismic levels of nostalgia his brain could reach on its own. One evening in a euphoria of the pump moment, the good old days of 2021 when the market was going up, it had dawned on him that the origin of the stock market needed to be addressed, for the sake of art and culture, as well as, if I’m not too ashamed to admit it, spirituality and the origin of my consciousness, because, if my intuition was correct, that the stock market originated in old Amsterdam with the Dutch East India Company, it must also not be taken as a matter of coincidence that the art of painting reached some sort of non arbitrary milestone in the Low Countries around this same time, some would call it the human soul, many narcissistic painters all through have thought they were the ones to finally capture the human soul, but in genre painting we at least we have scenes of common life depicted in a realistic way. The chart, as the up and down movement of emotion, is the most common scene of life possible and represented by geometry and data it is the most realistic depiction of anything possible. Do I believe this? I believe in the brush, and my brush tells me to paint charts. The problem, I'm told, is that these Dutch traders did not invent charts, it was the Japanese some years later. Honma, the 18th century rice trader, in his quest to take as wives and mistresses all the young daughters of the unsuspecting rural rice farmers, had been compelled to invent a tool that would help him out trade his competitors.
Brain is hurting now, yes the weebs of course. It was once thought the scourge of weebs on this earth could be kept at bay, and they were for a while pushed back into the lame corners of culture, we fought them off, made fun of them, avoided them. But now the inevitable has happened, the young weebs of the 90’s and 2000’s have grown up and many have reached positions of power in society. Now the weebs are altering history, everything ancient apparently came from the japanese first, and in the end all returns to the japanese, all of western culture was simply a preparation of references to be reincorporated by japanese culture, and now the snowball of weeb is sucking other cultures into itself. Kpop, y2k fashions, gay hikikomori gamer core, being skinny sad twinko, crying emo core, cute goth angel online cringe cuckold. Jofella needed to chill out a bit, getting confused and angry. He knew the truth about charts. It would be in his game. A young Dutch cartographer and navigator invented them when he turned to a life of trading. Having made maps for navigating ships, it was quite obvious to make charts for where the prices would go. Like Honma, he also did it for love, she was one of the stock exchange prostitutes, the best one, who could predict market prices combining the cuck levels of the trader clients she serviced with star cycles. The key to understanding the market is in understanding the impulses of its participants. Technical analysis can only go so far. Only in the brothels of the market will the tradercucks confess their true feelings. This was his dream for Lalaidy. If he could win her heart, they could combine forces, he the navigation analysis trader, and she the cuck mistress, the whole market would be in their control. Then he could finally paint the perfect chart, capturing the human soul behind every movement, every ray of light reflecting off the tears and the flesh, his masterpiece.
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